The Mystery of the Peacock's Eye

by Brian Flynn

  “Very well,” responded Sir Matthew sulkily. “To please you , I will send for her.” He rang the bell. “Ask Lady Fullgarney to come to me, Warren, will you? Tell her that Mr. Anthony Bathurst has arrived and is now with me.”

  Anthony embarked upon an adventure of propitiation. “I don’t imagine for a minute, sir, that Lady Fullgarney will really be able to add to the information that you have given me so clearly. I am deeply in your debt, Sir Matthew. But her mere collaboration will be important and most valuable.”

  Sir Matthew nodded. “Here she is,” he said.

  Anthony bowed to the lady. She in her turn favoured him with a charming smile. Sir Matthew performed the necessary introduction.

  “Mr. Bathurst is a friend of the Crown Prince of Clorania,” he added. “I expect you remember him.” He evidently regarded this connection as an additional testimonial. “And he is also investigating the murder of poor Sheila Delaney. He wants to ask you something—he imagines—although he wouldn’t admit as much—that you may be able to help him. He’s an optimist, if he only knew it.” He wheezed hilariously.

  Lady Fullgarney smiled indulgently. Then she bowed to Anthony. “What a terrible affair, Mr. Bathurst. Of course we knew poor Sheila Delaney well. Close neighbours and closer friends. What help do you want from me?”

  “I’ve been asking Sir Matthew a few facts with regard to the Hunt Ball of last year. You, in company with other beautiful women, were there, Lady Fullgarney, I take it?”

  “I was, Mr. Bathurst. Are you Irish, by any chance?” Lady Fullgarney became roguish.

  “’Tis my one claim to distinction, your Ladyship. That and perhaps a peculiarly-shaped nose.”

  “What about two very fascinating grey eyes?”

  Sir Matthew snorted. This was too much!

  “You and I apparently must be of the same country, I imagine,” said Anthony. He bowed again. “What I wanted to ask you was this. You met the Crown Prince Alexis at the Hunt Ball?”

  “I won’t contradict you, Mr. Bathurst. His Royal Highness held the tips of my fingers for a much longer period than I considered necessary.”

  “His Royal Highness has a ‘flair’ for selection, Lady Fullgarney, and I’m certain it was never more happy than at that particular moment.”

  “And a ‘flair’ often develops a ‘flame’!”

  “Can it be wondered at?” murmured Mr. Bathurst with delicate suggestion. “Surely you will agree with me—you have a mirror—”

  Sir Matthew’s snort became a rumble of positive menace. Anthony recognised its significance.

  “Can you tell me, then, Lady Fullgarney, if the Crown Prince of Clorania upon that evening of the Hunt Ball, to you knowledge, made the acquaintance of Sheila Delaney?”

  “I don’t remember ever seeing them together. But I’ll tell you with whom I do remember seeing him—Daphne Carruthers—Desmond Carruthers’ niece. She danced with him a lot. But she’s a pretty girl, Mr. Bathurst. Matthew’s noticed that—haven’t you, Matthew?”

  There was a dangerous coldness in her tone. Lady Fullgarney was turning the matrimonial tables.

  “I can believe that,” interjected Mr. Bathurst. “Sir Matthew has, of course, such a high standard of comparison.” He gestured towards the lady. “Indeed I can’t think of a higher.”

  “High enough to keep him quiet,” she riposted.

  “The quietness of supreme content,” murmured Mr. Bathurst. He reached for his hat and stick. “I am loth to leave, Lady Fullgarney, but when I look at you—discretion dictates my immediate departure.”

  “An Irishman with discretion?” queried the lady. “I find the two very difficult to reconcile.”

  Chapter XXIII

  Mr. Bathurst forgets his change

  “Show His Royal Highness in!” said Anthony.

  “Very well, sir,” replied Falcon. “In one moment.” He retired feeling very satisfied. He had had no idea that the Mr. Bathurst staying at his hotel was such a distinguished visitor. To number the Crown Prince of Clorania upon his visiting-list argued much and eloquently, for his social standing. Chief Inspector Bannister was something of a different proposition. Falcon was well aware of the Inspector’s very high position at Scotland Yard and had His Royal Highness inquired for the Inspector, it would have occasioned him no surprise whatever. But for Mr. Bathurst—! It was surprising to say the least of it. Surprising but comfortably reassuring. He shewed the Crown Prince into Mr. Bathurst’s room and immediately telephoned the astounding news through to a friend of his—an occupant of the position on the Aldermanic Bench of Westhampton. This, he was fully conscious, was equivalent to getting the B.B.C. to broadcast the news, for the worthy Alderman in question was a prominent member of a Local Mutual Toleration Society. Alexis of Clorania advanced to Anthony—his hand outstretched in greeting. “I have been unable to compose myself, Mr. Bathurst,” he said, “during your absence. I have been strangely worried and uneasy. I had to come. What success have you had?”

