CHAPTER I
MR. BATHURST AS AN AID TO MEMORY
Seeing Bathurst this evening, after a lapse of eight years, has given me a most insistent inclination to set down, for the first time, the real facts of that cause cĆ©lĆØbre, that was called by the Press at the time, the āBilliard Room Mystery.ā Considering the length of the interval, and regarding the whole affair from every possible point of view, it is sufficiently plain to me that an authentic history of the case can harm nobody and can prejudice no interests. I therefore succumb to the temptation, serenely confident that, no matter what shortcomings there may be in the telling, the affair itself as a whole, is entitled to rank as one of the most baffling in the annals of criminology.
Inasmuch as I was a member of the audience to-night at a private theatrical performance and Anthony Bathurst was playing lead for the company (amateur of course) that was entertaining us, I had no opportunity for conversation with him, but I am certain that had I had this opportunity, I should have found that his brain had lost none of its cunning and that his uncanny gifts for deduction, inference, and intuition, were unimpaired. These powers allied to a masterly memory for detail and to an unusual athleticism of body, separated him from the majorityāwherever he was, he always countedāone acknowledged instinctively his mental supremacyāhe was a personality always and everywhere. A tall, lithe body with that poised balance of movement that betrays the able player of all ball games, his clean-cut, clean-shaven face carried a mobile, sensitive mouth and grey eyes. Remarkable eyes that seemed to apprehend and absorb at a sweep every detail about you that was worth apprehending. A manās man, and, at the same time, a ladiesā man. For when he chose, he was hard to resist, I assure you. Such, eight years ago, was Anthony Lotherington Bathurst, and such had he promised to be from comparative immaturity, for he had been with me at Uppingham, and afterwards at Oxford.
Which latter fact goes to the prime reason of my being at Considine Manor in the last week of July of the year of the tragedy.
At Oxford we had both grown very pally with Jack Considine, eldest son of Sir Charles Considine, of Considine Manor, Sussex, and although Bathurst had to a certain extent fallen away from the closest relations of the friendship, Jack and I were bosom companions, and it became my custom each year, when the āVarsity came down, to spend a week at Considine Manor, and to take part in Sir Charlesā Cricket Week. For I was a fairly useful member, and had been on the fringe of the āVarsity Eleven; indeed many excellent judges were of the opinion that Prescott, who had been given the last place, was an inferior man. But of that, more later.
Bathurst never took his āVarsity cricket seriously enough. Had he done so he would probably have skippered Englandāheās the kind that distinguishes whatever he sets his hand toābut it was cricket that took me to Considine Manor, and it was cricket that took both Prescott and Bathurstābut not in the same direction.
Sir Charles that year was particularly anxious to have a good teamāwhich got Prescott his invitation. An invitation that he had certainly not lingered over accepting. For he had met Mary Considine at Twickenham the previous autumn, and had improved upon that acquaintanceship at Lordsā in the first week of July. Mary was the third and youngest child, Jack coming between her and her sister, Helen, who had married a Captain Arkwrightāa big, bluff Dragoon. Now whatever Prescottās feelings may have been towards Mary, I had no idea then, what hers were to him. Decidedly, I have no idea now; I can only surmise. But Mary Considine with her birth, her breeding and her beauty was a peach of peaches. She had grace, she had charm, and a pair of heavy-lashed, Parma violet eyes that sent all a manās good resolutions to the four winds of heaven and to my mind at least, it was something like presumption on Prescottās part to lift his eyes to her. Still that was only my opinion. As I said, what encouragement he received I have little knowledge of.
The Cricket Week passed off comparatively uneventfully. The first three one-day gamesāI forget whom against, except one against the āIncogsāāwere relatively unimportant. That is, to Sir Charles! His piĆØce de rĆ©sistance was always kept for the Thursday and Friday, the last two days of the week. Then came the hardy annualāSir Charles Considineās Eleven, versus āThe Uppingham Rovers.ā Prior to this last game I had failed lamentably, my bag being 3, 7 and a couple of balloons. Two of the days were wet and real cricket out of the question. Prescott had a lot of luck and got a couple of centuries and a 70 odd in four times. Which of course gave him a good conceit of himself.
