The Ebony Stag, page 4
The landlord of the “Tracy Arms” shook his head.
“I couldn’t say what it was, sir. Bit of a fancy like, I suppose, on the part of the late Mr. Forsyth. After all, what’s in a name? You can never tell what’s behind the name of a house.”
“Exactly, Fentiman. That was the idea behind the question I put to you. The name was so unusual that I wondered what had prompted the late Mr. Forsyth’s fancy. Still, it’s of no importance. Just a piece of curiosity on my part.”
Fentiman dismissed the matter with his next remark.
“You’d best come and have a bit of lunch, Mr. Lotherington. Mrs. Fentiman’s cooked you a nice chicken. She thought it ’ud be a bit safer like than a duck. A duck, she finds, isn’t to everybody’s taste. It runs a bit fatty and we find that it isn’t everybody that can take it.”
Anthony smiled. “Mrs. Fentiman need have no fears on my account. You can tell her that. I’ll promise you that I’ll eat all the ducks that she, from the goodness of her heart, sends me. Show me to the dining-room, Fentiman, will you, please, even though there’s foul play on this occasion.”
When Anthony had finished the repast that Mrs. Fentiman had set in front of him he knew that, from one point of view at least, his stay at the “Tracy Arms” would be entirely satisfactory. He took his time over his meal and at four o’clock set out for the Forsyth bungalow. He was careful to see that when he left the house of the Fentimans he was unobserved. He arranged that neither Fentiman nor his wife saw which direction he took. But all the same he realized that it was going to prove an extremely difficult matter for him to keep his real mission secret for any length of time. He would speak to Marriner again about it. All that he intended to do today, as far as Forsyth’s bungalow was concerned, was to look at it from the outside in order that he might get the lie of the land. He thought of the name again. “The Antlers”! Extraordinary thing, that! Surely there must be a significance about this name which, if he could but find it, would assist him to an appreciation and understanding of the truth.
Already he felt inclined to readjust his ideas. For this reason. He had imagined, in the first place, when Major Marriner had informed him of the broken stag found on the floor of the dead man’s room, that the carved figure had been broken because it had served as a place of concealment. In other words, that it had been deliberately smashed for the sake of what it contained, or was supposed to have contained. But now it seemed to him, bearing in mind this fresh piece of evidence concerning Forsyth’s bungalow being known as “The Antlers”, that the true significance might lie in the fact that the carving was in the shape of a stag.
What in the name of goodness could this significance be? According to what Major Marriner had said in his flat, the figure of the stag was a small one. Anthony felt positive that “small” was the adjective which the Major had used. There were obvious limitations, therefore, on the score of size, as to what the carving might have contained.
As he walked on that October afternoon, Anthony turned many things over in his mind. He refused steadily to overlook two most important points with regard to the Forsyth murder. One—there was the distinct possibility that the murderer might still be in possession of the key to the bungalow’s back door, and two—that if the murderer were a strong, powerful man, as the death-blow seemed to prove conclusively that he must be, it would have been a physical impossibility for him to have escaped from the bungalow by climbing through the scullery window! And, conceding this, how then had he made his departure? That was one of the crucial points.
Anthony wanted to look at the building carefully in the hope that his survey might bring him a more reasonable answer to this question. He passed the trimly kept churchyard leading up to a Norman-towered church which to a walker in the road below appeared to be perched precariously at the top of a slope, and began to look out for the third bungalow on the left-hand side of the road which Fentiman had described to him. From what he could see as he approached, it would probably stand a little way back from the roadway.
Anthony walked on steadily. The countryside was entirely unspoiled, with footpaths and bridle tracks branching off in almost all directions. Anthony stopped and looked back. From where he was he could see a line of white cliffs and a fir-topped hill. On every side of him in the lanes grew countless ferns and the adjacent gorselands were stretches of blazing glory. It was difficult indeed to associate this place of charm and beauty with the sense of evil and violent death.
