by Brian Flynn
Half an hour’s brisk walking brought him to Dovaston Court and he quickly covered the length of the sweeping drive that took him to the front entrance.
“Sir Matthew Fullgarney is expecting you, sir,” said the dignified personage whose duty it was to admit him, “if you will be good enough to step this way?”
Anthony followed his imposing guide down a hall with a beautifully-polished floor into a sumptuously furnished room. A magnificent tiger-skin rug lay in prominent position as he entered, while the walls were somewhat lavishly decorated perhaps, with many and varied trophies of the chase.
“I will tell Sir Matthew that you have arrived, sir. Please sit down,” The personage departed. Anthony accepted the suggestion whimsically. He wondered if he looked as though he had been sufficiently impressed. Smiling to himself, semi-cynically, he surveyed his immediate surroundings approvingly. Then he settled himself to await patiently the distinguished gentleman to whom he had written and whom he had come with express purpose to see. He was not kept waiting long. The Lord Lieutenant of the County entered—caressing his white moustache in the grand manner. Anthony rose and bowed to him, and at the same time was conscious that two fierce blue eyes were regarding him unwaveringly.
“I have your letter, Mr.—er—”
“Bathurst,” interjected Anthony hopefully.
“Ah—yes—that’s it. Bathurst! I am Sir Matthew Fullgarney himself. I understand from the contents of the letter that you wish to see me—to see me personally. You go even further than that, I observe—you assert that it is important. Damn it, sir—for the life of me, I can’t imagine why you want to see me. Have I ever met you before?”
“Never, Sir Matthew. And the loss has been mine—I fully realise that.” Anthony smiled his reply.
Sir Matthew grunted. “Sit down then and say what you have to say. Please don’t beat about the bush. I hate to have to listen to a farrago of words—two-thirds of which are usually entirely—er—redundant—er—tautological—er—er unnecessary.” He blew his nose fiercely—intending it no doubt as an imposing battery of support.
“You will not find me wearisome, I hope,” returned Anthony. “I will state my case in as few words as I possibly can. I have called to see you in reference to the ‘Seabourne Mystery’—the murder of Sheila Delaney—a young lady with whom I believe you were not unacquainted?”
“A terrible affair, Mr. Bathurst,” interposed Sir Matthew. “A truly shocking affair. It has disturbed me profoundly. It has upset me more than I can say. But you asked me a question, which I have not yet answered. I knew Sheila Delaney very well. Also, I was very much attached to her.”
“Am I right in assuming that you also knew her father—the late Colonel Delaney?” Anthony’s question came curt and crisp.
“You are quite right. I should think I did. None better. Dan Delaney and I were almost inseparables forty odd years ago. He and I—and Desmond Carruthers—got into as many scrapes and damned well got out of ’em too—as any three junior officers of the British Army ever did. By Gad! Mr. Bathurst, they were stirring times and no mistake. Times that we shall never see the like of again—worse luck. Now poor old Dan and all his family have gone—and the last in such a terrible way, too. A tragedy—there’s no denying it.” He paused and the fierceness of his expression softened a trifle as he meditated over the poor girl’s untimely and tragic end.
“What you have just said brings me to another question,” exclaimed Anthony.
“What may that be?”
“Have you ever heard during your association either with the late Colonel Delaney or with his daughter any mention of a very valuable jewel—rejoicing, I believe, under the somewhat fantastic ‘sobriquet’ of the ‘Peacock’s Eye’?”
Sir Matthew Fullgarney sprang to his feet. Anthony Bathurst felt the two steel-blue eyes of his host glaring at him relentlessly. “‘The Peacock’s Eye’? What in hell do you know about the ‘Peacock’s Eye’?”
Anthony suffered this rather surprising outburst with complete equanimity. He had always possessed the tactful gift of making allowances.
“Not a lot, Sir Matthew. Very little, in fact. But enough to cause me to come to ask you for more. I have strong reason to believe that Miss Delaney was murdered for possession of the ‘Peacock’s Eye’!”
