The Mystery of the Peacock's Eye

by Brian Flynn

  Anthony nodded in agreement. Suddenly he walked to the front of the car and looked intently at the pigeon-hole in the dash-board. “The car has no mileage indicator,” he pointed out. Then he thrust in his hand and drew out a newspaper, folded carefully. He opened it—then smiled and handed it to his companion. “Let me call your attention, Inspector, to the name and the date.”

  Bannister turned eagerly to the title-page. “The ‘Seabourne Herald,” Thursday, July 5th. Well, I’m jiggered.”

  “I told you I would convince you that this car was the car that was seen in Seabourne,” declared Anthony. “Copies of that stupendous publication that is inflicted upon a long-suffering public under the title of ‘Seabourne Herald’ are not likely to have been on sale in Tranfield or Westhampton for instance. I don’t think the ‘Seabourne Herald’ circulates as far as that.”

  Bannister polished his glasses very thoughtfully and carefully. “You’re right, Mr. Bathurst,” he said after a moment or two spent in this thought-stimulating occupation. “I believe the ‘Seabourne Herald’ is on sale in Seabourne on Thursday mornings—but I’ll tell you frankly—I’m damned if I know what to make of it. Why was the car brought back to Tranfield and then left here? Speed would surely be equally important after the search had been made here? What were they after? Again—did they succeed in finding it—whatever it was?” He looked at Anthony.

  Mr. Bathurst shrugged his shoulders. “Also, Inspector,” he contributed, “there’s another point that I’m considering. Who is ‘X’?” He knitted his brows in thought. “Tell me again,” he said, “what was the exact wording of that postcard we found in the bedroom?”

  The inspector fished the card from his pocket and handed it to Mr. Bathurst. Anthony read it for the second time. “Why did Miss Delaney keep a seemingly unimportant card like that? I can only think of one reason. What do you think, Inspector?”

  Bannister’s reply was in the nature of a half-grimace. “There’s no accounting for what women will do… with one it’s a whim… with another it’s just temperamental… with a third, the caprice of a moment—you can’t generalise. On the other hand this particular card may have escaped destruction by a pure accident.”

  “That’s all true—to a point,” intervened Anthony, “but many things are kept for years by a woman—entirely valueless in themselves—just because they have certain definite associations. Flowers—a theatre-programme, a dance-programme—a letter—a postcard—because they have sentimental values. They may be relics of long-ago romances. And articles of the nature that I’ve just indicated are usually kept in a very private place—such as a special drawer in the bedroom.”

  Bannister opened the newspaper again. “I suppose there’s nothing marked anywhere in the paper, is there?” he scanned the columns—without success. “No,” he remarked after a few moments, “I couldn’t imagine the ‘Seabourne Herald’ publishing anything deemed worthy of marking.”

  “Let’s look at the card again, Inspector, will you?”

  Bannister handed it to him again and watched him over the top of the newspaper. “The slope of his hand-writing is most unusual and yet…”

  “And yet what, Mr. Bathurst?”

  “I can’t help a strong feeling that I’ve seen something like it before.”

  “You have—where?”

  Anthony shook his head doubtfully. “Can’t place it for the moment—but there’s a decorative flourish about it that at times seems to strike a familiar note. It’s the kind of thing that’s difficult to associate—one’s mind is groping as it were,” he stopped and frowned, as he strove for elusive association. “It will come back to me,” he asserted, confidently.

  “Don’t you think we often imagine that we can see resemblances between things when none really exists?” argued Bannister. “I mean this,” he continued, “the existence of a general resemblance is very often mistaken for something much more particular—don’t you think so?”

  “It’s possible,” conceded Anthony.

  “There’s Ross back,” declared Bannister listening to the sound of approaching footsteps. “All right?” he queried.

  “Everything O.K., sir,” answered the Sergeant.

  “Any news coming through for me from Seabourne?”

  “None, sir.”

  “I asked Sergeant Godfrey to keep me posted if anything important transpired.”

  “Did you expect anything?”

  “I gave Godfrey instructions to try to trace the purchase of the hydrocyanic acid—not that I think he’ll succeed,” he added sternly. “I’ll wager my kingdom that little dose of poison was bought a good many miles from Seabourne—even though there’s a signature in the ‘Poisons’ Book.’”

