CHAPTER VIII

The 6:55 Carries a Trio of Distinction

Peter Daventry glanced at the clock on Paddington platform. He saw with undisguised relief that he was a good quarter of an hour to the good. “Curse this beastly wrist-watch,” he muttered to himself—“it gets worse every day—fairly put the wind up me that time.” He walked to the platform indicator—digested the information thereon applicable to the 6:55—“Didcot, Wantage Rd., Assynton”—and drifted over to the appropriate platform. Arrived there, he scanned the horizon for Anthony Bathurst. The platform was pretty crowded and he could not see the man he wanted. It was unlike Bathurst to arrive at 6:45 for 6:55. He argued that it was a sheer waste of very valuable minutes. Daventry commenced his second tour up the platform when a voice at his shoulder jolted his equilibrium and suddenly brought him to a standstill.

“Good evening, Mr. Daventry.” Detective-Inspector Goodall smiled genially and extended what looked like an amicable hand. “Going to try the Berkshire air?”

Peter gasped feebly but retained sufficient presence of mind to grasp the extended hand—mechanically it must be admitted. Goodall clasped it warmly, but Peter could almost feel the handcuffs on his wrists. “Y—es. I’m going down to Assynton.” Then his indignation mastered his surprise and his resentment. “But why the devil are you trailing _me_, Inspector—for it’s pretty evident you _are_ trailing me,” he concluded with asperity.

“Not on your life, Mr. Daventry,” replied Goodall—the picture of unruffled imperturbability. “You mustn’t get jumpy like that—or I shall begin to suspect you after all.” He smiled again.

“Well then, it’s a wonderful coincidence to meet you here,” remarked Peter ruefully.

“Not so wonderful—if you think for a moment.” Peter’s face cleared magically.

“Ass that I am,” he declared. “You’re bound for the same destination, of course.”

“Now we’re talking,” said Goodall. “The local people down at Assynton have asked ‘the Yard’ to take a look at things down there—just at the very moment, too, when we at ‘the Yard’ were trying to piece the two murders together, somehow! I’m going down. But what about you, Mr. Daventry?”

“I’m representing my firm—Mr. Stewart’s son has asked me to run down.”

“How about a nice compartment, then, with a couple of corner seats? This train isn’t a ‘corridor,’ worse luck.”

“Well—as a matter of fact”—temporized Peter—“I’m waiting for somebody!”

Goodall instantly became all interest. “Really? I had no idea—you wish to be alone?”

Peter denied the idea strenuously—feeling all the time that he was heading straight for the Valley of Suspicion again. “Not at all. Only too pleased to travel with you, Inspector. I’m sure my friend will be——”

“Delighted,” said Anthony Bathurst. “Introduce me, Daventry, will you?”

Peter accepted the invitation gladly. He was downright pleased that Bathurst had turned up when he did. This fellow Goodall seemed to know a jolly sight more about a chap than was thoroughly comfortable. He was curious to see how Anthony Bathurst would be affected by Detective-Inspector Goodall. He made the introduction.

“I am honored,” remarked Bathurst. “Scotland Yard must consider the Assynton Lodge murder as extremely ‘difficult’ for it to engage the attention of Inspector Goodall.”

He bowed to the Inspector, who, however, seemed impervious to the compliment.

“You flatter me, Mr. Bathurst,” was his rejoinder. He turned to Daventry. “We’d better get in—if we don’t want to be left behind.”

“On the contrary,” smiled Bathurst—entering the compartment last of the three—“I paid you a compliment. Flattery is merely a counterfeit business. A flatterer usually seeks to gain favor—a compliment is a tribute made to ability by reason of recognition.”

Goodall melted a trifle. “Thank you,” he yielded. The train glided out of the station and they settled down more comfortably. The flamboyant beauty of the June day was dying hard in a glorious evening. As they approached the first fringes of the countryside and caught the wonderful streaks of the westering sun flung over copse, wood and water—flooding the tranquillity of green and white with red-gold radiance—the tragic nature of their journey seemed to grow more remote in the minds of the three of them. Anthony waved his hand at the country decorated so beautifully.

“Look at it, gentlemen,” he exclaimed. “We shall be too busy during the next two or three days to think of beauty—murder’s a soul-destroying business—let us enjoy it while we may!”

Goodall looked across the carriage with raised eyebrows. “We?”—he questioned.

Peter dashed in courageously. “Mr. Bathurst is also coming down at young Stewart’s request,” he volunteered. “He’s in a bit of a fix, I think, new to England and all that, you know—he feels he wants a sort of steadying hand.” He beamed at Goodall—guilelessly.

But it was unnecessary. “The usual term, I believe, Mr. Daventry, is to watch a person’s interests.” Goodall appeared to be on the frigid side.

“I would have preferred to have had a look at the case from the Galleries murder end, Inspector, but Fate has decreed otherwise—however, it may be all for the best.”

Goodall’s face again registered surprise. “You seem remarkably well informed, Mr. Bathurst——”

Anthony raised an explanatory hand. “Mr. Daventry has posted me pretty soundly, thank you. He interviewed me this afternoon. I understand the main facts of the case are these.” He gave a brief but explicit resumé of the affair as it had been presented to him. “That’s about all, I fancy, Inspector?” He looked at Goodall for corroboration.

