CHAPTER X

The Incident of the Boot-Boy’s Bicycle

Mr. Bathurst bowed his acknowledgment. And at the same time felt that matters were progressing. Progressing, perhaps, a trifle _too_ quickly, and at a rate that, to a less alert intelligence than Mr. Bathurst’s, might prove extremely disconcerting. Under cover of a few casual and perfunctory remarks he studied Llewellyn carefully and at the same time reviewed the events of the morning. For Mr. Bathurst had been up betimes. The music of the Berkshire birds had been his first consciousness of this glorious morning. He had risen to the “Te Deum” of the bird-choir and had joined with them in a thanksgiving for “the immaculate hours”; and when he found himself downstairs his watch showed the time to be a few minutes past seven. He made his way into the garden and marveled at the magic of the morning. What was the geography of the library in relation to the garden? Passing through a charming rockery with a fountain plashing deliciously in the center of a clear-watered pool, he came on to a stretch of perfectly kept grass that stretched almost to the French doors of the library itself. Under the morning sun this patch of exquisite emerald seemed fit for the flying feet of angels. Anthony retraced his steps—he would leave the library question till he could get inside to have a look properly. He strolled through the rockery, then turned and came out on to the road. He would have a walk before breakfast, for a thought was beginning to take shape within his brain. He cut along briskly and soon discovered that he was descending the hill to Assynton village. At the foot of the hill on the fringe of Assynton itself, he stopped. It was an iron foundry that claimed his attention, for Mr. Bathurst had always been intrigued by the industry of the early morning. The clang of the hammers was as music to his ear. To him it represented one of the real essences of England—there were others—a barge moving steadily on a canal—the scraping of a bricklayer’s trowel—a fishing fleet standing in to the harbor heavy with the fruit of its toil—all of them tingling as it were—with the impetus of the newness of the morning. These things to Anthony Bathurst meant much. He listened as the clanging quivered incessantly on the almost virgin stillness of the June air. Suddenly he noticed a man signaling to him from the open door. Bathurst turned into the yard and approached him. A magnificent man, with a sweeping breadth of shoulder, came out of the foundry and stood waiting. His black eyes sparkled genially and he pulled at a bushy black beard as Anthony came up. He must have stood at least six feet two, and his leathern apron became him handsomely. He touched his forehead.

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, for takin’ what may appear a liberty. But I should like a word with you, sir.” He looked behind him somewhat anxiously, then drew Bathurst a few yards farther away from the foundry door. “If I’m not mistaken, sir, aren’t you one of the gentlemen what’s lookin’ into matters up at the Lodge?” He jerked with his thumb in the direction of “up the hill.”

Anthony regarded the black-bearded giant with curious interest. “I haven’t the least idea how you know that,” he replied, “but you’re quite right—I am! News seems to travel quickly in these parts.”

Blackbeard’s teeth flashed in a smile. “No great mystery about that, sir,” he explained. “I saw you in the company of Sergeant Clegg last night with another gentleman that looked uncommonly like a police-detective. And I ain’t too bad at puttin’ two and two together.” He grinned again.

“I see,” said Anthony. “And what was it you wanted to tell me? I take it that there _is_ something—you haven’t called me in here merely to wish me good morning?” He eyed the foundry-man quizzically.

“No, sir, I haven’t, and that’s a fact! And what I’ve got to say, I’d sooner say to you than to the police, for I’ve no love for that fraternity—you can take it from me.” He spat with some vigor as a garnish to his remark; then proceeded to embellish what he had said. “Especially for Sergeant Amos Clegg. But I like the look of you, sir, and when my boy told me what he told me yesterday midday I advised him to keep a still tongue in his head till I told him to loosen it. When I spotted you last night, sir—I made up my mind that _I’d_ do the tellin’ and to _you_!”

