Sir Charles leading the way, stopped outside Prescott’s door. “Perhaps, Arkwright,” he said, “you and Jack would get back to the others. They must be having a pretty thin time. Tell them to have any breakfast they care to, and that Inspector Baddeley wishes to interview them all before he goes.”
Baddeley called Roper on one side. He seemed to say something quickly and imperatively, and I fancied I heard the words—“and keep your eye on her all the time.”
“A new development—hear that?” I whispered to Anthony.
He came last, preoccupied.
“Nine stairs, Bill! Nine stairs. Nine stairs—Inspector.”
Baddeley looked puzzled. Then walked to the bedroom door.
“Of course,” he said, “anybody could have been in here since, couldn’t they? The door is shut. But not locked. The key is on the inside. But I can’t tell for certain that these facts were so when Prescott left it for the last time, can I?”
“I think you may take it so,” said Sir Charles somewhat pompously. “My people here wouldn’t think of entering another’s room.”
“Somebody here thinks of murder, Sir Charles, say what you like! What about the servants?”
“They have not been on this floor yet.”
“Very good.”
We made our way into the room.
As far as I could see there was nothing to excite the slightest comment. Between us and the bed, upon our immediate right and left was the dressing-table and a chair respectively.
With its head to the left-hand wall, as we entered, stood the bed—that is to say, almost in the far left-hand corner of the room. A door opposite to us opened on to the bathroom that I have previously described. In the far right-hand corner stood a large Sheraton wardrobe.
“Well, he went to bed last night, did Mr. Prescott,” said Baddeley. “That’s pretty clear at any rate. And he got up in a hurry!”
The bed certainly showed signs of recent occupation. All the normal and ordinary signs of a person having slept there were clearly and distinctly indicated, the bed-clothes being in disarray and lying trailingly on the floor between the bed and the door of our entrance.
The Inspector was quickly at work.
He crossed to the dressing-table and examined it carefully. He then came back to the bed, lifted the pillows, and peered inquisitively beneath.
“Strange——” I heard him mutter. I turned to Anthony who was standing with his eyes fixed intently on the bed. He seemed to be following an acute train of thought.
“Sir Charles,” broke in Baddeley. “There’s one thing that every man has to a degree, and yet this young fellow Prescott appears to have been entirely without—unless he’d been systematically robbed.”
Sir Charles lifted his eyebrows. “Yes?” he queried.
“Money—cash—whatever you call it. How do you account for this? He has no money in his pockets, he has no note-case in his pockets. His pockets are all beautifully empty. I say to myself he dressed in a hurry—I shall find his money in his bedroom. Either on the dressing-table or under his pillow. People have different places of putting their cash you know, gentlemen. But I don’t find it! And it puzzles me!”
“It’s certainly very strange, Inspector,” said Anthony. “But there may be the possibility that his small change had run out, and that he has put a note-case into another jacket. Let’s try the wardrobe.”
Baddeley did so. Two more coats hung there. His deft fingers quickly ran over them. “Nothing there,” he declared.
Anthony thought again. “Try the drawers of the dressing-table.”
Baddeley opened the right-hand drawer. Ties, collars, a handkerchief or two. He tried the left. “Ah!”
He held a wallet—leather—the kind of wallet that is in popular use. He opened it.
“Stamps—and private papers—no money—not a note there—I’ll run through these papers later,” he said. “But not a cent.”
“Is it robbery, Inspector?” questioned Sir Charles. “Appearances, at least, seem to me to be pointing in that direction.”
Baddeley shook his head. “Up to now, sir,” he declared—“it’s got me beat! I find out one thing and seem to see a little light, and then I chance on something else, equally important on the face of it, that knocks my first theory into a cocked hat. Nothing fits! Nothing tallies!”
“I confess that to some extent, I share your bewilderment, Inspector,” said Anthony. “If I knew——”
Baddeley suddenly became vividly alive. “Of course—there may be that explanation.” He swung round on to the three of us. “Any cards last night?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Why?”