Anthony walked on again. As he came nearer to the Forsyth bungalow, he saw that the road rose considerably and that within his vision came the white sweep of the foam-lined coast. He paused in front of “The Antlers”. From its outward appearance it seemed to be unoccupied and Anthony concluded that Mrs. Forsyth, the dead man’s niece, had found temporary accommodation elsewhere. If this were a fact, it suited his book. He skirted the bungalow on its right-hand side and came round to the back. It was quite accessible, he found. There was a back gate which was obviously customarily kept open. Anthony pushed this gate, which yielded to the impetus, and found himself standing in the garden of “The Antlers”. “If Fentiman could see me now,” he said to himself, “he’d pour himself out another double brandy and port.” He walked quietly up to the back of the building. He could see plainly now how Mrs. Forsyth had stood there on the night of the murder and how Jimmie Ward, the neighbour’s son, had made his somewhat belated entrance through the scullery window. Certainly no full-grown man could have got in that way, and even Ward, the boy, must have been, Mr. Bathurst thought, considerably smaller than the average.
Anthony took stock of his surroundings. The quietness that pervaded the place was extraordinary, and if conditions were like this at this time of the day Anthony could well imagine what it would be like at night. A man could be murdered here in broad daylight and nobody be any the wiser, let alone under conditions of night with its attendant darkness.
Anthony walked across the garden towards the scullery window. It was low, he saw—considerably lower than is usual with scullery windows in bungalows of this size. Had the window been open instead of fastened, Anthony, using his height, would have been able to have seen into the scullery. Any comparatively tall man in the region of six feet would be able to. Anthony fell to thinking. Why had the murderer locked the back door as well, shooting the bolt, and, in that case, how had he got out? There was surely no need for him to go to the trouble that he had, if his sole desire were to obtain possession of the back-door key. And how had he got out? Most puzzling, that. There was one question that he must ask either Mrs. Forsyth or Master James Ward as soon as he could get to grips with one of them.
Suddenly Mr. Bathurst had an idea. His grey eyes gleamed, for the idea had definite possibilities about it and pleased him. He looked round the garden of the bungalow. In the far corner there stood a small tool-shed. Mr. Bathurst went towards it. The door was open. Anthony went in. Within the shed was the usual array of gardening and domestic appliances. A mangle, several deck-chairs, a number of boxes, a length of hose-pipe on a wheel, twine and rope, a pair of steps, a rake, spades, a gardening-fork, two hoes, a trowel, with various cans and empty bottles. Anthony noted these contents with extreme satisfaction. First thing tomorrow he would see Major Marriner and arrange to look over these premises. No! More than that. He would get into touch with Marriner when he got back into Upchalke without the people at the “Tracy Arms” being aware of the fact, and ask him to bring Mrs. Forsyth from wherever she might be over to the bungalow.
He carefully looked round the tool-shed again, noted where the various articles were, then closed the door behind him and came out. The idea that had recently come to his brain was already in the process of definite development. An interesting problem—undoubtedly. He was glad that he had promised to look into it—if only for the fact that the investigation had brought him to Upchalke. From the shed he walked across to the back gate, and just as he came to it he heard, to his surprise, the sound of footsteps.
He had taken the risk of coming here, of course, and, in that respect, had but himself to blame, but despite this Mr. Bathurst had a feeling of irritation. He had no wish to be associated with the Forsyth murder case quite as early as this. He waited by the gate, therefore, in the hope that the walker would pass by, but within a second of his stopping a young man came through the opening.
Mr. Bathurst perceived that the young man was not an ordinary young man. Both the pattern and the creases of his striped trousers were distinctly pronounced. The set of his white collar was impeccable. His tie was artistry itself. His black hat, black overcoat, rather long white cuffs and silk handkerchief protruding most correctly from the breast pocket of the overcoat were all that they might or even might not be. The high polish on his shoes reflected the sunshine. As this young man saw Anthony Bathurst standing there, he raised his hat with a gesture that was correctness itself, and Anthony noticed that not a strand of his plentiful jet-black hair, brushed flat back from forehead to the nape of his neck, could justly be said to be out of place.
