CHAPTER XXII.
Mr. Bathurst Baits the Hook
The inquest that afternoon took its course as Inspector Goodall had foreshadowed. Formal identification of the body was taken by the Coroner, and almost immediately afterwards, Sergeant Clegg asked for an adjournment. The Coroner granted the Sergeant’s request without demur. Goodall attended—he told Anthony that he always made a special point of attending inquests—he had more than once during his career picked up an hitherto elusive trail from some unexpected turn an inquest had taken, and he also liked to have a good look at all the people who made it their business to be present—but Peter stayed in the house with Anthony. The latter’s first remark after lunch was surprising. “What daily papers come to Assynton Lodge, Daventry, any idea?”
“You bet I have,” replied Peter. “I was only too glad of them during my enforced term of Sentinel-in-Chief—‘The Times,’ ‘The Telegraph,’ and ‘The Morning Post’—also a financial paper of some kind—I didn’t look at it.”
“Good,” said Anthony—it flashed through his mind that Goodall had never informed him whether the “Telegraph” for the 30th ultimo had afforded him any special information. He would have to ask him that when he came in.
“Tell me,” said Peter, “I haven’t had a chance of speaking to you quietly—how did you get on—what are the latest developments—what’s been doing?”
“Matters have gone very well,” rejoined Anthony. “There is still one little point upon which I am not yet quite clear, but I hope to clear that up before many hours have passed. I also wish to amend with all apologies a statement that I made—rather carelessly perhaps—to you!” He swung one leg over the other and clasped the knee with his two hands. “I told you, Daventry, that I would introduce the police to the murderer of Mason the night-watchman—and you yourself to the murderer of Laurence P. Stewart! I was wrong!” He paused, and Peter looked up! What had gone wrong to cause Anthony Bathurst to retract a statement like that? Disillusionment on that score came quickly. “I was wrong,” repeated Anthony, “inasmuch as I shall have the pleasure, my dear Daventry, of introducing you to both murderers.”
“I’m sure I shall be charmed,” murmured Peter, responsively. “But before that happens I should like to be enlightened a bit. What do you make of that wretched will?”
“You shall see, Daventry,” responded Anthony, ignoring the last question, “my final plans are not quite complete—they will be to-night—when they are—you shall know more. I shall have to take Goodall into my confidence, too—I’ve promised him as much.” His words coincided with the sound of the latter’s voice outside the door. Anthony went to the door and beckoned to him. The Inspector came, scratching his head thoughtfully.
“That will—Mr. Bathurst! You must have noticed how young Stewart kept away from it all the time during lunch—yet I’ll swear it was the only thing that he was really thinking about. I can’t help feeling that that will contains the key to the whole business!” He made the statement emphatically, and watched Anthony’s face carefully to see the effect of his words.
But Mr. Bathurst’s face remained impassive. “What do you think, yourself?” persisted Goodall—definitely putting the opinion to the test.
“I think it certainly had something to do with the second murder,” conceded Anthony. “But possibly not altogether in the way you think.” He turned the subject. “What about that Personal message in the ‘Telegraph,’ Goodall? You never told me what you made of it.”
The Inspector fished out a newspaper cutting. “I certainly must congratulate you again over that, Mr. Bathurst,” he declared. “The telephone number mentioned is assuredly that of Blanchard’s Hotel—though I don’t altogether see how you got on to it—the ‘M. S.’ could also be linked up with the affair to read ‘Mary Stuart,’ but even there——”
Anthony cut in. “I was actually looking for something of the sort,” he confessed. “I had thought previously that the ‘Agony Column’ might very probably prove to be one of their most likely means of communication! The combination of ‘M. S.’ and ‘Both-well’ was too strong a coincidence to be passed over without investigation.” He paused to see how the Inspector would take this last remark.
Goodall’s eyes opened! “Well, I’m blessed,” he exclaimed. “I see now what you mean—I’m afraid I missed the second point—that was real smart now.”
Peter held out his hand for the paragraph, which he read with interest. Interest which was all the more intense on account of the explanation that had preceded it. Anthony’s next words brought both him and the Inspector to a keener alertness. “Make sure your revolver’s in working order, Daventry, and you, Inspector, keep those handcuffs close to you. I sha’n’t ask you to wait very much longer now. I want to have a chat with Stewart this evening before the funeral to-morrow morning—then all we shall have to do will be to await events. Somehow I don’t think we shall be kept in suspense very long. Our birds are a bit impatient now I fancy.” The door opened suddenly to admit Morgan Llewellyn.
“You’re wanted on the telephone, Inspector Goodall,” he announced. “In the hall.” Goodall disappeared quickly.
