CHAPTER XXI

Mr. Ferguson of New York

Anthony listened. “Yes—that’s all right, old man. I got your message and of course I knew from that that everything was O. K. down at Assynton . . . What . . . When? . . . Monday? You say Stewart would like me to come down . . . well I should rather like it myself . . . it will suit me all right, too . . . I had intended returning on Monday in any case . . . Goodall will be coming too . . . Ferguson, you said . . . he’s been pretty quick over it, hasn’t he? . . . don’t quite see how it’s been possible . . . right‑o then . . . be very careful over the week-end, won’t you? . . . keep your eyes skinned on every man Jack of ’em . . . Good-bye.” He sank back in his chair. Ferguson of Crake and Ferguson, New York! Laurence Stewart’s solicitors! But how Mr. Ferguson could have arrived in England so quickly after the murder wasn’t clear to him—“he must have flown over,” he remarked to himself somewhat jocularly. His train of thought, however, didn’t last for long. His mind was soon back to the problem of the screens. Where was he when that confounded telephone rang? He closed his eyes in an attempt to recapture his concentration and the exact point to which he had arrived. He had been wondering about two things—he remarked. The Latin tag and the Fish in the center of the screen. It was becoming increasingly plain to him that he would have to get into touch with the Hanover Galleries screen! Without that, he was merely beating the air. He decided to speak to Goodall at once. He was instantly put through. Goodall seemed anxious for news. “We are no nearer a solution this end, Mr. Bathurst,” he announced rather gloomily, “every clue seems to lead nowhere—the pretty pair I’m after seem to have been spirited off the face of the earth.”

“I wanted to speak to you about them, Goodall, among other things,” replied Anthony. “Get into touch with the New York police as quickly as you possibly can—I have a strong presentiment that the gentleman we’re after has a considerable reputation as a ‘crook’ over the other side. Who is he? Haven’t the least idea, Goodall—ask them if any particularly promising specimen of the unsavory sort has slipped out of the States recently—from little old New York, in all probability. You can give them a rough description of the man you want.”

“Very well,” answered Goodall, “although I think you’re drawing a bow at a venture—still I’ll try it! What else did you want to say?”

“I’ve two more pieces of news for you, Inspector—the first will make you sit up a bit.”

“I’ve been doing quite a lot of that lately, Mr. Bathurst—what’s the latest development?”

“Have a glance at the Personal Column of the ‘Telegraph’ for the 30th of last month—see what you make of it!”

“All right,” assented the Inspector. “What else?”

“I want you to come down to Assynton with me on Monday morning. There’s a train at a quarter to eleven. I’ve just heard from Mr. Daventry that Mr. Stewart’s solicitor from New York is expected down there and I’m required to be there as well. It isn’t putting me out at all, because it was my intention to return then—I dare not delay action much longer. I’ll meet you then at Paddington.”

“I hope to be in a position to report some progress this end by that time,” declared Goodall, in a tone of voice not exactly distinguished by hopefulness.

“I hope so too, Goodall,” added Anthony, “but never mind if you aren’t. I forgot to tell you something! When you come down on Monday—bring a couple of pairs of handcuffs, will you?” He chuckled, and put the receiver back with the fervent wish that he could have witnessed the expression on the Inspector’s face. It was during the week-end that followed that an idea began to take very definite shape in Mr. Bathurst’s brain. In fact, so definite did it become that he was sorely tempted more than once to put a telephone call through to Assynton. But he desisted—there would be plenty of time on the morrow—and there was more important work to be done than the solving of the problem of the “Black Twenty-Two”! Goodall was straining at the leash, eager and impatient to land his man—to land his _men_ in both affairs. Goodall should be satisfied!

When he met him in the morning at Paddington, Anthony could see that the Inspector was looking very finely-drawn. Anthony touched him on the arm. “Don’t worry, Inspector,” he exclaimed with a note of gaiety in his voice, “the curtain is just going up for those third and fourth acts I mentioned, and you and I are not going to miss any of it. Also, Inspector,” he grinned broadly, “the bouquets will be for you when it goes down—so possess your soul in patience and wait for that ‘soothsome’ moment—that ‘fragrant minute.’”