  Ross nodded wisely. “Something to kill a dog, if you please, chemist?” he quoted sarcastically.

  Bannister grinned in satirical appreciation. “Every time!” he exclaimed. “Well, Mr. Bathurst, what’s our programme now?”

  Anthony pulled-to the door of the garage and locked them again. Then he handed the keys and the postcard to Bannister. “It’s getting on,” he said glancing at his watch, “I think I’ll stay the night in Westhampton. Can you recommend me to a hotel, Sergeant Ross?”

  “‘The Grand’ should suit you, sir, just up the High Street on the right.”

  “I think I’ll accompany you, Mr. Bathurst, if you’ve no objection?” put in the Inspector, “I’ve seen all I want here, Sergeant; fasten the place up, and we’ll get away.”

  “The Grand” was of the solidly-comfortable type. The dining-room to which Bannister and Anthony repaired gave promise of substantial refreshment. It was some time since either of them had tackled anything in the shape of food and the meal that the waiters placed before them proved singularly acceptable. Anthony ordered a bottle of “Pol Roger” and Bannister expanded under its inspiring influence. Four or five other tables were occupied—in most instances by a pair of people. Suddenly two young men, in morning dress, entered the room and made their way to the left-hand corner of the dining-room, to the table nearest to the fireplace and directly behind where Anthony was seated. They seated themselves and gave their order to the waiter. Shortly afterwards Anthony caught the sound of a familiar name. “Alan Warburton?” he heard. “Haven’t seen him at all this journey—and I’ve called at one or two of his favourite haunts too.” Anthony half-turned in the direction of the speaker. He was just in time to see the man addressed lean across the table and speak in low tones. The first man paled, lifted his hand and then stopped suddenly short—his glass half-raised to his lips. “Good God!” he gasped “Never!! Daphne Carruthers?!! That’s a Westhampton name.”

  Chapter XII

  Mr. Bathurst listens to a little local gossip

  Anthony motioned Bannister to lean over the table in his direction. Bannister needed no second bidding. He had noticed that Mr. Bathurst had displayed a more than ordinary interest in the two gentlemen and he guessed that there must be good reason for this interest.

  “Friends of young Warburton, behind,” he whispered. “It’s just possible we might pick up some information if we handle them judiciously. What do you think?”

  Bannister nodded vigorously. He had only a few months to run before reaching a well-earned retirement and it was far from his intention, if he could help it, to complete his career with an unsuccessful “case.” Everything that touched upon the affair at all—he meant to investigate with the utmost thoroughness—even though it might appear at first blush to be of the most unimportant and trivial nature.

  “Good idea,” he muttered. As he spoke the door of the room opened again and a shout, a jovial-faced man entered and crossed the room. He came straight to Bannister’s table.

  “Good evening, Inspector,” he said with out-stretched hand.

  “Good evening,” replied Bannister, rising quickly. “you are Mr.—-?” He paused.

  “Falcon,” announced the newcomer.”

  “Why—you’re the—?”


  “Proprietor of the ‘Grand Hotel,’” came the answer. “What is it this—?”

  “Just the man I wanted,” interjected the Inspector, cutting short his sentence. “This is a friend of mine—Mr. Anthony Bathurst.”

  Falcon smiled at Anthony. Mr. Bathurst bowed his acknowledgement. Bannister motioned Falcon to a seat beside him. “Something you can tell me. Who are the two young fellows at the table behind?”

  Falcon indulged in a sharp sidelong glance. “Two young ‘commercials,’” he declared. “They’re frequently here. They come in here pretty regularly towards the end of the week.”

  Bannister pulled the hotel-proprietor towards him. “Did you see any news in the paper this morning about a tragedy at Seabourne?”

  “Can’t say that I did,” said Falcon. “As a matter of fact I’ve had a downright busy day and haven’t had too much time to spare for actual newspaper-reading. I looked at the sporting news, it’s true—but I think that was about all. What about it?”

