  Anthony drained his last cup of tea and pushed his chair away from the breakfast table. “Fitch!” He called the butler over to his side. Fitch listened to him. “Yes, sir. With pleasure. I think it’s the July issue. I will obtain it for you, sir; in just a moment!” I think the rest of the company were somewhat surprised to see the excellent Fitch return with the A.B.C. “Leaving us, Bathurst?” queried Sir Charles Considine. “You haven’t forgotten our——?” “No, sir. Only taking a run up to town. I shall be back this evening.” “Want a companion?” I asked. He thought for a moment or two. “Awfully good of you, Bill—but if you don’t mind, I’ll go alone. I’m not altogether sure that I shan’t be wasting my time—so I’ve no desire to waste yours, possibly!” He smiled his disarming smile. I was immediately mollified. “Have the Morris-Oxford, Bathurst, to run you to the station,” offered Sir Charles. “Thank you very much, sir, I shall be delighted. I’ll leave here about twenty minutes past ten. I’ll just go and get ready.” “What’s taking him away, Bill?” said Jack Considine. “I’m not inquisitive I hope, but is it this Prescott business?” “I can’t say,” I replied. “Very probably, though.” “I think it must be,” announced Sir Charles. “Baddeley was up here again yesterday, you know. I had a moment with him. I gave him a rub or two concerning the inquest.” He chuckled. “He’s a very decent fellow though, and very despondent at the moment over his lack of success in regard to, what I am informed, is now known to the world in general as ‘The Billiard Room Mystery.’” He sighed. “Such is fame, Helen! Anyhow, when I realized that he was genuinely sore and upset, I tried a different tack. I’m afraid this case would have tried a greater brain than Baddeley’s.” “Well, I for one, sincerely hope the affair will be settled,” intervened Captain Arkwright. “We are all more or less under a cloud while it remains unsolved—that’s how I feel about it. And others besides us—Hornby, Tennant, Daventry—and all the fellows that were here at the time.” “That’s very true,” agreed our host. “The whole house is under a cloud—the Cricket Week will always have this unholy reminiscence hanging over it—even after the whole tangle is cleared away—if it ever is cleared away. Of course there is less strain for all of us since Mrs. Prescott returned to London.” The door opened and Anthony came quickly in. “The car’s waiting, sir, so with your permission, I’ll get away.” He waved a good-bye and shortly afterwards we heard the car go humming away down the road. He reached the station with a good five minutes to spare before his train (as he related afterwards) so he sauntered to the booking office to get his ticket. Surely he knew that figure just in advance of him! “Good-morning, Inspector!” Baddeley wheeled quickly at the unexpected greeting. “Why, it’s Mr. Bathurst. Going to Victoria, sir?” “Yes. Are you?” “Thought of taking a run up.” He grinned. “Though I didn’t know I was coming till this morning, itself.” “Good! We’ll travel together then, Inspector.” The train rumbled in and the pair sought, with success, an empty compartment. Baddeley was in a communicative mood. “Major Hornby has left Canterbury, Mr. Bathurst. You may be interested to know that. I made inquiries last night. He’s stopping at a private hotel in the Kensington district—near Gloucester Road.” Mr. Bathurst was interested—but not tremendously. He was not aware of the Inspector’s desire to get into touch again with Major Hornby. How had the Inspector fared over the little matter of the cigar stub? “A dead end, Mr. Bathurst!” Mr. Bathurst complimented his companion upon the particular aptness of his reply, but was assured with transparent sincerity that it had been unintentional. How far had the Inspector taken the line of his investigation? “It was a commonplace brand of cigar—sold most probably in a ‘pub’—to trace it would entail a long and arduous task—and then might prove to be unilluminative. I abandoned the idea!” Then the Inspector was not at work on it this morning? “No, as I indicated, I’m desirous of having another interview with Major Hornby. Are you leaving Considine for good?” Mr. Bathurst was most certainly doing nothing of the kind. He was merely paying a visit to a friend. He was returning to Considine that evening—all being well. “A great weight of what I will term—police opinion is in favor of charging Webb and his wife with the murder of Mr. Prescott. Up to the moment I have stalled them off. I don’t think Webb’s the man. That shoe-lace business doesn’t spell Webb to my way of thinking, and as for the lace found in the ‘Spider’s’ pocket—one lace is very like another.” Mr. Bathurst assented. But was rather surprised that Webb had not yet been charged with the murder. “I’m not denying that a very strong ‘prima facie’ case could be made against him,” said Baddeley—“because it undoubtedly could.” “Had Webb an alibi from any time of the fatal night?” asked Mr. Bathurst. “Yes, he’s attempted to put one forward from about two-fifteen. He states that he was with a confederate—so it comes from a source that is suspect—a good counsel would speedily demolish it.” Mr. Bathurst agreed. But there was Andrew Whitney to be considered. His evidence would help Webb considerably. He considered it was very sporting of Inspector Baddeley to have put him up before the Coroner. Inspector