“Never mind”—impatiently—“Prescott playing?”
“Yes.”
Anthony became all interest. “I see your drift, Inspector.”
Baddeley grinned. “Qualifying for a mental hospital—I’ve been—haven’t I?
“Now, Mr. Cunningham,” he turned to me—“you say you saw Prescott playing—I’ll tell you something more—you saw him lose and lose, now didn’t you? He was cleaned out of all he had, wasn’t he?” he brought his fist down on the dressing-table triumphantly—“he lost the lot?”
Anthony’s eyes held me inquiringly.
“Yes, Bill?” he murmured. “What about it?”
For a brief moment I felt majestic. I had a curious sense of power. “This ismygrand minute,” I whispered to myself.
Taking a cigarette from my case, I tapped it on the lid with a becoming delicacy.
“On the contrary, Baddeley,” I weighed my words with a meticulous distinctness. “On the contrary—Prescott won! Systematically, consistently, and heavily.”
Baddeley stared as though unable to believe the words. Anthony let out a low whistle.
“Frightfully sorry to upset your pet theories,” I continued airily—“but I know that for an absolute certainty.”
“How?” snapped Baddeley. “Were you playing with him?”
“No,” I replied. “I was watching.”
“And onlookers see most of the game, Inspector,” said Anthony.
“Who was playing?” insisted Baddeley.
“Almost everybody—except Mr. Bathurst, Mr. Jack Considine and myself.”
He scratched his chin, reflectively.
Then came the question that I was half-expecting.
“Anybody in particular lose more than most?”
I hesitated before replying, and I sensed that he detected the hesitation.
I crossed the Rubicon! “I think Lieutenant Barker was the heaviest loser, but he would, doubtless, let you have that information. Surely, you don’t imagine——”
“That’s all right, Bill,” said Anthony. “The Inspector can easily satisfy himself.”
I made a mental note to tell Anthony as soon as the coast was reasonably clear of the Barker I. O. U. That had certainly not come to light.
“Any idea who was the last person to be with Prescott, last night?” asked Baddeley.
I reflected. After all, it was best to be candid with this man.
“I can’t answer that for certain,” I said, “but I can tell you this. I went to bed about a quarter to twelve, and on my way I saw Prescott in conversation with Lieutenant Barker.”
“Where?”
“At the foot of the staircase.”
“Anything in the nature of a quarrel?”
“No,” I answered with rapid decision, “the conversation as far as I could gather was just ordinary conversation. Naturally, I didn’t listen to what they were talking about.”
“H’m, I suppose not.”
Baddeley sat on the chair and put his head in his hands. “As soon as I’ve looked round,” he observed, “I shall have to interview everybody.”
Anthony strolled across the room, round to the left-hand side of the bed.
“Not much room here, Inspector,” he said. “Hardly enough space for a fellow to dress—eh?”
Baddeley looked up from his reflections, distinctly unimpressed.
“He would find plenty of room to dress the other side, Mr. Bathurst—there’s every indication of it.” He indicated the appointments.
“You think so,” replied Anthony. “So do I. And unless I receive an unexpected set-back I really believe things are moving.”
I was frankly amazed. I turned over all that I had heard, all that I had seen and as I pondered over them, I couldn’t for the life of me see how the slightest light could possibly have come to him.
“I presume, Inspector, you will see the people within a little while, eh?” he inquired.
“That is my intention, Mr. Bathurst. Why do you ask?”
“Well, I’m going to have a little tour outside, if it’s all the same to you, and Bill Cunningham’s coming with me. Let’s hear from you when you’re ready and waiting. Come along, Bill.”
He walked out, down the stairs, through the hall and into the garden.
Anthony took out his pipe and filled it.
“Before I do anything more, Bill,” he said slowly, “I’m going to sit on this seat and smoke this good tobacco—and you can do likewise.”
“Good!” I uttered. “Tell me what you think.”
“No”—shaking his head—“I can’t do that, just yet. For Baddeley will be well on with his work of cross-questioning before very long, and there are some things I wouldn’t tell my mother—just yet.”