Now Goodall could have supplemented Bathurst’s information with one or two additional facts, which was precisely what Mr. Bathurst intended should happen. But the Inspector was not yet quite certain of his bearings and Mr. Bathurst’s exposition of the facts had been sufficiently masterly to prompt him to refrain. He gave Bathurst a confirmatory nod and said nothing.

“At any rate,” proceeded Anthony—“we are fortunate in one respect—that is to say from the standpoint of investigation. With regard to the first murder we do know the motive.”

“The first murder?” queried Goodall. “Which of the two was that—I should be pleased to know?”

Anthony smiled. “I was not referring to the order in which the two men were murdered—although I appreciate your point. At the moment I don’t know when Stewart was killed. All I know is that he was found dead this morning. By the term ‘the first murder’ I meant the murder of Mason, the night-watchman. It was the first of which I heard. It was the first of which you heard. It happened in London, where we live. Cigarette, Inspector? You, Daventry?” They accepted his invitation—Goodall a little nettled. He had provoked an encounter and chosen his weapons, but had not been brilliantly successful. But he had the sense to accept what Anthony had said.

“Quite right, Mr. Bathurst. I just wanted to make sure. I rather believe in making sure, you know—I tested _your_ alibi, by the way, Mr. Daventry, this afternoon.”

Peter grinned. “Well—and how was it? I’ll guarantee you couldn’t shake it.”

“I’m not going to arrest you—sit still!” He leaned over to Bathurst with his elbows on his knees.

“You reckon then we know the motive for the Hanover Galleries job?”

“Well, it’s pretty plain, I should say. Possession of the Stuart antiques—robbery! Which makes it a clean-cut case! This end we aren’t so well off.” He looked at Goodall with that humorous twist to his mouth that his friends knew so well. When they saw it they knew that things were running pretty smoothly. “To know the motive of any crime gives you a flying start, Inspector.” He tossed his cigarette end through the window.

Goodall scratched his chin, reflectively. “That’s all very well, as far as it goes. Robbery—you say, for possession of the Stuart antiques. Worth what? I’m not an expert—but for the sake of argument we’ll put it at a matter of hundreds. And we sha’n’t be so very far out, at that! Now, Mr. Bathurst, what was there so peculiarly attractive about these antiques—or about one of them—to spell Mason’s murder?” He leaned forward still further in his seat and his voice cut across the compartment quietly insistent and definitely certain. “To kill Laurence Stewart? To send you—and you—and me, to Assynton, on a summer evening—_wondering_! Eh, Mr. Bathurst—tell me that!” His eyes blazed with a mingled excitement and determination, as he watched his _vis-à-vis_. Bathurst rubbed his hands, appreciatively!

“Excellent, Inspector, excellent. That’s a question that I should very much like to be able to answer.”

“Which of the antiques, Mr. Bathurst? Which one? And not a clue that you can call a clue as to where they’ve gone—except a sneezing woman,” he remarked semi-humorously.

“Tell me,” said Anthony, “I’m interested.” He listened carefully while Goodall—despite his opposite intention when the journey started—related the trenchant evidence of Edward Druce—night-watchman.

“So they were at the Hanover Galleries at midnight, were they? That’s important! That gives us a definite time-anchor.” He spoke to Goodall with decision. “I think with you, Inspector Goodall, that the two cases are connected without a doubt. But it’s a mistake to theorize without data—let’s wait till we pick up the threads a bit this end. As you say—which one of the three antiques were they after? It’s as bad as ‘finding the lady’—with Mary, Queen of Scots, as the lady.”

He grinned at Daventry, who had been following the interchange of ideas with the keenest possible attention. Suddenly Peter slapped his thigh with excitement.

“By Jove!” he cried, “Mary, Queen of Scots—that reminds me—what an idiot I’ve been not to tell you before.”

Then he paused with a hint of apology. “So much has happened since, that it has been driven completely out of my mind.”

“You become more interesting hourly, Daventry,” remarked Anthony. “Out with it, whatever it is—before you forget it again.” Peter waved the sarcasm aside.

