CHAPTER XI

With a Given Center, Mr. Bathurst Describes a Circle

Stewart met them at the French doors. “Inspector Goodall and Sergeant Clegg are here already. We shall have to postpone our visit to the Museum Room till later. Come in, will you?” Clegg and Goodall had already got to work.

“Nothing has been touched, sir,” said the former, “since I was first called in. Except for the removal of the dead man, the room is exactly as it was yesterday morning.”

“Good,” replied Goodall. “I’ve read all your notes on the case—the key was in the lock on the inside when the door was burst open, and the bolts of the French doors were securely shot. Darned peculiar!”

Stewart made as if to offer an explanation of something, but the Inspector checked him. “I’m fully acquainted with all the circumstances of the case, sir! I’ve read Sergeant Clegg’s notes thoroughly—not only those concerning the crime itself but also those dealing with the interviews he had with the various people when he was here—so you can write me down thoroughly _au fait_ with the whole business.” Stewart bowed. Goodall took a tape measure from his pocket and walked to the chair where Laurence Stewart had been murdered. “Is this chair exactly in position?” he queried of the Sergeant. Clegg came and surveyed the situation gravely. Then announced his opinion.

“As near as makes no odds, Inspector.”

Goodall first of all measured from the chair to the library door and then from the chair to the French doors. He then examined the lock of the door and the bolts of the other two doors.

“H’m,” he said—then scratched his chin thoughtfully. “The Doctor’s report”—he drew a document from his breast-pocket and perused it for a moment or two—“states that your father was struck three times, Mr. Stewart. The first blow rendered him unconscious, in all probability, Doctor Gunner thinks, and the second and third finished him completely. Mr. Bathurst—you might help me in a little experiment. I’m going to try to reconstruct the crime.” He looked at Anthony and did not wait for his reply. “Sit here, will you, as Mr. Stewart sat. Now you’re Mr. Stewart and I’m the murderer.” He walked back to the French doors, which he opened, and then went outside, pulling them together. He then opened them noiselessly and tiptoed across the heavy pile carpet. He reached Bathurst and raised his hand as though to strike. “Did you hear me?” he asked.

“Not your steps—I heard you breathing—that was all—but of course I was aware that you were advancing on me. I can quite believe the murdered man was taken by surprise in that way and heard nothing.” He rose from the chair. “Congratulations, Inspector.”

Goodall came up to the desk. “Is this the piece of note-paper, Clegg? Just where you found it?”

“Yes, Inspector!” Bathurst joined the Inspector. The message was there just as it had been written by the dead man. Bathurst let the Inspector read it—then extended his hand for it. “May I see it?”

Goodall passed it over. Anthony produced his magnifying glass and then covered all the writing with another sheet of paper—that is to say, from “urgent” to “M. L.” Then he carefully examined with his glass the part of the paper immediately following the letter “L.” Peter Daventry watched him curiously. After a moment or two he put down the sheet of paper and replaced his magnifying glass. Clegg’s eyelid flickered as he caught a glance from Goodall, but the latter gave no other sign of interest. He clasped his hands behind his back and walked to the bookcase—then suddenly turned on his heel.

“Where’s that revolver you mentioned, Clegg—let’s have a look at it.” The Sergeant took it from the right-hand drawer of the desk.

“This was in Mr. Stewart’s left-hand pocket,” he declared—“and one shot has been fired.” He passed it across to the Inspector. “That’s not to say it was fired at the time of the murder,” rejoined his superior. “All the evidence you’ve collected is absolutely contrary.”

“You mean that nobody admits having heard it?” intervened Anthony.

“I do,” said Goodall.

“With your permission, Inspector—not quite the same thing,” came the reply.

Goodall fingered his cheek. “No sign of the bullet, Mr. Bathurst, if you’re suggesting that a shot was fired in here.”

