Chapter VI

Mr. Bathurst Changes His Destination

Anthony Bathurst read the telegram that had so summarily interrupted his breakfast, with much more than the suspicion of a frown. Not that it was at all ambiguous or in any way difficult for him to understand. Indeed it was completely the reverse of these things. “Come at once to Hotel Cassandra, Seabourne,” was the message it conveyed and the sender’s name was shewn at the end of the message as “Mr. Lucius.” “His Royal Highness seems to imagine that I’m thoroughly at his beck and call,” he murmured to himself softly. “This will put the tin hat on my going to Westhampton—as I had intended.” He lit a cigarette and thrust his left hand into the pocket of his dressing-gown. Mr. Bathurst was a staunch adherent of the theory of breakfasting in comfort. “Seabourne?” he thought to himself. “Seabourne? What caught my eye in this morning’s paper concerning Seabourne?” He picked up the paper that had already been read and tossed aside—and eagerly sought the more prominent head-lines. “Ah!” he exclaimed, “I thought I wasn’t mistaken.” His eyes swept the paragraph with its sensational notice. The headings were—“Strange Tragedy at Seabourne. Young Lady Murdered in Dentist’s Chair.” The paragraph below the head-lines ran as under. “About half-past two yesterday afternoon the Seabourne police were called to the Dental Surgery of Mr. Ronald Branston which is situated at the corner of Coolwater Avenue and the Lower Seabourne Road. A lady patient upon whom Mr. Branston had just previously attended had been discovered poisoned in the Dentist’s chair. Dr. Renfrew, the divisional Surgeon was called and gave it as his opinion that deceased had died from an administration of Hydrocyanic Acid. Mr. Branston himself has told the authorities a remarkable story. Sergeant Godfrey of the Marlshire County Police had charge of the case but has now had the good fortune to obtain the active co-operation of Chief-Inspector Bannister, one of the famous ‘Six’ of New Scotland Yard, who happens to be spending part of his annual holiday in Seabourne. Thanks to the untiring assiduity of the latter gentleman, the lady, in regard to whose identity the Police were at the outset without the vestige of a clue has now been identified as Miss Daphne Carruthers of 11, Lexham Gardens, Kensington, a visitor to Seabourne staying at the Lauderdale Hotel. Taking into consideration certain facts that Mr. Branston has communicated to them, the Police have no doubt that a brutal murder has been committed. Surprising developments are hourly expected.” Mr. Bathurst put down his paper, and pulled at his top lip—“I wonder,” he murmured.

Two hours later he stood outside the big railway station that introduces Seabourne to thousands of visitors. He hailed a “taxi.” Five minutes longer saw him inside the “Cassandra.”

“Mr. Lucius,” murmured a gentleman superbly tailored and faultlessly barbered, “suite 17, if you please. Have you then the business with him? But yes? Then I, myself will personally conduct you to him.” He shrugged his perfectly-fitted shoulders with a shrug that betokened much to a receptive mind. “Mr. Lucius—he is indeed a personage—— But yes!”

Mr. Bathurst appeared to be in no mood to contradict him. He followed the gentleman upstairs. Mr. Lucius was in! Mr. Lucius was pacing the floor of his room after the manner of an infuriated tiger. It was evident that Mr. Lucius was very much annoyed!

“Ah, Bathurst,” he exclaimed, with a shade of relief in his tone, “so you’re here at last. I am indeed pleased. Sit down. This terrible business is wearing my nerves to pieces. In fact I’m thoroughly unnerved and nearly worried out of my life. Doubtless you’ve seen this morning’s paper?”

Mr. Bathurst had. “Did His Royal Highness allude——” Mr. Lucius’s hand stopped him with a dramatic gesture.

“Please respect my incognito. You have a saying, ‘The walls have the ears.’ Pardon my seeming insistence on the point.”

Anthony murmured what he considered was a dignified apology. Then he completed his unfinished sentence, “Did Mr. Lucius allude to the matter that the Press were calling ‘The Seabourne Murder’?”