“Please yourself,” I grunted. “But what puzzles me,” I said, “is thesceneof the crime as the journalists say. What took Prescott to the billiard room?”
“There are three reasonable solutions to that,” puffing at his pipe, “one—an assignation, two—he was called, drawn, or attracted there by something he saw, heard—or perhaps was afraid of happening—and three—he was taken there.”
“By force?” I interrupted.
“Perhaps. There were, if you remember,certainsigns of a struggle.”
“The fact that he was fully dressed,” I countered, “suggests to me very strongly that there was an assignation.”
“Yes, I concede that, Bill, but against that, you know, I must recall to you the brown shoes he was wearing.”
“Perhaps his dress shoes weren’t handy,” I argued. “The others may have been nearer to his hand.”
“No. I can’t have it, Bill, his dress shoes were under his chair by the bed—just where he put them when he took them off last night. You see, I looked for them.”
“Oh,” I said, rather nettled. “You evidently thought them important.”
“Most assuredly,” he rejoined. “But not so important as the other thing Prescott’s bedroom told us.” He rose and stretched his arms.
“Yes,” I assented. “That money business of Baddeley’s is very mystifying. And yet there may be a perfectly simple explanation.”
“Of course,” said Anthony. “But I wasn’t thinking of that.”
“What do you mean?” I broke in. “What else was there?”
“My dear Bill,” came the reply, “I want you to come with me now and have a look at the ground immediately below the billiard room window.”
“Yes, but—that bedroom—what else did you——?”
“What else did I notice? Let me see, now. What was it? Oh—I found much food for thought, my dear Bill, in the somewhat peculiar disposition of the bed-clothes.”
“Peculiar?” I queried wonderingly. “Nothing about them struck me as peculiar. Anybody getting up in a hurry would have thrown them off just as they appeared to——”
“You think so—well, you may if you like—here we are.”
We had progressed along the gravel drive until we were opposite the billiard room window. This lay on our right. Separating the path where we were from the window in question, there was a bed of roses approximately ten to twelve yards in width.
“What Baddeley has found, Bill, we can find,” muttered Anthony. “There you are—look. Footprints—that interested Baddeley.”
His face shone with eagerness and intensity.
“Keep on the path, Bill; leave these to me.”
He stepped carefully on to the earth bed, examining the prints with the utmost care. From where I stood I could see a number of well-defined “treads” and I readily appreciated the importance attached to them by both Baddeley and my companion. It was very evident that one person at least had crossed the rose-bed pretty recently to get beneath the billiard room window. It looked an outside job of course. Burglary evidently—Prescott had heard noises—come down to investigate—found the trouble in the billiard room and had interrupted the disturbers at the cost of his own life. But would burglars strangle their assailant with a shoe-lace? Surely not! The whole affair seemed to me to be most intricate and most involved. Still, the rain of the evening before had been a Godsend—there were the footmarks—telling some story to more than one pair of eyes. They might help the Inspector and I knew they would interest Anthony.
I looked across at him. He was evidently at a loss. Something on the wall beneath the window of the billiard room had apparently excited his attention. He scrutinized it most carefully, and then turned again to the prints. He shook his head.
“Bill!”
“Hullo?”
“Come over here, will you?”
I complied.
“Now, Bill, look at what I am going to show you, very carefully. I expected to find traces of Prescott somewhere out here—you, of course, noticed the mud on the shoes he is wearing—so that Baddeley’s announcement came as no surprise to me. The natural place to look for them was in the vicinity of the billiard room window, since that room was the last room he can have entered. Now, look here! Do you see that double line of tracks? Looks something like a 10, I should say. We can bank on those being Prescott’s. I’ll make sure later—but I’m certain of my ground.”
“In a double sense,” I grinned.
