The Mystery of the Peacock's Eye

by Brian Flynn

  “Not so bad,” conceded Bannister, “not so bad—but I’ll wager to prove myself his equal—don’t worry.”

  They entered the Police Station, Bannister confident, Godfrey pessimistic. “Do as I told you when we started the discussion, Godfrey,” said Bannister, “tell me all you know about Branston. It got side-tracked just now.”

  “Well—we’ve looked into him pretty thoroughly ever since the affair started—as you know. Nothing’s been brought out to his discredit. He’s been practising in Seabourne about three years, came down here from somewhere in the Midlands. His business has been very successful and continues to develop—he’s certainly prosperous. He’s unmarried and as far as we know—unattached. If there’s a lady in his life—Seabourne hadn’t seen her. He’s addicted to a flutter on the ‘Turf’ and is a magnificent dancer. I have been told he’s the finest dancer in the whole of Seabourne. That’s his history, Inspector, as far as we’ve been able to pick it up.”

  “H’m!” muttered Bannister, “not very much help there. There’s another thing that gets me, Godfrey. Those notes! Listen carefully to what I’m going to say now. Do you think any murderer who stole those notes would circulate them? Do you think he’d run the risk of such a procedure?”

  “Well,” answered Godfrey, “come to that—he might and he might not. On the whole, I don’t think he would. But on the other hand he might think it a thousand to one against the numbers of the notes being known to anybody—that’s the point, you see.” He struck a match and lit his cigarette. “But I’ll tell you what, Inspector,” he supplemented, “since you’ve asked the question of me, I think if the murderer or murderess rather—I should say—were a woman—that she might have done. I’ve noticed from my own experience of our class of work that a woman often makes a mistake of that kind.”

  “Godfrey,” said Bannister, “you know something or you suspect somebody! What are you hinting at?”

  But Godfrey shook his head. “I know nothing, Inspector that you don’t know! But I’ll admit that I’m hinting at something.”

  “Let’s have it, Godfrey!”

  “You said just now that we had only one person’s corroboration of Branston’s story of his temporary imprisonment in his work-room.”

  “That’s so—go on, I don’t see—”

  “Has it ever struck you that Mrs. Bertenshaw, the housekeeper who arrived so opportunely, shall we say, to release Branston—might just as easily have shot the bolt that held him prisoner? She was the only person that you can swear was in the house with Branston and the murdered girl.” He looked at Bannister anxiously—scanning the Inspector’s impassive face to see how this theory was being received.

  “By Jove,” whispered Bannister—almost to himself. Then he shook his head in disagreement. “Where did she get the poison from, Godfrey—have you thought of that?”

  Godfrey shrugged his shoulders. “Of course, I can’t answer that for the moment—but it might be answered in several ways.”

  “Have you looked her up at all? I’m relying on you for spade work,” asked Bannister.

  Godfrey was ready with his facts. “She’s a widow—lost her husband about nine years ago. She’s got one son—believed to be abroad—in India, I believe. She herself comes of a West Country family. Her maiden name was Warrimore.”

  “Nothing against her, then?”

  “Nothing.”

  “How do you explain the stolen notes getting to Branston? You can’t get away from Morley’s story.”

  “Suppose we go to see him, Inspector,” declared Godfrey.”

  “I don’t think we can do better. We’ll go up by car at once. Get one sent up here, will you?”

  As they rounded the corner to Coolwater Avenue half an hour later, Bannister touched the Sergeant on the arm.“Something I’ve had on the tip of my tongue to ask you all day, Godfrey. Finger-prints! What results are there? I hear the report’s through—I’m told it came through this morning.”

  “Scarcely any help at all. The brass bolt on the door of the room where Branston was imprisoned, gave us Mrs. Bertenshaw and Branston himself. The glass gave us Branston and Miss Delaney. Nothing there, you see—that you wouldn’t naturally expect.” For the second time in a few days Bannister was admitted by Mrs. Bertenshaw and on this occasion he subjected her to a more careful scrutiny than on the occasion before. She piloted them into what was evidently Branston’s library. The Inspector seized the occasion to have a good look round. Like the other parts of the establishment that he had previously seen, it was handsomely furnished. Moreover, the books on the shelves displayed the discriminating taste of the cultured reader. A cough heralded Ronald Branston’s entry.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen—what can I do for you—or is there news of importance?” His dark, good-looking face broke into a slight smile.

