Chapter X

A Room Is Ransacked at “Rest Harrow”

“A great deal of my success in cases that have seemed to be at first sight, both intricate and baffling,” remarked Bannister as the train ran through Bletchley, “has been due to my appreciation of the value of care allied to imagination. Apply the maximum of the one to the maximum of the other; and when you get the combined maxima judiciously concentrated upon the problem in hand, they should eventually yield a minimum of trouble.” He removed his horn-rimmed glasses—wiped them studiously—and replaced them. “I’ve worked on those lines ever since I can remember,” he continued, “and I’ve never had any reason to alter my plan of campaign.”

Anthony took the offered cigarette from the Inspector’s heavy silver case and lit up.

“A thoroughly sound plan, too,” he concurred.

Bannister elaborated his point. “Care and finely-controlled imagination should take most men as high as they can reasonably wish to rise—they are two admirable servants. Now in this present case,” proceeded Bannister, “all efforts to trace Miss Delaney’s car have failed—to all intents and purposes it might have been spirited away—it’s not been abandoned on the highway anywhere that we can find. Similarly with her luggage.” He took a cigarette for himself. “Care then having failed to produce me anything—I shall have to give flight to imagination.”

“Go on,” said Anthony; “I’m most interested.”

“I’m coming to Tranfield in the hope that something I may happen to pick up here will stimulate my imagination and eventually supply me with the answer to this riddle that has been set me. By the way, Mr. Bathurst, we change at Westhampton for Tranfield. It lies on the branch line to Easton Favell—I expect we shall find one train on it every six hours or thereabouts.”

Bannister was wrong in his prophecy. They discovered upon arrival at Westhampton that trains to Tranfield and Easton Favell were scheduled to run at regular intervals of twenty minutes. The station-master at the little station of Tranfield was delighted to direct them to “Rest Harrow.”

“It’s Miss Delaney’s place you’re wanting,” he announced. “You’ve a walk of about eight minutes. Go down the hill that leads from the station and you’ll come to a field on the left that belongs to Farmer Peasland—cut across by the footpath—you can’t miss seeing it—go over a stile and then through a swing gate. That will bring you to the road running to Easton Favell—‘Rest Harrow’ is about one hundred and fifty yards down—on the right.”

Ten minutes walk brought them to it. Anthony immediately placed it as one of the most charming bungalows he had ever seen. It nestled back from the road with a kind of old-world shyness that did much to enhance its appeal. The garden in front was a mass of varied bloom and colour and the air was heavy with the scent of its many flowers. As they made their objective a man who had been standing fifty yards or so further up the road came towards them.

“Inspector Bannister?” he inquired with an interrogative glance.

“Quite right,” said Bannister. “You got my message, then?”

The newcomer nodded. “I’m Sergeant Ross,” he added, introducing himself. “I’ve been waiting for you here as instructed.”

“Very good,” said Bannister. “I’m sorry to say, Sergeant, that Miss Delaney—the lady who lived here, I believe—has been murdered in Seabourne.”

Ross whistled. “We guessed as much from your message,” he exclaimed. “You’re going inside—I take it?”

Bannister’s reply was to ring the bell at the front entrance. Anthony heard it peal through the building but could hear no step in answer to it.

Bannister turned to Ross. “I understand that Miss Delaney lived here with another lady—a companion or something—is that so?”

“So I believe,” returned Ross.

“Not in—that’s evident,” retorted the Inspector.

Anthony strolled round the right-hand side of the bungalow to the back. Then he called to the others. “We ought to be able to get in this way,” he said.

Bannister broke a pane of glass, pushed his hand through and lifted up the catch of the casement window. A few moments saw them inside. There were no signs of very recent occupation showing in the kitchen-scullery in which they stood. Everything was tidy and orderly. Bannister gave it a sweeping glance.

“Looks to me as though the other lady’s away,” he remarked. “Let’s get along to the other rooms.”

On the left lay the dining-room and the lounge. On the right were three bedrooms. Suddenly Bannister gave a sharp exclamation and walked to the front door. From the mat he picked a postcard. “That explains this other woman’s absence,” he said to Anthony as he tossed it over to him.

Anthony read it. It was a picture postcard of the seaside-view variety. The view was of Budleigh Salterton. Its message was brief. “4, Rolle Cottages, Otterton. July 3rd. Dear Miss Sheila, I am having a lovely time and it’s so nice to be home again. The weather is beautiful—I only hope it will continue so for you. Much love from ‘Pinkie.’”

“One thing—you’ve got her address, Inspector,” remarked Anthony.

