by Brian Flynn
Anthony laughed. “I was invited, Sir Matthew, it’s true—but like the Crown Prince—I had an important engagement myself, last week. I wasn’t sure how long it would last—so in the circumstances, I placed myself at Lady Fullgarney’s disposal instead.” He bowed, ” I am sure that excellent judges would agree that I chose the better part.”
Lady Fullgarney bent over to him eagerly interested. “Was there ever any doubt?” she asked. “Did any of you important people on the inside of the case wonder what the verdict was going to be?”
Anthony regarded her quizzically and Sir Austin Kemble cut in with a reply. “The jury were only absent five-and-twenty minutes,” he said gravely, “that fact will demonstrate to you very clearly that they didn’t entertain very much doubt about it.”
“There was none,” boomed Sir Matthew from the head of the table, “the evidence was conclusive. In a short time, thank God—the world will be well rid of a thorough-paced scoundrel. Three Sundays for him and three too many. Grant—bring me another half-dozen oyster, will you?”
“Besides thanking the Almighty, Matthew, don’t you think you might also thank Mr. Bathurst?” put in Lady Fullgarney. Her lord and master glared. “Don’t you think so, Sir Austin?” she continued, turning to the Chief Commissioner, “won’t you support me?”
Sir Austin smiled at her gallantly. “Always, Lady Fullgarney! And in this particular instance—without a second’s hesitation. There is no doubt about it. None knows better than I that Mr. Bathurst achieved a personal triumph. I shall never forget it. The memory of the arrest in that room at Amsterdam that I told you about when you came to London will remain with me always. To say that I was amazed is beside the point. I was stupefied.” He sipped his wine.
“I am going to ask you a great favour, Mr. Bathurst,” said Lady Fullgarney.
“Command me,” replied Anthony.
“After dinner, I am going to ask you to tell us all about everything. Just how you came to think it all out. You know—like Sherlock Holmes used to explain to Doctor Watson. My guests are simply dying to hear.”
“Really,” said Anthony, “I can’t believe that you will find me as interesting—”
“It’s perfectly true, Mr. Bathurst,” supplemented Lady Brantwood, “I find the investigation of crime positively enthralling.”
“I am in your hands, then,” murmured Anthony. “I will commence,” he said, when the gentlemen joined the ladies about an hour later, “by asking you all to regard my account of the tragedy as a strict confidence. It will be obvious to you that this must be so—thank you! My introduction to the Seabourne murder actually occurred about a week before the murder took place.” There were interested murmurs of incredulity. “That may sound strange,” proceeded Mr. Bathurst, “nevertheless it is true. The Crown Prince of Clorania was being blackmailed. He engaged me on the case. Needless to say there was a lady in it. He kept her name secret. It did not take an overwhelming supply of intelligence to see that the trouble was coming from the Westhamptonshire neighbourhood. Now—inasmuch as His Royal Highness had only been in Westhampton once—when he attended last year’s Hunt Ball—I made the evening of that Ball my starting-point. At this stage—just as I had reached that conclusion—I received an urgent call from the Crown Prince at Seabourne to the effect that the lady in question had been found murdered. You know where and you know how. He then told me her name—Daphne Carruthers. Mark you—a Westhampton girl.”
“One of the best,” Ejaculated Sir Matthew, “I remember—” A look from his wife silenced him.
