A 514344


PROPERTY O
University of
Michigan
Libraries,
ARTES SCIENTIA .VERITAS








ENGLAND long ago nominated
Anthony Bathurst as the logical suc-
cessor of the immortal Sherlock Holmes
-and American mystery' fans are be-
ginning to take up the chorus. This
extraordinary gentleman has already
solved such well-known crimes as THE
CASE OF THE BLACK TWENTY-TWO, THE
BILLIARD-ROOM MYSTERY, THE MURDERS.
NEAR MAPLETON, etc. Here he is again
in one of the most unusual and exciting
mystery stories ever published. You
will enjoy
THE SPIKED LION
AN ANTHONY BATHURST STORY
. By
BRIAN FLYNN





THE SPIKED LION


ALSO BY BRIAN FLYNN
THE MYSTERY OF THE PEACOCK'S EYE
THE CRIME AT THE CROSSWAYS
THE MURDERS NEAR MAPLETON
THE BILLIARD-ROOM MYSTERY
THE CASE OF TAE BLACK 22
MURDER EN ROUTE



THE
SPIKE I
LION
An Anthony Bathurst St
by
BRIAN FLYNN
MACRAE • SMITH • COMPA
PHILADELPHIA • PUBLISH


First published in the United States of America, 1934
Fan Edition
V
Manufactured in
the U. & A.





CHAPTER I
THE DEAD MAN ON THE GRASS
The Commissioner of Police turned in his chair and picked
up the telephone receiver. He frowned in accompaniment;
it was a frown that was unpleasant and vindictive. When
Sir Austin Mostyn Kemhle trafficked in frowns of this
nature, those at the "Yard" were excessively careful to
mind their step and watch points.
"Send Mr. Bathurst up at once," said the Commis-
sioner with peremptory emphasis. "I'm ready for him
immediately."
Anthony Bathurst came to him, smiled, and put his hat
on the corner of the desk that fronted Sir Austin.
"Morning, Sir Austin. What's the latest spot of
bother? Head, gout, or just the ' Yard'?"
Sir Austin turned gloomy attention to the hat's owner.
He was not in the mood for dalliance. a The trouble over
which I desire to consult you, my dear Bathurst," he re-
marked testily, " concerns me officially. That is to say, as
Commissioner of Police. Had it been to do with my—er—
physical self, I should have hesitated about dragging you
into it, much as I respect your ability. Anyhow, sit down.
Take that chair over there."
Mr. Bathurst was dutifully obedient. "May I help
myself to a cigarette?"


8
THE SPIKED LION
"Of course, of course. Now listen. I want you to
assess the facts that I am going to give you as carefully
as you possibly can. When I've finished giving them to
you, I shall call upon you to give me an immediate expres-
sion of opinion. Understand? An immediate expression
of opinion. The years of experience that, happily, are
mine, have taught me to rely more or less on first impres-
sions."
"They are often the best, I admit," murmured Mr.
Bathurst; "but it would be unwise to exalt them in a
statement that went beyond that. Well?"
The testiness in Sir Austin's tone gradually gave way
to gravity. "First of all," he declared, " I will deal with
the extraordinary case of John Pender Blundell."
Mr. Bathurst caressed his chin. The significance of
the movement was not lost upon Sir Austin.
"Heard of him?"
"M'm. The name's familiar, certainly. Just trying to
pick up the threads. They will come to me in a second or
so. Still, never mind me—go on. Amongst other accom-
plishments, I can think and listen at the same time. When
I get the connection for which I'm groping, I'll signal."
Anthony grinned. Sir Austin always had on him an
effect which approximated an inordinate cheerfulness;
there was no other man quite like the Commissioner in this
respect, with the possible exception of Inspector Baddeley
of the Sussex Constabulary.
"What I am about to say should assist you materially.
If you want to stop me to ask me anything, don't hesi-
tate."
The Commissioner leaned a little farther forward in his