Sir Matthew bordered upon the apoplectic. “God bless my soul—do you realise what you are saying? How could Sheila Delaney have had the ‘Peacock’s Eye’ in her possession? It’s too ridiculous for words, sir! What the—?” Sir Matthew fumed into aggressive speechlessness.
“Not so ridiculous as it may appear upon the surface, Sir Matthew. Please listen to what I have to say.” he waved the Lord Lieutenant of Westhamptonshire to a seat again, for Mr. Bathurst had a way with him. Sir Matthew obeyed the gesture but glowered at Mr. Bathurst as though his suggestion had been completely unspeakable. Anthony took up his recital again. “According to the evidence of Mr. E. Kingsley Stark, the present manager of the Westhampton branch of the Mutual Bank, Miss Delaney took the stone known as the ‘Peacock’s Eye’ out of the custody of the bank on the morning of the day upon which she met her death. There is therefore very good reason to believe that it travelled with her to Seabourne. And very certainly it was not in her possession when she was found dead in the dentist’s chair at Seabourne. A remarkable chain of events, Sir Matthew, don’t you think?” Anthony watched him warily. But Sir Matthew remained as he was—to all appearances bereft of the power of speech. “Having told you so much of what I know I want you to tell me more in return. Am I right in thinking that it lies in your power to give me the true history of the ‘Peacock’s Eye’?” His voice contained a note of quiet insistence.
The man addressed rose from his chair and paced the room—it might be said belligerently. The situation as it had developed was novel for him. He came to a decision suddenly. Taking a letter from his pocket he referred to it in such a way that Anthony was irresistibly reminded of a huge bird of prey.
“You state here, Mr. Bathurst”—he tapped the letter aggressively with is bony finger—“that you are representing the Crown Prince Alexis of Clorania in a matter of paramount delicacy.” Anthony bowed. “I don’t quite see then how the devil that fact touches the “Seabourne Mystery,” and the death of Sheila Delaney—what has the one to do with the other—tell me that?” He made his demand with all his old fierceness.
“Candidly, I can’t, sir,” replied Anthony, “at the moment, that is. But I hope to be able to do so when I get more data. That is why I asked you to tell me the history of the ‘Peacock’s Eye.’ I have formed the opinion that to know that will help me materially.”
Sir Matthew caressed the white moustache again in an endeavour to assume command. “You’re asking me to go back a good many years, Mr. Bathurst. Forty-four to be exact. And forty-four years are not five-and-twenty minutes. But I’ll tell you all I know.” He chuckled at the savour of the reminiscence. “Dan Delaney, Desmond Carruthers and I were all Westhamptonshire born men and were junior officers together in the 8th Westhampton Regiment. We were sent to India. Eventually we found ourselves stationed in a wild territory of Baluchistan, near Quetta, and not far from the Bolan Pass. It’s a mountainous, sandy desert of a place by no means thickly populated—the natives that do eke out an existence there live a nomadic, pastoral sort of life. Four years after we got out there a separate administration was constituted under the Governor-General’s Agent in Baluchistan and things got a bit better. For which we were all devoutly thankful. But we fellows were a reckless, wild-harum-scarum set always ready for any desperate adventure that promised itself. The more perilous it was the better we welcomed it. The big bug in that region is the Khan of Kalat and there are all sorts of fancy religions knocking about round there—I can tell you.”
“Pardon me interrupting a moment,” interjected Anthony. “What was the name of the dialect spoken by the natives? Can you remember? I have a real reason for asking.”
Sir Mat
thew wrinkled his brows. “There were many. Dozens of ’em in all probability. In the Central Provinces you get Hindi and Marathi chiefly, but up there, you find so many different tribal tongues. Where was I?”
“Ready for any desperate adventure,” smiled back Anthony.