  Bannister suddenly found himself unable to believe that Mr. Branston had managed to steer entirely clear of the feminine society of Seabourne. That story was a strain upon ordinary belief. At the same time he came to the point of his visit. “There is news, Mr. Branston,” he said curtly, “you may as well know it at once—Miss Delaney was undoubtedly robbed as well as murdered.”

  “Robbed?” echoed Branston. “Robbed of what?”

  “Something like a hundred pounds in notes—the numbers of which notes are known.”

  Godfrey could have sworn Branston whitened a trifle as he heard this piece of news.

  “Not only are they known, Mr. Branston—but what is more important still, some of them have already been traced. And traced to you!” A pause, “I shall be happy to hear your explanation, Mr. Branston.” Bannister’s voice held a relentless note.

  The young dental surgeon winced. “before I can do that,” he said, “I must ask you to tell me more. I don’t understand. How have the notes been traced to me?”

  Bannister recounted the chain of events leading from Captain Willoughby down to Branston himself. The latter’s face quivered emotionally when he heard the story of how Jacob Morley had stated the way in which he had come to possess the nomadic notes. He sprang from his chair and paced the room in obvious agitation. Then he swung round resolutely on to Bannister.

  “I’ll tell you the whole story of those notes as far as it affects me. Those notes were given to me by a lady. I advanced that lady fifty pounds a year ago at a time when she sorely needed it. I knew the reason for which it was needed and I fully approved of it. Only last week—Friday to be precise—the lady concerned paid me the fifty pounds back. Gentlemen, the lady in the case is Mrs. Bertenshaw, my housekeeper.”

  Bannister’s eyes sought those of Sergeant Godfrey. They met.

  Chapter XX

  “Findings—keepings”

  The Inspector was the first man of the three to speak. Into his voice there had crept and added sternness. “Mr. Branston,” he said, “I presume that you realise the gravity of your last statement—and also the extreme seriousness of your position generally?”

  Branston went whiter than ever and his lips worked nervously. “W—what do you mean, exactly?” he murmured.

  “Your story of the circumstances in which this young lady was cruelly murdered might very well be described as a fantastic one. That much surely, you would admit yourself? Moreover, its only corroboration comes from Mrs. Bertenshaw, from whom you now admit also receiving fifty pounds! In the very notes that had been originally in the dead girl’s possession! You’re in a nasty situation, Mr. Branston!”

  Branston was quick to reply. “Whatever position I’m in, Inspector,” he said, “I’ve told you the truth. I can’t do more and I’m not going to do less. The story I have told you is a true account of what took place here on the afternoon of the murder—and true in every particular. I’ve put nothing in—neither have I kept anything back.” He paused—with more than a hint of defiance. “You had better interview Mrs. Bertenshaw again,” he added, “and see what she has to say. I should very much like you to.”

  “S
end for her,” said Bannister, with a curt movement of the head. Branston did so.

  “Shall I remain here?” he demanded sourly.

  “For the moment,” snapped Bannister.

  Mrs. Bertenshaw advanced timidly—her timidity increased perceptibly when she discovered the nature of the company.

  “Yes, sir?” she opened, with a glance at her employer.

  “These gentlemen desire to ask you one or two more questions with regard to what happened here last week, Mrs. Bertenshaw. Please tell them the truth.” Branston turned away and lit a cigarette cavalierly.

  But Bannister had already begun to congratulate himself upon the turn that affairs had taken. He had noticed a certain look in the eyes of this woman—a look he had seen so many times before in the eyes of people whom he had been forced to question that he was able to recognise it at once and which is more, apprehend its meaning. Mrs. Bertenshaw was frightened. There was no gainsaying that fact. The Inspector tried to tell himself that he was “warmer” than he had been before. The woman’s thin anxious face met his.

  “What is it you wish to know, sir?” she asked nervously.

