Anthony flung another warning glance in my direction then replied to Sir Charles. “You flatter me, Sir Charles,” he said laughingly, “and you make altogether too much of my Webb escapade—Bill is getting as bad as the rest of you—that’s all there is to it.”
I thought that Sir Charles looked somewhat relieved. Lady Considine evidently had a similar impression for she leaned across and patted him on the sleeve. “Don’t you worry too much about it, Charles,” she said quietly; “let’s get this unpleasant business over to-day—then perhaps we may be allowed to forget. If Inspector Baddeley arrests the murderer—well and good—if he fails to——” she shrugged her shoulders. The breakfast party broke up.
“Both the cars are going down to the village—there will be room in them for all,” announced our host.
We murmured our thanks. “What do you say to a stroll down, Bill?” said Anthony. “Plenty of time, and it will stretch our legs.”
“I’m with you,” I responded. I was secretly pleased at the opportunity—I imagined that he wanted to tell me something or desired to discuss some aspect of the case with me. I was disappointed. He was quiet. We swung along some distance before I broke the ice.
“What did you make of that letter business?” I asked, watching his expression intently.
“In what relation?”
“To Prescott—to the murder.” I was nettled. What relation did he imagine I meant?
“Oh, that! None at all!”
I stared incredulously, even more nettled than before. “Sorry to hear that—I had hoped that I had discovered something moderately important.”
“So you did, Bill. But its importance was not exactly in reference to the actual murder.”
“What on earth do you——”
“Its importance is a matter of accumulation—its real relation is to the boot-lace and the Barker I.O.U.”
I shook my head hopelessly. “What can Mary’s letter have to do with those other things—you said yourself we didn’t know to whom the letter was written—besides, we have Mary’s word that she never wrote to Prescott in her life—surely you believe her—you can’t doubt her?”
“Not for a moment, Bill.”
“Well, then”—I became emphatic—“there must be——”
“You’ll see what I’m getting at all in good time. Don’t be impatient—besides, here we are at ‘The Swan’s Nest.’”
The news of the inquest had excited considerable interest, and a good-sized knot of people had gathered outside the hostelry. As we entered, I heard speculation regarding many details of the case, and our identity was audibly discussed. Dr. Anselm was just taking his seat. He referred to the shocking nature of the tragedy that was to be there, and then investigated and proceeded at once to put the case before the twelve good men and true. Witnesses, he informed us, would be called to identify the deceased as Gerald Prescott, a guest of Sir Charles Considine—he mentioned the name with proper respect and reverence—at Considine Manor, where he had been staying for nearly a week. A good many of the company knew that the poor young man—with whose relatives he would desire to express his deepest sympathy—had appeared in the last ’Varsity Match at Lords’, and had been invited to Considine Manor to take part in Sir Charles Considine’s Annual Cricket Week. Nothing of any untoward incident had occurred during his stay—they had no evidence of any quarrelling or friction of any kind—yet on the Saturday morning, Prescott had been found lying on the billiard-table—in the—ahem—billiard room—foully murdered. Sensation! Done to death by strangulation, Dr. Elliott would inform them, as a highly qualified medical man, and it would be the jury’s duty to weigh this evidence and all the evidence to arrive at a fit and proper verdict. In addition to a boot-lace tied tightly round his throat, the murdered man had also been stabbed at the base of the neck, at the top of the spinal cord with a dagger! More and greater sensation! The case had also a strange complication. On the night of the murder, Lady Considine’s pearls had been stolen from the Manor. Again sensation! But owing to the masterly handling of this portion of the affair by Inspector Baddeley of the Sussex Constabulary, who had acted with lightning-like rapidity in the following up of certain data that he had gleaned, two persons had been arrested and lodged in Lewes Jail. Final and crowning sensation! The reporters present licked their lips. This was almost too good to be true. Anthony nudged me in the ribs. “He’s rendered to Baddeley the things that weren’t Baddeley’s—you see!” He grinned. “Just as I expected.”
Dr. Anselm speedily got to the real business of the morning. The room we were in was evidently the dining-room of the “Swan’s Nest,” and I attempted to picture it in its ordinary environment. It seemed grotesque to imagine people could dine here in any comfort after this inquiry was over. Then I heard “Mrs. Prescott” called.