  Bannister dropped his voice to its lowest possible pitch. “We have reason to suspect,” he announced very gravely, “that the murdered lady is an inhabitant of these parts.”

  “By George,” cried Falcon with excitement, “I remember now. You’ve refreshed my memory. I heard a couple of customers discussing it in the bar early this evening. I remember I heard the name Carruthers mentioned.”

  “That’s the case,” continued Bannister capturing an elusive olive, “and a Miss Carruthers was originally believed to have been the victim.”

  “Major Carruthers’ niece that would be?” interrupted Falcon.

  “Yes—Daphne. But latest information that we have managed to pick up proves that that is not the case. There has been a confusion of identity. The murdered girl turns out to be another young lady.” He crumbled a piece of bread on to the white table-cloth. “In the greatest confidence, Mr. Falcon, I’ll tell you what we have discovered and what brings me on the hunt to Westhampton. The murdered girl is Miss Sheila Delaney of ‘Rest Harrow,’ Tranfield.” He paused to watch carefully the effect of his somewhat curt announcement upon Falcon’s jovial face.

  “Sheila Delaney?” he cried. “Colonel Dan’s daughter—oh, but that’s bad—is there any chance that you’re mistaken?”

  “None—I’m afraid,” replied Bannister gravely.

  “What a dreadful business! Dreadful! Dreadful!” He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. “Everybody liked Sheila Delaney.”

  “Now, Mr. Falcon. These two young men here—your two ‘commercials’—I’m coming to my point. I have reason to believe that they are acquainted with a Mr. Warburton—a Mr. Alan Warburton of Crossley Road, Westhampton.”

  “Sir Felix’s nephew, Inspector,” intervened Falcon. “The Sir Felix—the Mutual Bank—”

  “So I understand—now could you arrange for me to have a little chat with them? Don’t tell them who I am.”

  Falcon’s face wore a new horror. “Surely you aren’t going to tell me that Alan Warburton’s the murderer? I can’t believe that. Why—”

  “Why—what?”

  Falcon shifted uneasily in his chair and knew that despite all he himself could achieve to the contrary, Bannister meant to have his question answered. He caught the Inspector’s eyes fixed unwaveringly on his own and realised that there was going to be no escape for him.

  “Well,” he said eventually—semi-apologetically—“what I was going to say exactly was this. Miss Delaney and Alan Warburton were, a short time ago by way of being very great friends—that was all.” As he spoke his eyes sought Bannister’s again in the hope that the Inspector would be able to find satisfaction in his statement. But Bannister had by this time scented his quarry and refused to be in any way denied the swift exultation of the hunt.

  “What do you mean exactly by the expression ‘great friends’?”

  Falcon’s tongue played round his lips nervously before he answered. “Well, Inspector, let me put it like this, they were seen about together a rare lot. Went to dances together, went motoring together—theatres—you know—the usual companionship of a young fellow and a young girl. People began to look for one with the other.”

  “Did that state of affairs exist what you might term recently?”

  “That’s a question I couldn’t properly answer, Inspector. Certainly, I believe they were nothing like as intimate as they had been in the past. That’s what I’ve been told—and from what I’ve been able to see for myself it was perfectly true. It was noticeable.”

  “Had the lady other admirers or formed other attractions?”

  Falcon shrugged his ample shoulder. “I couldn’t put a name to one, Inspector, if that’s what you mean—but I should think it extremely likely.”

  Bannister turned to Anthony, “Very much on all fours, Mr. Bathurst, with what Ross told us just now. This much seems to be plain. If Miss Delaney had decided to turn young Warburton down in favour of another lover, nobody here seems to be able to give the successor a name. Nobody seems to have seen him.”

  Anthony lit a cigarette and tossed the match into an ash-tray. Bannister, however, had not yet finished his inquiries with Falcon. “I suppose you see quite a fair amount of this Alan Warburton, don’t you, Mr. Falcon? I suppose he’s a pretty prominent figure in Westhampton—eh?”

  “Not so much since the Sir Felix business, as you may guess, Inspector—that seemed to put the family under a bit of a cloud—still—I can own to seeing a good deal of him.”

  “Quite so,” purred Bannister, “now tell me this. Did the sudden change in Miss Delaney’s attitude affect him to any extent? Did he seem upset at all over it?”

