CHAPTER XXV

The Riddle of the Black Twenty-Two

He laid the dirty padded mass on the library table, and started to pull the soft fleecy substance to pieces. From the first corner he extracted a magnificent specimen of a black pearl. Then the others came to his assistance with exclamations of delight, wonder and incredulity. In a few moments the twenty-two black pearls lay on the table in front of them—none the worse to all appearances for their three hundred odd years’ concealment. Every one was a truly magnificent specimen. Goodall, Peter and Charles Stewart handled them in a kind of amazed bewilderment, marveling at their size and beauty. Michael O’Connor’s two eyes were nearly falling from his head. This would make a story for many future generations of O’Connors to smack their lips over. After a time the reason of the other three reasserted itself, and they turned to Bathurst—their questions in their eyes.

“Hadn’t you better tell us all about it, Mr. Bathurst,” suggested the Inspector, “it’s the nearest approach to the Arabian Nights that ever I’ve run up against.”

Anthony selected a comfortable corner of the table and swung himself on to it. The others seated themselves round him. “I had better begin at the beginning,” he said. “Although the case appeared very involved and complicated in its initial stages—one of the points that seemed to border upon the impossible and which seemed also to be perhaps the most difficult one to surmount—actually simplified matters enormously and gave me my starting-point. I refer to the fact that when you, Mr. Stewart, accompanied by Llewellyn and Butterworth, broke down the library door on the morning when you discovered the body of your father—the key was in the door on the inside and the bolts of the French doors were firmly shot in their sockets. All three of you were agreed on the matter. Inasmuch as these were the only two exits from the room by which the murderer _could possibly have escaped_—this evidence must have been false—faked if you like. One of the three people had been quick enough and clever enough on his entry to _impose_ this piece of evidence upon the minds of the other two. Quite easily done, too, when their attention was so distracted. It was the only possible solution to the mystery, and when you find the only possible solution, gentlemen, you hang on to it. The question then arose which one of the three was it? I made up my mind to await events a bit before deciding prematurely and to preserve an open mind. The next important step in my investigations was the letter found on the murdered man’s desk—the few words that had been scribbled by him just before he met his death. They were, you will remember—‘Urgent—in the morning. M. L.’ Now I suggest, gentlemen, that most of you—perhaps all of you—were inclined to associate either Mr. Morgan Llewellyn or Miss Marjorie Lennox with the initials there written—I considered those possibilities very carefully, but after a time I rejected them. If it were in the nature of an instruction—then it would almost certainly be intended for Llewellyn—and he would scarcely be reminded in that particular way of anything about _himself_. Also would Stewart put initials if he were referring to the lady whom he looked upon as a daughter? Surely she would be ‘Marjorie’ to him, without any surname? No, gentlemen! I came to the conclusion that ‘M. L.’ stood for the abbreviated and incompleted form of ‘Merryweather, Linnell and Daventry.’” He paused and looked across at Peter, who allowed an exclamation of “By Jove!” to escape his lips. Goodall said laconically, “Go on!” Anthony proceeded. “Assuming this to be a sound theory, then—what had happened in the library that night to cause Stewart to scrawl the words? That was what I had to find out. It seemed to me pretty conclusive that if Merryweather, Linnell and Daventry were coming into the picture, then what I had suspected for some time was true—_that the kernel of the matter lay in the screen that I discovered to be missing from the Museum Room and in the strange coincidence of the murder at the Hanover Galleries with yet another missing screen_. I was indebted to Colonel Leach-Fletcher for the next important piece of assistance. Stewart, he informed us—you remember, Goodall—was very troubled about what he described as some treachery happening in his house. Private papers and documents were being tampered with. Was this the same trouble that he was feeling over his son? I decided no! Mr. Charles Stewart here had no reason to acquire information from his father by stealth or underhand methods. He could have obtained it in the open—in many ways. I then began to center my suspicions upon two people—Llewellyn and Butterworth. Also, I considered the evidence of Patrick O’Connor’s bicycle. I was able to establish—with your help, Inspector, that communication had undoubtedly passed on the night of the crime between the murderer this end and Blanchard’s Hotel. Something had happened suddenly down here that made the immediate acquisition of the tapestry screen imperative—it was to be obtained at any cost! Then I reconstructed the crime—finding the missing bullet and the weapon that the murderer had used. The location of the bullet was most interesting—but of that more later. Also I found the answer to my question as to what was making Llewellyn so uneasy. It was a love-interest—concerned at the moment with a love-letter! I began to think seriously then about Butterworth—John Butterworth, the trusted butler. ‘Treachery,’ you will agree, is a good interpretation of betrayed trust. This is what I think happened on the night of the murder.” He stopped again to light a cigarette. “We know that Stewart had confided to the Colonel that he intended to take immediate steps to probe the treachery that he imagined was going on around him. In my opinion he had formed certain suspicions and intended to take action, that very night. But something happened directly after his guest left that he hadn’t been expecting. Marjorie Lennox had been waiting for Colonel Leach-Fletcher to leave to get into the library and to put before her ‘Uncle’ documentary evidence of the unwelcome attentions to which she was being subjected by Llewellyn. We know that she had threatened to do so, by the terms of Llewellyn’s letter. We can only conjecture what happened—but it is plain that the question of Marjorie’s affections caused your father, Mr. Stewart, to send for you directly after she left him—in the hope of arranging matters more on the lines of what he desired.”