10
THE SPIKED LION
T
;
house one morning, didn't he, and hasn't been seen since?
Am I right?"
Sir Austin's reply was delayed. When it came it was
startling. “Almost—not quite. He was found in the
early hours of this morning.” The Commissioner drummed
on his desk with his finger-tips. Anthony Bathurst, stung
into acuter interest, looked at him with sharp enquiry.
“Where?”
- “In Bushey Park.”
Again Bathurst came in, rapid, insistent. “Wander-
ing, do you mean? Loss of memory? "
Sir Austin shook his head in grave denial. “Worse
than that, my dear Bathurst. Perhaps I misled you.
The body of Blundell was found in Bushey Park. Dead
as a doornail. Moreover, had been dead some days, the
doctor says.”
Anthony stared. There was no levity now in any part
of him; there was, on the other hand, work in front of
him. He was once again harnessed to the chariot of Jus-
tice. “How?"
“Well, that's rather peculiar. Poison. Sugden says
cyanide of potassium. Been sprayed up the poor fellow's
nostrils. But there are other extraordinary features of
the affair."
“ Such as ...?"
Sir Austin drew a paper towards him. “ Fractured
skull, three ribs and one leg broken. Tibia splintered,
Sugden says. Body one mass of bruises, and a peculiar
jagged slash down the right cheek.”
Mr. Bathurst's stare developed. " Seems all wrong to
mesomewhere, sir. Like so many of these cases do when


THE DEAD MAN ON THE GRASS 11
you first start attacking them. Where exactly in Bushey
Park was the body found? On a path? Near a seat?
Beneath trees? On the grass? Tell me, please."
"On a stretch of grass beneath one of the biggest trees.
I've a plan here. Look at it for yourself."
Bathurst took the paper that Sir Austin passed over to
him. "Whose image and superscription is this?"
"An old friend of yours perpetrated that—MacMor-
ran. He went along to the spot directly we got the news
through. Chatterton went with him. You see, we'd
combed the country for Blundell for a fortnight. Never
picked up the slightest trace of him anywhere. He seemed
to have vanished into thin air. Till this morning."
Anthony, after a moment's examination, pushed the
plan back to the Commissioner. "Thanks, Sir Austin.
That's no end of a help to me. MacMorran's an artist.
The lines are hard and clear. When I see him I shall have
to compliment him upon his versatility. Well?"
Sir Austin Kemble was hesitant. Bathurst watched
him silently. Several seconds elapsed. It seemed that
Sir Austin was turning something over in his mind.
Eventually the Commissioner broke the silence.
"What do you mean exactly by ' well'?" •
Anthony grinned at him sympathetically. "Tell me
the rest."
The Commissioner chose his words. ?' You must under-
stand that we identified Blundell this morning entirely
from what I will call 'physical' evidence. There was
nothing on him, for instance, that gave his identity.
His features—his height . . . ycfu understand what
I mean? The suit that he wore was bought from a London


12
THE SPIKED LION
tailor—not, for example, from anybody in the neighbor-
hood of Brighton or Hayward's Heath. There were no
papers, letters or documents of any kind found in any of
his pockets. But we had three photographs of him that
had been supplied to us by his nephew two or three days
after Blundell had first been reported missing, and thus
we were enabled to establish the necessary identification.
But . . . and here I come to the interesting—almost
vital—point. In the lower left-hand pocket of the dead
man's vest MacMorran discovered a small, crumpled piece
of paper. A fragment of creased and folded notepaper—
the ordinary stuff that can be purchased from any sta-
tioner. On it there were a few words written in pencil—
very much rubbed by the passage of time, as you may well
imagine, and, as a result, almost illegible. You shall en-
deavor to read them and make of them what you can. To
me they seem fantastic, to say the least. Still, here's the
piece of paper in question. Let's hear your views on it."
Anthony Bathurst extended his hand for the tiny frag-
ment of notepaper. The writing, as Sir Austin had
stated, was faint, bordering closely on a condition of
erasure. Bathurst smoothed the paper out very carefully
and took it to the light. After a time of examination, he
turned to Sir Austin.
"I'll read it as I see it.:
"To-night I heard that crackling voice use those same
strange words that I have heard twice before in this house.
But the animal is not normal, it is spiked, and remember,
too . . . Wing . . ."