  Anthony motioned him to be seat. “In what particular direction, Your Highness?”

  The Crown Prince jerked back his head. “Either! Both! Have you progressed at all? Are you any nearer to a solution?”

  Anthony stopped him with a quick movement of the hand. “I came to Westhampton, Your Highness, to kill, if possible, two birds with one stone.”

  “And you have had the success?”

  “Not altogether—although I can say that I have strong hopes. Perhaps in the near future—”

  The Crown Prince uttered an exclamation of impatient disappointment. “‘Perhaps’ is a word that does not make a very strong appeal to me. Mr. Bathurst. I do not wish to appear arbitrary or high-handed or even ungrateful for the work that you have done, but I am afraid I’m a man that judges merit only by actual results. No doubt the case was a difficult one, but your reputation was sufficient for me to rely upon you implicitly. Those letters that were sent to me—”

  “Need trouble you no longer,” contributed Anthony laconically; “that part of the case has been satisfactorily completed. It was very simple. I had almost forgotten it.”

  The Crown Prince sat bolt upright in his chair. “Completed? What do you mean? Tell me, I beg of you. Do not keep me in suspense.”

  “I have interviewed the writer of the letters and Your Highness may rest assured that there will be no repetition of the offence. I took the liberty, however, of promising in Your Highness’s name—if ‘promising’ be the right word to use in such circumstances—that there would be no prosecution.”

  “Was that wise, Mr. Bathurst? Is such a scoundrel to go?”

  “Come, sir, look at the matter from your own point of view. Publicity is surely the last condition that you would court?”

  Alexis appeared to be in doubt.

  “Her Royal Highness, Imogena of Natalia,” murmured Anthony.

  Alexis’ doubt vanished like snow under the sun. “Who was the blackmailer?” he demanded truculently.

  Anthony hesitate a moment before answering. “Alan Warburton, an old lover of Sheila Delaney—the girl murdered in the dentist’s chair at Seabourne. Can you in any way reconcile the two facts?”

  Alexis sprang to his feet excitedly. “I told you—didn’t I? I said find the blackmailer—and you’ll find the murderer.”

  “Not so fast, sir, if you please? Think in the first place where you are. What link was there between Sheila Delaney and yourself?”

  “None,” replied the Crown Prince. “None whatever—I swear it! That’s the extraordinary part about it.”

  “Then why did Alan Warburton attempt to blackmail you?” broke in Anthony.

  The Crown Prince spread out his hands. “How do I know? What can I say? Is it all conjecture.”

  “Yet I think I know,” replied Mr. Bathurst, “and time alone will prove whether I am right or wrong.”

  Alexis gave a curious movement of the shoulders. “It is a mystery and I fear it will remain a mystery.”

 
“I am not so pessimistic as to think that. But I appreciate the fact that a difficult task lies in front of me. How is Miss Carruthers?”

  His Royal Highness looked at him curiously. It struck him as strange that Anthony should have found time to inquire after Daphne Carruthers. What was his intention?

  “All right. As fare as I know. I haven’t seen her since leavening Seabourne. I doubt if our paths will ever cross again. They probably lie far apart. But tell me—this man Warburton—how were you able to discover him?—how did you run him to earth? You haven’t told me.”

  “Oh—it wasn’t too difficult a matter—that. Bannister and I ran across this fellow Warburton’s name while we were investigating the murder case. It kept cropping up, you see, in more than one connection. The connections were very significant. He was a man who was always breathing fire and slaughter against you. Against you—in relation to Sheila Delaney. It didn’t take me very long to put that particular two and two together. So I decided upon a bold move, I tackled him with your letters. He caved in—admitted the whole business—as I said just now—he’ll trouble you no longer. For the future you can disregard his existence. But the more extraordinary features of the affair are yet to be explained. According to Alan Warburton’s version of the facts, Sheila Delaney told him that she had been introduced to you at the Westhampton Hunt Ball that you attended in February of last year. He seemed quite sure of the statement—which included also the fact that the introduction to you was effected by Major Desmond Carruthers—the Chief Constable of the county. Now I find those statements very hard to reconcile with what you have said throughout the entire case. You see my meaning, don’t you?”

  A dull red suffused the Crown Prince’s cheeks. He was instant with his denials. “It is abominably untrue. I have never met this Miss Delaney in my life. There is some ghastly mistake somewhere—what you call a ‘mixture-up,’” He gnawed at his loose lower lip. “This Mr. Allan Warburton is a liar!”