  Falcon extended a protesting hand. “Now you’re travelling too quickly, Inspector! I told you just now that I didn’t know what had happened. I think you’re assuming something. I don’t know if any definite understanding ever actually existed between the two young people. I don’t know what happened at all. If I said that Warburton was upset at the change that came over the young lady, I should be exceeding my duty as a fair-minded citizen and I don’t want to do that.” He rose from his seat and walked over to the table behind. Anthony saw a flush of annoyance pass over Bannister’s distinguished features but it soon passed and the Inspector flicked an imaginary crumb from his immaculately-creased trousers with a grim smile. Falcon quickly returned with the two young commercial travellers.

  “Mr. Rogers and Mr. Davidson,” he announced, “Mr. Bathurst and Mr. Bannister.

  Bannister signalled to a waiter and ordered drinks.

  “I understand from Mr. Falcon here,” said the elder of the two young men, “that you gentlemen want to get in touch with Alan Warburton.”

  “Yes—that is so,” said Bannister, “could you let me have his present address?”

  “I haven’t his address,” said Rogers. He looked at Davidson inquiringly.

  “I can’t help you either,” replied his companion, “but I think I could put you on to somebody who—”

  “Never mind—don’t trouble—it’s of no special consequence to-night—I can get it quite easily to-morrow, I’ve no doubt. I thought perhaps though that you knew Mr. Warburton very well.”

  Rogers shook his head. “Not well. We’ve only met him on the several occasions when we’ve stayed in Westhampton on business. But we run across him so regularly then that we’ve got into the habit of looking out for him every time we come. By the way, talking about Westhampton, that’s a terrible thing in this morning’s papers—that murder at Seabourne. I hear in the town to-day that the lady murdered—a Miss Daphne Carruthers—was the niece of Major Carruthers. I met Major Carruthers some years ago on my first visit to Westhampton. He was a splendid fellow—‘pukka’ gentleman.”

  “I understand then,” Anthony interjected quietly, “that you haven’t seen Mr. Warburton during your present visit?”

  Rogers and Davidson shook their heads energetically.

  “Devil a glimpse of him,” said Davidson. “we haven’
t run him to earth anywhere—and we’ve called at more than one shrine where he’s wont to worship.” He grinned cheerfully at his friend and Roger found the grin infectious.

  “And we haven’t confined ourselves to one call at some of the extra-special places, either,” he added in support of his statement. “Have we, Rodge?”

  “I should say not.”

  “Last time we were in Westhampton,” went on the irrepressible Davidson, “we had a proper old ‘binge’ with Warburton. We fairly hit the high spots that night.” He chuckled at the gratifying reminiscence with such profound amusement that Rogers took up the thread of the narrative with an exuberant gaiety.

  “You’re right! I remember. We had a hot time in the old town that night. Old Warburton was properly down in the mouth too when we blew in. I can remember that perfectly. In a regular Slough of Despond he was, poor old blighter. He seemed to have turned ‘Bolshie’ or something. Absolutely shouting Red Revolution. Goodness knows what had upset him—don’t know whether it was the sequel to his uncle’s trouble or what? Anyhow when we drifted in on that particular evening in question old Warburton was blowing off a lot of hot air about exterminating Royalty and a lot of proper silly ass tripe of that kind. Quite the soap-box thumper style. Can you remember him, Davey?”

  “You’ve said it,” said Davidson, “you’ve brought it all back to me. I can remember how he was going off the ‘deep end.’ He’d got a particular grouch against some Foreign Johnny—some Prince of God knows where—he wouldn’t let on why when we pulled his leg about it—in fact he was inclined to turn sulky—but from what I could gather he fairly ached to present this Prince-person with something lingering with bags of boiling oil in it.”

  Bannister sat transfixed in his chair as Davidson concluded his remarks and Anthony could almost see a question trembling on his tongue. Davidson, however, was sublimely oblivious of the fact. He rattled merrily on. “Can’t think of the particular merchant’s name,” he murmured with an air of attempted, but abortive reminiscence, “but it reminded me at the time of geraniums.”