“Eh? Oh—I see——” he laughed. “I wasn’t thinking of what I had said. But do look. Here we have a distinct set of tracks that are undoubtedly Prescott’s, side by side with a similar set, undoubtedly again Prescott’s, leading in the reverse direction. The left-hand set, as we face the window, lead to the path, and the right-hand set lead to the window. Agree?”
I looked attentively at the footmarks. “Yes. It would seem so.”
“Right,” he rejoined. “Then—proceeding along that line of argument—since Prescott eventually reached the billiard room and stayed there, the tracks leading to the path should have been made first. That’s elementary, isn’t it?”
Once again I assented.
“Now,” continued Anthony, “cast your weather-eye over there.”
He pointed to a few feet away from the tracks we had agreed were Prescott’s.
I stared and started in surprise.
“More!” I cried.
“True, O King,” said Anthony, rubbing his hands with real showman instinct, “and whose are they? Come and look closer.” They belonged to a much smaller foot.
“A woman?” I queried.
Anthony shook his head in disagreement. “I think not. Might be. But it’s broad for a woman, not suggestive of a woman’s heel, and more generally indicative of a medium-sized man. He has walked deliberately towards the window from the path and then equally deliberately back again. That’s another point I’m basing my opinion on, a woman so often picks her way, especially with any mud about. Put it down to feminine fastidiousness.”
“Then Prescott did have an assignation?” I ventured.
“Perhaps! It certainly looks like it. But——”
“But what?”
“Well, there’s nothing to prove that the two people that have been here were here at the same time, is there? Of course, I’m willing to admit that in circumstances of this kind, the balance of probability is that theywere. But one never knows. I wonder what Baddeley——”
“What do youreallythink about it?” I urged.
His answer amazed me rather.
“Too much!”
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I say. Iamactually thinking too much about anumberof points. There are too many clues here, Bill, falling over one another. No wonder Baddeley’s mystified. My job is to separate the true significances from the false. That’s real detective talent, Bill. In this case, there is so much thatconflicts. One set of facts, for example, points to the North, and another set, apparently just as authentic, points unerringly to the South. Therefore, they can’t, all of them, be authentic! See? Some must be false. And I’ve got to pick ’em out.” He slapped me on the back. “Magna est veritas”—he stopped abruptly.
“Now what?”
“By Jove!” he murmured. And an illuminating smile spread across his features. “Of course. Of course.”
He turned to me quickly.
“It’s strange, Bill, how an occasion will turn up to illustrate the exact truth that a man has just enunciated. Here’s an example to hand. I was talking about the separation of falsehood from truth. Effecting this separation explains something very clearly that has been causing me no end of bother.”
I became all attention and interest, immediately.
“Explain,” I said. “Put me out of my miserable ignorance.”
“Look at this wall, then.”
I looked. “Yes, what about it?”
“Well, Bill, it’s like this—listen! Assuming Prescott was out here some time last night or this morning, how would you suggest he got here? Did he come downstairs and risk the possible disturbance of other people or did he come from his bedroom down the nine stairs to the billiard room and out via the billiard room window? Think before you answer.”
I hesitated a moment.
“Well, of course, it’s all guesswork——”
“Not for a moment, old son! Use the powers the good God has given you.”
I nodded sagely, yet still uncomprehending; then burned my boats.
“Down the stairs and out of the window!”
“You think so? Let’s investigate. I suppose that window, Bill, is roughly fifteen feet from the ground—eh?”
I assented. “An easy job,” I interjected, “for an active man!”
“And when he wanted to get back,” replied Anthony, “a moderately easy climb. He could use the water-pipe,” he indicated with his hand the water-pipe running down the wall on the right of the window—“for a hold with his right hand, could dig his toes in the brickwork; clutch the window-sill with his left hand and easily draw his body up. Agree, Bill?”
“Absolutely,” I concurred. “If you like, I’ll try it here and now, to prove it’s a practicable possibility.”
“Done with you, Bill. You’re a stout fellow! Up you go!”