  “Were you acquainted with Miss Carruthers’ uncle—the Major that I just mentioned?”

  “But of course! Daphne was a great favourite of his. All the same he never introduced me to Sheila Delaney. I’ve never met the girl. I would swear it on the Holy Relics.”

  “That’s as far as we can get, then,” smiled Anthony. “I’m coming up to town later on in the day. I have, however, two calls to make and one may take me some little time to see through. If convenient to you, sir, meet me on the Westhampton platform at four-fifty—we’ll pick up the Wolverhampton express. It’s a fast train to town.”

  The Crown Prince bowed and took his aggrieved departure.

  The first of Mr. Bathurst’s two advertised calls was at 21, Crossley Road. “Miss Kerr at home?” he inquired of the stout homely-looking woman who opened the door.

  “Yes—she is. What name shall I say, sir?”

  “Anthony Bathurst. Although I doubt if she’ll remember it—tell her somebody wants to see her in reference to the late Miss Delaney—one of the gentlemen whom she saw before at Miss Delaney’s home.”

  “I’ll tell her, sir.” The woman speedily bustled back. “Come this way, sir, if you please?—I’ll take you into the front room. That’s the best place for you to go. Miss Kerr will be with you in a moment or two.”

  When she arrived, Anthony saw that the time that had elapsed since their previous interview had only served to intensify the outward and visible signs of her profound grief. To-day she was showing him a face heavily lined with the marks of care and sorrow.

  “Good morning, Miss Kerr.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Bathurst.”

  “I told you that I might want to communicate with you again, didn’t I? Well, here I am. There wasn’t time to write to you—I’m returning to town this afternoon. But before I go there’s one more question I particularly wish to ask you.” he smiled in the best Bathurst manner.

  “What is that, sir?” inquired “Pinkie” listlessly.

  “She’s taking her trouble badly,” thought Anthony to himself. “She needs to pull herself together.”

  “Just this point, Miss Kerr. I want you to cast your mind back to the occasion when Lal Singh—the Indian—called upon Miss Delaney—the incident of which you told us the other day. The point I want to emphasise is this. Did he speak in English the whole time he was here?”

  “All that I heard him say was English,” answered “Pinkie.” “Yes,” she proceeded, stressing her remarks with nods of the head, “I remember now. What you have just said has brought it back to me. Miss Sheila spoke to him in Hindustani, but it was the wrong dialect or something. He couldn’t get on with it. She said afterwards that he came from a different part of the country—belonged to a different tribe or something. That’s why they couldn’t make each other understand.”

  Anthony’s reply held a trace of sternness. “Goodbye, Miss Kerr,” he said. “You’ve been able to clear up something in my mind that’s been troubling me—no doubt we shall meet again.”

  The second of Mr. Bathurst’s morning calls to which he had made reference in his conversation with Alexis was of a somewhat extraordinary nature. The Editor of the “Westhampton and Chellingborough Independent” contemplated somewhat ungraciously the visiting-card that had been presented to him by a singularly dirty and ink-stained office-boy, but after a minute or two’s thought decided that his time was not too fully occupied to see the gentleman described thereon.

  “Tell Mr. Bathurst we can give him ten minutes, Fred,” he remarked editorially. “But not a minute more.”

  Mr. Bathurst stated his business. As usual the introduction of the name of the Crown Prince of Clorania had a magical effect and worked wonders towards the establishment of a perfectly amicable atmosphere.”

  “I think I can manage that,” said the Editor. “let me see now—the affair took place in the early part of last year—I think that was the time, wasn’t it?”

  “It was,” confirmed Mr. Bathurst, “February was the month—to be exact. I can’t give you any nearer than that.”

  “Ah—February! Now what is it—er—precisely that you want to do—to read all our reports and comments on the day, did you say?” He toyed with the paper-knife that lay on the desk in front of him.

  “Mr. Bathurst acquiesced. “If you would be so good that is what I should like to do.”

  “I may take it, I hope, that any news of interest—any special feature of the case that you are investigating—should it materialise—would be placed in the way of the ‘Independent’ before any of its—er—contemporaries?”

  “You may rely on me,” murmured Mr. Bathurst engagingly.

  The Editor picked up his telephone receiver. “Bring me a complete file of the ‘Independent’ for the month of February of last year. Bring it up to my private room.”

  “Here we are,” he declared five minutes later. “Here are our issues of February five, twelve, nineteen and twenty-six. I remember the affair made a big stir at the time. I remember the big London dailies gave it a rare lot of attention although news was by no means scarce at the time. Perhaps one of them might prove more useful to you.”