“Thank you for the compliment,” returned Anthony smiling. “I appreciate it, I assure you. I shall be very pleased to hear what you wish to tell me. Fire away!” The giant glanced round, then lowered his voice appreciably. “My name’s Michael O’Connor and I’m the father of Patrick O’Connor—him as they call boot-boy up at the Lodge—Mr. Stewart’s place. Patrick was eighteen on the 17th of March and has worked for poor Mr. Stewart for three or four months now. He does lots of odd jobs about the place and gives the gardener a hand—I’m tellin’ you this just to give you a rough idea of who he is—so to speak. Now Patrick’s a good lad—though he’s mine and say it I shouldn’t—honest and willin’. He gets sent out a good deal, so Mr. Stewart provided him with a bicycle to run his errands on. He don’t sleep up at the Lodge and he’s supposed to leave the bicycle there when he gets away of an evening—which is usually about seven. The machine goes into old Maidment’s potting-shed. Maidment’s the gardener. That’s where Patrick put it the night before last.” He stroked his beard and pushed his face nearer to Bathurst. “When he went to the Lodge yesterday mornin’ and heard all about the murder there wasn’t much work for him, as you may well guess—so he thought he’d give his bicycle a bit of a clean-up. What does he find when he looks at it?” He paused dramatically and drew himself to his full height. “That it had been used by somebody since my Patrick left it in the shed.” He spat again. “And how do you think he knew?” he chuckled—then without giving Bathurst time to venture an opinion, continued, “Look down there, sir,” he said, pointing down the road that wound into Assynton village. “See the steam-roller?” Bathurst both saw and heard it—puffing and grinding after the manner of steam-rollers and flaunting the White Horse of Kent. “The road into Assynton is bein’ done up,” continued O’Connor—“with tarred macadam. The sun for two or three days now has been melting the new stuff that’s been put down—it sticks to your boots if you walk in it. And my Patrick tells me that _the tires of his bicycle were all_ marked with it.” He concluded on a note of triumph. Then looked at Bathurst with an invitation for approval.

“Good lad,” contributed Anthony. “He’s told nobody besides you?” O’Connor shook his leonine head.

“He was a bit frightened-like, I think, sir, so he brought his troubles to his father—I teach my young’uns to do that! But it proves this, sir, _somebody used the bicycle the night of the murder_.”

Anthony nodded in corroboration. “I suppose he’s sure he didn’t pick the stuff up himself on some errand?”

“Absolutely, sir. He says he came into the village twice the day before yesterday, and took great care to miss the part of the road that’s been tarred. But a person riding in the dark, sir, wouldn’t notice it—’specially if he had somethin’ on his mind.” He sniffed—and the sniff carried a wealth of meaning.

“Perfectly true,” agreed Anthony, “and I’m much obliged to you for the information—this road into the village leads straight to the station, doesn’t it—it was getting dark when I drove up last night?”

“That’s right, sir,” replied O’Connor—“straight up through Assynton.”

Bathurst pushed a Treasury note into his hand, which, after some demur, he accepted.

“I’ll be getting back now, O’Connor, and I’ll have a quiet chat with Patrick at the first opportunity. I’ll tell him you’ve seen me—that will establish my credentials.”

He swung back in the direction of the Lodge—musing over the encounter, and over the incident of the footsteps during the night. When Stewart introduced Morgan Llewellyn and he was able to identify the gentleman as the wanderer who had disturbed his sleep, he concluded that he had quite enough to think over for his first morning. Peter greeted him at the breakfast-table.

“Been out, Bathurst? So early?”

“Just a short stroll, Daventry. I was anxious to have a look round and I hadn’t the heart to rout you out, old man! I went across the downs a bit and worked down towards the village.” He turned to Stewart. “The birds were simply wonderful. I even enjoyed those melancholy ‘pee-wits’!”

“We’ll get breakfast over as soon as we possibly can, gentlemen,” exclaimed Stewart. “I expect the Scotland Yard representative will be up here pretty early. I should like you to be present, Mr. Bathurst, when he enters the library—Sergeant Clegg closed the room up, you know, when he left yesterday.”