MACMORRAN CONTRIBUTES SOMETHING 15
"I think you're right, sir. Who put the case in your
hands? In the first instance, I mean."
"The dead man's nephew—the missing man's nephew,
as he was then. By name, Hugh Guest. He and his sister
lived with Blundell. I had a lengthy interview with him.
Young Guest's still up at Oxford. Intends, so he told me,
to come down next December, at the end of the Michael-
mas Term. At the moment, owing to the special circum-
stances, the Varsity authorities have allowed him an ex-
tended leave."
Mr. Bathurst thrust his hands into his pockets and
stared at the telephone. Sir Austin embraced discretion.
He allowed the stare full latitude. A question from
Bathurst was his reward.
"Is MacMorran handy, sir? If so, I'd like a word with
him. If not, I'll ask you to"
"Unless something's turned up he should be accessible.
He was in here with me just before you arrived. We'll see.
I'll send for him."
The Commissioner was as good as his word. MacMor-
ran appeared, a little perturbed, perhaps, at this second
summons from the "old man" coming so soon after its
predecessor. His eyes falling on Anthony Bathurst, how-
ever, the perturbation was dissipated. He and Bathurst
had hunted before in double harness. "There were
amateurs," he was wont to say, " and amateurs."
"Cheer-o, MacMorran," Anthony greeted him.
The Inspector extended his big hand. "How do you
do, sir? Pleased to see you again."
Sir Austin took the reins. "Er—sit 'down, MacMor-
ran. We want to ask you a question or two. Concerning


16
THE SPIKED LION
this Blundell murder. There are one or two things that
are not quite clear. Go ahead, Bathurst."
"I understand that you found nothing in Blundell's
pockets, MacMorran, with the exception of this crumpled
piece of notepaper? No money, letters, keys, papers or
anything?"
"That's so, Mr. Bathurst."
"Who examined them first of all? 5Tou or Constable
Chatter ton?"
"I did."
"Good. Now tell me. Would you say, from what you
saw during that examination, that the dead man's pockets
had been deliberately emptied and that this creased piece
of paper had been left behind because it had been acci-
dentally overlooked?"
The Inspector's eyes glinted. "That's exactly what I
should say, Mr. Bathurst. I'll go further. I'll say, too,
that there's precious little doubt about it. That creased
piece was left behind because it escaped somebody's notice.
Whoever murdered Blundell intended that nothing should
be found on him. I'll tell you why. The quality of that
notepaper is poor. It's the cheapest stuff. It rubs easily.
In a little while, for instance, it would crumble through
ordinary friction and almost rub itself out of existence.
It had worked itself tight in a corner of the pocket where
I found it. Like a little pill, it was, sir. That would be a
better description. Does that help you, sir, in any way
at all?"
"I think it does, MacMorran. Immensely. Thank
you. Now tell me something else. What did you make of
the dead man's bodily injuries? I'm a little puzzled. Why


MACMORRAN CONTRIBUTES SOMETHING 17
poison a man and knock him about as well? I'd like your
views on that, Inspector."
"Well, Mr. Bathurst, Dr. Sugden's final autopsy hasn't
come through yet. Unless, of course, Sir Austin has had
it without my knowledge."
His statement bordered on the interrogative. The Com-
missioner nodded briskly. "I only know what the doctor
has reported to me. That Blundell was murdered by
poison. Cyanide of potassium. Administered through
the nostrils."
"Now, MacMorran," supplemented Bathurst, "your
own ideas. What are they? Never mind for the moment
what you have just heard."
"Blundell was set upon by a gang, I should have said.
Enticed into a house somewhere and robbed of something
that the gang badly wanted. Either money or something
else that we don't know about. They were afraid to dis-
pose of the body until the hue and cry had died down a
bit. Not very satisfying, perhaps, but that's as near as
I can get to it."
"What about that piece of paper you found in the
pocket? How are you going to explain that? Was this
gang of yours attached to a menagerie?"
MacMorran grinned. "I wasn't doubting you'd arrange
that I'd run into something of that kind. All the
same "He broke off significantly with a shrug of
the shoulders.
"Well?"
"Well, things aren't always what they seem, and be-
cause of that you can't jump to conclusions. When things
are dark it's difficult to explain points which afterwards


18
THE SPIKED LION
almost melt away, as one might say. How do you look
at things yourself, Mr. Bathurst?"
Anthony shook his head. "Not looking yet, MacMor-
ran, by a long shot. Just glancing furtively here and
there—and hardly daring to do that in case I espy an
inviting-looking turning that will only lead me astray.
Hampered by that powerful force known to you and me
as civilization. My dear Inspector, look at things for
yourself. Don't forget that Blundell left his home near
Hayward's Heath on the fourth of this month. Left his
home, I should say, for a definite destination. That he
went out on no chance errand or journey. What was that
destination? It will bear looking into, MacMorran. Can-
didly, I am not satisfied with anything that has so far been
brought to my notice."
He rose and walked towards Sir Austin's bookcase.
Pausing, he looked into its glass front. For a brief period
his two auditors watched him. Suddenly he turned and
addressed them again. "Consider the dead man's bias,
gentlemen. Appreciate his reputation in the country where
the cryptogram is king. Supposing, for example, he were
wanted secretly for any matter of"
Again he paused. "A stray and fugitive reminiscence
has just reached me, Sir Austin. From it I have extracted
just the germ of an idea. What has happened once may
happen again. These missing people of whom we hear.
Missing men; missing women; missing children. People of
whom we never hear again. Unsolved tragedies. Has
there been anybody else reported missing, moderately re-
cently, who could in any way be connected, for example,
with the subject of ciphers and cryptograms?"