“I have that,” replied Bannister with a touch of tolerant cynicism. “And I’m afraid she’s going to be the second person to have her holiday rather ruthlessly disturbed.”

“Evidently the companion went away first—and Miss Delaney went down to Seabourne afterwards.”

“Intended staying there, too, Mr. Bathurst. The clerk at the ‘Lauderdale’ stated that she booked her room for a fortnight—this card to a certain extent confirms his statement. ‘I hope it will continue so for you,’—the sentence certainly implies that Miss Delaney intended being away for some time.”

Anthony assented.

“What about having a look over the rooms?” suggested Ross.

“That’s what I’m here for,” returned Bannister grimly.

The doors of the respective rooms seemed to be locked—with the respective keys left in the locks. The Inspector turned the key in the door of the dining-room and went in. Like the previous room that they had entered there were no signs of disorder or of very recent occupation. Everything was just as could be expected—quite consistent with the facts as Bannister and Anthony knew them. The occupants of the bungalow were away for a holiday—the rooms had been uninhabited for a matter of a few days. There was nothing whatever so far to excite comment. There were no papers, documents or letters lying about anywhere. Bannister walked to the open grate. It was beautifully clean. “Ross,” he said, after two or three seconds’ thought, “see if there’s a refuse-bin at the back of the bungalow. Keep your eyes open for any correspondence that may have been torn up and found its way in there. Unlikely,” he added—turning to Anthony—“but it’s just a chance. I’ve known it happen before now—especially when the number in the household is small. When you’ve only one other person living with you—especially a person of the type that we have here—it’s almost the same as living alone. There’s always a certain privacy.” Anthony saw the Inspector’s meaning and said so. “While Ross is out there,” continued Bannister, “we’ll glance at the other rooms.” The lounge was as reticent as the dining-room. “Nothing here,” grunted the Inspector. Anthony’s eyes examined it keenly and saw nothing to arrest his attention. The two men crossed to the other side of the hall. The door of the first room was almost exactly opposite to the door of the lounge. Bannister tried the handle. The door instantly yielded. “That’s funny, Mr. Bathurst.” Bannister shot the remark at him. “All the other doors have been shut—the keys turned in the locks. The key was in this lock but this door is open.” Anthony followed him in. “Good God!” exclaimed the Inspector; “something’s been happening here.” The dressing-table was without its drawers. Anthony pointed to the bed. It was easy to see what had happened. The contents of the drawers had been turned out on to the bed which presented an appearance of indescribable chaos and confusion. The drawers lay on the bed. Gloves, handkerchiefs, ribbons, silk scarves and stockings, powder, toilet requisites of all description lay scattered there in a shapeless heap. From the manner in which the various articles had been tossed aside it was evident that the drawers containing them had been subjected to a rigorous examination. “Looking for something, Mr. Bathurst! The question’s ‘what?’”

Anthony nodded. The case was getting trebly interesting to him. On the pillow at the head of the bed lay a lady’s hand-bag and several keys thrown in all directions. For a moment he regarded them intently, while Bannister busied himself with an examination of the Wilton hair-carpet that covered the floor. Anthony picked up the hand-bag and opened it. At the first glance it seemed to be empty, but Mr. Bathurst, in examinations of this kind, always made a point of being extremely thorough. A thin card nestled in one of the corners. Anthony drew it out carefully. It was a man’s visiting-card of the usual kind, “Alan Warburton, 19, Crossley Road, Westhampton.” He turned it over. On the other side another address had been carefully scrawled in pencil. “Ronald N. Branston—Dental Surgeon—Coolwater Avenue, Seabourne.”

“Inspector,” he called quietly. Bannister came round immediately from the far end of the bed. “What do you make of this?” he demanded. “Look at the back!”

Bannister’s eyes shone through his glasses with quick interest. “This is important, Mr. Bathurst—exceedingly important. Where did you find it?”

Anthony held up the bag in explanation. Bannister frowned—then stretched out his hand for it. Anthony walked to the bed and picked up several of the keys that had lain there.

“Have to see this gentleman,” exclaimed the Inspector—he tapped the visiting-card with the back of his finger-nail. “It’s just possible that we’ve got the threads of the affair in our hands at last.”

“Yes,” smiled Anthony, “just ‘on the cards’ as you might say. If he recommended Miss Delaney to visit the Coolwater Avenue Surgery, it could certainly be argued against him that he might have known when to find her there. But look here, Inspector,” he paused—looked at the keys in his hand—then back to the hand-bag that Bannister was still holding.