Llewellyn sniffed contemptuously. “A brilliant piece of work—that! One of us might have wanted to use the room—for a legitimate purpose, I mean.” He wiped the glasses of his pince-nez with his silk handkerchief. As he did so, Bathurst observed the peculiar quality of his eyes and at the same time formed the opinion that Mr. Morgan Llewellyn might very well prove to be a dangerous customer if things didn’t please him over-well.

“Mr. Stewart,” said Anthony, addressing his host, “what sort of a lad is Patrick O’Connor—the boot-boy?”

Stewart stared at him with a certain strain of amazement on his face.

“Really,” he said, “I didn’t know that you were sufficiently acquainted with our staff here to be able to ask that question! I suppose it’s a case of the early bird, eh?”

Anthony’s grey eyes twinkled delightfully! “We all have our little secrets, Mr. Stewart,” he responded. “You mustn’t probe me too thoroughly—tell me rather of Master O’Connor.” He looked round at Peter Daventry—“He’s got a fine name, you know, Daventry—‘Patrick O’Connor’—hark to the music of the ‘r’ and the ‘n’!”

“Quite a reliable lad,” came Stewart’s answer. “As far as I know. Certainly I know nothing unfavorable.”

“What time does he get here in the morning?” asked Anthony.

“About half-past six, I believe,” replied Stewart. “You should know—you’ve seen him, I take it, this morning?”

“On the contrary—I’ve never set eyes on him.” Bathurst smiled gravely.

He felt the glances of the three men fixed intently on him.

“Well, you’ve certainly wasted no time,” declared Llewellyn, “though how exactly you’ve been to work, I can’t guess.”

“I sha’n’t ask you to,” laughed Anthony. “It might be trying you too highly, and I mustn’t do that.”

Peter Daventry began to wish that he hadn’t slept so soundly—Mr. Bathurst’s methods were beginning to fascinate him. Breakfast over, he came across and joined Anthony. The latter went up and spoke quietly to Charles Stewart.

“By all means,” was Stewart’s reply, “I’ll let you know directly I want you.”

“Come and have a breath of air, Daventry,” said Anthony. “It’s a perfectly wonderful morning.”

They strolled out into the garden; Anthony took a cigarette and handed his case to his companion. “I want a few minutes’ conversation with this boot-boy, Patrick O’Connor—I have a fancy that it may prove to be somewhat enlightening—and don’t forget, Daventry, anything we may hear, either now or later on, we’ll keep to ourselves, unless we decide otherwise.”

Peter saluted with mock gravity. “I’ll be the soul of tacit discretion,” he exclaimed. “Have you really stumbled across a clue already?”

Bathurst’s face relaxed into a smile. “Clues are tumbling over each other—I’ve really had the luck of the old gentleman himself up to the moment. The ball’s running altogether too kindly—doubtless I shall get a rude awakening soon. Come over on the grass there and I’ll tell you something!”

Peter accepted his bidding with alacrity. Anthony carefully chose another cigarette. “I’ll tell you this,” he said, speaking in low tones, “before we go across to find O’Connor. But first—a question! How did you sleep last night? Anything disturb you?”

Peter knitted his brows. “No! Nothing! But I was dog-tired and slept like a top—whichever way that may actually be.”

Anthony pointed across to the wall of the garden against which could be seen nestling a burden of magnificent nectarines. “Be interested—apparently——in something that I’m showing you—I don’t want anybody in the house to think I’m discussing the case with you—for all I know we are being watched.”

Peter grimaced, but began to play his part as per instructions. “The situation is becoming decidedly interesting,” he muttered. “Why do you ask me about how I slept?”

Anthony made a gesture with his arm towards another part of the garden before he answered. “At twenty-two minutes past one this morning I awoke very suddenly. I’m a very light sleeper and the slightest sound is sufficient to wake me. What I had heard was a step passing my bedroom door. Of course I couldn’t be sure which direction the steps had taken. But I slipped out of bed and opened my door. I stood listening for some time and then I heard the steps coming back. Whoever it was, was coming upstairs again. Naturally I had to bolt back into my bedroom, but I held the door handle so that I could open it quickly and noiselessly immediately the prowler had passed. I just had time to see the gentleman disappear into the room next to yours. You may guess that I went back to bed and did a little bit of quiet thinking.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed Peter. “The plot thickens! Who the blazes was it—any idea?”