I suited the action to the words. Reaching out with my right hand I gripped the water-pipe well up its length, pulled myself up a bit, kicked at the brickwork with my toes, got a momentary hold, hung for a second, shot up my left hand to clutch the window-sill, succeeded, and hauled myself up. Entrance to the billiard room would have been a comparatively simple matter.
“Satisfied?” I grinned. Then, dropped to the ground again.
“Completely! So that, friend Bill, is the method by which the now defunct Prescott, poor fellow, got out and got back? Eh?”
“That’s about the size of it,” I agreed, feeling a sense of triumph. “We’ve established that pretty firmly.”
Then I woke up.
“I disagree!” said Anthony curtly.
“You disagree?” I muttered in amazement.
“I do! And I’ll show you why. I warned you to get that grey matter of yours to work—didn’t I? Pay attention to what I am going to demonstrate.”
“Go ahead!”
“I’m going. Now, Bill, which would be the easier way to get out of the room? To get out, using the reverse method by which you got up—that is to say—leaning out for a grip of the water-pipe with one hand, and then all the rest of the movements, or as you said, a simple drop from the window-sill?”
“A simple drop, unquestionably,” I answered, without any hesitation.
“I think so, too! Where then,” he swung round on me, alive with interest, “are the heavy marks of his feet when he dropped? The ground is soft, remember. And he was a pretty hefty fellow. There’s no sign of a drop at all—only this double line of tracks. Look!”
It was as he showed. There were no indications whatever of anybody having dropped from the window.
I stared at him, for the moment nonplussed. Then turning, caught his eye. I could see that there was more to come.
It came! “Also, Bill, I would call your attention to two very important facts. Important, that is, in relation to the line of investigation that we are at present conducting. Look at the toes of your shoes.”
I did as directed.
“Slightly scraped,” I said ruefully, “getting up to that window of yours.”
“Exactly, laddie. Exactly. Now for important fact number two.”
“I’m all attention.”
“Well, just as the wall has had its effect on your shoes, so have your shoes had their effect on the wall. See?”
He pointed to the brickwork. It was quite true. My shoes had made a perceptible discoloration where they had rubbed as I had struggled for my foot-grip.
“And what is more, Bill,” continued Anthony, “it’s comparatively dry now. Last night was wet, remember. And it may interest you to know that the wall was perfectly clean when I arrived here just now, and Prescott’s shoes are certainly not scraped.”
“Sure?” I queried.
“I am. I’m carrying a mental photograph of Prescott about with me, and you can take it from me, Bill, that Prescott never did the climbing trick that you’ve done this morning. Now where are we?”
“Ask me another,” I grunted. “I should think, more in the dark than ever.”
But Anthony dissented.
“I’m not so sure of that. I’m beginning to see a little more light.”
I surveyed him with astonishment.
“What on earth——”
“I’m still holding on, Bill, so don’t worry me. Come along here, we’ll do a little more prospecting.”
We strolled back along the path that led back to the French doors.
“No indication here of which way either of them went,” remarked Anthony. “This gravel path hardly takes a foot’s impression, which, at the best, would be hours old by now.”
He stopped by the French doors. “Yes, Bill, I’m in the dark still with regard to many points. As I said to you previously, there are so many things that don’t fit, they seem extraneous to the real core of the crime—all the same, at the risk of becoming monotonous, I think I can see a glimmer of light.”
“What’s your next move?” I questioned.
“I want to have another look around Prescott’s bedroom. I should also like to glance at his papers—but Baddeley pouched those—his check-book might be interesting too. Yes, I must have another look up there.”
“How are you going to manage it?”
“This way. I’m going to ask Sir Charles to cover me by engaging me, so to speak, to clear up the affair on his behalf. You know what I mean. Terrible disgrace to Considine Manor, and all that, to have this mystery unsolved. Poor young fellow done to death, in a charming English country house, where he is staying as a guest. Must get to the bottom of it for the sake of the family name, you know. Otherwise, if Scout Baddeley finds me poking about too much in bedrooms and around footprints, he’ll take the bull by the horns and arrest A. L. Bathurst, Esq. Get me, Bill?”
