CHAPTER XII

The Second Screen of Mary Stuart

Goodall turned to Clegg and fired off a rapid fusillade of instructions to which that worthy gave the most respectful attention. “At once, Inspector?” he questioned.

“Quicker than that,” snapped Goodall, “and stand no nonsense from anybody.”

Anthony gave him a glance of approval. Then watched Clegg depart with heavy and important tread. “Tell Mr. Charles Stewart we should like to speak to him for a moment,” he called to the Sergeant as he made his way towards the hall—“you’ll find him close handy.” Goodall then came forward. “I want Mr. Stewart,” he said. “He promised that I should interview Miss Lennox and the late Mr. Stewart’s secretary—also I’m afraid I’ve been keeping him waiting.”

“Would you mind postponing the interviews for a little while, Inspector?” asked Anthony. “I’ve another suggestion to make.”

“Let’s hear it then.”

“Please yourself, of course,” proceeded Anthony—“have them in now by all means if you consider it very important. But what I was going to suggest was this. I should very much like to have a look at this Museum Room of Mr. Stewart’s. I’ve got a shrewd idea that it won’t prove to be entirely unprofitable.”

Goodall thought for a moment and then signified his agreement. “Very well, Mr. Bathurst—that will suit me very well—I can see the others later.”

As he spoke Charles Stewart returned.

“That trifling matter of the Museum Room, Mr. Stewart,” exclaimed Anthony. “Did you remember to get that little catalogue from Mr. Llewellyn that you promised me? If you did I should like to go in there and have that tour of inspection I discussed with you last evening.”

Stewart made an exclamation of regret. “My apologies, Mr. Bathurst, it slipped my memory—but I’ll soon rectify that.” He touched the bell. “Mr. Llewellyn,” he said as the secretary appeared, “didn’t you compile for my father some time ago a catalogue of the contents of the Museum Room?”

Anthony watched the secretary’s face with the utmost intentness as he replied. “Yes, Mr. Charles. That is so! Your father was very keen on having it done.”

Charles Stewart nodded eagerly. “Bring me a copy, will you, please? In here—at once!”

Llewellyn left quite imperturbably and Stewart offered a hint of explanation to the others. “My father thought a tremendous lot of Llewellyn, gentlemen—and one of the reasons of his great confidence in him was because of Llewellyn’s keen interest in _all_ of my father’s concerns. He wasn’t a chap who just did his bare duty and no more—he seemed able to identify himself intimately with each one of my father’s many interests—and not least with his mania for collecting.”

Anthony stopped him. “Is Llewellyn a ‘devotee’ of the ‘antique artistic’?” he asked.

“My father found him a most zealous assistant in it, Mr. Bathurst,” replied Charles Stewart, “that’s all I can tell you. I’m afraid I was much less interested myself.”

A tap on the library door heralded the secretary’s reappearance. “There is a copy of what you wanted, Mr. Charles,” he declared. Stewart took it and rapidly glanced over it. “That is a list,” continued Llewellyn, “of every single article in your father’s collection.”

Charles Stewart handed the list to Anthony. “Here you are, Mr. Bathurst! Would you like a copy, too, Inspector?”

Goodall declined with a shake of the head. “All I want I can get from Mr. Bathurst,” he answered. “Remember—this is more his ‘stunt’ than mine. I haven’t yet been informed that anything has been stolen from the room in question”—he looked hard at his questioner. Stewart’s reply came with just the slightest touch of asperity.

“Mr. Bathurst doesn’t get any inspired information from me, Inspector, if that’s what you’re hinting at. He knows that I rather disagree with his idea. The room was closed when the alarm was given, and I’ve never suggested to anybody that anything has been stolen.”

Goodall partly shifted his ground. “Why then is our friend here so insistent on the point?”

Anthony made an attempt at explanation. “I’m not exactly insistent, Inspector,” he explained, “don’t misunderstand me! I haven’t perhaps very much reason at the back of my idea, but I’m just curious to get a look at these treasures that the late Mr. Stewart valued so highly. I have a strong feeling that the visit may help us considerably.”

