Half an hour’s brisk walking brought him to Dovaston Court and he quickly covered the length of the sweeping drive that took him to the front entrance.
“Sir Matthew Fullgarney is expecting you, sir,” said the dignified personage whose duty it was to admit him, “if you will be good enough to step this way?”
Anthony followed his imposing guide down a hall with a beautifully-polished floor into a sumptuously furnished room. A magnificent tiger-skin rug lay in prominent position as he entered, while the walls were somewhat lavishly decorated perhaps, with many and varied trophies of the chase.
“I will tell Sir Matthew that you have arrived, sir. Please sit down,” The personage departed. Anthony accepted the suggestion whimsically. He wondered if he looked as though he had been sufficiently impressed. Smiling to himself, semi-cynically, he surveyed his immediate surroundings approvingly. Then he settled himself to await patiently the distinguished gentleman to whom he had written and whom he had come with express purpose to see. He was not kept waiting long. The Lord Lieutenant of the County entered—caressing his white moustache in the grand manner. Anthony rose and bowed to him, and at the same time was conscious that two fierce blue eyes were regarding him unwaveringly.
“I have your letter, Mr.—er—”
“Bathurst,” interjected Anthony hopefully.
“Ah—yes—that’s it. Bathurst! I am Sir Matthew Fullgarney himself. I understand from the contents of the letter that you wish to see me—to see me personally. You go even further than that, I observe—you assert that it is important. Damn it, sir—for the life of me, I can’t imagine why you want to see me. Have I ever met you before?”
“Never, Sir Matthew. And the loss has been mine—I fully realise that.” Anthony smiled his reply.
Sir Matthew grunted. “Sit down then and say what you have to say. Please don’t beat about the bush. I hate to have to listen to a farrago of words—two-thirds of which are usually entirely—er—redundant—er—tautological—er—er unnecessary.” He blew his nose fiercely—intending it no doubt as an imposing battery of support.
“You will not find me wearisome, I hope,” returned Anthony. “I will state my case in as few words as I possibly can. I have called to see you in reference to the ‘Seabourne Mystery’—the murder of Sheila Delaney—a young lady with whom I believe you were not unacquainted?”
“A terrible affair, Mr. Bathurst,” interposed Sir Matthew. “A truly shocking affair. It has disturbed me profoundly. It has upset me more than I can say. But you asked me a question, which I have not yet answered. I knew Sheila Delaney very well. Also, I was very much attached to her.”
“Am I right in assuming that you also knew her father—the late Colonel Delaney?” Anthony’s question came curt and crisp.
“You are quite right. I should think I did. None better. Dan Delaney and I were almost inseparables forty odd years ago. He and I—and Desmond Carruthers—got into as many scrapes and damned well got out of ’em too—as any three junior officers of the British Army ever did. By Gad! Mr. Bathurst, they were stirring times and no mistake. Times that we shall never see the like of again—worse luck. Now poor old Dan and all his family have gone—and the last in such a terrible way, too. A tragedy—there’s no denying it.” He paused and the fierceness of his expression softened a trifle as he meditated over the poor girl’s untimely and tragic end.
“What you have just said brings me to another question,” exclaimed Anthony.
“What may that be?”
“Have you ever heard during your association either with the late Colonel Delaney or with his daughter any mention of a very valuable jewel—rejoicing, I believe, under the somewhat fantastic ‘sobriquet’ of the ‘Peacock’s Eye’?”
Sir Matthew Fullgarney sprang to his feet. Anthony Bathurst felt the two steel-blue eyes of his host glaring at him relentlessly. “‘The Peacock’s Eye’? What in hell do you know about the ‘Peacock’s Eye’?”
Anthony suffered this rather surprising outburst with complete equanimity. He had always possessed the tactful gift of making allowances.
“Not a lot, Sir Matthew. Very little, in fact. But enough to cause me to come to ask you for more. I have strong reason to believe that Miss Delaney was murdered for possession of the ‘Peacock’s Eye’!”
Sir Matthew bordered upon the apoplectic. “God bless my soul—do you realise what you are saying? How could Sheila Delaney have had the ‘Peacock’s Eye’ in her possession? It’s too ridiculous for words, sir! What the—?” Sir Matthew fumed into aggressive speechlessness.
“Not so ridiculous as it may appear upon the surface, Sir Matthew. Please listen to what I have to say.” he waved the Lord Lieutenant of Westhamptonshire to a seat again, for Mr. Bathurst had a way with him. Sir Matthew obeyed the gesture but glowered at Mr. Bathurst as though his suggestion had been completely unspeakable. Anthony took up his recital again. “According to the evidence of Mr. E. Kingsley Stark, the present manager of the Westhampton branch of the Mutual Bank, Miss Delaney took the stone known as the ‘Peacock’s