  “It’s possible, of course,” conceded Anthony. “But I thought the local paper would probably contain more detail in its report. A question of local interest and all that.”

  —“I see. Will you run through them here? Or quietly elsewhere?”

  “Let me have half an hour with them quietly, will you? I don’t suppose I shall require them any longer than that. There are one or two features of the case with which I am not too familiar. I just want to have a closer look at them. Half an hour should be ample.”

  The Editor assented with a cordial smile and Mr. Bathurst thanked him appropriately.

  The “Ram and Raven” proved to contain a quiet saloon and a table in the corner thereof served excellently for liquid refreshment and quiet reading. The issues of February five and February twelve each contained a column concerning the “Mutual Bank Frauds.” The usual sensat
ional headlines were well in the fore. “Astounding Disclosures.” “Sensational Revelations.” “Defalcations amounting to £250,000.” “Prominent Directors Believed to be Involved,” were among the many to be found at the head of the columns relative to the case. Sales must have been good during those weeks. In the issue of the nineteenth, Mr. Bathurst found something more pertinent to the subject of his inquiry. The paragraph that aroused his interest so acutely ran as follows :“Since our last issue we are able to announce authoritatively that important developments have taken place with regard to the amazing conditions prevailing at the Mutual Bank. These developments—the precise nature of which was being freely whispered in well-informed circles as long ago as last Monday—culminated on Wednesday afternoon in the sensational arrest of no less a person than Sir Felix Warburton, one of the Bank’s most well-known and most influential directors. We are able to state that Sir Felix will be charged at Westhampton Police Court this morning (Friday) on charges of embezzlement and fraudulent conversion. The arrest was made at the residence of Sir Felix—‘Wyvenhoe Towers,’ Nillebrook.” When he read the sentence which immediately followed, Mr. Bathurst rubbed his hands. He read on with as much excitement as Mr. Bathurst ever permitted himself to entertain. When he had finished, he astonished the barmaid who had ministered to his wants by putting down a ten shilling note on payment for a “Guinness” and departing without collecting his change. By the time he reached the offices of the “Independent” he was himself again.

  “Well?” demanded the Editor, “got a scoop?”

  Mr. Bathurst smiled and shook his head. “There’s nothing her that I didn’t know,” he remarked, semi-truthfully.

  Chapter XXIV

  What did Mr. Bathurst whisper

  Brigadier-General Sir Austin Mostyn Kemble, K.C.V.O., D.S.O., turned sharply in his revolving chair in his room at New Scotland yard and spoke somewhat peremptorily. The post of Commissioner of Police is never a sinecure and very seldom a bed of roses. At the present moment he was being subjected to a good deal of Press pin-pricking and generally hostile criticism relative to the failure of his department in the matter of the Seabourne mystery. It can readily be imagined, therefore, that a temper habitually none too good was at this particular time showing certain unmistakable signs of severe strain. Several of his subordinates needed no imagination to notice the fact. Three weeks had elapsed since Ronald Branston had so dramatically discovered Sheila Delaney’s body in his surgery and despite the widely circulate news in the columns of the Press that Scotland Yard were on the point of a solution that an arrest was imminent—the murder or murderers still remained at large. It had become apparent to the thoughtful that the Police Authorities were completely baffled. On the morning in question the “Daily Bugle,” ready as usual to criticise destructively, had published a most scathing article by a novelist possessed of the most valuable copyright on the “Supine and Decadent Condition of New Scotland Yard. Its Causes and Remedy.” The chief point of the article in question had been the oft-recurring statement that the “Seabourne Mystery” was the fifth unsolved murder since Sir Austin Kemble had assumed the ares of office. Incessant attention had been drawn to the fact that on three of these occasions Scotland Yard had been called in almost at once and that the old threadbare excuse that the scent had been allowed to get cold prior to expert advice being taken could no way be urged. In respect of the “Wokingham Wheelbarrow” murder, where the body of the murdered farm-labourer had been discovered lying across a wheel-barrow, in the instance of the crippled Polish money lender, whose body had been found in a hedge upon the outskirts of Leighton Buzzard battered to death in horrible fashion by his own crutch, and now in this last murder at Seabourne, it was pointed out relentlessly that Scotland Yard had been there “when the tapes went up.” But glaringly unavailingly. Its ineptitude was colossal! The article concluded with an impassioned appeal that the higher reaches of the Police and Detective professions should be radically re-organised and flung open as attractive propositions to the best brains of the country. Then and not until then could the country reasonably hope for better things!