The Coroner once again expressed his profound sympathy with her in her distress. She gave formal evidence identifying the body that she had viewed as the body of her son—Gerald Onslow Lancelot Prescott. He was twenty-two years of age—unmarried—and had just come down from Oxford. As far as she was aware deceased had no troubles or worries; he was quite sound financially and to her knowledge hadn’t an enemy in the world.
The Coroner.—“Had he any love affair?”
Mrs. Prescott.—“No. None that he had ever confided to me.”
The Coroner.—“He had come to Considine Manor simply to take part in the Cricket Week?”
Mrs. Prescott.—“That is so.”
The Coroner.—“Had you heard from him during his stay there?”
Mrs. Prescott.—“Yes—a short letter. Full of the good times he was having.”
The Coroner.—“And you know of absolutely nothing that would throw any light upon this indescribably dreadful affair?”
Mrs. Prescott.—“Nothing! Nothing at all!”
The Coroner thanked her and the next witness was summoned. If summoned can correctly describe the procedure.
“Constance Webb!”
From between two sturdy members of the Sussex County Police came she whom we had known as Marshall. Still sensation!
The reporters bent to their tasks with redoubled energy—sweetened by the thoughts of circulations to come. A low hum buzzed round the room at the appearance of this new witness. Anthony clutched at my arm.
“Look,” he muttered. Inspector Baddeley had come round to the side of Dr. Anselm and was whispering something to him. I saw the Coroner nod his head three or four times in seeming acquiescence. Baddeley appeared to be explaining something, for I saw the doctor give a final approving movement of the head, and then turn and address the witness.
“What’s afoot?” I interrogated.
“I think I know,” answered Anthony. “Listen!”
“Marshall,” as it seems the more natural for me to call her, gave her evidence in a low, toneless, almost inaudible voice. Several times the Coroner had to request her to speak up. Up to Saturday last she had been a maid in the employ of Sir Charles and Lady Considine, and among her duties was the task of sweeping and cleaning a number of the Manor rooms first thing in the morning—as she had done on the Saturday morning in question. She had eventually reached the billiard room! Here the witness was observed to falter and excitement ran high in the “Swan’s Nest.” Dr. Anselm took a hand.
“What did you find when you got to the billiard room?”
More excitement followed—a sharp-featured little man on the left of the room jumped to his feet. All eyes were turned on him.
“I object to that question, sir, with all deference—the witness has not yet said that she had found anything.”
Dr. Anselm glared at this disturber of the peace. “Who are you, sir?”
The little man produced his card. “Felix Lawson. I am present at this inquiry watching the interests of Webb—the man under——”
The Coroner broke in quickly. “Very well, Mr. Lawson. That is sufficient.”
He addressed himself to the witness again. “Tell your story—go on.”
“I entered the billiard room and the first thing I saw was the dead body of Mr. Prescott lying across the billiard-table.”
“What did you do?”
She hesitated for a brief period. “I screamed for help! Then the other people came in.”
“I see! I will only ask you one more question. Describe the attitude of the body on the table as well as you are able.”
“It seemed to be lying across the end of the table—almost on one shoulder—I can’t remember any more. Is that all?”
Dr. Anselm asserted his satisfaction.
“Inspector Baddeley!” Baddeley stepped forward, as briskly as ever.
He told his story curtly and decisively. He explained that he had been called to Considine Manor about eight o’clock on the morning in question, in company with Dr. Elliott. As the previous witness had stated, the body of the dead man lay across the billiard-table in the billiard room. The room was to an extent disordered. Three of the chairs were overturned, and by the side of one lay the poker from the fireplace. The window of the room was open—probably about two feet. There were footprints outside this window, indicating that deceased had been out there, and another man as well. With regard to this latter fact he would say no more for the moment.
Anthony plucked at my elbow. “You’ll hear no mention of the ‘Spider’—you see.”
Baddeley went on with his evidence. No money had been found on the deceased, although he was almost fully dressed. He was wearing, when discovered, full evening dress with the exception of his shoes. These were brown—the deceased had evidently pulled them on in a great hurry. He had made inquiries about the deceased gentleman, and had discovered nothing whatever to his discredit or detriment. Inspector Baddeley retired.