Truth to tell, it did seem pretty terrible to think that a delightful place like Considine Manor could harbor the crime it did. It was another English summer morning after the rain of the night before. It seemed to breathe freshness, and grass, and new-mown hay, and butterflies and cricket—all that pageant of hot July that no other country in the world can give.
“What about Canterbury?” I ejaculated.
“Giving it a miss! I can’t very well rush off and bury myself in a round of gaiety after what’s happened here. Besides, I shouldn’t be surprised if Baddeley has something chatty and snappy to say about any of us leaving yet awhile at any rate.”
“Have you let them know?”
“No, I’ll wire later. Let’s get back now, and I’ll see Sir Charles.”
We strolled back, and the reflection came to me how suddenly our immediate outlooks had changed. A few hours ago Anthony had the prospect of a glorious week at Canterbury. Similarly, I had been anticipating a delightful time in various delightful places—an English country house takes a bit of beating during real summer—and now! Look at it how you would—this sinister affair inevitably impinged in some way on the lives of all of us who were staying in the house. I, for one, try as I might, could not shake off its shadow.
Sir Charles met us as we entered the house, a changed man from the morning before.
“I wanted a word with you two men. I’m perfectly assured that you will understand—it’s nothing really to do with me, or anything—er—over which I appear to be able to exercise any control—but Inspector Baddeley has intimated to me—I must say, that, for a policeman, he put the matter very, very tactfully—I might even go so far as to say—delicately—that he wishes to interview all of us in the house, as soon as possible. I suggested we resort to the library.”
“That’s all right, sir,” responded Anthony. “Is he waiting now?”
Sir Charles looked at his watch. “I have made arrangements for the proceedings to—er—commence in half an hour’s time.”
“Could I have half a word with you, sir?” asked Anthony.
“Delighted, Bathurst.”
“I’ve always been attracted by affairs of this nature, sir, little thinking that one day I should be swept into one. Would you be good enough to give mecarte blancheas it were, to do a little investigating off my own bat? With your authority, you see, acting in a private capacity as your agent, I can satisfy Inspector Baddeley of my bona fides if he catches me nosing into things.” Sir Charles pondered for a moment, and I fancied his reply came after some degree of hesitation.
“I see no objection, Bathurst. Provided, of course, that any—er—results of your inquiry—are submitted to me before any action is taken.”
“I’ll promise you that, sir—readily!”
“Very well.”
“Then we’ll regard that as settled.”
“This will entail your staying on here,” continued our host. “I’ve discussed the question with nearly all the others, and I’ve put it to them, subject to the Inspector’s permission being granted that they leave as quietly as possible to suit their several conveniences. After the interview, of course. No good purpose whatever can be served by any of them staying, and no lack of respect will be shown by them to the dead, if they leave in the manner that I have described. If any one of them should be required for the inquest—I am sorely afraid that an inquest is unavoidable—Inspector Baddeley will be furnished with full particulars. This will enable the authorities to get into touch quickly, should it be necessary.”
“What about Prescott’s people, sir?” I ventured.
“He has no father, Bill, and is the only child of his mother. Jack is communicating with her, I believe, almost at once. Somewhere in Blackheath, I fancy. I dread the task of meeting her. Still more I dread the task of telling her.” He blew his nose fiercely to cover his evident agitation.
The other members of the party came thronging up. But a hush seemed to have descended upon them. The conviviality of last night and the excitement of the morning’s awakening had departed. They had heard, indistinctly yet definitely, the flutter of the wings of the Angel of Death. He had passed them by, but he had been very close to them. And now what awaited them? Grief to the young is a transient matter. It soon becomes impossible—youth’s ardent eagerness engulfs it. It must be so. Grief can find no permanent habitation in the heart of youth. Lady Considine thought of Mrs. Prescott, and the news that would so soon reach her. One mother considered the anguish of another mother. Mary seemed terribly shaken, most of the men looked unperturbed; no matter what their feelings were, they were clever enough to mask them.