Mr. Lucius clapped the palms of his two hands together in uncontrollable emotion. Anthony realised at once that His Royal Highness was certainly in a highly-nervous state and that his previous protestations to that effect had strong foundation. He had been frightened by something and frightened badly. Anthony remembered his parting words at their interview of a week ago. He had threatened to let nothing stand in his way—and at the moment was badly rattled. Anthony decided upon reflection, that it promised to turn out a distinctly interesting case. His host stopped his nervy pacing of the room and plunged himself ill-humouredly into an arm-chair. “I will be very frank,” he commenced. “Although it goes against the grain of my inclination—yet I will tell you all.” He laid his finely-shaped hand upon Anthony’s arm with an imperious movement. “After I left your rooms, Mr. Bathurst, at the end of last week, I drove straight to my hotel ‘The Florizel.’ And although I was very much preoccupied on the journey, nevertheless I was convinced when I reached my destination that I had been followed. By two men! They were hanging about outside your rooms when I left there—and I am positive that they followed me in a small two-seater car to my hotel. However, it is of the smallest importance, perhaps. What I am going to tell you now belongs to what you will call—a different category. ‘_Une autre galère._’ By the next morning’s post I received another surprising communication. Not in the atrocious handwriting of that ‘detestable’—no—from a lady.” He paused to see the effect of his words but Anthony’s face was as inscrutable as ever. “In fact, Mr. Bathurst, from _the_ lady.”

“Really,” murmured Anthony with the suspicion of a smile. “I take it you were extremely surprised?”

“Most assuredly,” replied Mr. Lucius, “I had not heard from the lady for a considerable length of time, as I informed you last week. And if I was surprised to receive the letter, I was still more surprised at the nature of its contents. Unfortunately—in the light of after events—I destroyed it.”

Mr. Bathurst lifted his eye-brows—was His Royal Highness, the Crown Prince of Clorania always a stickler for veracity, he wondered?

“But I can remember it _verbatim_—every word, Mr. Bathurst.” The Crown Prince leaned back in his arm-chair, closed his eyes, placed his finger-tips together and proceeded to remember the contents of his letter. “It was as follows,” he announced pompously, “‘Dear Alexis, I am perfectly aware, you will be surprised to know, that you have made two unsuccessful attempts to transfer a certain particular object from my possession to your own. Advices received to-day, that I cannot disregard, tell me that you have sought the professional assistance of Mr. Anthony Bathurst. I happen to know something of that gentleman, you see, as my solicitors are “Merryweather, Linnell and Daventry.” Upon mature reflection therefore, I have decided to discontinue what would be a hopeless struggle. I liked you once, Alexis, very, very much. Because of that, and because I’m a silly idiot as well, I’m going to give the photo back to you and burn all the letters. Meet me at the Hotel where we stayed in Seabourne before. I will give it to you there. Will some time next week suit you?’” His Highness turned in his chair. “That, Mr. Bathurst, is reproduced as accurately as I can recall it.” A spirit of uneasiness appeared to take possession of him. “It was signed,” he added in an apparent afterthought and undertone, “by a pet-name that I had used upon previous occasions when addressing her. It would not assist you at all to know it. To cut a long story short, Mr. Bathurst, I came to this Hotel on Tuesday last, met the lady, as she had suggested, on the following day and as a matter of fact was able to bring the affair that was so important and interesting to me to a highly-satisfactory conclusion. The lady concerned left the Hotel on Wednesday evening—I stayed on.”

His Royal Highness sprang to his feet as he finished his story. His excitement and anxiety had temporarily mastered him. He approached Anthony and his face was white, shaking and uncontrolled. “Mr. Bathurst,” he exclaimed, “when I called upon you at the end of last week you will remember I refused to divulge the name of the lady in the case—I told you that I was a man of honour.” His voice shook with emotion. “Now I feel myself as compelled to reveal it, even though at the risk of injuring myself. Fate has taken a hand in the game, Mr. Bathurst. The lady’s name was Daphne Carruthers—and I learn from the Press this morning and also from a medley of cursed, gossiping tongues in this infernal seaside town—that she was murdered here in Seabourne—yesterday.” His voice was now completely hoarse. With grief or with anxiety, Anthony was unable to decide. But he went on. Standing erect in the middle of the room, he raised his right-hand dramatically over his head. “And I myself, it is more than possible will be the ‘suspect.’ I would not have had such a terrible affair happen for the world. It will ruin me.” He gestured helplessly in Mr. Bathurst’s direction, then sank into his chair again—his head in his hands.

“When did you last see Miss Carruthers?” demanded the latter.

“On the evening of Wednesday—we dined together—early—settled our little differences, and parted—to go our own ways and to lead our own lives. We understood each other.”

“You had possession, then, I take it, of the photograph?” remarked Anthony.

“But certainly—I had come to get it. It is destroyed.”

“And the letters——!”

“We burned them together,” rejoined the Crown Prince.

“Where?”

“In a wood that lies off the road to Froam.”

Anthony looked grave.

“The letters you had threatening blackmail—those you left with me—what had Miss Carruthers to say regarding them?”

“But that is remarkable! I taxed her with them—she denied all knowledge of them.”

“Did you believe her?”

The Crown Prince shrugged his shoulders eloquently. “Can a man ever believe a woman with whom he’s once been in love?”