Anthony went on. “He also told me that in answer to a suggestion from her, he had come to Seabourne and arranged certain matters very satisfactorily. In short there would be no more chance for successful blackmailing. But Miss Carruthers almost immediately upon leaving had been most unaccountably murdered! he was badly frightened. Terribly afraid that he would be suspected and that all the story that he had been so zealous to keep secret—would be revealed. Then Miss Daphne resurrected herself and telephoned him—and I began to get interested. Who was the dead girl and why had she been confused with Daphne Carruthers? There I reached my second point of investigation. I couldn’t honestly blame Bannister for the error of identification. Suit-case—the booking of the room—both tallied. I began to ask myself the meaning of this piece of substitution. Why was the dead girl’s identity hidden? Was it to shroud Sheila or was it to call attention to Daphne? Remember all Sheila’s personal belongings had been taken! I hesitated for some time between the two possible theories. Then I came to the decision. There was little doubt that the suit-case had been stolen from the ‘Casandra’ Hotel—the question was when? I was able to find out from the luggage porter at the hotel that although the case had gone on to the luggage-waggon on Wednesday evening—on Thursday morning it was not there. Now consider this. I learned that the telephone-message booking a room at the ‘Lauderdale’ for Miss Carruthers had come though at ten-fifty on Wednesday night. Doesn’t that strike you as being very late? Wouldn’t you expect a person booking up a room for the following mid-day either to book earlier or leave it till the morning of the day itself? What was the urgency? There are plenty of hotels in Seabourne. No—I formed my first main conclusion although I didn’t give it away and considered it carefully more than once afterwards. The idea was to hide the identity of Sheila and inasmuch as the stolen suit-case belonged to Daphne Carruthers—the dead girl would be supposed to be Daphne Carruthers for a time at least—therefore at ten-fifty the room was booked in that particular name. Do you follow me?”
“Excellent, Mr. Bathurst,” contributed Sir Austin, “sound reasoning.”
“And yet Daphne was the very girl about whom the blackmailing process had been. Strange wasn’t it? The Crown Prince had no knowledge of Sheila! Why was Sheila dead? Why did the murderer want time? But there was this point. I began to think very seriously about the group of people staying at the ‘Cassandra’—the hotel from which the suit-case had been stolen. Consider who they were! The Crown Prince, Daphne herself, a Captain Willoughby who knew most of them—and Chief-Inspector Bannister. He was there—you see—right in the circle of suspicion. The next stage was at Tranfield. Bannister went up—I went with him—Tranfield interested me—from more than one point of view. We discovered that the car that took Sheila to Seabourne had been driven back to her home at Tranfield. There was actually a Seabourne newspaper in it. Why had it been driven back? The answer was easy. The house had been searched for something—what it was I will tell you later. It was here that Sheila Delaney’s old lover—Alan Warburton came into my calculations. Here, at any rate, was a motive. The jilted lover—jealousy—ample motive, if you think it over. But a new aspect of the case struck me and just as I was considering it—I made a find. In Sheila’s bedroom I found a postcard. Just an ordinary postcard perhaps—the message I may describe as horticultural and amatory—it was signed ‘X’ But it contained the word ‘irides’—the true Greek plural of ‘iris.’ Now ninety-nine people out of a hundred say ‘irises’ when they speak of more than one ‘iris.’ Our unknown correspondent however was meticulous concerning his plurals. So had been Bannister! More than once he had used ‘maxima’ to me in conversation and I had been particularly struck with the fact that he used the word ‘data’ as a plural—with a plural verb—quite correctly. But nearly everybody uses ‘data’ as a singular noun and with a singular verb. People say ‘data helps’ not ‘data help.’ I rubbed my hands—I’m afraid it’s a habit of mine when I begin to ‘get hold.’ Yes—Bannister was particularly precise about his plurals.”
“Wonderful, Bathurst,” intervened Sir Austin, “a touch of genius—that. He was a Dulwich boy—you know.”
Anthony smiled. “Thank you, Sir Austin. Well, after a time—the theory I had formed concerning Alan Warburton developed as I expected it would and I was able to dispose of my blackmailing case quite smoothly. You will understand what I mean very shortly. Meanwhile, Bannister delivered himself into my ha
nds! Miss Delaney as all of you here know had a nurse-companion—she was first mentioned to Bannister and me by Daphne Carruthers—down at Seabourne. She spoke of her surname as ‘Kerr’—but she pronounced it ‘car’ as in motor-car. Now I submit that anybody hearing that surname and having no knowledge of the spelling would ordinarily assume it to be ‘Carr’ —by far the commoner form of the two. Certainly I did. But when she came in answer to his telegram I happened to get hold of it and noticed that Bannister had actually telegraphed to her as ‘Kerr’—so I got her to write her name down on an envelope for me. She wrote it ‘Kerr.’ He had addressed her in that form because he knew her name, and didn’t think of the pitfall it carried for him. Still—I said to myself—‘what was the motive?’ The answer soon came—or rather part of the answer—we got news of ‘The Peacock’s Eye’—the great blue emerald. I heard of the mysterious Indian who had come miles to see you, Sir Matthew, but who never-the-less failed to turn up. He called on Sheila—it was safe doing that—she couldn’t detect his lack of knowledge of Hindustani—you could. He left you alone. He was counterfeit. I only wanted one link now—how had the criminal met Miss Delaney? I got it. The ‘Bank Frauds’ scandal gave it to me. Now listen—I will at this point reconstruct the entire case. In the February of last year, Chief-Inspector Bannister visited Westhampton in connection with the ‘Mutual Bank’ Frauds and was actually the officer who arrested Sir Felix Warburton. For confirmation of that see the ‘Westhampton and Chellingborough Independent’. He accompanied the Chief Constable, Major Desmond Carruthers, to the Hunt Ball. Carruthers kept his identity a secret.”