The servants did most of their work on a kind of mental tiptoe. We waited. But not for long.
A quick step and a quick voice sounded upon our ears.
“I am at your service, ladies and gentlemen,” said Inspector Baddeley.
“I don’t suppose this is going to be a very pleasant job for the ladies, Sir Charles, and you can rest assured that as far as lies in my power, I’ll make it as smooth and easy as possible. So I propose, with your approval, to talk to you gentlemen first. I should prefer to see my clients separately, and, as was your suggestion, I think the library will serve the purpose very nicely.”
He turned to Roper.
“You come with me, Roper. I may want you.”
Sir Charles Considine coughed—then, very quietly but nevertheless very determinedly—interposed. “That seems to me a trifle one-sided as a proposition, Inspector. You have support, physical, moral, and also no doubt intellectual,” he smiled somewhat whimsically at Roper—“and we, all of us, are, to an extent, shaken by the terrible event that has befallen my house, and, therefore, as a consequence are neither so self-controlled nor so mentally alert as normally. We appear before you to be questioned and cross-examined. I don’t think I should be asking an unwarranted favor if I suggested that you allow, say, two members of my circle to be present while you conduct your examination. H’m? What do you say, Inspector?”
Baddeley met his gaze for a moment, as though making an attempt to fathom his real intentions. Then with a laugh and a shrug of his eminently business-like shoulders, gestured his consent.
“Choose your men. On the condition that I see the three of you first.”
“Thank you, Inspector. Believe me, I appreciate your courtesy. I should like Mr. Cunningham and Mr. Bathurst to—er—um—assistyou in your intended investigations.”
“As you wish, sir, and thank you. Now, with your permission, you three gentlemen will do me the goodness to accompany me to the library, and we will do our united best to see if we can’t, by hook or by crook, throw some light on this unfortunate affair. And you, Roper! I’ve been lucky enough to unravel some pretty ticklish problems in my time, some by good luck, some, if I may say so, gentlemen, with pardonable pride, by intelligent application to the matter in hand. And I hope,” he turned on us all decisively, “to hunt the truth out,here.”
We entered the library. Our host motioned us to our seats. Baddeley took the armchair at the head of the table investing himself as far as he could with an atmosphere of the inquisitorial. Roper took the chair on his left. Sir Charles placed himself in front of the fireplace, while Anthony and I took chairs at the side of the table.
The Inspector was soon in his stride.
“Now, Sir Charles, this Mr. Prescott, whose death we all deplore, was a guest of yours?”
“Yes. For my cricket week.”
“Known him long?”
“No. It would help you materially, if I informed you of the circumstances of the acquaintanceship. Prescott was at Oxford with my son and Mr. Cunningham here, and we met him at Lords’ during the last ’Varsity Match—just a month ago. We invited him here for our annual week.”
The Inspector was impressed. “Is he G. O. L. Prescott then—that played for Oxford against Cambridge?”
“He is, Inspector! And there’s one more fact that I had omitted to mention, he had met my daughter, Mary, some months previously.”
“Where?” Baddeley’s face betrayed keen interest.
“At Twickenham, in December.”
“You have no reason to suspect, Sir Charles, that any developments had transpired from these meetings?”
“None whatever. As far as my knowledge goes, Mr. Prescott and my daughter entertained no feelings for each other, beyond those of mere friendship.”
“I see.” Baddeley fingered his chin. “You’ve seen nothing during his stay here, that you consider might have any bearing upon his death? Nothing—however seemingly unimportant? Think, Sir Charles!”
The old man shook his head. “No, Inspector. I’ve noticed nothing at all unusual, nothing that could possibly touch his death. The scene this morning came as a terrible shock to me. And as terrible by reason of its utter unexpectedness as by reason of its horror.”
“How much money did Prescott lose last night, Sir Charles?”
“Really, I’ve no idea! But nothing worth worrying about—you can set your mind easy on that point. I shouldn’t allow it—in Considine Manor.”
The Inspector raised his eyebrows.