  Bannister appeared all urbanity—perhaps his most dangerous mood, if his opponents only knew it. “I merely want to ask you a question or two, Mrs. Bertenshaw,” he said smilingly, “and I’m sure you’ll find no difficulty whatever in answering them.”

  Mrs. Bertenshaw’s eyes flickered in his direction, then dropped to the ground again. Bannister recognised the symptoms and went on. “A year ago—or at all events—about a year ago Mr. Branston here lent you a sum of fifty pounds. Is that so?”

  The danger signals were now showing in Mrs. Bertenshaw’s cheeks “Yes, sir,” she said in hardly more than a whisper. “That’s perfectly true. He lent it to me to advance to my only boy who went to Calcutta—he had a good chance offered to him out there—without that fifty pounds he couldn’t have taken advantage of it. It was very kind of Mr. Branston.”

  “I see,” said Bannister, “and I suppose the fact that you owed that fifty pounds to Mr. Branston has been a source of worry to you, ever since—eh?”

  “What do you mean? I don’t quite understand you.” A mere whisper now.

  Bannister continued inexorably. He was top-dog now.

  “You were impatient to repay it shall we say? A very commendable instinct.” He smiled at her with a suggestion of beneficent approval. He almost beamed upon her. Then suddenly he struck—and struck home! “You repaid it yesterday, Mrs. Bertenshaw—where did you get it from?”

  Mrs. Bertenshaw’s lips moved as though to reply to him but they failed—no sound passed through them—no answer was forthcoming. She was literally speechless. Branston looked at her sympathetically, Godfrey thought—no doubt he would have liked to come to her assistance—so pitiable an appearance did she present.

  “I’m waiting to hear what you have to say,” proceeded Bannister. “It shouldn’t be difficult for you to answer after all. You must have got them from somewhere. Come now!”

  “I found them,” she whispered.

  “Be very careful now—because there’s a most vital reason why you should be very careful. Very careful indeed. Those notes belonged to Sheila Delaney, the young girl that’s been murdered! That’s been proved conclusively.”

  He stood and watched her. Mrs. Bertenshaw’s eyes were fixed on him in a kind of frightened stare, but Sergeant Godfrey felt certain that the stare contained an element of surprise. Surprise that was not simulated.

  “I don’t know anything about that,” she said agitatedly. “I found the notes—as I told you. I don’t know anything about the murder. I never saw Miss Delaney in my life until I saw her dead in the master’s chair—that’s the solemn truth if I never speak another word.”

  “Found them?” exclaimed Branston in marked surprise.

  “Found them?” echoed Bannister, incredulously. “Where—in the name of goodness?”

  Mrs. Bertenshaw looked feebly across at Branston, seemingly to invite assistance. But it was unavailing. If Branston knew anything he was not intending to divulge it. Mrs. Bertenshaw must tell her own story in her own way.

  “I found those notes,” she repeated, “and the money was a perfect God-sent to me. No woman could ever speak truer words than those. I yielded to the temptation to keep silent about it. Please forgive me, Mr. Branston, if I’ve unwittingly brought any trouble to you. Nothing was farther from my intention. It makes me feel that I’ve repaid your kindness so badly. But I’ll make a clean breast of the whole affair.” She wiped her lips with her handkerchief. “In a way I’m glad it’s all come out. I’ve been dreadfully worried and scared about it ever since it happened. I haven’t been able to sleep properly. I found those notes on the very afternoon that Miss Delaney was murdered.”

  “Where?” rapped Bannister.

  “I’ll tell you. About five o’clock that afternoon—after the first excitement and everything had died down a bit—I had occasion to go along the passage towards the door where the master’s patients usually come in. The door that’s in Coolwater Avenue. In the hall there, we have a very handsome art-pot that stands on a pedestal in the corner—that high.” She indicated the height with her right hand. “As I walked past it—on my way back that is from the door—I noticed something that I thought was tissue-paper lying inside the art-pot. I put my hand in—to remove it—almost mechanically—you might say—it looked untidy—a thing I hate—when to my utter surprise I found that what I had thought was a bundle of tissue-paper was in reality a wad of bank-notes amounting to a hundred points. I was knocked all of a heap! My first inclination was to call Mr. Branston. But I hesitated. Then the temptation to say nothing came to me.” Her voice broke and her self-control deserted her. She burst out sobbing. “I needed money badly. You people who never want for a few pounds don’t realise what it is to be in debt year after year and to see little chance of ever getting out. To be forced to borrow for anything special because you have no margin. Self-denial and going without most of the things that make life worth living may mean the saving of a few shillings, month by month, but no more than that. It takes a life-time to scrape fifty pounds together saving like that—and there was a hundred pounds here.”