Dr. Elliott then followed with his medical testimony. Once again the room at the “Swan’s Nest” buzzed and hummed with excitement. Death was due, he told his audience, to strangulation. Deceased had been strangled by a brown shoe-lace, taken from one of the shoes that he was wearing and tied tightly round his throat. A dagger had also been driven into the base of the neck, at the top of the spinal column, but in his opinion, death had already supervened before this assault had taken place. Acute sensation!
A Juryman.—“Was it possible, Dr. Elliott, for this shoe-lace to have been placed round deceased’s neck by deceased himself?”
Dr. Elliott.—“You suggest suicide?”
A Juryman.—“Yes. That’s what I mean.”
Dr. Elliott.—“Quite possible, of course, but as a medical man, I hardly——”
A Juryman.—“Thank ye, Doctor.”
Continuing, Dr. Elliott gave it his considered opinion that death had taken place about six or seven hours when he first examined the body.
The Coroner.—“That would time the murder then, Dr. Elliott, at about one o’clock or half-past? Am I correct?”
Dr. Elliott agreed. In conclusion he stated that the body he had examined was normal, and healthy in every respect—that of an athletic young man.
Then Anthony and I became like the crowd. We got our sensation.
“Andrew Whitney.”
“Who the blazes is this?” I asked excitedly. “Somebody Baddeley has dug up?” Anthony leaned forward in his seat to look at the newcomer.
A medium-sized fat-faced man stepped up. He had a jovial, well-nourished countenance and was evidently full to the brim with joie de vivre. He gave his evidence very quickly and clearly.
“I am Andrew Whitney—Sales Manager, Blue Star Soap Products Co.—I was motoring home on Friday night last from Eastbourne. My home is at Coulsdon. I left Eastbourne very late—I had been staying with friends,—and it was very probably Saturday morning before I actually got under way. To make matters worse I had engine trouble, and it was striking three as I came through Considine. I remember hearing two church clocks strike the hour. I passed Considine Manor about five minutes past three. Just as I was passing, the engine trouble that had previously helped to delay me, recurred and I was forced to stop again. While I was tinkering about at the job, I was surprised to see a room at the side of the house suddenly flash into brilliant light—the electric light was suddenly turned on. It remained on for a period that I should estimate at two or three minutes, and then equally suddenly went out. It struck me as rather strange that people should be walking about in rooms at that hour of the night. I have since identified that room where the light was, as the billiard room.”
The man who had described himself as Felix Lawson rose to his feet. He bowed to the Coroner. “With your permission, Dr. Anselm, I would like to put one question to the witness.”
“Very well, Mr. Lawson.”
The little man turned to Whitney. “Are you prepared to affirm, on oath, Mr. Whitney, that this lighting up of the billiard room took place after three o’clock? You are absolutely certain of your time?”
Whitney nodded his head impatiently. “Quite positive. I imagined I had made myself clear on that point.”
Lawson raised his hand deprecatingly. “You were judging, I think, from the chimes of a clock. They are very easily miscounted, especially when your mind is otherwise pretty well occupied. You counted the strokes and were sure?”
“I did. I am positive on the point.”
“Thank you very much. Thank you, Dr. Anselm. That is all I have to ask.”
Whitney stepped away smartly.
“Annie Dennis.”
A girl whose face was vaguely familiar to me came forward. When she started to speak I realized that I knew her. It was one of the kitchen maids at the Manor. She had been called as a result of Inspector Baddeley’s inquiries, and had something to tell the world which the Inspector considered important. I whispered again to Anthony Bathurst.
“Did you know about this?” I said.
“No,” he replied. “Not a glimmer. The Inspector has been busy.”
Annie’s evidence was as follows. On Friday evening she had been sent down into the village by Fitch, the butler. She had returned just after nine o’clock, and as she entered the grounds of the Manor she was amazed to see a man walking on the flower-bed directly outside the billiard room window.
Dr. Anselm.—“What exactly did he appear to be doing?”
“Nothing! Only walking across the bed.”
“Can you describe him?”
The witness shook her head. “No, sir—not very well. He seemed to disappear very quickly as I drew nearer to the house itself. But there was something a little peculiar about his walk.”