Lady Fullgarney leaned across excitedly. “We saw them together—I remember him well—we couldn’t place him—could we, Matthew?”
Anthony nodded and proceeded. “There he saw Sheila Delaney—they were introduced—his ‘incognito’ was maintained. They fell in love with each other—he was a fine man, you know. Fine physique—and so on. But Fate played a strange trick. The Crown Prince was there—also ‘incognito’—known only to the few—he was with Daphne Carruthers. Alan Warburton was there—with Sheila—he had the mortification of seeing her sudden infatuation for Bannister—and he mistook him for the Crown Prince of Clorania. I am inclined to think that Sheila purposely allowed him to do so, or perhaps even told him that it was so. He says that she did. In fact, I question if she ever knew his real identity—he was a married man with two children, you know. I doubt if she even knew his real name. But this is all conjecture. God alone knows what story he told her. But Warburton knew he had a rival and a successful rival—he began to blackmail him eventually—knowing of the approaching Royal marriage. Now things began to get a bit too hot for Bannister—it may have been his wife—it may have been his impending retirement urged him to finish the intrigue.”
“He was young to retire, wasn’t he, Mr. Bathurst?” queried Lady Brantwood.
“The police retire young,” replied Sir Austin Kemble, “it depends upon their term of service. Bannister was forty-seven when his retirement fell due.”
Anthony took a cigar from the box Sir Matthew offered him. “Then Sheila signed her death-warrant. She told him of her unique legacy—‘The Peacock’s Eye.’ He coveted it—he would possess it and rid himself of her at the same time. He laid his plan accordingly. He arranged his holiday at Seabourne—and adopted horn-rimmed glasses in case he should be recognised afterwards.”
“How do you mean?” asked Lady Fullgarney; “that isn’t clear to me. Why—afterwards?”
“In case he should touch the case at all officially—he was in Seabourne remember—and get to Westhampton again—as he eventually did. He wanted the Bannister of the Hunt Ball forgotten as much as possible.”
“I see,” said Lady Fullgarney.
“Then he got Sheila to obtain the jewel from the bank and come to meet him at Seabourne. He poisoned her with prussic acid administered from a syringe. At least that’s my opinion. Her visit to the dentist’s gave him his chance. He followed her in at the side-entrance, waited for Branston to leave her as he guessed he might—pushed the bolt to imprison him—strolled into the surgery. It was easy—a matter of seconds. If anything had gone wrong it wouldn’t have mattered much—he had just called in to see how she was. He would have poisoned her somewhere else. But he wanted to make certain of getting time to visit the bungalow at Tranfield. Therefore—she must not be identified immediately. To that end he had stolen Daphne Carruthers’ suit-case from the ‘Cassandra’ Hotel the night before, and booked the room at the ‘Lauderdale’ in her name. The suit-case was substituted for Sheila’s own in her car and Sheila’s pushed under the seat at the back. She never knew.”
Sir Austin broke in. “Where was he when Sheila went to the ‘Lauderdale’?”
Anthony considered for a moment. “After he met her outside Seabourne—he left her—he took care not to be seen with her in Seabourne. But he knew of her intention to visit Branston. When he had murdered her, he took all Sheila’s belongings—there must be nothing to connect her with herself or with him, and all the keys she carried. Any communications in his handwriting mustn’t be found on her—for instance.