Anthony motioned to Peter to await his return. Five minutes saw the Inspector back. “From the ‘Yard,’ gentlemen! In answer to the inquiry I put through at your instigation, Mr. Bathurst. New York has sent a message through that I fancy identifies our ‘Mr. Laurence C. Stewart the second’ of Blanchard’s Hotel and the Hanover Galleries. In the opinion of the New York Police, he’s no less a person than ‘Snoop’ Mortimer—otherwise known as ‘Flash Alf’—they’ve been after him for months in connection with some very cute jobs over the other side—he slipped out of the country about a month ago—they’re pretty certain that he’s our man.”
Goodall’s manner was becoming more jaunty—he felt he was “getting hold” at last. Anthony weighed the information over in his mind. It tallied with what he had been expecting. She had met him in New York—no doubt—when Stewart had moved there from Washington. That would account for the entry of Mr. Mortimer into the cast. “Is Mr. Charles Stewart back yet, Inspector?”
“He should be by now, Mr. Bathurst. I left him talking to Mr. Llewellyn—but no doubt he came up by car. Very likely he passed me on the road—I walked up.”
Anthony nodded in an understanding manner. “I’m going to see him—you stay and talk to the Inspector—Daventry!”
The two latter looked at each other in some amusement as Anthony slipped from the room. “He’s actually arranging my amusements now,” commented Goodall ruefully. “I shall be thundering glad when we clear the decks for action.”
Anthony found Charles Stewart in Llewellyn’s room—the secretary was busy writing. He glanced at Stewart, who rose to greet him. “I hadn’t forgotten I promised to have a word with you, Mr. Bathurst. I’ll come along now.” He pushed some papers into his pocket and accompanied Anthony down the corridor. “In the library?” he suggested.
Anthony declined. “Daventry and Inspector Goodall are in there—come in the Museum Room—is it unlocked?”
Stewart pushed open the door of the room in question and waved Anthony to a seat. He chose a Chippendale chair—his host followed his example. Anthony cut no time to waste and speedily got to grips with what he wanted to do.
“Mr. Stewart,” he said, leaning across with a mixture of interest and sympathy, “I am going to ask you one or two more questions that possibly may border upon the personal. You will, I am sure, pardon any seeming directness—but I am nearing the end of my case, and I wish to handle all the facts firmly and confidently.”
Stewart’s cheeks flushed quickly. “I don’t quite understand——”
Anthony extended a protesting hand. “I think you will. Who is the lady you wish to marry?”
Stewart half rose in his chair. Then he sank back, as though resigned to anything that might come next.
“I think I am able, Mr. Stewart,” continued Anthony, “to put my finger on the subject of the interview that you had with your father, not long before he was killed—it concerned a lady—the lady you are desirous of marrying—who is she?”
Stewart’s emotion got the better of him for a brief period. Then he made a big effort and succeeded in pulling himself together. “That’s been one of the hardest things I’ve had to bear, Mr. Bathurst,” he stated. “The thought that my last words with my father had been bitter ones. Ever since that awful morning when I realized that I should never speak to him again—that I should never again hear his voice speaking to me, that thought haunted me—every moment almost. And another thought has accompanied it. This! If by any miracle I could bring my father back to life and have that interview over again, I don’t see that I could conscientiously end it or even carry it on, in any other way.” He looked pathetically at Anthony.
“You have my very profound sympathy, Mr. Stewart. But you mustn’t upset yourself needlessly. Tell me all about it.” He put his arm on the young man’s shoulder. Stewart drew his hand across his forehead and tossed his hair back from his brow.
“Well, of course, Mr. Bathurst, you have been able to see, from what Ferguson has told us to-day—exactly how the land lay. My father was fond of me as a man is of his only son, but he was also passionately attached to Marjorie—Miss Lennox! I think, perhaps, he was the type of man that prefers girls to boys, and although she was his ward—he always regarded her as a daughter. More than as a daughter.” He brought his fist down in the palm of his other hand. “More—because he cherished the idea that one day she and I would marry. But I don’t think either of us care for the other in that way. We’ve always been tremendous pals and all that—but there it ended! Somehow we didn’t want to marry. I’m speaking more for myself than I possibly can for Marjorie—naturally—but I don’t think she has ever wanted to marry me any more than I have ever wanted to marry her. How the idea obsessed my father’s mind you can judge after hearing what Ferguson told us with regard to his will. My father couldn’t bear to be thwarted in anything.” He stopped, and once again the color flaunted its red banner in his cheeks. “Soon after we came to Assynton, I met a lady to whom I was instantly attracted, and now I am very happy to say there is a complete understanding between us. She is a Miss Rosemary Armitage, of ‘The Towers’—seven miles from here. I had been playing tennis there the night Colonel Leach-Fletcher dined with my father. I don’t know if anything was said during the evening, but when the Colonel went, my father sent for me and in his own words—‘had it out with me.’ He had heard of my admiration for Miss Armitage and it had upset him.”