“Well?” said Bannister, invitingly. Anthony smiled again. “It’s like this, Inspector. Imagination is a skittish sort of filly to ride—I’m well aware. But it seems to me that the hand-bag, the visiting-card, and these keys tell us a lot.” He looked quizzically at Bannister.

“I’m listening,” said that gentleman with the same touch of tolerant cynicism that Mr. Bathurst had observed before. “What’s the big idea?”

“Were there any signs, Inspector, when we entered ‘Rest Harrow’ just now—that any forced entrance had been effected?” Bannister promptly shook his head. “Well, then,” proceeded Anthony, “how did the people who played high jinks in this bedroom—_get in_?” He went on without waiting for Bannister to answer. “_They got in with these keys, Inspector!_ And in my opinion this hand-bag containing these keys and this visiting-card, was taken from Miss Delaney at Seabourne either just before her death or just after.”

Bannister rubbed his chin thoughtfully with the fingers of his left hand. “I think you’re right, Mr. Bathurst. If only we knew what the devils were looking for. Get on the track of that and we shall be two-thirds of the way towards a complete solution. Yes, Ross—what is it?”

“No luck, sir—out in the garden. The dust-bin is empty. All the refuse that was here when the people went away must have been burned.”

“I was afraid so,” replied the Inspector. “Come and look in here!”

As Ross obeyed the behest Anthony tried the doors of the other bedrooms. They were locked and when opened presented no appearance beyond the ordinary. He called Bannister’s attention to them.

“They knew where to look, Mr. Bathurst, for what they wanted, didn’t they?”

“I don’t think, somehow, that we’re dealing with ordinary thieves. There’s something special about this.”

“You think there were more than one then, Inspector?”

“I’m inclined to think so! There are a few traces of dried mud on the carpet—nothing to speak of—can’t be sure whether they were left there by one man or two. Still—on the whole, I fancy there are more than one in it.” He looked at Anthony critically. “What can this young lady have possessed of such value that these people wanted it so badly?”

Anthony considered the question. “And was its value intrinsic or extrinsic?” he added to Bannister’s query. He was thinking now of such things as a photograph. The Inspector raised his eyebrows interrogatively.

“Just what are you thinking of?” he asked.

“When I spoke,” rejoined Anthony, “I wasn’t exactly thinking of anything in particular—since you’ve pressed me, however—I’ll give you an example. In some circumstances for instance—a photograph or a bundle of letters might possess an extraordinary value.”

Bannister caressed his top lip. “H’m,” he commented. “I suppose there’s something in what you say. But where we’re handicapped so tremendously here at the moment is in the fact that there’s nobody here can tell us anything about the dead girl. Until we get into touch with this ‘Pinkie’ person—or with the gentleman whose visiting-card we’ve found—we’re working in the dark.” He swung round on the local man. “Ross,” he exclaimed sharply, “can you tell me anything personal or intimate about this Miss Delaney?”

Ross responded to the invitation with a certain amount of eagerness. “I’m a Westhampton man, although I only came to my present job a year ago,” he said, “and I’ve known Miss Delaney ever since her father came to live in Tranfield. I’ve watched her grow into the beautiful young woman that she undoubtedly was. I knew her father, Colonel Delaney, well. He died—whilst home on leave in 1917, I think it was.” He knitted his brows—then continued his story. “He was drowned, if I remember rightly, up at Nillebrook Water—that’s about four miles from here—and the police weren’t altogether satisfied with the manner of his death. It was a most unsatisfactory business. In fact—for a considerable time too—foul play was strongly suspected. But nothing ever came to light that properly justified their suspicions and it was brought in ‘Accidental death.’ I wish I could remember the details but it’s eleven years ago and a lot of things have happened since then. Still, the best man for information about Colonel and Sheila Delaney is Sir Matthew Fullgarney—the Lord Lieutenant of the County. He and Major Carruthers were great pals of the Colonel—officers together, I believe, years before—in the same regiment or something.”

Bannister shewed signs of corroboration. “That would be the Major Desmond Carruthers to whom Miss Carruthers referred this morning,” he announced to Anthony. “He’s dead, also, I believe. Tell me, Ross, is Miss Delaney’s mother dead, too?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Ross. “She survived the Colonel for some years but died, I think, about four years ago.”

“Which leaves only Sir Matthew Fullgarney,” soliloquised Anthony. He turned to Inspector Bannister. “Quite a chapter of fatalities, isn’t it?” he suggested. “How did Major Carruthers die, Ross?”

“In a motor accident, sir—somewhere about the early part of last year.”