Anthony shot a quick glance at him. He was not an amorist and supremely contemptuous of the professional philanderer. To him, “_le pays du Tendre_” was far too sacred a country for such light imaginings. “You’re more qualified to answer that question than I, Your Highness. _Did you believe her?_”

The Crown Prince sulkily reflected for a brief moment. “Well—on the whole—I think I did. Her denial of the affair seemed to me to be transparently honest.”

“Tell me,” said Anthony, “was it, as far as you know, the intention of Miss Carruthers, to return to her home at once—or did she intend to stay anywhere else in Seabourne?”

“She intended to return to London by the last train on Wednesday evening—she told me so.”

“Of course,” suggested Anthony, “her plans may have been altered—an attack of violent tooth-ache, for instance, has a lot of force behind it.”

“No mention was made to me of any tooth-ache. She had none while she was with me,” grumbled His Royal Highness.

Anthony couldn’t resist the feeling that the Crown Prince regarded it as most inconsiderate on the part of Miss Carruthers to have been murdered. “You have been seen together here, of course?” he queried.

“But naturally! We dined ‘_à deux_’ in the hotel on Wednesday evening. There is for example, a Captain Willoughby staying here who was also here in the hotel when we stayed before. They say he lives here permanently. If you remember——”

“He was the taker of the particularly-important photograph,” interjected Anthony. He made a point of remembering most things—did Mr. Bathurst.

“That is so,” supplemented the Crown Prince, “you see Captain Willoughby will be certain to connect us.”

Anthony could find no reason to contest the point. “Undoubtedly,” he responded.

His Highness came over to him again. “Tell me,” he said, rather more imperiously than Mr. Bathurst considered commendable, “what steps had you taken in respect of my own case? Had you made any investigations?”

“It was my intention to have started to-day—strangely enough. I was on the point of starting for Westhampton this morning—your telegram calling me down here was the thing that stopped me. I was convinced, you see, that a judicious inquiry in the Westhampton district might yield good result.”

The Crown Prince nodded in corroboration. Putting his right hand on Anthony’s shoulder he looked very carefully round the apartment—then sank his voice to a mere whisper. “Mr. Bathurst,” he said softly, “I take it you are quite familiar with the facts?”

“Of yesterday’s tragedy?”

“Yes—of the murder.”

“Only so far as I have been able to read the morning papers.”

The Crown Prince nodded again. “Quite so—and you will agree I feel sure that it appears to be a most remarkable case. You will have been able to glean sufficient from the accounts in the Press to admit that. Listen—I have a theory—an idea has persisted in my brain since I heard of the affair in the first place. Those letters that were addressed to me. Vile blackmail! Mr. Bathurst—supposing that blackmailer is also the murderer of Miss Carruthers. It fits! It is on all four legs as you English say. Supposing he knew that Miss Carruthers and I had met amicably—that the affair was settled—that she had returned the photograph to my keeping—that the letters were burned—it would be clear to him that I could snap the finger-tips to him—that I could treat his threats with scorn—with disdain—in short that I could say to him, ‘Go to Hell.’ Well, then—assume that he knows what I have just said—he follows Miss Carruthers whose arrangement with me has spoiled his little game and in a rage and passion at being thwarted—he kills her at this dentist’s to whom she had gone. Why not—I say—why not? Find my blackmailer, Mr. Bathurst—and you’ll find the murderer of Daphne Carruthers.” He paused—his face and lips tremulous with anxiety and excitement—and took out a cigarette. Anthony watched him closely—the affair had got badly on his nerves—there was no denying the fact.

“It’s feasible, certainly,” he conceded. “But it would be extremely injudicious of me to debate the case, with so little first-hand evidence upon which to go. The worst mistake any investigator can ever make is to let his brain run away and play mental Badminton with fanciful theories. It might pay, perhaps, once—or even twice—but I can hardly see it bringing consistent success. And, as, in this case, I am not likely to obtain any first-hand evidence——”

His host interposed eagerly. “But you are, Mr. Bathurst. You are! Permit me to explain. I am privileged, as you may guess, by reason of my rank and powerful influence, to know many who sit in high places. I have this morning spoken to the Chief Commissioner of Police—Sir Austin Kemble,” he indicated the telephone on the table in the corner of the room, “he has given orders for you to have access to anything you desire in your handling of the case upon my behalf. Chief-Inspector Bannister of Scotland Yard who was called in by the local police has already been informed to that effect. I am very anxious that my interests should be in the very ablest hands. I may need them.”

Anthony waved aside the very direct compliment. “Really, Your—Mr. Lucius, rather, I am not at all sure that my engagements will allow me to do what you wish. As I pointed out to you previously, I am not a professional inquiry-agent.”