“In what way peculiar?”
Annie Dennis hesitated. “I can’t rightly say, sir, it just didn’t seem ordinary-like—not free and easy.”
“Do you mean that he limped in some way or was lame?”
“No, sir, not exactly that—I can’t tell you quite what I mean—but I should know it if I ever saw it again.”
Dr. Anselm desisted from worrying the witness any more, and having summed the whole facts up, concisely and accurately, the jury were asked for their verdict. It was speedily forthcoming. “Wilful Murder against some person or persons unknown—death having been caused by strangulation.”
We filed out of the room one by one. I was anxious to ask Anthony his opinion of the two fresh witnesses. I turned to address him when I found, to my surprise, Inspector Baddeley at our sides.
“I’d like a chat with you, Mr. Bathurst,” he said, “at your convenience.”
“Whenever you like, Baddeley! You’ve deserted the ‘Spider’ then?”
“Not altogether, although it might appear to be so,” came the answer.
“You must have strong reasons.”
“Pretty fair,” grinned the Inspector. Then his face relapsed into the grave again. “Still, I’m not denying that I’m puzzled,” he admitted. “I can’t get the facts to tally at all. That’s why I want a word with you. Understand?”
Anthony patted him on the back. “Only too pleased, Inspector; the case has been rather troublesome, I admit.” We walked home together.
CHAPTER XVII
INSPECTOR BADDELEY PUTS HIS CARDS ON THE TABLE
Baddeley closed the library door behind us and gestured to us to be seated. “I don’t purpose troubling Sir Charles Considine at the moment,” he informed us, “for one or two reasons—but I do feel, gentlemen, that I’ve reached a stage in the investigations of this affair when I’m bound to talk things over with somebody.” He paused and produced his pipe which he proceeded to fill, slowly and deliberately. Then he continued. “Early on, Mr. Bathurst, you had a little joke with me about going fifty-fifty in regard to our discoveries ... well ... it’s like this ... I seem to be properly up against the most baffling set of clues it’s ever been my good fortune—or bad, if you like—to encounter.” He struck a match and lit the tobacco. “In all probability I’ve been able to get information that you haven’t, Mr. Bathurst—that sort of thing’s my job so you’re starting a bit ‘scratch’ as it were—still I’m going to play the game and put all the cards on the table.”
Anthony waved a deprecating hand. “Quite so—Inspector.”
Baddeley eyed him warily—then went on again.
“There’s a young fellow murdered and a pearl necklace stolen in the same house on the same night. The robbery is cleared up pretty quickly—thanks to you, Mr. Bathurst—and the question arises—the natural question if I may call it so—what connection, if any, is there between the two?”
Anthony broke in. “Do you want me to answer that?”
Baddeley held up his hand. “Not for the moment, sir! Let me go on for a bit. My reason tells me that there is a connection—because the murdered man was strangled with a shoe-lace, and the man pinched for the robbery has, as far as I can tell—the identical shoe-lace in his pocket. I’m not exactly a scholar, gentlemen, but you can say he’s caught ‘in flagrante delicto.’” He looked at us.
Anthony was smiling. “Go ahead, Inspector,” was all that he said.
“Well, sir—that’s what reason tells me! But instinct tells me just the opposite—I can’t get the times to fit—nothing seems to link up just in the way that it should—and I’ve got a decidedly uneasy feeling that I’ve missed my way somewhere.” He puffed at his pipe. “I’m going to do a lot of talking, gentlemen; can you put up with it?” He proceeded without waiting for our reply.
“Usually, there’s a motive sticking out in these cases. But I’m damned if I can find a really satisfactory one here. Robbery? I don’t think so—he had no money on him when he was found—but his chief card winnings hadn’t been paid over, and it isn’t likely he was carrying a very large sum about with him. Robbery for something that he possessed? The I.O.U. for instance? Possibly! Revenge? Again—possibly! But if so for something that has, so far, eluded me. Still—we’ll concede—a distinct possibility. You see—we aren’t nearing probabilities yet. And probabilities are much more satisfactory than mere possibilities. Now there’s that very mysterious piece of work with the Venetian Dagger.”
He stopped again as though to let his words sink well in. Anthony grew very attentive, and I found myself more responsive, so to speak, to the Inspector’s mood.