“Ah yes!” Sir Matthew rubbed his hand in evident enjoyment. The old man was back in the saddle again. “Well, as I said, we were a wild lot and although I say it myself, Delaney, Carruthers and I were perhaps the three most adventurous spirits of the whole crowd—as venturesome as we were high. I mentioned that there was plenty of religious fanaticism knocking about. When he is religious—the tribesman takes his religion pretty seriously, I can tell you, Mr. Bathurst. We Europeans aren’t made like it. Well, one day we got wind of a wonderful native temple, situated up by the Bolan Pass. It was supposed to be a most amazing affair and hundreds of their specially holy men were in the habit of making long pilgrimages to it. As a religious exercise, you know. Kind of Mecca! you know what I mean! Rumours had it also that no European had ever set foot inside it—or at all events if he had succeeded in doing so, he hadn’t come out of it alive. Death was the penalty of entrance. All the young officers in our crowd were desperately keen to get inside it, when one day Dan Delaney discovered that he was in luck’s way. He had a body servant attached to him who had been specifically transferred for some reason or the other to the 8th Westhamptons from one of the native regiments.”
“Lal Singh?” murmured Mr. Bathurst, with an almost affected nonchalance. Sir Matthew stared at him amazed and spellbound.
“Good God, sir,” he declared, white as a sheet, when he pulled himself together, “how the devil did you know that?”
Anthony answered question with question. “You haven’t seen Lal Singh then lately?”
“Haven’t seen him in over thirty years—what on earth—?”
“I’ll explain later,” replied Anthony; “please proceed.”
“Marvellous—marvellous—now let me see again—where was I?” He frowned in his attempts at recollection. “I know Lal Singh’s father was in some way connected with the actual administration of this temple and as a result Lal Singh himself was able to put a lot of information in Delaney’s way. To cut a long story short the three of us got away one night and got clean inside—penetrated in fact to the proper holy of holies—the inmost shrine. There we found what the natives called the ‘Sacred Peacock.’ Its body was of pure gold and the ‘eyes’ of its train feathers consisted of a number of blue-tinted emeralds. I can’t tell you how marvellous it was. I regret to say that Delaney wrenched away the biggest of these and we were about to add to our spoils when Lal Singh rushed in with news that in a few minutes we should be surrounded—the news of our entry had leaked out somehow. We got away by the skin of our teeth. Lal Singh was scared to death and warned us with all sorts of fantastic tales that the outraged gods would punish us though the punishment took years to materialise. Gad! What a lovely scrap it was, getting away that night.”
Anthony broke in. “Delaney, I presume, regarded the ‘Peacock’s Eye’ as his own personal spoils?”
“Not at all,” replied Sir Matthew stiffly and with a distinct touch of frigidity. “We were brother-officers—it was a case of share and share alike—not only the ‘spoils’ as you call it, but the ‘bright eyes of danger,’ too. We drew lots for the stone. Strangely enough, Delaney was the winner. As far as I know he kept the stone till his death. It was a gorgeous gem—exactly similar in shape to the ‘eye’ of a peacock’s tail. Worth thousands—but Dan never realised on it. He kept it for its dazzling beauty—he was Irish—an idealist.” He glared at Anthony. “That’s all. Now it’s your turn. Tell me what you know about Lal Singh! You staggered me just now. You knocked me all of a heap.”
“I am quite prepared to believe that, Sir Matthew—but there is no magic about it. The explanation, like most explanations, is perfectly simple. Have you ever met Miss Kerr—Miss Delaney’s old nurse?”
“Many a time,” chuckled Sir Matthew; “you mean ‘Pinkie’?”
“I believe that is the nickname by which she is, perhaps, even better known. I met her at ‘Rest Harrow’ the other day, when we were first investigating the circumstances of Miss Delaney’s death. She told rather an extraordinary story. I should like your considered opinion on it. She states that about a month ago an Indian called upon Miss Delaney, at her home in Tranfield—calling himself Lal Singh. He asked for Colonel Delaney and informed her that he was the Colonel’s old servant. He was unaware of the Colonel’s death. Or said he was—that possibly is a more accurate version!”
“What?” roared Sir Matthew. “Lal Singh here in Westhamptonshire. That tale won’t hold water. It’s incredible—it’s amazing—” He spluttered in his attempt to find suitable words to express his rejection.
“I can take it then,” intervened Anthony, “that Lal Singh did not extend his visit to you?”
“To me? Good gracious, Mr. Bathurst—of course not! Lal Singh indeed! I haven’t set eyes on Lal Singh for over thirty years, as I told you. What on earth gives you that extraordinary idea?”