“I know who it was,” replied Anthony. “It was the gentleman who had ‘brekker’ with us this morning—Mr. Morgan Llewellyn! You may remember what he thought about the library being shut up.”

Peter whistled softly. “You mean that he was trying to get in there, in the night?”

“I think it extremely probable,” declared Anthony. “And the question is what is it that’s attracting him there? That’s what we’ve got to find out—that’s why I’ve told you.”

“Did he get in do you think?” queried Peter, “because if he did, the mischief’s done.”

“Not he,” grinned Anthony. “Sergeant Clegg saw to that, quite thoroughly. Now come along over to the other side. We’ll see if we can run across Patrick O’Connor.”

Maidment, the gardener, was earthing up potatoes in the kitchen garden as they approached. He straightened himself as he wished them “Good morning.”

“O’Connor,” he said, in answer to Anthony’s question. “You’ll find him up there in the potting-shed.” He pointed past the cucumber frames that lay on his right to a shed at the end of the path. “Perhaps you’d like me to be accompanying you?” he continued. “Maybe I’ll be able to help you?”

Anthony waved his offer on one side. “Thanks—but we’ll see him alone—you stay here.”

As they reached the shed, a tall lad stepped out, and Bathurst immediately recognized that here was a case of inherited physique. He seemed surprised to see his visitors and made as though to turn back into the potting-shed.

Anthony touched him on the arm—then bent down and whispered something into his ear. The lad’s face cleared and he beckoned them inside.

“You gentlemen gave me a bit of a start,” he declared. “I’m a bit jumpy I suppose since yesterday. This sort of thing gets on your nerves, you know, sir—you can’t help it.”

Peter Daventry wondered what the message was that Bathurst had passed on. What possible connection could there be between the two of them? But his wonderings were summarily cut short. Anthony’s next remark showed that he was speedily getting to business.

“Where is the bicycle, O’Connor?”

O’Connor walked across to the farther corner and wheeled the machine down to them. He pointed to both front and back tires. “There you are, sir! You can see for yourself!”

Anthony went down on his haunches and smelt the tires. “Quite certain you didn’t pick it up yourself, O’Connor—on another part of the road, for instance?”

“I’ll take my dyin’ oath I never did, sir. The day before the murder was discovered I went down into Assynton twice—once just before lunch time and the second time about a quarter-past four. I was extry careful about riding over the new road because I hates my bike all messed and mucked up, so I jumped off when I came to it and wheeled it along the path. As for pickin’ it up anywhere else, sir—there ain’t no other part of the road round here, sir, what’s bein’ done up.” His eyes flashed, and Anthony realized again that here stood the son of his father.

“Do you always keep the machine in this shed?” he asked.

Patrick O’Connor nodded an affirmative. “Always, sir!”

Anthony threw a critical glance round the potting-shed. “When you came in yesterday morning and found your bicycle like that—was there anything else here that caught your attention—was the shed just as usual—everything in its place—nothing touched or disturbed?”

O’Connor thought for a moment—then shook his head. “Not that I noticed, sir.”

Anthony walked to the door and looked out; then he retraced his steps. “Re bicycles, O’Connor! Are there any other bicycles kept at Assynton Lodge—or is this the only one on the premises?”

O’Connor flung his head back with decision. “This is the only cycle here, sir, so that whoever used it on the night of the murder either struck lucky or _knew that it was in here_.” He lowered his voice on the last few words. Peter saw Anthony’s face as O’Connor spoke—then he turned sharply. Maidment, arriving apparently from the clouds, was framed against the doorway of the potting-shed. His approach had been noiseless and unexpected, for even Bathurst seemed slightly taken off his guard!

“Mr. Charles’s compliments,” announced the gardener, “and he will be glad to see you two gentlemen in the library.”