  The next morning Mary joined me in the garden—just after breakfast. She looked lovelier than ever, although it was obvious to the careful observer that she was troubled. “Bill,” she said, “you haven’t spoken to poor Mrs. Prescott since her arrival yesterday—she had all her meals in her room, you know—come and see her this morning—if only to please me. It’s been heart-breaking to talk to her. He was her only son.” I was conscious of a certain feeling of resentment. It was absurd of her upsetting herself like this—Prescott was dead and it was all exceedingly sad and all that—but it didn’t please me to see the shadows in Mary’s face over it. I gently remonstrated with her. “You mustn’t let yourself be worried about this affair, Mary,” I said, “it’s bad enough I know, and pretty sickening happening here and at this time—rotten for Sir Charles and your mother—but hang it all, it might have been a lot worse.” She looked at me reproachfully. “What do you mean,” she asked, “in what way?” “Well,” I responded, awkwardly I admit, “it might have been Jack—or—er Captain Arkwright—one of the family you might say—Prescott wasn’t exactly a ‘nearest and dearest.’” She scanned my face curiously. “No, Bill,” she remarked very quietly, “he wasn’t exactly. But I’ve had to face his mother and I can’t forget that he was our guest and that it was in our house that he met his death—that he came to his death here,” she wrung her hands in the emotion of her distress—“it makes me feel so responsible.” “Rot!” I exclaimed, “it might have happened to him anywhere—you can’t prevent a crime—now and then.” “It might have, Bill, but it didn’t. And that’s just all that matters.” “Again, it might have been worse, too, from the other standpoint.” “What do you mean?” “Your mother’s pearls. We’ve recovered them when the odds seemed pretty hopeless.” “What do they matter? Bill”—she put her hand on my sleeve, “you can do me a favor. Tell Mr. Bathurst I should like to have a chat with him.” “When?” “Oh—when it’s convenient—this afternoon, say.” “All right,” I replied. “What are you doing this morning?” “I’m going to take Mrs. Prescott out of herself—if I can. Come and see her.” I disliked the job as much as Mary had dreaded it, but courtesy demanded it. Mrs. Prescott was a tall woman with white hair—somewhere I should judge in the early “fifties.” She was completely mistress of her feelings and gave an immediate impression of efficiency and capability. I learned afterwards that she had founded the florist’s business in Kensington that had achieved such remarkable success and had been the foundation stone of the family fortunes, and was herself at the time of which I speak a Justice of the Peace. The blow she had received had been a very heavy one, but she was unmistakably facing it with courage. “Good-morning, Mr. Cunningham,” she greeted me quietly. “You know me then, Mrs. Prescott?” I asked, not without surprise. “Gerald”—there was a little catch in her throat—“pointed you out to me at Lords’ a month ago.” I was momentarily at a loss. I had expected a grief-stricken woman bordering on hysteria, and this quiet and courageous resignation stirred me greatly. “I see,” I responded. Then murmured a few words of condolence. “Thank you,” she said, “thank you. As you say, Mr. Cunningham, his death is a terrible thing—but the idea that he has been murdered, and that his memory will be attached for always to that murder, I find even more terrible and nerve-racking. If I don’t summon all my strength to my aid—I fear I shall give way to the horror of it.” I expressed my most sincere sympathy, and Mary Considine caught her two hands and pressed them. “You’re wonderful,” she cried, “to endure things as you have. And I’m going to try to help you to endure them even better.” Mrs. Prescott smiled very sweetly. “You are very kind, my dear,” she said. “But I feel this, Mr. Cunningham,” she turned in my direction, “that I owe it to my son’s memory to leave no stone unturned to find the man or woman who killed him.” The look of patient resignation on her face gave way to one of steady resolution. She continued—talking seemed to relieve her grief a little, perhaps. “I’m certain of one thing. I’m absolutely certain, in my own mind, that when Gerald came down here to Considine Manor, he had no worries, no trouble on his mind, and that whatever dark passions encompassed his end—were awakened very recently.” Mary’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Oh, don’t say that, Mrs. Prescott,” she said. “I can’t bear to think that this came to him when he was our guest—I’ve just been telling