Goodall’s eyes twinkled—not necessarily in anticipation of the coming event as depicted by Mr. Bathurst. “Bouquets aren’t much in my line! Still, I’ve brought what you asked me.” He patted his left-hand pocket with the palm of his hand. “Optimist—aren’t I?”

“Good man,” said Anthony, “for you’ll certainly want them. By the way—any news from New York yet?”

“I’ve got on to them, but there’s no news as yet!”

The journey down was comparatively uneventful.

“It’s been an interesting little problem, Goodall,” said Anthony as they ran into the drab station at Assynton, “and not the least interesting part is yet to come. I hope you are thoroughly prepared for a rather dramatic _dénouement_?”

“I shall be there,” retorted Goodall with grim determination, “whatever the _dénouement_ is! Whenever! And _wherever_!” He stepped into the car that was waiting for them.

Peter Daventry met them in the hall immediately upon their arrival. Anthony put his finger to his lips.

“All serene, Daventry?” he whispered.

Peter nodded briskly and elevated his two thumbs. “The entire household is as you left it—the people indoors and the outside staff as well—you need have no qualms.”

Anthony patted him on the shoulder. “Excellent, Daventry—I felt I could rely upon you.”

Charles Stewart came from the library with outstretched hand. “I’m glad you’re back, Bathurst. I suppose it’s too much to ask you if there have been any developments?” He rattled on without giving Anthony a chance to reply. “Good morning, Inspector! You look a trifle tired! Mr. Ferguson hasn’t arrived yet, but I’m expecting him any minute now. I’m pleased you’re both back with us—I feel that you should be here to hear what Ferguson has to say—come into the library!” The three men followed him in. “The inquest is this afternoon,” continued Stewart, “and we are burying my father early to-morrow morning—it will be very quiet—we have very few friends in this country—we haven’t been here long enough to make many. Colonel Leach-Fletcher will be present—it is very considerate of him.”

He went across to the French doors and looked out on to the garden. It was an easy matter to see that the tragic events of the last week had left their mark upon him. He was over-young to bear alone the burden of the blow that had befallen his house. It seemed unfair that it should rest entirely upon his own shoulders. Anthony walked over to him.

“Mr. Stewart,” he said very quietly, “immediately the inquest is over this afternoon I should like to have a talk with you. There are one or two little matters that I should like to settle as soon as possible. Will it be convenient?” Charles Stewart paled a little.

“Only too pleased, Bathurst,” came his reply. “Let me know when you want me—will in here do?”

“Excellently!”

As Anthony spoke the word, the noise of a car was heard humming up the gravel approach to Assynton Lodge. The door opened to admit a stout, clean-shaven man—dressed in a fashionable lounge-suit of light-grey—double-breasted. Holding his grey Homburg to his chest he bowed to Charles Stewart, at the same time making his own introduction.

“My dear Mr. Stewart,” he said in a pleasantly modulated voice, with just a touch of American accent, “I am Andrew Ferguson, of Crake and Ferguson, of New York. I am grieved beyond measure that our first meeting should be taking place under such heart-breaking circumstances. My very sincerest sympathy—Mr. Stewart.” He clasped the young man’s hand warmly in his own. “These gentlemen”—he inquired, raising his eyebrows.

“Mr. Peter Daventry, representing a London firm, similar to your own—Mr. Anthony Bathurst, whom I’ve called in to watch my interests, and Detective-Inspector Goodall, of Scotland Yard.” Stewart motioned towards the three in turn. Ferguson bowed again. “Come to the library, Mr. Ferguson, will you?” said Stewart, “and no doubt, you will stay for lunch.”