“The dagger had been used to ‘make sure’ apparently. The murderer was taking no risks—dead men tell no tales—but—and here’s something you probably don’t know, Mr. Bathurst—that Venetian dagger had unmistakable signs of finger-prints.”
Anthony grinned. “It was the dagger, after all, Bill,” he said. Then he addressed Baddeley. “I tumbled to your letter dodge, Inspector,” he explained. “I spotted that you had some prints somewhere and were after an identification. Fire away.” He settled in his chair again. Baddeley gazed at him steadily.
“You miss a hell of a lot. I don’t think,” he muttered. “I fancy I’ve brought my samples to the right market, after all.”
Anthony dismissed the compliment with a wave of the hand. Then came as quickly to the challenging point. “Whose were they?”
Baddeley replied very quietly. “They belonged to Major Hornby, Mr. Bathurst.”
This was interesting with a vengeance.
“Really,” said Anthony. “This is very important! Have you approached the Major, or are you holding your hand?”
“I have seen the Major, and informed him of my knowledge.”
“Ah! I am curious to hear what he says.”
“His explanation is that he handled the dagger during the evening.”
“Really.”
“Yes. And what is more, Mr. Bathurst, he is prepared to assert that when he retired for the night, the dagger had been removed from its customary resting-place on the table.”
“Removed from where he had replaced it?”
“Exactly.”
Anthony looked up and studied the Inspector’s face very seriously. “Really—Inspector. Really? This is most illuminating! Taken from the table some time during the evening—eh?” He rubbed his hands. “And do you know, Inspector—do you know—I’m not surprised.”
Baddeley flung him a quizzical glance. “The day that I surprise you, I reckon I’ll surprise myself,” he uttered laconically. “But I’ll go on. I’ve given you one piece of information that I believe you were ignorant of. Now for what happened this morning at the inquest—I fancy you heard a thing or two there for the first time? Am I right?”
Anthony pulled at his top lip with his fingers—a favorite trick of his. “You refer to the evidence of Andrew Whitney and the maid, Dennis—I presume?”
Baddeley nodded. “Whitney’s evidence was a stroke of pure good fortune for me. He had seen the account of the case in the papers, read the description of the house, Considine Manor, and knowing of course that his delay occurred in the village of Considine or thereabouts, had no difficulty in recognizing it again when he came to have a second look at it. I tell you I was glad to get my hooks into this piece of evidence, from an absolutely unimpeachable source—but when he swore that the time was past three—well, I was pretty well staggered.” He came right across to us and looked Anthony straight in the face. “Mr. Bathurst, think it over! Dr. Elliott tells us Prescott was killed somewhere about half-past one—perhaps two—‘Spider’ Webb was pulling off his little job of work round about the same time—it all seems to point to a connection between the two—yet I’m not satisfied—I can’t think what was doing in that billiard room after three o’clock that morning.” He stared broodingly at his pipe. Neither Anthony nor I broke the silence—he seemed determined to let Baddeley have his entire say without further interruption.
“So much then for Whitney’s evidence. Now we come to Annie Dennis. I am indebted to the butler—Fitch—for getting on to her. When I first questioned her she told me she could tell me nothing. Apparently she had either forgotten the incident or didn’t consider it of sufficient importance to mention. She took it to Fitch who passed it on to me—so I interviewed her. What was a man doing outside the billiard room window at that time—just after nine o’clock—on Friday evening? Once again—was it Webb—or an accomplice of Webb’s? There are too many twists and turns in this for me, Mr. Bathurst. I’m fairly staggered.”
Anthony rose and stretched his long body.
“This inquest to-day, Inspector Baddeley—I was very interested to observe that all reference to Webb’s arrest was avoided. In fact, as far as I can remember not a great deal of mention was made of the theft of Lady Considine’s necklace. Marshall—Mrs. Webb—was treated exactly as an ordinary witness. I presume I am correct, Inspector, in assuming that you stage-managed this?”
Baddeley smiled. “Right again, Mr. Bathurst!”
