Anthony broke in. “Delaney, I presume, regarded the ‘Peacock’s Eye’ as his own personal spoils?”
“Not at all,” replied Sir Matthew stiffly and with a distinct touch of frigidity. “We were brother-officers—it was a case of share and share alike—not only the ‘spoils’ as you call it, but the ‘bright eyes of danger,’ too. We drew lots for the stone. Strangely enough, Delaney was the winner. As far as I know he kept the stone till his death. It was a gorgeous gem—exactly similar in shape to the ‘eye’ of a peacock’s tail. Worth thousands—but Dan never realised on it. He kept it for its dazzling beauty—he was Irish—an idealist.” He glared at Anthony. “That’s all. Now it’s your turn. Tell me what you know about Lal Singh! You staggered me just now. You knocked me all of a heap.”
“I am quite prepared to believe that, Sir Matthew—but there is no magic about it. The explanation, like most explanations, is perfectly simple. Have you ever met Miss Kerr—Miss Delaney’s old nurse?”
“Many a time,” chuckled Sir Matthew; “you mean ‘Pinkie’?”
“I believe that is the nickname by which she is, perhaps, even better known. I met her at ‘Rest Harrow’ the other day, when we were first investigating the circumstances of Miss Delaney’s death. She told rather an extraordinary story. I should like your considered opinion on it. She states that about a month ago an Indian called upon Miss Delaney, at her home in Tranfield—calling himself Lal Singh. He asked for Colonel Delaney and informed her that he was the Colonel’s old servant. He was unaware of the Colonel’s death. Or said he was—that possibly is a more accurate version!”
“What?” roared Sir Matthew. “Lal Singh here in Westhamptonshire. That tale won’t hold water. It’s incredible—it’s amazing—” He spluttered in his attempt to find suitable words to express his rejection.
“I can take it then,” intervened Anthony, “that Lal Singh did not extend his visit to you?”
“To me? Good gracious, Mr. Bathurst—of course not! Lal Singh indeed! I haven’t set eyes on Lal Singh for over thirty years, as I told you. What on earth gives you that extraordinary idea?”
“‘Pinkie’ Kerr is under the impression that he announced to Miss Delaney his intention of so doing,” said Anthony, gravely.
“Good God, sir—you astound me—dear, dear—dear, dear!”
It was obvious that Sir Matthew was extremely perturbed.
“He certainly inquired after you,” proceeded Anthony, “and also after the late Major Desmond Carruthers.”
“Well—I’m damned—I suppose there’s no possible doubt about this rigmarole, Mr. Bathurst? You’re sure in your own mind that ‘Pinkie’ Kerr isn’t giving way to a little romancing?”
“Her evidence is entirely uncorroborated—obviously—her mistress is dead—Lal Singh has disappeared. At the same time—” He paused.
“Well?” demanded Sir Matthew vehemently. “What?”
“It would be a remarkable story for her to invent,” said Mr. Bathurst with a shrug of the shoulders. “Don’t you think so?”
“Let me come to the point, then. What do you make of it?”
“That we are in very deep waters, Sir Matthew! Sheila Delaney has been the victim of one of the most cunning and cold-blooded crimes of the century and it’s going to take me all my time to bring her assassin to justice. There’s a big difference between suspecting a man and proving his guilt. There’s a big difference, also, between knowing a man’s guilt and proving it.”
Sir Matthew glared at him—his cold blue eyes full of purpose. But Mr. Bathurst gave him back an equally unwavering stare.
“I quite appreciate what you say,” said the old man eventually; “I appreciate it to the full.”
“By the way, Sir Matthew, there is one more point before I go. Perhaps you would be good enough to enlighten me? Can you remember the Westhampton Hunt Ball—a year ago last February?”
“Certainly I can. I was present—naturally.”
“Good—I was expecting you to say that. Now tell me this. Was the Crown Prince of Clorania present?” Mr. Bathurst watched him keenly and carefully. So much depended upon the exact terms of the answer. It came quickly.
“I have always understood so! His Royal Highness preserved his ‘incognito,’ it is true, but as far as I know he was most certainly there.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“Of course. Most assuredly. I was introduced to him by Desmond Carruthers.”
“I see. Please think carefully. For this question is most important. Did you at any time during the evening of the ball see the Crown Prince in conversation with or dancing with Sheila Delaney?”
The Lord Lieutenant knitted his brows. Then he began to shake his head negatively. “No—I can’t remember that. Sheila at that time was flying round with young Alan Warburton. I can distinctly remember him being there. No! I can’t remember her with the Crown Prince.”
“Thank you. You mentioned Alan Warburton. I’ve had the pleasure of meeting him. I understand that there was a likelihood once, we will say, of an engagement between him and Miss Delaney?”
“That is so, most certainly!”
“Now Sir Matthew—can you tell me this? Did the Westhampton Hunt Ball that we have been discussing coincide pretty closely with the ‘Mutual Bank’ scandal and the arrest and suicide of Sir Felix Warburton? Can you tell me that?”
“It did, Mr. Bathurst,” replied Sir Matthew grimly. “Not merely ‘pretty closely’ but absolutely. Sir Felix committed suicide on the very day that the ball took place.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Bathurst. “I rather fancy that my case is nearly complete.”
Chapter XXII
Gallant Mr. Bathurst
He rose. Sir Matthew Fullgarney’s face was a strange mixture of mystification and inclination towards asperity.
“Really,” he volunteered with a