“‘Pinkie’ Kerr is under the impression that he announced to Miss Delaney his intention of so doing,” said Anthony, gravely.
“Good God, sir—you astound me—dear, dear—dear, dear!”
It was obvious that Sir Matthew was extremely perturbed.
“He certainly inquired after you,” proceeded Anthony, “and also after the late Major Desmond Carruthers.”
“Well—I’m damned—I suppose there’s no possible doubt about this rigmarole, Mr. Bathurst? You’re sure in your own mind that ‘Pinkie’ Kerr isn’t giving way to a little romancing?”
“Her evidence is entirely uncorroborated—obviously—her mistress is dead—Lal Singh has disappeared. At the same time—” He paused.
“Well?” demanded Sir Matthew vehemently. “What?”
“It would be a remarkable story for her to invent,” said Mr. Bathurst with a shrug of the shoulders. “Don’t you think so?”
“Let me come to the point, then. What do you make of it?”
“That we are in very deep waters, Sir Matthew! Sheila Delaney has been the victim of one of the most cunning and cold-blooded crimes of the century and it’s going to take me all my time to bring her assassin to justice. There’s a big difference between suspecting a man and proving his guilt. There’s a big difference, also, between knowing a man’s guilt and proving it.”
Sir Matthew glared at him—his cold blue eyes full of purpose. But Mr. Bathurst gave him back an equally unwavering stare.
“I quite appreciate what you say,” said the old man eventually; “I appreciate it to the full.”
“By the way, Sir Matthew, there is one more point before I go. Perhaps you would be good enough to enlighten me? Can you remember the Westhampton Hunt Ball—a year ago last February?”
“Certainly I can. I was present—naturally.”
“Good—I was expecting you to say that. Now tell me this. Was the Crown Prince of Clorania present?” Mr. Bathurst watched him keenly and carefully. So much depended upon the exact terms of the answer. It came quickly.
“I have always understood so! His Royal Highness preserved his ‘incognito,’ it is true, but as far as I know he was most certainly there.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“Of course. Most assuredly. I was introduced to him by Desmond Carruthers.”
“I see. Please think carefully. For this question is most important. Did you at any time during the evening of the ball see the Crown Prince in conversation with or dancing with Sheila Delaney?”
The Lord Lieutenant knitted his brows. Then he began to shake his head negatively. “No—I can’t remember that. Sheila at that time was flying round with young Alan Warburton. I can distinctly remember him being there. No! I can’t remember her with the Crown Prince.”
“Thank you. You mentioned Alan Warburton. I’ve had the pleasure of mee
ting him. I understand that there was a likelihood once, we will say, of an engagement between him and Miss Delaney?”
“That is so, most certainly!”
“Now Sir Matthew—can you tell me this? Did the Westhampton Hunt Ball that we have been discussing coincide pretty closely with the ‘Mutual Bank’ scandal and the arrest and suicide of Sir Felix Warburton? Can you tell me that?”
“It did, Mr. Bathurst,” replied Sir Matthew grimly. “Not merely ‘pretty closely’ but absolutely. Sir Felix committed suicide on the very day that the ball took place.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Bathurst. “I rather fancy that my case is nearly complete.”
Chapter XXII
Gallant Mr. Bathurst
He rose. Sir Matthew Fullgarney’s face was a strange mixture of mystification and inclination towards asperity.
“Really,” he volunteered with a stiff pomposity. “I don’t quite understand—”
Mr. Bathurst smiled. “But I am inclined to linger with your permission, Sir Matthew, for a moment or two longer. I am sure you will do everything in your power to help me. That fact you have already demonstrated. I have heard much of Lady Fullgarney. I take it she accompanied you upon the occasion of the Hunt Ball?”
“Of course. I am not the kind of man to—but I don’t quite see—”
“Ladies have proverbially brighter and keener eyes than we men, Sir Matthew. As we discovered sometimes to our cost. It has just occurred to me that Lady Fullgarney might possibly be able to confirm or even supplement what you have just told me concerning the ball. It would strengthen my case considerably.” He smiled sweetly.