āBill,ā said Mary to me on the Thursday morning, āI do hope you see them all right to-dayāGerry Prescottās getting a bit of ārollā on, charming man though he be.ā
I finished my fourth egg and remarked, āThanks, MaryāIāll have a good try, but I donāt seem able to do anything right latelyāstill my luck must turn before long. Thanks again.ā She slipped over to the sideboard and helped herself to some Kedgereeāsmiledāand then replied, āI think it willāto-day.ā The rest of the crowd then joined usāJack, Gerry Prescott, Helen and Dick Arkwright, Sir Charles and Lady Considine, three boys from the āVarsity, Tennant, Daventry and Robertson, and two Service men, friends of Arkwright, Major Hornby and Lieutenant Barkerāthe last five all pretty decent cricketersāthe rest of the eleven being recruited from the Manor staff.
It was, I remember, a perfectly glorious summer morning. Oneās thoughts instinctively flew to the whirr of the mowing machine and a real plumb wicket. The insects hummed in the sun, and there was a murmur of bees that gave everybody a feeling that an English summer morning in Sussex could give anything in Creation a start and a beating.
āToppinā mornināāwhat?ā said Prescott. āFeel like gettinā some more to-day, if we bat.ā
āYou wonāt,ā said Dick Arkwright. āYouāll field, and this big brute of a Bill can get rid of some of his disgraceful paunch. He hasnāt had much exercise all the week. Exceptinā of course walkinā back to the pavilion.ā
āFeeling funny, arenāt you?ā I sallied back. āAnd as for ābig brutesā and āpaunches,ā neither you nor Prescott has a lot to telegraph home about.ā
Actually I was about a couple of inches taller than either of them and decidedly heavier.
āAnybody of the old crowd playing for the Rovers, Jack?ā queried Helen.
āDonāt know, havenāt seen the team yet.ā
Daventry, I think, handed the Sporting Life to the two girls. They scanned the names.
āOnly Toby Purkiss and Vernon Hurst that we know,ā from Mary. āWhat a pity.ā
āI am very keen on winning,ā boomed Sir Charles. āVery, very keen. We havenāt beaten the Rovers for more years than I care toāahāremember. I spoke seriously to Briggs this morning about it. And I may say, here and now, TennantāDaventryāI trust without offence, that I viewed with some disfavour your late retirement last night. You were very late getting to bed. I am willing to concede that Auction Bridge has a fascinationāā
āThatās all right, Governor,ā said Jack. āTheyāre just infantsāstand anything. Think what a tough bird you were at their age.ā
āPerfectly true. I remember the night Iāā
āAs long as you can remember it, you canāt have been so bad, sir,ā said Daventry.
Lady Considine smiled.
āWould you like me to stop Auction in the evening, till the week is over, dear?ā she said. āYou never seem to win anything.ā
āAs a matter of fact, MarionāI have been most unusually successful; and I have no wish toāerāinterfere with othersā pleasure.ā
āThanks, Father. For we donāt all play cricket.ā
āNo, Helen, thatās so.ā
āSeems to me, Governor, it takes age and judgment to play really good Auction.ā
āThank you, Arkwright. You have keen powers of observance.ā
The clock chimed ten.
āGracious,ā said Mary, āI promised to help get the big marquee ready.ā She flew off. Very shortly the breakfast party withdrew entirely, the ladies to the selection of appropriate raiment, the men who were playing, to get ready.
I was late getting down to the field and had no sooner arrived than up came Sir Charles.
āFielding, Bill!ā He guessed right. āKnow youāre pleased!ā he grinned.
āOf courseājust what I expected! Itāll rain in the night.ā
The first wicket put on a few runs and I was chatting to Robertson and Jack Considine while we were waiting for the next man.
āGood Lord,ā I heard from behind me.
I turned.
Strolling in, nonchalantly adjusting his left-hand glove, was the very last person I expected to see thereāAnthony Bathurst.