“May I ask why? I have my own ideas of course—but——”
Baddeley cut in. “Well, I’ll be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Bathurst. In these cases as you are doubtless aware, especially at an inquest, it isn’t always the best policy for the Police to put all their cards on the table—at first that is. The robbery and the murder may be linked up—on the other hand they may not—if they are not—as my instinct tells me—it’s just as well for the real murderer to remain in the dark about Webb.”
Anthony pondered for a moment. “All very well, as far as it goes. To have charged Webb and Marshall with the murder might possibly have given this other chap—your murderer—a sense of false security. Don’t you think so?”
“I always believe in keeping people uninformed—as far as possible. They are more likely to betray themselves.”
“But there is an alternative to that,” replied Anthony. “By imparting information—carefully prepared and selected, you sometimes force people to betray themselves. Don’t you see? However, it’s of no particular consequence—I merely desired to know what exactly was your intention. Now I know!”
Baddeley plunged his hands into his jacket pockets. “You asked me just now, Mr. Bathurst, if I wanted you to answer a question that I had raised—and I asked you to refrain from answering it at the moment. I’d like you to answer it now. Has Webb with his robbery any connection with the death of Prescott?”
“You want me to answer that—here and now?”
“If you please, Mr. Bathurst.”
“In my opinion, then, as I read the case, none whatever!”
“None whatever!”—I intervened incredulously—“then what about the shoe-lace? I can’t understand——”
“Neither can I,” reiterated Baddeley. “That beats me—that does.”
Anthony smiled. “You asked me a simple question, and I gave you a simple answer. Let’s leave it at that, for the time being. And now allow me to ask you a question!”
Baddeley signified assent. “Very well, sir!”
“Shortly after you were called to this business, Inspector—you definitely stated that Prescott had been out in the grounds of the Manor after twelve o’clock. Do you remember?”
“Decidedly, I do,” came the answer. “What are you getting at?”
“You drew your inference, I supposed, Inspector, from the mud on the brown shoes, and the state of the clothes that Prescott was wearing when found? They were bone-dry, and you argued that had he been out before twelve they would have got very wet—rain was falling pretty steadily—and would still have shown some traces of wet when you arrived. Am I on the lines of your reasoning?”
“You are—pretty conclusive too, don’t you think?”
“It would fit one hypothesis, certainly—but not another.”
“I don’t quite get you.”
“Don’t go too fast. I was merely satisfying myself as to the line your inferences had taken.”
Baddeley looked doubtfully at him. “You think I’ve missed something?”
Anthony patted him on the shoulder. “Naturally—we all have, haven’t we—or the murderer would be kicking his heels in Lewes Jail by this time—there’s no urgent necessity for you to be despondent because of that.”
“That’s all very well,” returned the Inspector—“but you see this happens to be my job—my bread and butter depends on it—I can’t afford to miss things and get away with it.”
“Don’t abandon hope yet,” responded Anthony. “I am becoming more optimistic as we progress. You’ll clap your handcuffs on the criminal yet. Now tell me something else. You collared Prescott’s papers when you first ran your eye over his bedroom. Find anything?”
“Nothing of any consequence. Here they are.” He fished in his breast pocket. Then produced an ordinary brown leather wallet which he handed over to my companion. About a shilling’s worth of postage stamps, and half a dozen papers were all it contained. Anthony looked through them.
“Hotel Bill—July—’Varsity Match probably, two letters from his mother”—he scanned them through—“not important—a communication from the O.U.D.S.—another from the ‘Authentics’—and a tailor’s bill. H’m—nothing here apparently.” He returned the wallet to Baddeley.
“Did you get his check-book?”
“You bet your life I did. Care to have a look at that?” He smiled.
Anthony turned over the counterfoils for a moment or two. “Nothing here, either, I fancy; only five checks drawn since the beginning of May—four to ‘Self’ and one to the tailor whose account we just handled. Well, I’m not surprised—I didn’t want to find anything startling.”
“Any information helps,” muttered Baddeley somewhat gloomily.
“Not always, Inspector! Consider your own position here—you found pieces of information from time to time that only served to confuse you. You have admitted that yourself! They wouldn’t fit in, as links in the chain—I had the same difficulty——”
“That’s true,” conceded the Inspector. “But you like to feel you’re running freely.”
Anthony went straight across to him. “I do, Inspector. I feel that I’m actually ‘in the straight.’”