Baddeley was not oblivious to the compliment and smiled his acknowledgment. Then Mr. Bathurst took a turn. Had the Inspector by any chance a photograph of the body when found? He believed he was correct in his idea that the Inspector had ordered Roper to take certain photographs of the room and body on that first morning. Mr. Bathurst was quite right in his assumption, and Inspector Baddeley would be delighted to show him what he had. He produced half a dozen plates. Mr. Bathurst examined them carefully. The Inspector offered his help. Was there any point in the disposition of the body upon which he could throw any further light? Mr. Bathurst thanked him, but replied in the negative. He was not concerned about the position of the body. He was curious about the position of the red ball! The Inspector stared in amazement. The red ball was not on the table! What on earth did Mr. Bathurst mean? Mr. Bathurst quite understood that the red ball was not on the table because it was in the pocket as shown by one of the photographs taken from a higher altitude. He pointed it out to the Inspector—lying on top of the other two. By the time they reached Victoria, Inspector Baddeley was more perplexed than ever. “This is where we part, Inspector,” said Anthony, as they passed through the barrier. “Au’voir.” Anthony made his way to the underground and booked to Cannon Street. Arrived there he made tracks for the Main station. The next train to Blackheath was at 12.22. “That will land me there just in time for lunch,” he thought to himself, and events proved him to be a sound prophet. A smart-looking maid took the card he proffered her, and in a few seconds he found himself in what was evidently the drawing-room. Mrs. Prescott followed him in. “I got your wire, Mr. Bathurst, and of course, I am very pleased to see you. I can hardly realize yet all that has happened. I’m trying to bear up—but frankly, I have little left in the world now to capture either my interest or my imagination. Now, what is it you wanted to see me about?” Anthony was all sympathy. “I want to talk to you about your boy.” “You asked me a good many questions at Considine Manor, Mr. Bathurst. You wish to ask me some more?” “If you would be kind enough to answer them.” Mrs. Prescott bowed her head in assent. “First of all, let me assure you that I feel a very great sympathy with you in your sorrow.” He touched her arm for a brief moment, very gently. “And I have every hope that the crime which has hurt you so much will not go unpunished.” He spoke with a feeling that Mrs. Prescott was not slow to detect. “I thank you for your words and for your sympathy, too, Mr. Bathurst.” “Tell me about your boy—as much as you can—everything!” It was not a difficult thing that he had asked her. A mother who has lost her boy—under the circumstances that she had—grasps at the straws of reminiscence to save herself from going under. “Begin at the beginning,” said Anthony. She told him. He listened attentively. She got to his cricket—he had played for Oxford at Lords’. Then Anthony made his first interruption. “Tell me, Mrs. Prescott—has your son in any game or sport—been ambidextrous?” Mrs. Prescott showed signs of surprise. “Think carefully,” he reiterated. “Did he ever bat left-handed or bowl left-handed—did he ever play billiards, for instance, left-handed?” She shook her head. “Never to my knowledge, Mr. Bathurst.” “Had he any personal peculiarities, at all?” “Peculiarities? Well, I suppose every one of us has a——” “I mean physical. For example—a right-handed acquaintance of mine always counts money with his left hand and deals cards in the same way.” “I see what you mean,” she declared. She thought, but to no effect. “No, Mr. Bathurst, I can’t think of anything like that.” Anthony accepted the situation, and Mrs. Prescott continued her memories. “I can’t imagine anything more that I can tell you,” she concluded very quietly. “Thank you very much. One last point. Had your son any particular knowledge of knots? The various types of knots that can be tied, that is?” “Once again—not that I know of,” she answered. “I think the only knot that I have ever seen him tie—was just an ordinary bow. Why do you ask?” “A little whim of mine, Mrs. Prescott. Nothing more.” He rose. “You’ll stay to lunch, Mr. Bathurst. I insist.” Anthony did, and when about to take his departure sometime afterwards realized that his hostess was a singularly able woman. He shook hands with her. “Good-bye, Mr. Bathurst. You have hopes?” “I have,” he said gravely. “And fears. We are on the verge of a very horrible discovery. But it can’t be helped. Good-bye.” Mrs. Prescott looked white and troubled as he spoke. “Good-bye,” she murmured. Anthony made off down the road—a prey to conflicting thoughts. Then he encountered a surprise, that quickly jolted him back to realities. Two figures passed by on the other side; well in his view. He stared in surprise. Major Hornby and Lieutenant Barker! “What the devil——” He stopped in the shadow of a wall and watched them curiously. They knocked at and entered the house that he had just left! “Now—what on earth,” he muttered. A hand touched him on the arm, and a voice exclaimed eagerly: “Tell me—quickly—whose house is that, Mr. Bathurst?” The hand was the hand of the Law—and the voice the voice of Inspector Baddeley. |
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