Mr. Cunningham the same thing.” Mrs. Prescott smiled sadly. “You have nothing with which to reproach yourself, my dear. I just know that when Gerald came here he was intensely happy and glad to come. Therefore, whatever cause brought about his death, had its origin down here. That’s all I mean.” She put her arm round Mary’s shoulders. I heard a step behind—it was Anthony. Mary introduced him. “I am pleased to meet Mr. Bathurst,” said Mrs. Prescott. “I have heard already from Sir Charles Considine of what you have done for him. Perhaps you will be able to do something for me.” Anthony bowed. “I am at your service, Mrs. Prescott—command me. How can I help you?” She repeated to him her previous words to us. Anthony knitted his brows. “I appreciate,” he said, “the fact that you are speaking with intimate knowledge which makes what you say especially valuable—you are quite assured that your son had no shadow on his life when he came down here?” “I am positive of it, Mr. Bathurst,” Mrs. Prescott replied. “Of course it may have been some phase of the robbery Mary has told me about, but something tells me it wasn’t—the cause lies outside that.” She shook her head. “Pardon me, Mrs. Prescott,” interposed Anthony. “I should like to ask you a question—can you in any obscure or roundabout way connect your son—legitimately of course—with any previous jewel robbery?” A look of amazement spread over her features. Anthony continued quickly. “I’m afraid I’ve put it to you very awkwardly and clumsily—but this is what I’m driving at. Has he, for example, ever been stopping at a country house that has been robbed while he has been there? The kind of experience, we will say, that would cause him to be on the qui vive were he confronted a second time with the possibility?” “I don’t altogether follow you, Mr. Bathurst,” she answered, “so I don’t know whether I can answer you satisfactorily—but I don’t know of any connection of the kind you have indicated.” “I have a reason for asking,” he intervened quickly. “There is abundant circumstantial evidence that your son, on the evening of the murder, may have been outside the billiard room window—almost in the same spot as this man Webb. If it were he, what took him there?” “If he were there, Mr. Bathurst,” said Mrs. Prescott, “you may depend upon it, that he had a good and honorable reason for going.” Anthony bowed. “I see no reason to doubt the accuracy of your opinion.” “Thank you, Mr. Bathurst.” “But, all the same, I must confess to being mystified with regard to those footprints.” “The whole affair is a mystery,” she answered, “that may never be solved.” “Not the whole affair, Mrs. Prescott—some aspects are becoming increasingly plain—and I hope in time to solve it all!” Anthony’s jaw set. “That will mean a lot to me, Mr. Bathurst,” she said. “Perhaps more than I can tell you.” She turned to Mary. “I’ll come with you now, dear, as you suggested. Good-bye to you two gentlemen. But there, I’m sure to see you again.” They passed out of the room together and left us. “What are you doing this morning, Holmes?” I sallied. Anthony looked at me whimsically. “I’m thinking of having another look at things,” he said; “there are one or two things I should like to make more sure of.” “What are they?” I inquired curiously. “I should like to have a look at the billiard room—and Prescott’s bedroom,” he replied unconcernedly. “I’m building up a theory and I would like to test it in one or two places. Come with me?” “Delighted,” I answered. “Billiard room first?” “As you please,” said he. We ascended the stairs. In the sunshine of the morning, there seemed to remain no trace of the dreadful secret the room held. The table, bereft of its ghastly burden of a few days since, only spoke of the game it stood for. It was a difficult matter to realize all that had happened since the last game that had been played upon it. “These chairs were overturned, Bill, and this poker was lying on the floor—remember?” I did—and I said so. He went full length on the floor and took a magnifying-glass from his pocket. “I’m rather sceptical about the magnifying-glass stunts you get in detective novels,” he muttered, “but I want an extra-special look at this floor-covering. “No,” he said as he arose, “I can’t see any signs of any struggle—there are no scratches that would evade the naked eye, of feet moved uncontrollably like in a fight or wrestle. And what is more, Bill, I particularly noticed when Marshall gave the alarm, that although Prescott’s brown shoes were muddy—there was no trace of any mud on the floor here. Think of that, laddie.” “It