“What time was that?” interjected Anthony.
“At a quarter-past ten—I looked at my wrist-watch as I entered the library! I wondered what it was my father wanted to see me about so late—he sent for me—you see.”
Anthony thought for a second. “That leaves a quarter of an hour between the Colonel’s departure and his sending for you. Whom did he send for you?”
“Marjorie,” replied Stewart listlessly.
“Miss Lennox has made no mention, as far as my knowledge and memory go, of having been in here after Colonel Leach-Fletcher went. Yet I am certain she came in, and I am equally certain of the reason that brought her. When she left your father, he sent her to fetch you.” Anthony made this statement very confidently and went straight on to invest it with more significance. “It was because of what Miss Lennox told your father that he immediately sent for you—she went to him to complain of the lover-like attentions of his secretary.”
“Of course,” burst out Stewart, “you can’t be sure of that—you’re speculating somewhat, aren’t you?”
“On the contrary, Mr. Stewart,” came Anthony’s reply, “I have been able to obtain conclusive proof of what I have just said!”
“What sort of proof?” demanded Stewart.
“Proof about which there isn’t a shadow of a doubt—proof in Morgan Llewellyn’s own handwriting.”
Stewart let a look of complete astonishment pass over his face. “Honestly, I hadn’t the least idea.”
“I don’t suppose you had! Now I want to talk about another matter. And I want you to give me your absolute confidence again, and eventually, your entire obedience. I want this house to be shut up after to-morrow morning’s ceremony!”
“What?” muttered Stewart.
Anthony leaned over to him and spoke in very quiet tones.
“I want you to announce this evening to all your staff that Assynton Lodge is to be left empty from say to-morrow midday. Tell Llewellyn to take a month’s leave—tell all the servants the same thing. Send Miss Lennox to friends or to an hotel in town, and tell her you will join her in a few days. I shall want you with me. Let Colonel Leach-Fletcher know—let the whole world know—make it as public as you possibly can—and leave the place as soon as is convenient to you, to-morrow afternoon.”
Stewart looked dumbfounded. “But I must leave somebody here. How about all the valuables—I shouldn’t care to lose them all.”
Anthony considered the point that he raised. “I see your point. Very well, then—leave Butterworth and his wife here—he’s the best to stay behind—but nobody else!”
Stewart still looked at him in amazement. “Where am I to go myself?” he questioned.
“I’ll tell you to-morrow midday,” answered Anthony. “Meanwhile will you do as I suggest?”
Stewart’s answer came a trifle wearily. “I’ve placed myself in your hands, Mr. Bathurst—I must be content to leave the matter entirely to you.” Then he seemed to think of something. “What about Mr. Daventry and Inspector Goodall?”
“Leave them to me—and answer me one more question. When your father had that interview with you—did he by any chance mention to you the peculiar provisions of his will?”
Stewart hesitated for just the fraction of a second before his answer came. “Certainly not, Mr. Bathurst—when Ferguson told me the provisions of the will this morning nobody was more surprised than I. My father was angry at my not falling in with this supreme desire of his—furiously angry I may say! He so far forgot himself to say things about Miss Armitage which were as absurd as they were untrue, to anybody that knew her—he even threatened me in a way—a vague sort of way. But——”
“How do you mean?” interrupted Anthony abruptly. “How did he threaten you?”
Stewart gnawed at his lower lip. “As I said—vaguely! That it would be the worse for me if I persisted in acting in opposition to his wishes—just that—nothing more. Why do you ask?”
“The point occurred to me—that’s all—go on!”
“Well—that’s all,” concluded Stewart. “The word ‘will’ was never mentioned—I left my father hoping that he would cool down and see things eventually from my point of view—and Marjorie’s.”
“When Miss Lennox came to tell you your father wanted you, did she seem upset or distressed at all?”
Stewart reflected for a second or two. “No,” he declared. “But I’ll tell you what I did notice about her—her cheeks were very flushed—as though she were laboring under great excitement—I certainly did notice that.”
Anthony rose and walked across to one of the tables. He picked up a dainty piece of glass—almost gossamer-like in its texture and quality.
“You understand, don’t you? I want that announcement about closing the house up to be made to-night. Inform all the servants—arrange with Llewellyn and Miss Lennox on the lines that I suggested—see Butterworth about taking charge during the time you will be away—’phone Colonel Leach-Fletcher—in short make all the necessary arrangements as soon as possible. If it could be managed—don’t come back to the house after the funeral. What a lovely piece of glass this is!” He rang his finger nail against its edge.
“Very well,” said Stewart. “I will do exactly as you wish.”
“I’m obliged,” returned Anthony. He walked to the door—then stopped and looked back at Stewart. “By the way,” he exclaimed, “would you kindly arrange for me to have a word with young O’Connor before he goes for his unexpected month’s holiday?”