But Baddeley refused to be comforted. “I’m not denying that you’ve done one or two smart things, but I’m afraid you’re a bit over-confident. I’ve been at the game longer than——”
Anthony cut in. “Look here, Baddeley, do you think I should say a thing like that, without good and sufficient reason?”
I subjected Baddeley to a careful scrutiny, for I felt myself sympathizing with him. How could Anthony possibly make a statement like that? It seemed to me from what I had seen of the case—which was as much as anybody—that several people lay under suspicion, but none more than any other. Now there was Hornby to add to Webb, Barker, “Marshall” and the rest of them. I could quite see Baddeley’s point of view—a maze of clues and not one, to my outlook, that stood out conspicuously from the others.
Baddeley’s voice broke in upon my reverie.
“No, Mr. Bathurst—I don’t! But since you ask me—I’m dashed if I can follow you—I don’t see my way clearly and that’s a fact.”
Anthony took a cigarette from his case—we did likewise at his invitation. “Do you mind being the third, Inspector?” he asked as we lit up.
“I’m not superstitious, Mr. Bathurst—though I’ve a shrewd idea this little conference will prove unlucky for somebody.” We laughed.
“You do?” said Anthony. “Well, listen to me for a moment.”
CHAPTER XVIII
MR. BATHURST PARTIALLY EMULATES HIS EXAMPLE
We settled down in our chairs, eager and expectant. I think Baddeley shared my feelings now. What were we going to hear that would throw light on the affair?
“You’ve acted very decently all the way through, Baddeley, I’ll say that for you, and I appreciate it as a compliment that we’re running this little ‘confab’ now. I realize that to a certain extent, you have come to me for help—well, I’ll give you some. You said just now you were going to put your cards on the table. Perhaps you thought that I held some trumps too.” He paused and waited for the Inspector to reply. But the answer was some little time in coming. Baddeley shifted uneasily in his seat as though he didn’t altogether approve of Anthony’s opening remarks. Then somewhat grudgingly it seemed to me he answered the question that had been put to him.
“Well—perhaps I did, Mr. Bathurst.” Then, as though he realized partly that he was exposing himself to charge of churlishness, he made the amende.
“You see, Mr. Bathurst, I’ve developed a certain amount of admiration for you.”
Anthony smiled. “Then we know where and how we stand. In the first place, Inspector—a question. When were you last in the billiard room?”
“Yesterday—Wednesday.”
“Care for a jaunt up there now? I’ll show you something.”
Baddeley looked surprised, but accepted the invitation with alacrity. We ascended the stairs—I knew well what the journey meant for us.
“Billiards”—said Anthony, with an air—“have lapsed into disfavor since Prescott was found murdered. A very natural consequence, I submit. Sir Charles and Jack have kept away, Arkwright has had a nasty attack of muscular rheumatism in his right arm—Mary Considine and Helen have given the room a miss. But Bill and I fancied a game. I fancy it was on Tuesday. Shortly after we started—one of us potted the red rather brilliantly—modesty prevents me telling you which of us it was, Inspector—are you interested?”
Baddeley eyed him studiously—but refrained from replying.
“That was the pocket”—he indicated it—“where the balls are now. Do you mind putting your hand in and sending them out? Thank you, Inspector. Now feel in the pocket.”
I watched Baddeley’s look of amazement as he thrust in his hand. Barker’s I.O.U. was still lying where we had replaced it. He took it and smoothed it out, his look of amazement deepening.
“You found this here?” he gasped. “When? Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Come now, Inspector. Recriminations weren’t part of our bargain. We found this, Cunningham and I, exactly as I have indicated—I am not pretending that I found it because I was looking for it—it was entirely fortuitous.”
Baddeley made no reply. He read and reread the writing. Then tapping it with his forefinger: “Here’s the motive—gentlemen. The very link for which I’ve been searching. Prescott was murdered for possession of this I.O.U., and the murderer in his haste or excitement dropped or lost the very object he wanted to obtain.” Then to us—“don’t you think so?”
“I ought to tell you, Inspector,” Anthony answered, “that I don’t quite know the actual position that this piece of envelope was occupying in the pocket when I found it. Don’t look mystified! I sent the balls flying from the pocket with the flat of my hand, before I discovered the I.O.U. Therefore, you understand, I don’t know for certain if it was down the side of the pocket say—or right at the bottom—under the billiard balls! Get me?”