MACMORRAN CONTRIBUTES SOMETHING 19
It seemed that he put the question with some degree of
anxiety. The Inspector, at least, thought so. The Com-
missioner looked at MacMorran. MacMorran looked at
the Commissioner. Sir Austin gave up this exchange of
glances to use his telephone. Bathurst listened to his in-
structions with approval. The three men waited in silence.
The list of names that was brought into the room two
minutes later was carefully scrutinized by Sir Austin.
MacMorran and Bathurst rose and ranged themselves one
on either side of him. The Commissioner shook his head
slowly as he surveyed the detailed information. Suddenly
an exclamation from Anthony Bathurst startled him.
"Sir Austin, look here! God—we're nearer to the
truth than we thought!"
Sir Austin's eyes followed Bathurst's pointing finger.
It indicated a name on this sad scroll of missing men.
"Hubert Athelstan Wingfield, of Apperley House, Hur-
rilow, Wiltshire. Missing from his home since the 23rd of
April. Age, 4s9. Height, 5 feet 10J inches. Hair, iron-
grey. Features . . ." The Commissioner read on, but
most of the details meant nothing to him—they were
blurred and nebulous. He saw them, but that was all. He
looked up for Bathurst's contribution. What was it that
he read here that . . .
Before Bathurst made further comment, MacMorran
vaulted the ropes and entered the ring. "Before you say
anything about that case, sir," he said with quiet in-
sistence, "you might be interested to see this."
He produced the midday edition of the Bugle. The
headlines fascinated the eyes of the men who looked upon
them and read: "Month-old Mystery Solved at Last.


20
THE SPIKED LION
Missing Wiltshire Man Found Dead near Sidmouth. Body
Discovered in the Valley of Ferns. Is it Foul Play?"
"That last question," said Anthony Bathurst quietly
to his two companions, "seems to me to be easily an-
swered." He commenced to pace the room. "Too easily
answered."


CHAPTER III
THE DEAD MAN IN THE FERNS
“ I DON'T think that I quite ..." muttered the Commis-
sioner as he looked hard at the newspaper.
“The dead man's name, sir," returned Bathurst with
immediate and forcible emphasis. « The word on that
piece of paper that we originally took to be winged, I
am going to suggest to you now, was 'Wingfield.' What
the Inspector has told us since only serves to strengthen
that opinion. The name aroused my interest directly I
spotted it. That'wing' part of it made an irresistible
appeal. Now that we know that this second missing man
is dead in similar circumstances to Blundell, mere suspicion
becomes moral certainty. Don't you agree?"
He turned to Inspector MacMorran, eager and ques-
tioning. “Who, and what, is the Wiltshire gentleman
named Wingfield who has been found dead near Sidmouth?
Does that paper of yours tell us anything more about
him?” He rubbed his hands. “What was his aim in
life? "
MacMorran accepted the inevitable. He knew that when
Bathurst was in this mood he would never rest until he
had all the information at his finger-ends. He spread the
newspaper on the Commissioner's desk. The three men
bent over it, Sir Austin-seated in the middle of the