“H’m,” said Anthony, “nothing to arouse suspicion—eh?”

Ross shook his head. “Nothing that I can remember, sir.”

“Perhaps you can tell me something else, Ross,” remarked Bannister. “Do you know anything about a gentleman living in Westhampton—Alan Warburton by name?”

Ross nodded eagerly. “Know him well, Inspector. He’s the only survivor as far as my knowledge goes, of the famous Warburtons—the big banking family. You remember the celebrated ‘Mutual Bank Frauds’ about two years ago. Sir Felix Warburton was arrested and sentenced and afterwards committed suicide in his cell. He was Alan Warburton’s uncle—Alan being the son of his only brother—Murray Warburton. Alan’s father died when Alan was a boy. It’s rather a coincidence that you should have introduced his name.”

“Why?” snapped Bannister. “Where’s the coincidence?”

Anthony watched Ross’s face carefully and awaited his reply with much more than ordinary interest.

“Well,” proceeded Ross, “what I meant exactly was this. Up to the time of the ‘Mutual Bank’ scandal, local gossip in Westhampton and Tranfield was inclined to couple Alan Warburton’s name with Sheila Delaney’s.”

“Really now,” said Bannister; “that’s most interesting. And what happened _after_ the Bank scandal?”

Ross shrugged his broad shoulders non-committally but the movement was expressive. “The lady didn’t appear to be anything like so keen—at least rumour has it so.”

Bannister eyed Anthony significantly. Evidently an idea was beginning to assume very definite shape within his mind. “I see,” he said quietly. “The family reputation was tarnished—eh?”

“Possibly,” smiled back Ross; “the Delaneys were always people to hold their heads high.”

He gave Anthony the impression that he was very much more inclined to be confidential than to be reserved. But Mr. Bathurst kept quiet—he was content to let Bannister do the questioning.

“And after that?” continued Bannister, “was there another Richmond in the field? Another lover—eh?”

“I can’t answer that,” declared Ross. “Local gossip hasn’t reached that stage yet.”

“But it’s quite likely—eh——?” urged Bannister.

“I should imagine so—considering what a charming girl Miss Delaney was.”

“H’m—what sort of a chap is this Alan Warburton—pretty steady? Or does he inherit the tendencies of Sir Felix?”

“I know nothing against him,” declared Ross. “No whisper against him has ever reached me.”

“How did he take the lady’s change of feelings?”

“No idea. As I said just now, I’m only repeating local gossip.” With that the Inspector was forced to be content.

It was obvious that the local man’s knowledge was largely founded upon hearsay. Anthony realised this and turned once again to the miscellaneous heap upon the bed. He picked up a long silk scarf, with what definite object at the time he scarcely knew, when to his surprise a postcard fluttered from the folds and fell to the ground. He stooped to pick it up. It was undated and the sender had omitted to put his or her address. It ran as follows: “Dearest Sheila,—If only you were here instead of those miles away! Then I should love the Spring (and you) still more. The garden is looking splendid—nearly equal to that at ‘Rest Harrow.’ All the flowers have made a fine show but the irides are simply wonderful.” It was signed with one initial only—“X.” Anthony held it out to Bannister. “Came out of this scarf,” he said. “Do you think it’s of any importance?”

Bannister looked at it very attentively—read the message—then attempted to decipher the postmark. Anthony looked over his shoulder. “Looks to me like Dulwich,” he said.

“I think so too,” said Bannister.

“It’s a peculiar handwriting, Inspector,” added Anthony. “You very seldom see a hand slope quite like that.”

“Very peculiar indeed, Mr. Bathurst. I’ll hang on to this—you never know in cases of this kind. The least thing may turn the scale.”

Anthony walked to the window of the bedroom and looked out on to the front garden. He stood there for perhaps a minute. Then he turned quickly round and addressed Bannister again. “An idea has just come to me, Inspector. I should very much like to test it. What do you say?” Bannister stared. “I’m going to bring all these larger keys into the garden and find the garage. I want to have a peep inside. Come along with me.” He suited the action to the words and within a few minutes swung open the garage doors. A car stood inside—a ‘Standard.’ Anthony waved his hand towards it. “There, Inspector,” he exclaimed dramatically, “is the car that took Miss Delaney to Seabourne.”

Bannister regarded him incredulously. “Then how the devil did it get back here?” he demanded.

“That certainly is a poser,” replied Mr. Bathurst, “but we’ll find the answer before we’ve finished. Come in and have a look at her, Inspector. I would suggest that somebody drove it back.”

“Go on!” said Bannister.