Clegg smiled broadly. There was no gainsaying the Inspector’s last remark. Anthony shrugged his shoulders good-humoredly and went back to the desk again. Peter noticed that his eyes were sweeping backwards and forwards over that particular part of it directly in front of where Stewart’s head had rested. Suddenly he picked up the ink-bowl and held it up carefully to the light. He swirled the ink round and round in the bowl three or four times and watched its black eddy with the greatest keenness. Apparently what he saw gave him entire satisfaction—which his face showed when he replaced the ink-bowl on the desk. He rubbed the palms of his hands together. “You were quite right, Inspector, regarding your theory of the crime. I hope to put my hand on the——”

“Criminal, Mr. Bathurst?” broke in Charles Stewart. “What makes you so optimistic?”

“No! I was about to say ‘on the weapon,’ Mr. Stewart. But the other will naturally follow.”

“I’m rather curious to follow you, Mr. Bathurst,” said Goodall. He walked to the desk and picked up the ink-bowl. “Ah!” he muttered, after a moment—“I think I see your drift.” He nodded his head two or three times—then came back to Charles Stewart again. “I’m going into the garden for a few moments—when I return I should like to see Miss Lennox and Mr. Llewellyn, your father’s secretary. Perhaps you would be good enough to tell them.” He passed through the French doors—the indefatigable Clegg at his heels. Anthony and Peter watched them go through the rockery and disappear out of sight. “Where’s he gone now?” questioned Peter.

“He’s bound to have a look outside,” was Anthony’s reply. “He may pick up the O’Connor information—he should do—he’s a pretty shrewd fellow.”

Out of sight of the library, Clegg touched the Inspector on the coat-sleeve. “What I wanted to tell you was this. I wanted you to come into it fresh—with no suspicions so to speak—so I didn’t tell you everything till you’d had a bit of a look round.” He gazed round warily to make sure that they were not overlooked or overheard. Then he thrust his hand into the breast-pocket of his tunic and handed Goodall a dainty lace handkerchief. “I found that caught in the curtains hanging by those French doors yesterday morning,” he explained breathlessly. “Do you see the initials? That belongs to the dead man’s ward—Miss Lennox.”

Goodall handled it with great interest. “Now that’s very curious, Clegg,” he observed. “Miss Lennox—eh? And I understand that Butterworth, the butler, accuses her of having been with the dead man at ten minutes past ten on the night of the murder—h’m. She, in her turn, puts the rough edge of her tongue round Mr. Morgan Llewellyn—h’m! Clegg—where the hell are we getting to?”

Clegg coughed discreetly. “There was the other point I mentioned, Inspector, on top of all that,” he pointed out steadfastly. Goodall considered for a second. Then he remembered what Clegg meant.

“She attempted to get into the library you mean, don’t you, when you left your man on duty there?”

“Not a doubt about it,” replied the Sergeant.

“Before I see her or this secretary fellow—I’m going to have a few words with some of the servants——come along with me—we may perhaps pick something up that may be valuable.”

Clegg fell into step. Goodall went on to outline his difficulties. “There’s one feature of the case that’s rather strange, Clegg. Nothing appears to have been stolen from here at all—no search seems to have been made for anything—there’s not a drawer ransacked or disturbed. Now in this other affair that I told you about—this Hanover Galleries murder—three objects that the dead man here was desperately keen on getting hold of were stolen—they were apparently the motive for the murder. Yet nothing’s gone from here.” He turned to Clegg somewhat impatiently. The Sergeant wagged his big head solemnly.

“Aye,” he conceded—“that’s the very identical point that struck me. But”—he thrust his face very close to Goodall’s—“is it certain that the two murders _are_ connected—have you never heard tell of the long arm of coincidence?” He pronounced the last word to rhyme with “guidance,” much to Goodall’s professional disgust.

“No,” affirmed the latter, “there’s no doubt in my own mind that there is a connection somewhere, and it’s up to me to find it—I can’t agree with your coincidence theory, Clegg.”

The latter pushed his chest out and accepted Goodall’s statement as final, registering at the same time a mental resolution that for the future he would emit no theories. He would listen!