Here Goodall’s gesture stopped him.

“Your theory, of course, Mr. Bathurst, if I may call it such, being based on the Hanover Galleries murder—eh?”

“Yes,” replied Anthony quickly, “it seems to me that the whole case revolves round the Stuart heirlooms—if you can so describe them.”

“Well,” intervened Stewart, “the matter can very soon be settled—we’ll go to the room. Get the key, Mr. Llewellyn, will you—you’ll probably find it hanging up in the service-room. Come along, gentlemen.” It was the work of a moment for Llewellyn to get the key and for Stewart to unlock the door of the room. The five men entered. As far as could be seen the room presented an appearance of complete order. A more heterogeneous collection it would have been impossible to imagine. Tables of old and exquisite workmanship supported the smaller articles—the larger finding their place on the floor and against the four walls. Four glass cases protected other treasures. Manuscripts, missals, musical instruments of all ages, weapons, rings, snuff-boxes, furniture of all kinds were to be found, with suits of ancient armor and specimens of fragile glass.

“There are over two thousand articles in this room, gentlemen,” announced Morgan Llewellyn, “and the catalogue that I was privileged to compile lists and partly describes every one of the two thousand odd. If you look at the end of the catalogue, Mr. Bathurst, you’ll see the exact number there are.” Bathurst turned to the end. “Two thousand and forty-four,” he declared. Goodall smiled at Llewellyn and Stewart.

“Well, it’s pretty evident that no burglarious entry was made here, gentlemen. Nothing here appears to have been disturbed.” He turned to the others for corroboration of his opinion.

Stewart shook his head doubtfully. “It would be most difficult, gentlemen, to trace anything that _had_ been stolen. My father doubtless would have been able to tell at once, but I fear that now——” He stopped and shook his head again.

“I appreciate what Mr. Stewart says entirely,” supported Llewellyn. “I was intimately connected with this particular side of Mr. Stewart, senior, but I should hesitate to assert that I could say that anything was missing. Of course, I could tell if some of the things had been taken—some of the more special objects for instance. For example”—he walked to a table that stood to the left of the door. On it lay what looked like a circlet of dull and twisted metal. Llewellyn picked it up. “The ancient Crown of the Kings of England—believed to have last graced the head of Charles the First. Mr. Stewart paid a tremendous price for this—and the sale was secret. It was purchased by him from one of the most famous names in England. I should have known at once, for example, if this had been missing.” He replaced it on the table, and his eyes smouldered with the covetous zeal of the collector. Laurence Stewart’s enthusiasm had apparently been infectious. Bathurst found himself pondering over it. Llewellyn crossed to the wall and unhooked a piece of armor that had been hanging there. “Look at this! This is a gorget. Who do you think is supposed to have worn it?” Goodall took it and examined it curiously.

“No idea,” he said. It was a species of breastplate shaped like a half-moon.

“That,” continued Llewellyn, well launched now on a subject close to his heart, “is supposed to have been worn by the Black Prince at the Battle of Creçy. That is a second thing that I should have missed instantly.”

Inspector Goodall cut in. “Let’s put it like this, Mr. Llewellyn, or you, Mr. Stewart! Do either of you miss anything at all—that’s the quickest way to get to grips with the question?”

Llewellyn made a tour of the room. “I miss nothing, Inspector.”

Charles Stewart shook his head rather despondently. “I can’t help you and that’s a fact, Inspector. You must leave it at that.” He looked at Anthony Bathurst, who was, however, busy at the moment turning over the leaves of Llewellyn’s catalogue.

“Well then, if that’s the case,” rejoined Goodall, “no particularly good purpose will be served by us stopping in here any longer. I’m afraid Mr. Bathurst has given us a ‘stunner’ this time.”

