The Mystery of the Peacock's Eye

Warburton—and the mysterious “Mr. X.” (B) Present at “Cassandra” when compromising photograph was taken—Alexis—Daphne—Captain Willoughby—“? Mr. X.” (C) Present at Seabourne at the time of the actual tragedy—Alexis—Sheila—Daphne—Alan Warburton—Captain Willoughby—“? Mr. X.”? Is “Mr. X.” one of these? If so, which one? Or is he another person altogether? A curious point how certain names are like a certain type of decimals—they keep recurring. (D) Sheila is deliberately shrouded under Daphne’s identity and provided with her suit-case—why? Arrangements are made in Daphne’s name—and that luggage is deliberately substituted—again why? (E) Sheila is poisoned at a dentist’s of all places. (F) “Pinkie” and Alan Warburton are agreed that there came a lover into her life. When exactly? Crown Prince? Mr. X? (G) Whose was the mysterious correspondence referred to by “Pinkie” Kerr? Who was the ardent horticulturalist that wrote concerning the beauty of the Iris? (H) Who wrote Branston’s address on the back of Alan Warburton’s visiting-card—Sheila herself, Warburton—or another? (I) Why did Sheila want the “Peacock’s Eye” on that particular day? (J) What is Lal Singh to do with the picture? Does he really fit in at all? (K) Colonel Dan drowned—Major Carruthers killed whilst motoring—Mrs. Delaney dead—Sheila murdered—is it just a line of coincidences or a sequence of intention? (L) Why exactly did the murderer, murderess, or murderers return post-hast to Tanfield? What did they want if they had the “Peacock’s Eye”? Anthony twisted the top of his fountain-pen round and round and smiled grimly. It was a smile that boded no good for a very clever criminal. Anthony Bathurst had formed certain conclusions. He added another heading. (M) Did Stark (E. Kingsley Stark) know Sir Felix Warburton? He spent another quarter of an hour or so studying his list then folded it carefully and placed it in his pocket. He looked at his watch, obtained his hat and stick from the stand outside the door of the smoke-room and sauntered to the front entrance of the hotel. The porter knew Crossley Road very well. He would assist Mr. Bathurst! Mr. Bathurst should follow the tram-lines, turn round by the “Ram and Raven,” pass the statue of Doctor Harvey, and he would see that Crossley Road was the first turning on the left. Mr. Bathurst accepted the instructions with a charming thankfulness and sallied forth. For the moment he had left the main question of Sheila Delaney’s murder. As Bannister had implied the day before—he was taking a rest—partly. But he had a shrewd idea at the back of his clever brain that the half-holiday would not prove completely unprofitable. He turned down Crossley Road and was not long before he stood in front of Number 19. In response to his knock a rather slatternly woman appeared at the door. She eyed Mr. Bathurst with a disfavour that she took no pains to conceal. Which fact mattered but little to him. Mr. Bathurst always appeared to be supremely unconscious of little incidents of that kind.

“Mr. Warburton?” she echoed his request. “Yes, he’s in. Would you be wantin’ him?” she added unnecessarily.

“Naturally,” smiled Mr. Bathurst. “That was why I asked for him.”

The lady scowled ungraciously, but Mr. Bathurst could be as charming to scowls as he could be to “wreathed smiles.”

“What name shall I say?” she demanded more churlishly than ever.

“Say Mr. Bannister’s assistant.”

The lady disappeared with the mendacious information and left Mr. Bathurst kicking his heels outside the front door. Within a few minutes she returned.

“You’re to come upstairs,” she announced with the air of one bestowing the greatest of favours. “Mr. Warburton says as how he’ll see you.”

Anthony ascended the unpretentious staircase and was shown into a sitting-room that had seen a good many better days.

“Well, my inquisitive friend”—such was the manner of Mr. Warburton’s greeting—“to what particular strain of damned curiosity am I indebted for the honour of this visit?”

Anthony waved a deprecating hand. “I beg of you, Mr. Warburton, I beg of you! Do not, please, mistake your man. It would grieve me enormously if you were to do that, and I fear that my recovery from that grief would be extremely tardy. Let me assure you that I have no official connection whatever with the Police. Rest easy on that point.”

Warburton stared at him—incredulity and wonderment struggling to find expression. “What the hell do you mean?”

“Precisely what I say. I do not come from the Police.”

“What were you doing then with Bannister yesterday, eh?”

Again Mr. Bathurst raised a mildly protesting hand. “Ah! there we do meet on more appropriate terms. I will tell you, Mr. Warburton. I am watching the case on behalf of His Royal Highness Alexis, Crown Prince of Clorania. Does that surprise you? My name is Anthony Bathurst.”

Warburton sprang to his feet—furious with anger. “Then get out of here,” he cried. “As quickly as you know how or—” He stopped irresolutely.

Mr. Bathurst, as has been observed more than once, was always very fit—thank you, and Mr. Warburton was intelligent enough to note the fact. One glance at the lithe and muscular six feet length of body was ample for him in which to arrive at his conclusions.

“I think not,“said Mr. Bathurst, sweetly—as sweetly as he knew how, which is considerably so. “And I’ll tell you why, Mr. Warburton, in case you don’t know.” There was no sweetness in his tone now—rather a grim menace. “Have you ever heard of the Princess Imogena of Natalia?”

“What do you mean?” muttered Warburton.

“I was called into this case, Mr. Warburton, before it assumed the tragic aspect that unhappily it has now.” He took a bundle of letters from his pocket. “Your handwriting, I fancy!” he held one out to Alan Warburton.

The latter’s lower lip dropped as he gazed at the letter sullenly. “There’s no need for you to answer,” said Anthony, “your face betrays you.” Warburton remained obstinately silent. “There’s no fifty thousand pounds for you this journey, my young friend—you may be housed rather as a guest of His Majesty.”

“It’s of no consequence to me now—you