“Then, in light of your answer, you may be surprised to know that there was some pretty high playing at Considine Manor last night.”
The eyes of our host flashed with his reply. “Very surprised and exceedingly annoyed. Had I known, had I had the slightest inkling—you are certain of what you are stating—pardon me?”
“I make that statement, Sir Charles, on unimpeachable authority.”
“Dear, dear! This news disturbs me profoundly.”
The old man’s appearance confirmed the truth of this last statement. This unexpected revelation, following upon the shock of the murder, had made its mark upon his countenance. He huddled himself into a chair. Then braced himself to ask another question.
“Was Prescott playing high?”
“He was, Sir Charles.” Baddeley’s features relaxed for a fleeting moment into a smile—“and incidentally, he won a considerable sum of money.”
“Whom from?”
“That you shall hear, sir, during the course of this morning’s inquiry.”
Sir Charles subsided again, by no means so sure of himself as he had been. I could not help whispering to Anthony as he lounged in his chair with his long legs extended—“First blood to the Inspector.”
He grinned, and as he did so Baddeley’s next question came.
“Now you, Mr. Bathurst. A guest here, also?”
“Yes.”
“Like Mr. Prescott?”
“Didn’t know him sufficiently to express an opinion.”
Baddeley evinced his annoyance. “I didn’t mean did you like him, Mr. Bathurst, what I meant to say was, were you a guest of Sir Charles under similar circumstances?”
“Sorry! I misunderstood you. No—not exactly. My invitation is only a day or two old.”
“Did you know the murdered man?”
“No, I did not. That is to say at all well. I’ve run against him at Oxford.”
“Did you see anything while you were here, or did you hear anything during the night that you think worthy of mentioning to me?”
“Nothing at all, Inspector.”
“You were not playing cards, last evening?”
“No, after dinner when the cards started I strolled into the garden with Mr. Jack Considine. We were there about twenty minutes. Then we went to bed—and like everybody else were awakened by the maid’s discovery in the billiard room. Which she celebrated in the usual manner.”
“H’m—any theory in regard to the crime, Mr. Bathurst?”
“Yes, Inspector.”
“Based on?”
“What I’ve seen this morning.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“You shall. All in good time. After all—it’s merely a theory.”
Baddeley was obviously disconcerted by the reply. I don’t think he knew quite what to make of Anthony.
So he turned his battery on to me.
“Mr. Cunningham? Sir Charles tells me you’re an old friend of the family.”
I bowed. “Of many years’ standing. And a regular guest for the Considine Cricket Week as you may guess.”
“Know Prescott?”
“Moderately. Played cricket with him at Oxford—not much beyond that.”
“Know anything about his private affairs?”
“Nothing.”
“And last night, Mr. Cunningham. What can you tell us about that?”
“I was in the drawing-room after dinner with the others, and as I have previously told you, I was a watcher of the card-playing party. I went up to bed about a quarter to twelve.”
“Where was Prescott then?”
“I left him in conversation with Lieutenant Barker.”
“And of course you heard nothing during the night?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Bill,” interjected Anthony. “Tell me this. When Jack and I went into the garden for a smoke, was everybody in the drawing-room? Think carefully.”
I considered for a moment—then replied with decision—“Yes—everybody.”
“You didn’t see anybody leave it?” he reiterated.
“To the best of my belief,” I asserted, “everybody save you and Jack was in the drawing-room.”
“Right.”
Baddeley pushed across a letter.
“Have a good look at that, Mr. Cunningham.”
“Yes?” I queried.
“That’s a letter addressed to Mr. Prescott. I think you may know the handwriting?”
I took the letter. It seemed an ordinary enough letter, touching upon the fact that Prescott was shortly visiting Considine Manor, but the portion where the signature would have normally appeared, had been torn off.
“Sorry, Inspector,” I replied, “I don’t. I can’t help you.”
I handed it back to him. His glance searched my features for a brief space then——
“Try Mr. Bathurst; does he find the writing familiar?”