Charles Stewart nodded his head in acquiescence. “That is so—Mr. Bathurst.”

“After your talk with your father finished—your father went to bed—but only ostensibly. He was on the _qui vive_ that night—he undressed—slipped a dressing-gown over his pajamas—a revolver into the right-hand pocket——”

“Left,” cut in Peter Daventry crisply. Anthony ignored the interruption.

“——And waited until something happened that brought him downstairs. To the library—for this was the room where he had previously discovered signs of interference with his private papers. Butterworth was in there—engaged on a book of French memoirs to which I shall refer again. Like ‘John Shand,’ he had always been a natural scholar—with an unusual aptitude for learning and culture—this aptitude unhappily has brought him, finally, to what I believe is sometimes described as ‘the nine o’clock walk.’ But I digress! Butterworth heard his master’s footsteps—sprang to the light switch and snapped out the light. Stewart fired at the unknown intruder—we know where the bullet went. Butterworth then disclosed his identity—probably with an instinct for self-preservation. Shocked at the perfidy of the man he trusted implicitly, but at the same time realizing that he surely would not need the revolver again, Stewart then replaced it in his left-hand pocket. Do you agree, Daventry?” Peter nodded rather shamefacedly and could have kicked himself for his recent interruption. Anthony smiled. “Stewart wrested part of the truth from him, in all probability, and then heaped rebuke and scathing censure on his head. And I think—although perhaps it’s largely guesswork—that he let Butterworth know that the provision that he had made for him in his will would be immediately negatived. Then the butler was dismissed and Stewart sat down to think things over. He didn’t notice that Butterworth had _made his exit by the French doors into the garden and not by the door_. Stewart scrawled his few words—intended for Llewellyn—I suggest it would have read had it been completed—‘urgent in the morning. M. L. and Co. to act re’—well—what shall we say—perhaps a new will—perhaps they were to receive more explicit instructions re the tapestry screen that had now been invested with an intrinsic value concerning which his curiosity had been considerably whetted. But Butterworth, with his half-share in the proceeds of the ‘Twenty-Two Black Pearls of Lorraine’ greatly imperiled, to say nothing of an immediate pension of five hundred pounds a year at stake, _came back_ from the garden with murder in his heart. Fate had placed his weapon handy. He struck! As we know, he cleaned as much of the dirt from the table as he could see—he forgot the proximity of the bowl of ink. He then collected the Museum Room screen, locked the library door on the inside, went out by the French doors, borrowed O’Connor’s bicycle and ’phoned his daughter at Blanchard’s Hotel. Her precious husband—a real product of the Bowery—went on with her to the Hanover Galleries and completed the job. Meanwhile, Butterworth returned, disposed of the screen somewhere, and went to bed.”

“Just a minute, Mr. Bathurst,” interposed Goodall. “Why did Butterworth replace the book he was at work on—I can’t understand that?”

“It’s hard to say—I question very much if he knew that the bullet was embedded in it—he was probably obsessed with the idea of leaving the room quite normal. Alternatively, Stewart may have replaced it.”

“I think it was a mistake,” declared the Inspector.

“We all make ’em,” continued Anthony. “That’s why we’re waiting for the perfect crime. Where was I? Oh, I remember. Well, I now began to consider what it was that lay behind it all. M. Réné, Daventry, please?” He pointed to the bookcase. Mr. Daventry took down once again “The Memoirs of Réné de St. Maure” and handed it to him. Anthony read the paragraph to them. Goodall’s face was a study, and Michael O’Connor’s black eyes gleamed with excitement.

“Pretty vague,” commented Charles Stewart.

“Vague, certainly,” said Anthony, “but it told me conclusively that they were after something valuable—the clue to which lay in some way in these two screens. Butterworth no doubt had got on the track of it through his delvings into your father’s library, had realized that the late Lord Clavering’s screen—advertised for sale—would give him the evidence that he had been wanting and had brought his choice specimen of a son-in-law over from the States to take a hand in the game. A morning’s research gave me a hint as to what the query might very well be. Perhaps you would care to listen to a little history. Mary, Queen of Scots, besides being Queen of Scotland, was Dowager of France, the widow of the little King Francis. She was also the niece of His Eminence the Cardinal of Lorraine. He showered upon her a much greater measure of affection than was usual in those days, and when she eventually sailed for Scotland he made her a ‘great gift’ of twenty-two black pearls—you’ve handled some of them to-night, gentlemen. When Mary suffered her defeat years afterwards at Carbery Hill, which meant the complete overthrow of her fortunes, she took the steps about which you have just heard to preserve many of her treasures—the Cardinal’s gift among them. First of all I anticipated that they were buried somewhere in Scotland and the clue to their hiding-place was contained somewhere on the screens. So I set to work to read the riddle.” He walked up to the two screens and beckoned up the others. They crowded round. “Look at them,” he exclaimed. “What strikes you as strange about either of them?”