Anthony, meanwhile, was still at work in the library, finding Peter Daventry a highly appreciative audience. “The important features of the case as I see them are these, Daventry. (a) The one shot fired from Stewart’s revolver and the taking of that revolver by Clegg from the _left-hand_ pocket of Stewart’s dressing-gown. (b) The use of Patrick O’Connor’s bicycle some time during the evening or some time during the night. (c) The message left by the dead man with its reference to ‘M. L.’ (d) The dirty condition of the ink in the ink-bowl. (e) The apparently impossible conditions under which the murder was committed—the room is locked on the inside at both exits.” He blew a cloud of smoke from his cigarette. “Add to that the somewhat unusual and rather absorbing detail—the fascination for Stuart antiques, themselves associated with a particularly brutal murder in London almost contemporaneously—and we have all the ingredients for as pretty a problem as ever was.” Then suddenly a thought seemed to strike him. “By Jove,” he said, “that coal cabinet, Daventry. I wonder if it’s worth while looking in there—it’s just possible the murderer may have——” He dashed across to the coal cabinet. It was of the type that swung outwards on a hinge. He pulled it towards him. Then he knelt down in front of it. Taking a sheet of note-paper from his pocket, he very carefully picked out some objects from the contents of the scuttle. Daventry wasn’t able to see what they were as Anthony placed them on the piece of paper. He couldn’t restrain his curiosity any longer. “What is it, Bathurst? What have you found in there?”

“A long shot,” chuckled Anthony, “but it’s happened to have come off.” He held the paper out to his companion. “It struck me when I looked at that coal-scuttle just now, that a person clearing little pieces of dirt and mud from the surface of that table”—he pointed to the desk where Stewart had been found dead—“might very easily dispose of them in the scuttle—it might well be the handiest and most convenient place—look here then!” Daventry looked at the paper held out on the palm of Anthony’s hand. There were seven or eight dried pellets of mud and four small light brown stones such as may be found in any garden. Anthony went on with his explanation. “There isn’t very much coal there—as you may see if you look—fires have been discontinued for some time now, I expect—so it didn’t give me very much trouble to find these chaps.” He smiled with infinite satisfaction, but Peter Daventry wasn’t too clear at all. “I can understand that part of the business,” he conceded—“where I’m floundering is over the part of the affair before we come to that. I haven’t the foggiest notion how you ever deduced their existence!”

“When I get the chance,” replied Anthony, “I think I shall be able to show you at least one other stone just like these four little fellows that I’ve taken from the coal-scuttle—I can’t now—the Inspector and Clegg may be back at any minute.” He walked to the French doors and looked out—then turned back to Daventry. “There they come,” he exclaimed.

“That stone, Bathurst,” cut in Peter hastily.

“Is _in this room_,” replied Anthony, “but not a word for the time being.”

Clegg stepped into the room, immediately followed by Goodall. To Daventry’s amazement, Anthony went straight over to them. “Well, Inspector, what did you make of the matter of O’Connor’s bicycle?”

“You rather take my breath away, Mr. Bathurst,” said Goodall very quietly. “Permit me to return your question—what did you?”

“I had no doubt you would pick it up,” he said, “and I’ll answer your question quite frankly.” He walked across to the bookcase, and standing with his back to it had his three hearers in front of him, Peter on his right, and the two officers on his left. “O’Connor’s bicycle, gentlemen, was used last night to carry somebody from this house into Assynton. In my opinion it carried the murderer of Stewart—if not the murderer, certainly his or her accomplice—but I fancy the murderer.” He watched the three faces to see the effect of his opinion. Goodall became critical at once.

“Who placed the bicycle in the shed then?” he asked cautiously.

Bathurst’s reply came just as quickly. “The murderer, of course.”

Goodall screwed up his face as though unconvinced. “You mean, then, that the murderer returned—that the murderer lives——”

Anthony interrupted him. “I mean that if my theory holds good—that the _murderer_ used the machine and not an accomplice—he is either in this house now or very near it. He or _she_.”