“Half a minute,” interposed Anthony quietly. “You’ve all had an innings, now it’s my turn. Listen to me for two minutes. Mr. Llewellyn”—he turned to the secretary—“consider for a moment item number eight hundred and sixty-six in the catalogue, will you?”

Apparently the number conveyed nothing to Llewellyn, for his face was unchanged.

“Eight—six—six?” he inquired.

“I’ll read you the description I find here,” proceeded Anthony. “Antique fire-screen, of beaten metal-work—about four feet high. Originally the property of Mary, Queen of Scots.” He tucked the catalogue under his arm. “I’d like to have a look at that,” he said, “I’m interested.”

Llewellyn raised his forefinger. “You shall, Mr. Bathurst, I do know it now you mention it—it’s in this corner—behind this collection of Waterford glass.” He crossed to the right-hand corner of the room. Anthony scratched the back of his neck—watching Llewellyn pick his way between the tables. Suddenly the secretary stopped, and although his back was towards them, more than one of the four detected an anxiety in the manner of his stopping. Then he turned—his face white and working with excitement. “It’s gone, gentlemen,” he cried. “It’s not here—come and look yourself, Mr. Stewart.” Charles Stewart walked quickly to the corner.

“There’s no screen here,” he declared.

“Mightn’t it be somewhere else?” asked the Inspector. “Are these things always kept in precisely the same spot?”

“Always, Inspector,” replied Morgan Llewellyn promptly. “Mr. Stewart was most particular about that.”

“Isn’t it possible that Mr. Stewart himself may have removed it—on the eve of his intended purchases—for comparison or something?” suggested Daventry.

“No,” said Llewellyn. “I think not. I’m certain Mr. Stewart would have told me if he had done so.”

“Goodall,” said Anthony, with a suspicion of the didactic in his manner, “I can now assure you of at least one thing! Mason, the night-watchman, was murdered for possession of the other Stuart screen!”

“And my father——” broke in Charles Stewart with emotion.

“I am not sure,” replied Anthony with his hand on Stewart’s shoulder, “yet! Time is precious,” he continued, “we’re moving at last. Who can give me a more detailed description of this screen that was kept here—I am anxious to know more about it? Can you, Mr. Llewellyn?”

Llewellyn hesitated. But Peter was unable to decide what it was that was passing through his mind. He seemed to be considering something, but nevertheless gave no apparent hint of embarrassment or agitation. Then his answer came, but it was not quite in the form that Peter had anticipated.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you, Mr. Bathurst. I certainly remember the screen, as I said just now. It was of some kind of beaten metal-work and about the size stated in the catalogue. When I compiled the catalogue I had some notes of Mr. Stewart’s to assist me in my classification—I remember I used his own description wherever possible, when it came to making up my own list. There were some objects in the collection that I was forced to raise certain questions about through lack of information in the notes, but this screen wasn’t one of those. Mr. Stewart himself, I may add, approved the description in the catalogue in every instance.”

Anthony had followed him very carefully as he furnished this explanation. “Did Mr. Stewart mention the matter of this screen to you in connection with his projected purchase of the other one?”

Llewellyn shook his head vigorously. “Never!” was his emphatic reply. “I knew that he was adding to his collection, but he never referred in any way to this screen that he already had in his possession. I’m absolutely sure on the point.”

“Forgive me, Mr. Llewellyn, if I appear insistent, but I’ve understood since I’ve been here that you were a very zealous assistant to Mr. Stewart in this particular branch of his work. Is that true?”

Here Goodall intervened abruptly. “Yes, Mr. Llewellyn, how was it, if you were so intimate with Mr. Stewart in all his collecting work, that he didn’t mention the fact of these two screens to you?” But Llewellyn was not to be so easily shaken.

“Without appearing to be disrespectful, I would suggest that Mr. Stewart would have been in a better position to answer that than I, Inspector,” he replied smoothly.

Goodall flushed, but Llewellyn went on. “All I can say is that he _didn’t_ mention them.”