might happen so,” I ventured. “Hardly likely, Bill! There was an appreciable amount of mud on the brown shoes, and one would reasonably expect to find a few traces if Prescott had been engaged in a struggle. In a fight or a wrestle—such as might have taken place here, there is far more pressure of the feet on the ground and certainly more friction than is got by ordinary walking—don’t you see?” “Yes,” I conceded. “I see what you mean.” “Yet,” he went on, “I am certain that there were no mud-marks on the floor. Which suggests a number of entertaining possibilities.” He frowned. “You haven’t told me yet,” I urged, “of those three definite clues you picked up right at the outset. Still liking the look of them? I’m curious!” “One of ’em has been dragged to light, Bill, and I’m very satisfied with its results—the other two I’m still keeping—for the time being at all events.” I felt annoyed. All faithful Watsons were not treated in this cavalier manner. They were always admitted willingly and readily into the confidential intimacies. I voiced a complaint. I thought a semi-humorous strain might become the matter best. “How, my dear Anthony,” I began, “can you reasonably expect to be guided by the best gleams of my superlative intelligence and highly-powered imagination, if you persist in withholding important information from me?” He flashed a smile at me. Then his face took on a more serious aspect. “Pardon me, Bill—not exactly information. You have seen the same things as I have seen—I’m keeping nothing from you—the difference is that a certain two points made a vivid impression on me—and they didn’t on you.” “All right, then,” I returned, “I plead guilty. What were they?” “If I tell you, Bill, and eventually we find that their significance was much less than I imagine, you’ll never believe in me again—and I can’t possibly run the risk of that.” I could see that nothing I could do would shake his determination. So I turned the subject. “Are you in a hurry to look over Prescott’s bedroom again?” “It depends on what you mean by a ‘hurry.’” “Well, what about a 100 up before we go?” I took a cue and walked to the billiard-table. “Right-O,” said Anthony. “A little relaxation won’t harm either of us.” The three balls were in the bottom right-hand pocket where they had lain, presumably, for some days. “Let’s have them,” I cried. “Spot or Plain?” “Anything,” he answered. “Spot!” He put his flat hand, palm upwards, underneath the pocket and sent the balls rolling on to the green cloth. “Go on,” I said, “break.” He opened by giving me the usual point. I replied by coming off the red ball on to the spot-ball and in attempting a second cannon I failed, leaving the red nicely in front of the bottom right-hand pocket. Anthony smiled in appreciative approval. “Thank you, Bill!” He promptly potted the red. “I can see visions of a nice healthy little break here,” said he, as he sidled round to pick the red ball out. He plunged his hand into the pocket. Then I saw his face register surprise. “What’s up?” I queried half-interestedly. “Something down here in the pocket, Bill,” he returned. “A piece of paper.” He drew out a twisted piece of paper and smoothed it out with his fingers—it was a portion of envelope. In a second it flashed into my mind what it was. Something seemed to hammer it into my brain instantaneously. Before my tongue could give sound to the message that was flooding my brain Anthony spoke very quietly, and very gravely. I remember that I marvelled at the time that he could retain so undisturbed an equanimity. “Bill,” he said, “Barker’s I.O.U.! By Jove!” “How the devil did it come there?” I exclaimed. He thought for a second or two before replying. “Well, taking all the circumstances into consideration, not such an unlikely place, after all, to find it. Prescott’s body lay across this table, near this particular pocket, and it’s quite conceivable that (1) the I.O.U. fell in some manner from his coat pocket into the billiard-table pocket or (2) the I.O.U. was taken from the body by the murderer, and dropped, either in the struggle or afterwards. The murderer might even have searched the room for it—assuming that he wanted it badly—and never imagined that it had fallen where it had.” “Yes,” I assented. “I follow you. How was it”—I went on—“that you didn’t notice it when you took the balls out just now?” “There were three balls in this pocket then. I knocked them out from outside the pocket—when I plunged my hand in to get out the red ball, I felt this piece of envelope.” “I see.” “And there’s something more that I can contribute, Bill!” He