But Goodall stuck to his guns. “But why go away to come back again?—that’s what beats me.”

“More than one reason might supply a reasonable answer to that question, Inspector. The murderer may have wished to hide something, for instance. He may have gone to meet somebody even. Thirdly, he may have gone to deliver an important message.” He paused to consider the three possibilities he had named. Then looked straight across to Goodall. “I am inclined to the third suggestion myself, Inspector. Rather strongly as a matter of fact.” He came away from the bookcase, giving Peter Daventry an impression—vague perhaps—that the final word had been spoken.

Goodall shook his head rather doubtfully. “Theories are all very well in their way, Mr. Bathurst—but if I were to go chasing after all the theories I have put in front of me—I should be well set to work—can’t you give me something more definite on which your theories have been based—something more tangible?”

Anthony thrust his hands into his pockets with a gesture of impatience. “Of course I can, Inspector. Surely you don’t think I make statements of this kind irresponsibly? ’Pon my soul, I feel rather like picking up your challenge and being much more explicit than I had intended to be.” He paced to the bookcase and then came back again. “That bicycle was almost certainly ridden into Assynton after the murder had been committed. For the reason, in my opinion, that immediate communication had to be established between this end of the tangle and the other—or if you prefer it—between Assynton Lodge and the _people that murdered Mason at the Hanover Galleries the same night_.” He paused, and Peter Daventry noticed that Inspector Goodall was listening keenly and critically—punctuating Anthony’s remarks with sharp, quick movements of the head. “I deduce an urgent telephone message,” continued Anthony, “something had happened here that made instantaneous action _imperative_—the ’phone was the only way. Obviously the ’phone in the house itself must not be used—the nearest is in Assynton village—the nearest that would also be safest. If you like, I will embroider my theory somewhat.” He smiled as he sensed the improvement in his “atmosphere.” He was beginning to “get over!” “I deduce also, Inspector, that this urgent telephone message was very probably to an hotel. I think that we are dealing with a dangerous set of criminals who mean to stick at nothing to gain their ends and who in all likelihood had prepared their plans very thoroughly to meet all emergencies. If quick telephone communication formed a link in their connection system those of them who are conducting the operations from the other end were probably stopping at a quiet hotel. They don’t appeal to me as likely to be permanent residents in the West End of London, so I incline to the probability of an hotel.” He turned to Inspector Goodall decisively. “Let me make a suggestion, Inspector! Try to trace a telephone message from Assynton about 11:20 on the night before last.” Goodall broke in with an exclamation of incredulity. But Bathurst held up his hand and went straight on. “A message to an hotel—I’ll give you a list that I fancy will contain the identical one.”

Goodall raised his hands. “You travel a darned sight too fast, Mr. Bathurst. Hold hard a minute—there’s a pretty wide gulf of difference between outlining your suggestions and putting them into solid practice. For instance, you assert quite confidently that the time was 11:20. How——”

“Tut-tut, man,” broke in Anthony—“that shouldn’t surprise you. Your mysterious woman arrived at the Hanover Galleries at twelve o’clock or thereabouts—I’ve endeavored to fill in the time with what happened here between ten o’clock and then—I put the murder at eleven o’clock approximately, and I’ve allowed twenty minutes for the cycle ride.”

Goodall nodded slowly as Anthony made his points. “Granted all that—Mr. Bathurst—I don’t say I accept it all—how about that list of hotels you talk about drawing up and handing to me—there isn’t exactly a famine in hotels in London—it seems to me it will be ‘some list.’” He smiled at Anthony with just a tinge of sarcasm.

“Just a little matter of geometry, Inspector,” came the somewhat baffling answer.

“Geometry?” queried Goodall.

“Yes,” said Anthony, “with a given center and a radius say of one mile—describe a circle—the hotel will be found within that circle—the lady was at work on the real business by midnight—remember.” The Inspector’s face cleared.

“Of course! I see now what you mean. Your center will be the Hanover Galleries?”

“Exactly,” replied Mr. Bathurst.