“Good afternoon, sir,” he said with what seemed to Anthony a strange, almost intimate, eagerness. “Am I right in assuming that this is the bungalow where the late Mr. Forsyth was killed? Or perhaps I should more correctly say—murdered?”
At once he gave the impression 0f being absorbed in what he had said. Even his smile exuded the same sense of intimacy.
“This is the late Mr. Forsyth’s bungalow. Yes.”
“By Jove,” the young man answered, “life’s pretty grim—what? A here-today-and-gone-tomorrow sort of business if ever there were one. Don’t you agree, sir?”
“I suppose it is.” Anthony was a trifle curt. For one thing he was on his guard, and for another he was just a little puzzled. He was unable to place the man to his own satisfaction.
“I suppose I couldn’t look over the place, could I? You see, it’s like this. I used to know old Bob Forsyth pretty well in the old days. Used to work with him up at Easthampton.”
This explanation cleared the air considerably. Anthony saw the position more clearly.
“Oh, really! I see. Well, I’m afraid you won’t be able to look over the place—it’s locked up and there’s nobody here. I strolled in here myself with much the same idea. I happened to be passing, but, as I say, I was destined for disappointment.”
The stranger’s eyes flashed understanding.
“Oh, I say! What a pity! Perhaps we could manage it another time. We’ll try to fix things up, shall we? Are you walking back?”
“Well, I suppose I am.”
“I’ll walk with you, then—if you don’t mind. I feel that I ought to make you an apology. You know—that I ought to explain myself and my presence here a bit more fully. I’ll wager that you’re thinking all these things, even though you won’t admit that you are. Come now, you are, aren’t you?”
Anthony smiled as they retraced their steps along the road that he had recently covered.
“Tell me,” he said with simple directness.
The young man at once gave him smile for smile. Anthony assessed his age at anything between twenty-five and thirty-two.
“My name’s Wilfred Hatherley. I am chief Audit Clerk to the County Borough of Easthampton. It’s a pretty responsible job, you know. I have a staff of seven under me, apart from a comptometer operator. Of course, I’m a fully qualified man. One day I hope to be Borough Treasurer.”
“Why?” demanded Anthony Bathurst.
Mr. Hatherley unhappily missed the point.
“Oh—because there’s quite a reasonable chance of it.”
“I see,” murmured Mr. Bathurst. “That makes a difference, I admit.”
Hatherley commenced to splutter again.
“I’ll tell you all about it. Poor old Bob Forsyth used to be a rate-collector at our place when I was a junior clerk. I knew him well. Even when I was a junior—and I wasn’t a junior very long, let me tell you—I was thought a great deal of. I made a special study of Income Tax. I was always more like a private secretary to the chief than an ordinary junior. Yes, I was thought a great deal of.”
“And about, I expect,” interposed Anthony.
Hatherley again paid no heed to the remark. Oozing self-confidence, he rattled on unconcernedly.
“Well, old Bob Forsyth took a violent fancy to me, and when the time came for him to retire some years ago I was damned sorry to lose him, I can tell you. I used to chaff him that he’d live to be ninety and on several occasions visited him when he was living at Lanning. As far as I knew, he had no relations living, and I was quite surprised to read that his niece by marriage was residing with him down here at Upchalke. I happened to read that in the newspapers, you see.”
He cocked a critical eye at Anthony almost as though he desired him to challenge the veracity of the remark.
“I presumed as much,” declared Mr. Bathurst.
“Well, to cut a long story short, the news of poor old Bob’s murder came as a rare shock to me and to all of us who knew him in the Easthampton service, and as I still had two or three days leave, due to me” (he pronounced it “leaf”) “I thought I’d pop down here, have a look at things generally, and in doing so pay a sort of last tribute to the dear old boy’s memory.”
Anthony demurred a trifle. “In that case, might I suggest, Mr. Hatherley, that you have left this duty visit of yours rather late? It’s over three weeks since your old colleague was murdered. It was on October 3rd, to be exact.”
But Wilfred Hatherley was far from being dismayed at Mr. Bathurst’s statement.