The notes were dangerous—they might be traced—he left them behind as he went out. They would confuse the issue. He went straight back to Tranfield in Sheila’s car. There must be nothing at ‘Rest Harrow’ to connect him with her—no scrap of writing. He had to go to make sure! There were probably photographs, etc., to be destroyed. The evidence of the waitress in the teashop at Calstock—four miles from Tranfield—that he was there at five-forty on the evening of the murder told heavily against him at the trial. Sheila had told him, in all probability, that she kept all his correspondence in a private drawer in her bedroom. No doubt he sounded her as to that on one of their numerous assignations. But he left the one postcard behind—it was caught in the folds of a scarf. It eluded his search. I was a little bit puzzled at first as to whether he had time to do all this and be back in Seabourne by the late evening as I knew he had been. It was possible—I proved it so. He left Seabourne in the car from Tranfield about two-ten—and could make it soon after six o’clock. He caught the seven-four fast train from Westhampton to Euston—arriving at eight-eight. A quick dash across to Victoria—and he landed in Seabourne again at half-post nine. Willoughby gave evidence that he remembered him being there as the band performance was finishing. He was unable, if you remember, to put forward anything of an alibi for the day of the murder except that. He couldn’t produce anybody else who had seen him. He couldn’t shake the case for the Crown.”
“When did he take the ‘Peacock’s Eye,’ Mr. Bathurst?” asked Lady Fullgarney.
“I imagine Miss Delaney gave it to him to mind temporarily. He had infatuated her. I attempt to explain it like this. When he masqueraded as the Indian and called at ‘Rest Harrow,’ it was with a very definite purpose. Sheila had told him all about the stone’s history—so he made up his mind to frighten her. She had told him about Lal Singh and her father. I suggest he frightened her with the notion that this Indian was not really her father’s old servant but a servant of some frightful native vendetta—you know the kind of thing I mean. Priest’s vengeance extending over generations. Against which banks and strong-rooms would be useless. Sheila got a bit nervous—he prevailed upon her to let him take charge of the ‘Peacock’s Eye’—presumably for greater safety. When his hands closed upon it—Sheila faced death!”
“How did he get the prussic acid?” queried Lady Fullgarney.
“That was never conclusively proved—very likely in an obscure town, months ago. A man in his position could wield many influences—you know.” Anthony stopped—as though awaiting further questions.
“Go on, Mr. Bathurst,” interjected Sir Matthew; “let’s hear the end of the story.”
“There isn’t a lot more, Sir Matthew. I called upon you, as you remember, and confirmed my suspicions about the mix-up of identity at the Hunt Ball. Alan Warburton must have been wrong!
Both you and Lady Fullgarney who had been present at the ball were positive that the Crown Prince and Miss Delaney had never met, and were not seen together. It only remained for me to prove my case. My suspicions—unsupported—were valueless. I knew it might mean a long wait. But I felt certain that the time would come for ‘realising’ the ‘Peacock’s Eye.’ I succeeded in allaying any possible suspicions the murderer might have had very completely. In fact I bamboozled him beautifully. I told him a lot of the truth and one or two lovely lies. I even whispered the name of the assassin in his ear. Only it happened to be the wrong name! Still—it sufficed for him. I promised he should help me to capture him. He did—but not in the manner he anticipated.” Anthony chuckled reminiscently. Lady Fullgarney’s eyes danced and sparkled in excited interest. “How did you know when to move, Mr. Bathurst—when the Amsterdam trip was coming off?”
“He was watched night and day, Lady Fullgarney. Sir Austin Kemble here helped me tremendously in that. He put four of his best men under my orders—but he didn’t know himself how I was using them. I swore them to secrecy. I had ‘cart blanche.’ When the man we were watching entered his house one morning and ‘Lal Singh’ emerged, I knew we were nearly home. I was right. The time for action had come. We followed him to Hull and from there across to Holland. I hope you enjoyed our little trip—Sir Austin?”
“I raise my hat to you, Mr. Bathurst,” declared Sir Austin. “A most able piece of investigation. I am proud to have worked with you.”
“I love you more than ever, Mr. Bathurst,” said Lady Fullgarney. “I am perfectly shameless over it.”
“Pauline!” exclaimed Sir Matthew, “you go a little too far. By the way, Mr. Bathurst. It’s a small point—but I’m curious. When you told Bannister who the murderer was—whom did you accuse? What name did you whisper to him?”