The Crown Prince extended what was almost a suppliant hand. “But you took those letters of mine—you were going to investigate the secret that lay behind the writing of them—and I am sure that the affairs are connected. I would esteem it as the very greatest of favours if you——”

“What makes you so positive of the connection between the two things?” demanded Anthony, with strong curiosity.

Mr. Lucius shrugged his shoulders even more eloquently than before. Then he placed his two fingers upon where he imagined his heart to be, “I feel it _here_,” he explained—it was an un-English gesture, and to Mr. Bathurst, was far from satisfying.

“The whole affair is puzzling,” declared the latter, “but one feature of it puzzles me very considerably. At the moment, that is. You have just informed me that Miss Carruthers has been staying here at the ‘Cassandra.’ That is so, isn’t it?”

“Why—yes. As I told you just now she wrote to me—it was her idea—asking me to meet her here—at the ‘Cassandra’! What is it exactly that mystifies you?”

“Simply this,” exclaimed Anthony, “the Press report that I read at breakfast this morning stated that Miss Carruthers was a guest at the ‘Lauderdale’ Hotel—certainly no mention was made of the ‘Cassandra.’”

The Crown Prince looked startled out of his skin. “What!” he exclaimed, “the ‘Lauderdale’? It is impossible. You must be mistaken. That was not reported in my paper. How can it be? What paper was it—_surely_ you must be mistaken?”

Anthony demurred very quietly but firmly. “You will find I am not. It was the ‘Morning Message’—send for one and see for yourself.”

His Royal Highness touched the bell. “A copy of this morning’s ‘Message,’” he said to the attendant, “as quickly as possible. I cannot believe it,” he muttered, as he paced the apartment after a minute’s silence. “The ‘Lauderdale’—it is incredible that—thank you.” He broke off and opened the newspaper that had been brought to him. “I ask your pardon, Mr. Bathurst, for seeming to doubt you—you are quite correct—the report says a visitor to Seabourne, staying at the ‘Lauderdale’ Hotel. It is inexplicable—it must be the mis-print—or at any rate false information.”

“I doubt it being that,” ventured Anthony, “the London Press is pretty accurate as a rule upon details of that nature. In murder cases especially. After all we may be puzzling our brains needlessly—the explanation of the tangle may be perfectly simple when we hit upon it. Miss Carruthers may have had a second assignation. She may have intended to stay in Seabourne longer than you thought. She may have simply moved her quarters from the ‘Cassandra’ to the ‘Lauderdale’ intentionally.”

“Never,” cried His Royal Highness Alexis of Clorania, “never.” He brought down one of his palms upon the other in the same manner that he had employed before. The suggestion assailed his vanity. “I am quite certain of what I am saying. Miss Carruthers left me, as I informed you, to return to London. She had no assignation in Seabourne beyond her assignation at the ‘Cassandra’ with me.”

This time it was Anthony’s turn to shrug his shoulders. “With all deference—I don’t know how you can be so certain on the point. May I remind you in your own words, ‘Can a man ever believe a woman with whom he has been in love?’”

The Crown Prince winced slightly at the aptness of Mr. Bathurst’s reply. Then the wince gave place to a frown which in its turn was superseded by a distinct tendency to sullenness. “I _know_ Miss Carruthers left me to go back to London. This tooth-ache or neuralgia or whatever it was must have come on suddenly and perhaps caused her to alter her plans very quickly. That is the only explanation I can offer at the moment.”

“We shall have to wait,” supplemented Anthony, “until we get more reliable information—that is all we can do. But the two facts certainly do not tally—they contradict each other rather—you must see that.”

“The ‘Morning Message’ has its facts wrong—that is the explanation,” said the Crown Prince pettishly, “it’s the only explanation that there can possibly be—their reporter has confused the two hotels.” He was interrupted by the sharp ringing of the telephone on the table in the corner. He walked to it—obviously angered at what he considered an interruption that need not have happened. “Yes—yes,” he said irritably as he picked up the receiver. “Yes, it’s Mr. Lucius speaking. Who is it . . . a trunk call . . . all right . . . yes . . . yes . . . Lucius speaking . . . I can’t hear properly . . . you’re very indistinct . . . speak up . . . what . . . _you_ . . .”

Anthony watched him curiously as he listened, his face white as death. Suddenly he gave a quick gasp, took the receiver from his ear and covered the mouthpiece with his disengaged hand. . . . “Mr. Bathurst,” he said tremulously, turning to Anthony. . . . “What on earth is the real meaning of all this ghastly business? . . . I’m speaking to _Daphne Carruthers_.”