wrinkled his forehead as was his habit when endeavoring to remember something very accurately or in extreme detail. “When we were called to this room at seven o’clock that morning by Marshall, the three balls were in the pocket then. I can recall them distinctly—Prescott’s body was lying across the bottom of the table. He was partly on his right shoulder, and his right arm was hanging over the side—very near the pocket where I’ve found the I.O.U. I can remember looking at the limp arm hanging there—and then looking into the pocket and seeing the balls. I can——” he stopped suddenly. “But there’s something wrong somewhere, there’s a difference—there’s a——” he thrust his hands into his pockets and paced the room. When he turned in my direction again, I could see that his eyes were closed. He was thinking hard. “It will come back to me,” he muttered. “There was the arm—there were the three balls—there was the dagger——” he snapped his fingers. Then he swung around. “Got it?” I asked curiously. “Got what?” “Whatever was eluding you?” He smiled. “I think so,” he answered, “anyway the three balls were there—it was impossible to see the piece of envelope even if we had thought of looking there. But, I must confess, it didn’t occur to me. And evidently also, it didn’t occur to the worthy Baddeley.” “Going to tell him?” I queried. “Afraid we ought to! Still I don’t see why we should ... yet. On second thoughts, I think we’ll put it back in its little nest ... in this selfsame pocket. For the time being, William, we will remember, we twain, that ‘Silence is Golden’ and that Inspector Baddeley didn’t call us a lot of ‘tight-lips’ unreasonably.” I looked at the I.O.U. There it was as Barker had described it. Just a mere scrawl. But possibly it had cost a man his life. And might cost another his. “I.O.U. £208. Malcolm V. Barker.” Anthony held his hand out for it. “Let’s put it back, Bill. It will suit my book if it lie there for a time.” He tucked it away into the pocket. “Going on with the game?” I shook my head. “I’ve lost interest—this new turn has done it. I don’t feel anything like so keen.” “Neither do I. What about having another look at Prescott’s bedroom? You remember what I told you just now!” But I was reluctant to turn my thoughts from our latest discovery. I was anxious to hear more of what Anthony thought with regard to it. Had he formed one of his brilliantly definite notions or was he still groping for an elusive factor and groping unsuccessfully? I determined to draw a bow at a venture. I might, by so doing, discover something of what lay in his mind. “I’m afraid,” I ventured with an air of wisdom, “that this latest business brings the searchlight of suspicion on to Lieutenant Barker again—don’t you agree?” I looked at him intently, trying to read his thoughts. “Why—particularly?” “Doesn’t it make it appear,” I asked, “that Prescott was murdered for possession of that I.O.U.? £200 odd is a pretty substantial sum, you know, for a young officer to lose at a sitting. At least, I’d think so.” “It’s a possibility,” came the reply, “but you can’t assert that the I.O.U. was a primary factor in the murder. I know that the I.O.U. has been discovered near the body, but after all, the explanation may be perfectly simple. Prescott, we will argue, taking the simple line that I have indicated, took the I.O.U. from Barker at the card-table, as we have been told, placed it in the breast-pocket of his dress-coat, and in the struggle that took place when he was done to death, the thing dropped from its place into the pocket of the billiard-table. I told you so just now.” “Certainly a possibility,” I said, “but——” “You don’t think so, eh?” “Well, candidly,” I rejoined, “I’m not convinced.” “Nor am I.” He smiled again. “I’m only discussing possibilities. Still”—he proceeded more slowly, “I’m inclined to think that this discovery tends to eliminate Barker from our list of suspects.” “Can’t see it—quite,” I intervened. “I think it’s rather damaging to him.” He looked at me keenly. “I think this,” he said. “If Lieutenant Barker had been after that I.O.U.—sufficiently enthusiastic for its possession to murder a man—that once he had got his claws on it, he would have destroyed it.” “How?” I said—“and where? He was bound to keep it for a time—he couldn’t destroy it directly he got it—he might have left traces—that would have inevitably incriminated him!” I was jubilant—I felt I had scored. Anthony lit a cigarette. “Bill,” he conceded, “you’re right—that’s certainly a point that I had not considered!” |
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