Then Anthony countered with another question. “Had Mr. Stewart confided in you at any time—before—had he discussed similar purchases on previous occasions?”

“Many times,” responded Llewellyn with absolute candor.

“Can you then account for a seeming lack of confidence on his part in this instance?”

“Frankly, Mr. Bathurst, I can’t! But Mr. Stewart, if his son will pardon my outspokenness at such a time as this, was a man of quick impulses. He was very impetuous and utterly impatient—caught by this whim and influenced by that wave of feeling—therefore not exactly a man that you could call a model of consistency. Not that I have any reason or desire to find fault with him as an employer. He was always just and always generous—I cannot complain of his treatment of me.” He looked up and caught Inspector Goodall’s eye and he was quick enough to sense its disapproval. For Goodall’s brain was considering several elements of doubt. “Why,” said the Inspector to himself, “why does this young man talk like this when Miss Marjorie Lennox accuses him of harboring revengeful feelings against the man of whom he speaks?” He decided that the solution to this little problem might possibly be more speedily forthcoming if he showed a little craft. So he affected an air of ingenuousness.

“The sentiments do you credit,” he declared. “It’s the fashion of the world nowadays to run down your employers as much as you can. Well, Mr. Bathurst, what about this screen of yours? I’m afraid there’s nobody here that can help you with those details you asked for. You’ll have to remain content with the description in the catalogue—‘an antique metal-work screen.’ I expect the only person that could have supplied more information was Mr. Stewart himself.”

“That’s not quite true!” A musical voice from the doorway tinkled across to the group of men. They all turned instantaneously as Marjorie Lennox picked her dainty way towards them. “No! That’s not true,” she reaffirmed. “Because I can! Charles—introduce me to these gentlemen.” She spoke imperiously.

Peter Daventry realized when he bowed to this charming interruption that life had discovered for him an additional interest. He murmured a few words to a magical smile and thanked God for another blessing. Anthony expressed his intense satisfaction that Miss Lennox was able to help them so materially, in which statement he was gallantly seconded by Detective-Inspector Goodall, whose thoughts at the same time reverted to Sergeant Clegg and a lady’s handkerchief!

“I overheard what was being said,” exclaimed Miss Lennox demurely, “and I realized at once that I could help you. The night before he died, poor Uncle Laurence brought me in here specially to look at that screen. He was very excited about it and he explained to me that Lord Clavering’s death and the sale of his property had given him the chance to get the two screens that had belonged to Mary, Queen of Scots, before the débacle at Carbery Hill and her subsequent imprisonment. We looked at it together—I can describe it very fully.”

“Just what I want, Miss Lennox,” exclaimed Anthony. “As fully as you can, please—you will help me a lot.”

Marjorie puckered her brow. Peter instantly formed the opinion that it made her distinctly more lovely than ever. “It stood about so high,” she declared with an appropriate gesture, “and was made as far as I could judge of some kind of metal—copper I should imagine from the color. Of course, being over 300 years old it was much darker and blacker than the beaten copper work that we see now.” Here came more brow-puckering, to Peter’s secret delight—Mr. Daventry, it must be remembered, had a keen eye and the soundest of discriminating tastes. “The next part is harder to remember,” continued the charming chronicler, “but I think I’m right.” She thought for a moment and then went on. “In the top left-hand corner there was Mary’s Lion and in the right-hand corner the ‘fleur-de-lis.’ At the bottom of the screen—on the right——”

“Forgive me, Miss Lennox,” said Peter under the influence of a sudden impulse, “it’s awfully rude of me, I know, but let me see if I can finish the description for you—just a fancy of mine—that’s all.”

Miss Lennox looked very surprised and a little disdainful, but, “Go on then,” was all she permitted herself to say. Thus encouraged, Peter did so.

“At the bottom,” he declared oracularly, “were the Leopards and Lilies of England.”

A pair of wonderful blue eyes seemed suddenly to become more wonderful. With the wonder of amazement.