“I know,” he cried, “none better. But you see, sir—you haven’t told me who you are yet, by the way—on October 3rd I was away on my annual summer leave. I was in Madeira—I went on one of the special cruises—and never troubled to look at a newspaper. When I got back to the Town Hall on Monday, that’s the Easthampton Town Hall—I did tell you that I was at Easthampton, didn’t I?—I was met with the terrible news of poor old Bob Forsyth’s murder. Now do you see, sir?”
For the time being, at least, Anthony ignored the broad hint that had come from Hatherley concerning the question of his identity. Hatherley, however, didn’t seem to notice the omission, for he continued to talk.
“As it was, the accounts that I got of the affair, from the various people in the service at Easthampton, were more or less garbled, as you might say, and really unreliable, and beyond the fact that Bob Forsyth was found stabbed or something by this semi-niece of his, one evening, in his room way back there, I know very little. Tell me, sir, did the poor fellow suffer much, do you think?”
Anthony thought that Hatherley appeared to be genuinely concerned over the ex-rate-collector’s fate.
“We will trust not,” said Anthony Bathurst gravely. “From the accounts that I read in the various papers, there seems to have been a short, sharp struggle in the room and eventually Forsyth was killed by a weapon of some kind being thrust through his chest. When that took place, I should say that there’s little doubt his death must have been almost instantaneous.”
Hatherley screwed up his eyes as though querying something that Mr. Bathurst had said.
“I am sorry to hear what you say. A struggle, eh? Do I take it that the police found definite evidence in the room that pointed to a struggle?”
Anthony nodded acquiescence. “Oh yes, there’s no doubt on that point either. I understand too, from two or three of the newspaper reports of the case that I read, that the old man’s mouth had been rather badly cut—by a heavy blow of some kind evidently. Possibly from the murderer’s fist. In fact, this blow was so severe that one of Forsyth’s front teeth was loosened and was actually hanging from the gum when Mr. Forsyth found him.”
Hatherley, to Anthony’s intense surprise, stopped dead in his tracks and turned towards him with sharp abruptness. There was a strange, almost fierce, look in his eyes.
“What?” he cried. “Say that again.”
Anthony, mystified in the extreme by Hatherley’s action, repeated his previous statement. Hatherley’s eyes still shone with bright excitement.
“I must take a grip on myself,” he cried, almost wildly, “or else I shall begin to lose control. But there’s a screw loose somewhere in this story that you’ve just told me, and a very serious screw at that, sir. Because my old colleague, Bob Forsyth, hadn’t a natural tooth in his head. I know for a fact that he had his teeth extracted two or three years before he retired.”
CHAPTER IV
THE PLAYERS ASSEMBLE
Something seemed to be stretched taut in Mr. Bathurst’s brain. This audit clerk from the County Borough of Easthampton had been sent to him, he concluded, from heaven above, as manna from the very skies. For the moment he was still undecided as to whether to declare his real identity or not. He came to a rapid decision to continue to hold his incognito. He also, by a strong effort, collected his thoughts, which had bolted in many directions. If this man Hatherley had stumbled into an even more mysterious problem than he had hitherto anticipated. Mr. Bathurst decided to finesse.
“I am afraid that I don’t quite follow you, Mr. Hatherley,” he contented himself with saying. “If you imply that this dead Forsyth cannot be the Forsyth whom you knew—well, it’s manifestly impossible, isn’t it? Or is it?”
Hatherley’s face showed that his mind was working with quick emotion.
“That’s just what I’m trying to work out,” he answered. “I’m as bewildered as you are. Don’t you understand that as Chief Audit Clerk to the Easthampton Authority it touches me professionally? I can tell you at once that to my way of thinking the whole affair’s damned serious.”
“I agree,” returned Mr. Bathurst dryly. “Especially for the unfortunate Forsyth.”
Hatherley muttered strange and uninteresting words to himself.
“What puzzles me,” Anthony heard him say—“what puzzles me is the matter of the Life Certificate. How in the name of goodness—” He paused abruptly.