“It’s a pretty trivial matter,” he commenced, “but I know you ‘sleuth’ people always like to hear full particulars about everything—the usual phraseology is ‘no matter how unimportant it may seem’”—he grinned—then went on again. “You observe, of course, that I have read several detective stories!” Goodall wrinkled his nose somewhat contemptuously. But Peter was perfectly hardened against that kind of discouragement. “When Linnell and I first heard from Stewart about the purchase of these antiques it was arranged between the two of us that I should pop along to Day, Forshaw and Palmers’ to have a squint at the stuff. Well, I did so—on my way I blew in to the ‘Violette’ for a mouthful of grub. While I was there I ran into a pal of mine—Marriott, by name—we got gassing to each other about the usual thousand and one things. Well—I’m afraid I’m telling this pretty badly”—Goodall’s face was a study—“but sitting at the next table were a man and a woman. I noticed them particularly for two reasons. Firstly the ‘Violette’ was comparatively deserted—it was early, you see—and secondly they seemed to be having a ‘powwow’ of some importance to them. They were just an ordinary looking couple—scarcely anything distinctive about them—no help for you there, Inspector. Well, I made an inane sort of remark to old Marriott and he replied—as idiots will—‘Queen Anne’s dead.’ Then I did a mad sort of thing—I’d been thinking of Mary, Queen of Scots, all the morning—at any rate since getting Stewart’s jolly old letter—and some inexplicable imp of mischief made me say, ‘So’s Mary, Queen of Scots.’” He stopped again to see the effect he was producing upon his companions. Each was listening in his own way. Goodall’s slightly cavalier attitude had relaxed somewhat, and Anthony was giving him that nonchalant attention that he employed to mask unusual mental activity. Peter let his words sink in. “Directly I said it, the chap at the next table seemed—mind you, I only say ‘seemed’—to give a sudden sort of start. He swept round in his chair and sent the cruet and all its contents flying on to the floor—three bags full.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Of course I can’t swear that it was what I said that had poked the gust up him, but it did seem like it to me, gentlemen.”

“What happened then?” cut in Goodall.

“Nothing much,” answered Peter—“the waiters rushed to repair the damage—that was all.”

“H’m,” commented the Inspector. “I know Lironi, the proprietor of the ‘Violette,’ pretty well. If I think it important enough I could see him—he might know something about them—they might be fairly regular customers of his. It depends on what I strike down here in Berkshire.” He looked across at Bathurst, who was sitting with his head sunk on one shoulder. Suddenly the latter sat up.

“What did the woman do, Daventry—anything noticeable?”

“Well, there again—it’s hard to say, definitely. But in my opinion she was pretty savage about the incident. She certainly tried to joke it off to the waiters, but I’m fairly confident she chewed the merchant’s ear off a bit—looked to me like it,” he affirmed.

Bathurst nodded. “I thought perhaps the truest indication of the value of the incident might be supplied by the conduct of the woman.” He spoke to Inspector Goodall. “Sherlock Holmes has laid it down, Inspector, that in moments of sudden alarm and anxiety, a single woman rushes for her jewel case—a married woman for her baby. This incident throws a further light on the question. It may be added now that the married woman on occasion gives her husband wordy castigation—as the present-day ‘argot’ would put it—she ‘ticks him off’!” He smiled. “Don’t you think so?”

“I don’t know that this particular pair represented husband and wife, Mr. Bathurst,” protested Goodall.

“I wouldn’t bank on the marriage certificate, myself, Inspector,” returned Anthony. “But there is just this to be said for what Daventry has told us. A woman crops up in two of our little scenes. There’s a woman in this incident and there’s the woman whose thirst for information took her to Day, Forshaw and Palmers’ at the identical moment when Mason and Druce, the two night-watchmen, were changing shifts.” He thought for a moment or two. “It’s certainly a point to be considered,” he concluded.

“There aren’t many ‘crooks’ that haven’t a woman in tow, nowadays,” declared Goodall. “The equality of the sexes has become very far-reaching. Still it’s deuced smart work for the same gang to have pulled off both these jobs—I can’t quite take that in myself—not yet.”

“Who’s in charge of the case down here?” queried Anthony. “Anybody you’ve run against before?”

Goodall shook his head. “A Sergeant Clegg was called to Assynton Lodge this morning—he’s the local man—he’s at Assynton. They ’phoned to ‘the Yard’ this afternoon—felt the case was a nasty one—likely to prove too big for friend Clegg. When the news reached me I told our people of Mr. Linnell’s information which seemed to link up the two cases, and it was decided then and there that I should come down.” He rubbed his cheek with his forefinger. “About twenty-four hours late,” he murmured as a kind of afterthought. “The scent cold—another man—possibly with an assistant or two—done his best to destroy most of the things that might help one—talk about ‘locking the door behind the stolen steed’—can you beat it?”

“Not too helpful, I admit, Inspector,” argued Anthony. “Still, even now there may be something to pick up—you never know—there’s always the ‘human element’ to be considered in every case.”

“All murderers don’t make glaring mistakes, Mr. Bathurst, don’t you run away with that idea—if they did—Scotland Yard would have precious few failures to record. Take my advice—don’t you go relying on the human element for mistakes—_always_.” He took his hat from the rack and put it on his head. “I fancy we’re running into Assynton.” He looked at his watch. “A little matter of four minutes late!”

Anthony uncoiled his length from the seat. “I didn’t mean that, Inspector! By the ‘human element’ I meant the people in the case—the circle round the dead man—the people we shall encounter—there’s always the factor of their personal psychologies. Do you follow me?”

Goodall grunted as the train drew up. Darkness was beginning to suggest itself. A heavy figure emerged from the recesses of the booking office and presented itself to them—semi-important, yet at the same time—semi-apologetic.

“Detective-Inspector Goodall?” he inquired.

“That’s me,” replied Goodall. “And you?” He peered forward at the man that had met him.

“Sergeant Clegg, Inspector.” He saluted. “And downright glad to see you.”

“Thank you,” said Inspector Goodall.