“As a matter of fact,” said the lawyer, “my presence here to-day is rather remarkable. When you cabled last Thursday to our New York offices—I had already sailed for London. We have some very important business to transact over here in connection with one of our most esteemed clients, and Mr. Crake and I decided that I had better run over myself. So I sailed on the _Mauretania_. I was, naturally, most distressed and shocked to get a wireless message from my partner, Crake, late last Friday, informing me of the sad news of Mr. Laurence Stewart’s death—and asking me if I would call down here to see you immediately upon my landing. My dear Mr. Stewart—I have lost no time!” He beamed on the assembled company. “By the way, Inspector, has the inquest been held yet?” He turned towards Goodall.

“Not yet—it is to be held this afternoon.”

“H’m—pardon any—er—possible—er—laceration of your feelings, Mr. Stewart—I am sure—in the circumstances you will understand thoroughly my motive in asking—but I presume that there is no possible doubt that my unfortunate client was murdered?” He removed his glasses and wiped them nervously.

Charles Stewart looked across at the Inspector. The latter took it as his cue to reply to Andrew Ferguson’s question. “Unfortunately—no—Mr. Ferguson—as far as I can see at the moment—there is not the vestige of a doubt.” Ferguson replaced his glasses on his nose and blinked at Goodall. “Have the police any——”

Goodall cut him short, breaking in abruptly. “As far as the inquest this afternoon is concerned—the police will content themselves with offering merely formal evidence of identification and then asking for an adjournment.”

“Quite so—I see,” responded the lawyer. He paused for a moment. “Well, what I was about to say was this. Mr. Crake in his message—sent me in our own private professional code, of course—the major provisions of your father’s will. Have I your permission to make them public here and now, Mr. Stewart?”

Charles Stewart waved his hand in assent. “Certainly—I shall be rather glad if you will. I had intended to ask you.”

Ferguson took a document from his pocket. “As you know, your father was a very rich man. His investments, which were many and varied, have almost, without exception, turned out to be excessively lucrative. He had with him very much more than a mere touch of financial genius.” He looked up. “You will understand that I have only, at this juncture, received from my partner what I termed the _major_ provisions. Legacies are left to all members of the late Mr. Stewart’s household who had been in his service for any length of time—I can safely say that nobody with any claim at all has been forgotten. Mr. Stewart was always most generous. For example,” he broke off and referred to his paper—“Mr. Morgan Llewellyn receives an annuity of £300—John Butterworth £500 per annum, ‘in recognition of many years’ faithful and devoted service’—several other servants have been remembered very kindly. The rest of the will is rather surprising.” He wiped his glasses and blinked at the company again. “£250,000 is devised and bequeathed to Miss Marjorie Lennox—Mr. Stewart’s ward—and the whole of the residue of the estate to Mr. Charles Stewart—in respect of both real and personal property. But there are important conditions attached to each of these two bequests. In Miss Lennox’s case, the capital sum is to be held in trust until she reaches the age of forty, and in Mr. Stewart’s case similar conditions apply till the age of forty-five, unless they marry each other, when the capital sums pass into their respective possessions immediately upon such marriage. Should, however, either Miss Lennox or Mr. Stewart marry a third party—when marriage to the other principal legatee is possible and legal—the contractor of such marriage forfeits his or her bequest under this will and the said bequest passes to various charitable institutions.” He waved his hands with a gesture of semi-apology. “It was pointed out to Mr. Stewart when he first outlined these provisions that there might be several flaws in the disposition, but”—he shrugged his ample shoulders—“he was absolutely determined upon the matter.”

Charles Stewart was very white and kept biting at his underlip in nervous excitement. “You will be a very rich man, Mr. Stewart,” said Mr. Ferguson of New York—“provided, of course—but there.” He smiled somewhat fatuously—“I know how perfectly charming the lady is—I have no doubt——”

“Come in and have some lunch, Mr. Ferguson, will you?” responded Mr. Charles Stewart. It will be noticed that Mr. Ferguson’s remark provoked in him no particular enthusiasm. Certainly Mr. Bathurst noticed the fact!