Brian Flynn
1885-1958
An author and an accountant in government service, a lecturer in elocution and speech, an amateur actor. He wrote fifty four crime novels featuring Anthony Bathurst.
Chapter I
The Hunt Ball at Westhampton
The foot-fascinating strains of the Red Ruritanian Band died gently away—to commence again after a short interval just as exquisitely. The Hunt Ball at Westhampton was the outstanding event of the season and this year it had exceeded all past successes and even present anticipations. It was actually honoured, so it was whispered, with the presence of Royalty—which interesting fact although not announced publicly or even hinted at in the Press—was nevertheless an open secret to at least half-a-dozen of the most influential people present. Life in the Midlands is a very different proposition from life in London or in the residential neighbourhoods that are within that great city’s reasonable range. Social distinctions mean very much more—there is the sharply-defined cleavage of class-determined very often by “County” prejudice—a line of division against which there is little or no chance of struggling with any degree of success.
The Westhampton Hunt Ball represented all that was select, some of what was superior, and most of what was supercilious in the county of Westhamptonshire. There had been fears, and recent fears at that, that this year’s Ball might possibly be held under a shaddow. But happily for the peace of mind of Westhampton, this shadow had been partially lifted from the town. The affair of th e”Mutual Bank” frauds that had at one time seriously threatened to involve more than one of the most exclusive County families in an upheaval that would have resulted in their financial ruin, had been brilliantly handled by those in charge of the case and the final crash triumphantly averted—with the sensational arrest of Sir Felix Warburton, one of the Bank’s most important directors. Whereat the more distinguished portion of Westhampton—albeit shocked and startled—breathed freely again and welcomed its Annual Ball with all its accustomed avidity.
On the February evening in question the Red Ruritanian Band was in its most scintillating form, and beautiful women piloted by bronzed men—sun-tanned and wind-tanned and released for the time-being from the accustomed lilt of the galloping feet of horses—swept round what was unanimously acclaimed as a perfect floor, on twinkling toes and endeavoured with the assurance of the expert dancer, to do it the strictest justice.
Sir Matthew Fullgarney, Lord Lieutenant of the County made his way bustlingly from the refreshment-room specially reserved for the more distinguished guests, and brushed his perfectly trimmed white moustache with a gesture that betokened complacent satisfaction. Then he courteously waved his hand to the smaller of two men who were at that moment passing him.
“Good evening, Major! Wonderfully fine show this evening—what?”
The man addressed smiled a reply as he walked by with his companion.
“Who’s that Carruthers is trotting round with him to-night, Pauline?” asked Sir Matthew, turning to his charming young wife—“can’t seem to place him at all!”
Lady Fullgarney turned interestedly, and threw a quick glance at the two retreating figures. “I don’t think I know,” she answered—with a slow shake of the head—“the man’s a perfect stranger to me—I feel certain.”
Sir Matthew growled unintelligibly—he always liked a satisfactory reply to any question that it pleased him in his wisdom to ask. He felt that any failure to supply this satisfaction savoured of disrespect to him. But on this occasion he suffered Lady Fullgarney to lead him back again to the ballroom—to be flattering himself very soon that he was cutting as fine a figure as any man present despite the annoying fact that his question remained unanswered. Meanwhile, the Chief Constable—Major Carruthers—was entertaining the subject of Sir Matthew’s curiosity in the refreshment-room that the Lord Lieutenant had so recently, and it must be admitted—regretfully—left. Sir Matthew had a discerning taste in more than one direction.
“Your health, Major Carruthers!” said a tall man—raising his glass. Carruthers bowed and looked across at him with a certain measure of criticism, perhaps—but nevertheless approvingly. “Glad you came to-night?” he questioned.
The man addressed emptied the glass deliberately and took his time before replying. No doubt he was accustomed to have people wait upon his words.
“Yes—and no,” he answered. “These things, of course, make some sort of an appeal—it would be idle to pretend otherwise—yet I can’t help feeling that they are what I may term counterfeit. They represent the shadow rather than the substance of Life. They lie far apart, for instance, from my own destiny and work.” He put down his glass.
Carruthers smiled, “I think I know what you mean. Like you, I am primarily, I suppose, a man of action. The open spaces are to me the places that count most. Yet I find time to appreciate this sort of thing intensely. There is a joyousness about it all that sets something in me going in vivid response—perhaps you don’t experience it.”
His companion shook his head, “Only to a degree,” he admitted.
The Major laughed at the cautiousness of the reply. “I suspect that’s all you feel inclined to admit—your somewhat peculiar position with regard to Society has given you what I’ll call a bias—a warp perhaps would be a better description.” He half turned impetuously in his chair—then gave a sudden exclamation. “Pardon me a moment,” he said, and rising quickly walked to a table that stood some distance away on the other side of the room.
The tall man turned and watched him a little lazily perhaps, as he made his way across. A girl rose to greet him..her hand outstretched impulsively. Then she turned and indicated her escort shyly—yet prettily. The man who had been left behind discarded his indolent mood and saw Major Carruthers bow with an almost studied dignity. Then his eyes—keen and alert now—swept back to the girl who had first engaged the Chief Constable’s attention. It did not take him long to appreciate her beauty—of a type as unusual as it was outstanding. Wonderful auburn hair—the true Burne-Jones tint—crowned a