“Yes, I understand that. You think the paper’s position important?”
“Very. For instance, if I could definitely assert that it occupied the latter position, I should incline to the opinion that it had been hidden there—not accidentally dropped.”
Baddeley rubbed the ridge of his jaw with his knuckles.
“Yes—that’s sound reasoning,” he admitted. “But why hide it? Why murder to get it—and then hide it? That beats me—it does.”
“It wants a bit of working out,” chuckled Anthony. “Still, there’s nothing more to be gained by staying up here. Hang on to that precious piece of paper and let’s get back to the library.”
Baddeley followed us out of the room.
“On second thoughts,” interposed Anthony, “come upstairs once more and not down. Come on, Bill. Come on, Baddeley. There’s something else I want to tell you.”
He showed the way to Prescott’s bedroom, while Baddeley trailed along in apparent discomfiture.
“You’ll not be able to hand me out any surprise packets in here, Mr. Bathurst. I went through Prescott’s belongings pretty thoroughly.”
“I’ll give you credit for that,” laughed Anthony. “So don’t worry on that score. I’m going to take you farther than this room—but only just a little farther. Come into the bathroom.”
We made our way—I bringing up the rear. Anthony fished in his pocket and produced the cigar stub that he had so carefully preserved. He passed it on to our companion. “See that cigar end, Baddeley? That was found on the edge of this wash-stand basin—I found it there, and on this occasion I do know where it was lying.” He pointed to the spot. “And I’ll tell you this”—he continued. “As far as either of us can say—we don’t think it’s one of Sir Charles Considine’s—it’s certainly not one of his customary brand.”
“Been smoked by a man with jolly good teeth,” remarked the Inspector as he studied it closely. “Prescott himself had excellent teeth—gentlemen.”
“Yes—that’s a distinct possibility—I admit that,” replied Anthony. “Just a piece of absent-mindedness on his part might account for its presence there.”
Baddeley nodded. “Was he a cigar smoker? Can you tell me?”
“What do you mean?” I broke in. “Habitually—or occasionally?”
“Either!”
“Well,” I uttered, “he’d smoke a cigar after dinner if Sir Charles or anybody offered him one—I can tell you that—I’ve often seen him.”
“Just so! That’s all I meant. I’ll keep this and make a few inquiries.”
“By the way, Baddeley”—from Anthony—“you went all over the bedroom itself pretty systematically—didn’t you?”
“I did that,” replied Baddeley. “And I don’t think I missed anything.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to put him wise again—I thought of the letter fragments—but Anthony put a quick finger to his lips, unseen by the Inspector. I also caught the fleeting suggestion of a lowered eyelid. It then became evident to me that he did not intend to let Baddeley know what I had found in the bedroom. Neither had he mentioned Mary’s evidence about the mysterious watcher that she and Prescott had seen—in short, I realized that Anthony was only putting some of his cards on the table.
Baddeley led the way downstairs somewhat ruefully, I thought.
“I must thank you, Mr. Bathurst, for putting me wise on these points,” he said very frankly. “But if I was to say that I felt any nearer to a solution, because of them—well—I shouldn’t be taking a medal for veracity. Think I’d better start keeping rabbits. More in my line.”
“Don’t be too self-critical, Inspector. A little is good for all of us—but a little goes a long way, and too much of it is bad for one.”
Inspector Baddeley looked at him with no little chagrin.
“You mean what you say, kindly, I’ve no doubt, but I feel that I’d like to think quietly over what I’ve learned from you to-day. Somewhere, at my leisure—I get a bit bewildered unless I can go my own pace. So you won’t mind if I say ‘good-day’?” He held out his hand to us in farewell. “Good-day, Mr. Bathurst! Good-day, Mr. Cunningham!”
Anthony looked after him whimsically as he closed the door. Then we heard Sir Charles Considine’s voice booming out. “Hullo, Baddeley, what did you think of old Anselm? The inquest didn’t produce much that we didn’t know—eh—and also didn’t produce some that we did—what?” Baddeley appeared to murmur a reply that tickled Sir Charles’ humor.