āBless you, Bill,ā he smiled. āSeeing you is a reward in itself.ā
āBut I had no ideaāā
āWhat on earth?ā queried Jack.
āTell you later,ā grinned Anthony; āUmpire, Middle and leg, if you please.ā
He didnāt get a lot. But when we got into lunch he told us that Hurst had cried off from the game, developed measles or spotted fever or something, and he had been roped in, being handy. He was staying near Bramber and going on to Canterbury for the āOld Stagers.ā Angus McKinnel and Gerry Crookley were great chums of his, and as the entertainments of Canterbury Week were in their hands as usual, they had been only too glad for him to help them.
Everybody, of course, was delighted, for Considine Manor had heard much of Anthony Bathurst from both Jack and me.
Sir Charles immediately issued an invitation.
āStay on, my dear fellow! I shall be charmed, I assure you. Stay till the Bank Holidayāthen motor over.ā
āThanks, I will. Itās good of you.ā Anthony accepted the offer.
Thus, it was that the Friday evening saw Anthony still at Considine Manor, and the stage set for what happened subsequently. When I reached the drawing-room that night I had a fit of the blues. The game had ended in a draw and once again, I had not reached double figures. Prescott had got another 50 odd and, in the opinion of most, had saved our side from a beating. Conversation was desultory as it had been at dinner.
As usual most of them were listening attentively to Anthony Bathurst. He was well launched on a theme that I had heard him discuss many a time before in his rooms at Oxford. āThe Detective in Modern Fiction.ā It was a favourite topic of his and like everything that aroused his interest, he knew it thoroughlyābackwards, forwards, and inside out.
I caught his words as I entered the room.
āOhāI admit it quite cheerfullyāI look forward tremendously to a really good thriller. Iām intrigued utterly by a title like āThe Stain on the Linoleum.ā But, there you are, really good detective stories are rare.ā
āYou think so?ā interjected Major Hornby, āwhat about those French Johnnies, Gaboriau and Du Boisgobey?ā
āLike the immortal Holmes,ā replied Anthony, āI have the greatest contempt for Lecoq. Poeās āDupinā wasnāt so bad, but the majorityāā
āYou admire Holmes?ā
āYes, Mr. Arkwright, I do! That is to sayāthe pre-war Holmes!ā
āYou donāt admit that his key is always made to fit his lock?ā
āOf course,ā replied Anthony, āthat must be so! But he deducesāhe reasonsāand thereby constructs. The others, so many of them, depend for success on amazing coincidences and things of that nature.ā
āYou think Holmes stands alone?ā queried Mary.
āNot altogether, Miss Considine, as Iāve often told Bill Cunningham.ā He turned to me, āMasonās M. Hanaud, Bentleyās Trent, Milneās Mr. Gillingham, and to a lesser degree perhaps, Agatha Christieās M. Poirot are all excellent in their way, but oh!āthe many dozens that arenāt.ā
āI could mention three others,ā said Jack Considine.
āYes? Who are they?ā
āBernard Capesā āBaronā of The Skeleton Key, Chestertonās Father Brown, and H. C. Baileyās Reginald Fortune.ā
āI am willing to accept two,ā said Anthony, ābut Father Brownāno. Heās too entirely āChestertonian.ā He deduces that the dustman was the murderer because of the shape of the piece that had been cut from the apple-pie. I canāt quite get him.ā
The company laughed merrily.
āAh, Mr. Bathurst,ā remarked Sir Charles. āThere is a great gulf between fiction and real life. Give me Scotland Yard every time.ā
āI am ready to. Scotland Yard is a remarkably efficient organizationābutāā
āWell, Sir Charles, I think this! Give me a fair start with Scotland Yard, and its resources to call upon, if necessary, and Iāll wager on my results.ā
āWhat about that trumpeter?ā from Gerry Prescott.
āNever mind that. I was asked for my opinion and I gave it.ā
āIn the event of your being on the spot at a murder case, then, you consider that you would solve the mystery quicker than trained men?ā
āUnder equal conditions, yes, Captain Arkwright! Again, what is a trained man? I am a traine...