  “How did you know it didn’t belong to Mr. Branston?” Bannister flashed the question at her. She shook her head.

  “I didn’t know,” she sobbed. “I had to take my chance. I listened, though, to hear any mention of him having lost any money—or if anybody else had. But I heard nothing—so I kept part of it myself and re-paid the fifty pounds I owed to Mr. Branston.”

  “Didn’t it occur to you to connect it with the murder?” exclaimed the Inspector.

  “I didn’t know what to think. I was terribly worried. What I said to myself was this. If the young lady had been murdered for her money—why was the money thrown into the art-pot? I puzzled my head over it at least fifty times—but I was never able to satisfy myself. There was no mention in any of the papers of the young lady having lost any money—so I could be certain you see.”

  “She’s right Inspector,” interposed Branston. “That’s a poser to me—I frankly confess it. If the murderer took the money off Miss Delaney why in the name of all that’s wonderful did he leave it behind—deliberately, at that?”

  “He may have realised that to retain the notes spelt ‘Danger’ in capital letters. That is assuming this last story to be true. I’m damned if I know where I’m getting to. Shew me this passage where you say you found the notes.”

  Mrs. Bertenshaw conducted them down. The art-pot stood upon the pedestal as she had described it—approximately four feet high. “That was where I found the money,” she said simply. “It is easy to see into there as you pass by—especially on your way back from the door.”

  Bannister looked inside and then turned to Sergeant Godfrey. “Come on, Godfrey,” he said, “this case is getting on my nerves. Good-afternoon, everybody.” He opened the door of the car and motioned
to the Sergeant to precede him. “What do you make of it?” queried the latter. “Leaving those notes behind—I mean! After all—as the woman herself said—why take them to leave them behind?”

  Bannister leaned over authoritatively and tapped him on the arm. “Supposing,” he said, “supposing the murderer wanted something—very badly—and couldn’t get that particular something without first taking the notes well—what then?”

  “I’m not good at riddles,” said Sergeant Godfrey.

  Chapter XXI

  The Lord Lieutenant goes back a few years

  Mr. Bathurst strolled to the window of the smoke-room of the Grand Hotel, Westhampton, and looked at the red chimney pots of the town. It was certainly a very beautiful morning. The two miles along the Bedford road that he intended to travel within the next hour or so—the two miles that would bring him to Dovaston Court—would seem, he felt sure, more like two yards that two miles, under the exhilarating influence of that morning sun. Mr. Bathurst felt more light-hearted that morning than he had felt for may mornings since he had left London. The first part of his task was over—accomplished. His interview of the previous day with Alan Warburton had definitely cleared up the first part of the case. The task that had been entrusted to him by Alexis of Clorania had been successfully completed “There now remains,” he said to himself, half-humorously, “the Mystery of the Peacock’s Eye! And how far is it connected with Warburton’s black-mailing of the Crown Prince! Connected and yet not connected. A most interesting and intricate case,” remarked Mr. Bathurst. “But nevertheless rapidly approaching a solution.” At the same time Mr. Bathurst was beginning to realise that he would have to play his cards very carefully indeed to complete it as he wished. For he was beginning to form very clear-cut conclusions—conclusions that he confidently hope would be seen more firmly consolidated after the interview that he intended should take place this morning. For some appreciable time now—in fact, ever since the Bank Manager’s timely entry—he had been considering very carefully the testimony of Mr. E. Kingsley Stark. “And he has held the position of Manager since May of last year—a matter of fourteen months only,” said Mr. Bathurst to himself. “Fourteen months,” he repeated; “three months shall we say since the ominous Hunt Ball in this interesting old town of Westhampton.”