“A good many things,” muttered Goodall. “But I don’t know that I can pick out anything in particular!”

“Go on, Bathurst,” prompted Peter. “Put us out of our misery.”

“Well,” said Anthony. “There is this. There is one thing—on the metal-work screen—that appeals to me as extraordinary. By extraordinary, I mean out of place—something you wouldn’t expect to be there. The inscription to Our Lord—the fleur-de-lis, the Lilies—the Leopards—all these are historically sound—normal—but what about the Latin words ‘_Timeo Danaos_’—‘I fear the _Greeks_’? It struck me that the word ‘Greek’ might contain an important significance. I toyed with the idea for some time—trying this and that attempt at solution. Then I began to dwell on the other inscription—‘JESUS CHRIST, GOD AND SAVIOUR.’ I turned it into Greek form—thus ‘_Ιησοῦς Χριστός Θεός Σωτἡρ_.’

“I knew then that I had solved the puzzle! Take the initial letters of each word—I’ll put them in English form to help you—I—CH—TH—S. You have there four of the five Greek letters that make up the Greek word for ‘Fish’! ’ICHTHUS! In relation to that—the Early Christians in the agonizing days of their first bitter persecutions used to signify their secret allegiance to the Christ by drawing a fish upon the ground when they encountered a stranger of whose Faith they were doubtful. He was tested by that sign. When I thought of that fish on the other screen I knew I was home at last. It then remained for me to entice the murdering devils here—I thought the empty house would lure them—it was all so beautifully convenient with Butterworth left behind. Mortimer brought the tapestry screen down by car, and Butterworth, who induced him down, of course, had the other in safe hiding somewhere. They were desperately impatient to turn their knowledge to account and profit. The rest you know! When I saw the screens for the first time to-night I guessed the fish had a secret cavity somewhere—luckily at the second attempt I found it.”

Stewart and Goodall advanced to him with outstretched hands. “A wonderful piece of work, Mr. Bathurst,” said the former, “and worthy of the heartiest congratulations.”

“Mine also,” grunted the Inspector. “I’m very much in your debt—like Mr. Stewart here.”

Anthony, flushed with triumph, waved their praise on one side.

“There’s one thing I _can_ take credit for,” added Peter. “I told you he was a liar when he tried to implicate Miss Lennox—I was certain of it.”

Goodall laughed at Daventry’s plea for recognition—then turned to Anthony.

“One last point, Mr. Bathurst. What made you state to me that the woman we were looking for suffered from hay fever?”

“Come, Goodall,” replied Mr. Bathurst. “Remember Druce’s evidence—continuous sneezing—Atkins’ evidence—the occasional use of dark spectacles by a woman possessed of excellent sight—a few fragments of ‘Asthma Cure’ on the mantelpiece of the room at Blanchard’s Hotel—Rabjohns’ story of the odor in the bedroom—the time of the year, June—it was a comparatively easy matter to deduce a hay-fever patient—any more questions?”

“No more,” said the Inspector promptly and decisively. “I’m perfectly satisfied.”

“There’s still that awkward will,” put in Charles Stewart. “That’s got to be faced.”

“Quite easy, Mr. Stewart,” said Anthony. “Miss Lennox will marry a very rich man, so that forfeiting her share of your father’s money will matter little to her. That will leave you free and unhampered to marry Miss Armitage—I think that’s the lady’s name, isn’t it? And when we remember that the metal-work screen—_your_ property, Mr. Stewart—was the one that contained the ‘Cardinal’s Great Gift’—what better wedding present could you give Miss Marjorie Lennox than the ‘Black Twenty-Two’?” He pointed to the table. “Splendid compensation—you know.”

Charles Stewart smiled a little sadly—then shook him by the hand again.

“I’m jolly glad,” he exclaimed, “that old Thibaut Girardier picked the right screen in which to hide them.”

“So am I,” responded Mr. Bathurst.

The End

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

This transcription follows the text of the second printing of the US edition published by Grosset & Dunlap in February, 1929. However, the following alterations have been made to correct what are believed to be unambiguous errors in the text:

* “Lawrence” has been corrected to “Laurence” (Chapter I); * “propertly” has been corrected to “property” (Chapter I); * an omitted em dash has been restored (Chapter V); * “_vis-a-vis_” has been corrected to “_vis-à-vis_” (Chapter VIII); * “mènage” has been corrected to “ménage” (Chapter XVI); * two missing quotation marks have been restored (Chapters XIX & XX).