“You’re right—absolutely right,” she said. “Where and when did you see Uncle’s screen?”

But Peter proceeded with the assurance of the conqueror. “In the center,” he said, “were the words, ‘Jesus Christ, God and Saviour.’” He paused and with his eyes invited her corroboration. But this time Marjorie corrected him—_very_ disdainfully.

“Oh no,” she remarked—“in the center were two words in Latin. They had been scratched, or inscribed perhaps is the happier word, with a sharp-pointed instrument—at least that’s what it looked like. The two words were ‘_Timeo Danaos_.’” Here she stopped as all good story-tellers should when they have scored a good point.

“Translate, Mr. Bathurst,” said Goodall with the suggestion of a grin, “my classics are rusty.”

“‘_Timeo Danaos_,’” repeated Anthony, “‘_et dona ferentes_’—which being interpreted means, ‘I fear the Greeks especially when they bring gifts.’”

“What the deuce are Greeks doing on this screen?” grumbled Goodall.

Anthony shook his head. “Can’t see for the moment, I admit. Anything else, Miss Lennox?”

Marjorie nodded her little head in the affirmative. “Yes,” she said, “right underneath the two words—almost exactly in the center of the screen—was a big fish.”

“A fish?” queried Anthony, wrinkling his forehead, “what sort of a fish?”

Marjorie shook her head. “Just an ordinary fish—that’s all I could say about it. All the animals—the Lion, and the Leopards and the Fish—and the flowers too, were done in a kind of repoussé work—you know what I mean—they stood out as it were away from the surface of the screen itself.”

Anthony nodded that he understood what she meant.

“You’ve been of tremendous assistance to me, Miss Lennox,” he declared. “The case becomes more complicated than ever, but all the same I feel it in my bones that we shall solve it. Inspector Goodall here will confirm my opinion.”

The Inspector smiled grimly, but whatever remark he may have been about to make was stifled by the reappearance of Sergeant Clegg at the door of the Museum Room. Clegg saluted smartly.

“A word with you, Inspector, if you please.”

Goodall turned to Charles Stewart. “Mr. Stewart,” he said, “I should be obliged if you would take Miss Lennox and Mr. Llewellyn into the library—I will join you in a few moments—I want to have a little chat with them—thank you.”

Peter Daventry had been half hoping that the Inspector would dismiss him too, but his luck failed. He was more reconciled, however, when he listened to Clegg’s report.

“A trunk-call was put through on the night of the murder, Inspector, to Blanchard’s Hotel, Clifford Street, W. I worked on the lines this gentleman suggested—although as it happened he was a good bit out in his reckoning as regards the time.” This last remark left his lips triumphantly.

Anthony looked up—puzzled. “How much, Sergeant?” he inquired promptly.

“Eleven minutes,” Clegg announced judicially.

“Good Lord, Sergeant,” said Anthony, “I was afraid you meant hours”—he broke off and shrugged his shoulders.

The Sergeant looked aggrieved. “Eleven minutes is a long time, if I may say so,” he urged—defending his position—“you try and catch a train when you’re eleven minutes late.”

“Come, Clegg,” exclaimed Goodall impatiently, “what do they say at Blanchard’s Hotel?”

Clegg resumed his narrative with an air of injury. “I ’phoned the Hotel and I’ve been able to trace that it was to a gentleman who was staying there with his wife. When the ’phone call had been answered they asked for the manager—immediately. They informed him that owing to the sudden serious illness of a near relative they were obliged to leave the hotel at once. They paid their bill, collected their luggage and departed.”

“On foot?” cut in Goodall peremptorily.

“I didn’t inquire,” murmured Clegg, “I was too—er—taken aback with what I heard next. This gentleman and his wife had registered at the hotel in the names of Mr. and Mrs. Laurence Charles Stewart!”

Goodall whistled in amazement.

“From where?” flashed Anthony.

“From New York,” replied the Sergeant.