22
THE SPIKED LION
group. He read the paragraph at which they looked,
aloud:
"The dead man, Hubert Athelstan Wingfield, whose
mysterious death is reported above, was forty-nine years
of age and well known in literary circles. As recently as
January this year he took the chair at the annual dinner
of the famous Scripta Society. Educated at Clifton Col-
lege and Selwyn College, Cambridge, Mr. Wingfield was a
recognized authority upon the subject of legendary inscrip-
tions and was frequently called into consultation thereon.
"Students, by reason of this mischievous habit, were
constantly tempted to endeavor to remember what they
never knew and so were sent hunting for the elusive will-o'-
the-wisp. There is little doubt that many empty hours
have been spent by earnest seekers after ' the never was.'
"Mr. Wingfield was also the translator of Feuardent's
Jetons et Mereaux, and the author of a brochure on
Heraldry entitled,' The Crown of England and its Former
Possessions—Normandy, Guienne, and Aquitaine.'
"Mr. Wingfield, who married comparatively late in life,
leaves a widow and sister, but no children."
"Would you mind telling me what a jetton is? I can't
remember ever having heard the word," asked MacMorran.
Sir Austin rubbed his cheek and then, with a quick
glance, sought refuge with Mr. Bathurst. Anthony waded
gallantly to the rescue.
"A jetton," he explained, "is a small metal plate, or
counter. The word is of French origin, of course, as you
will have seen. The French also use it, you remember, in
the phrase 'jetons d'abeilles,' a ' swarm of bees.' That's
all that I can tell you about it."
"H'm," remarked the Inspector. "I'm much obliged


24
THE SPIKED LION
"Any mention of anything unusual about Wingfield's
body? Face slashed? Any bones broken?"
"Yes," returned Sir Austin gravely, "the left arm is
broken below the elbow and the body, generally, shows
signs of severe bruising. I—er—accept your conclusions,
Bathurst, in the light of all that we know now. I—er—
tender you my apologies for having doubted you. You
were able to see farther than I."
Anthony Bathurst rose from his chair. "An extra-
ordinary case, sir . . . right from the start of it. But
one, nevertheless, with a tremendous appeal. It has that
hint of the bizarre that always intrigues the investigator.
An animal . . . legendary inscriptions . . . two dead
men . . . bruised and poisoned . . . one with his cheek
slashed." He shook his head doubtfully. "I am in the
dark, Sir Austin," he said hopelessly. "It is clear that I
shall have to seek the intimacies of both Blundell and
Wingfield, and perhaps, too, see the places where they
died."
As he spoke, the 'phone on Sir Austin's desk rang per-
emptorily and insistently. The Commissioner answered it.
"Hallo! Who? MacMorran? Yes, yes. What? . . .
Who? Guest? . . . young Guest, do you mean? . . .
the young fellow who came here? . . . Good God! . . .
yes, yes, of course . . . get down there at once. Tell this
Dr. Summerhayes that I sent you. Then report to me
immediately you are able."
Sir Austin replaced the receiver and turned to the man
at his side. "They come, not in spies, but in battalions.
Young Guest . . . young Hugh Guest, John Blundell's
nephew, was found dead last night in his bedroom at Sir


THE DEAD MAN IN THE FERNS 25
Richard Ingle's place in the Isle of Wight. So far, cause
of death has not been ascertained. Or, if it has, Mac-
Morran hasn't heard yet. An ordinary young man this
time, Bathurst. Mark that fact. Knowing nothing, I
should say, of either cryptograms or legends. Just a
commonplace young Englishman. Now what have you to
say?"
"Only one thing, sir, that may seem in the slightest
degree sensible."
"What's that?"
"That he's the nephew of our first murdered man, Sir
Austin. He touches the fatal circle in the radius of rela-
tionship." Anthony Bathurst began to pace the room.


CHAPTER IV
THE DEAD MAN AT SIR RICHARD INGLE'S
HEARING his name called somewhat authoritatively, Hugh
Guest halted in his tracks.
“ Yes,” he asked over his shoulder. “What is it?"
Turning, he saw who it was had called to him. “Do you
want me, Covington?" he enquired again.
“ Shouldn't have bellowed out to you, you blighter, if I
hadn't. Come in here for a minute, if you don't mind.”
Guest slipped silently from the gravelled path outside
the morning-room at Sir Richard Ingle’s into the room
itself. “Well, what's worrying you, Covington? Got
something extra for the three-thirty? ”
For a moment or so Barry Covington was silent. It was
evident that he had ignored the raillery. Suddenly he
burnt his boats. “Look here, old chap,” he opened ner-
vously,“ don't think I've got cold feet, or anything like
that, if I tell you something. Promise me. And forgive
me, too, if I seem to be butting in on an affair that doesn't
really concern me. I know how hellishly worried you are,
and all that, and I know something that I think you ought
to know. Is that O.K.?”
The lines of Guest's mouth tightened. Lines that hadn't
been noticed before now showed plainly at its corners.
What the merry hell was Covington dithering about?


DEAD MAN AT SIR RICHARD INGLE'S 27
What on earth could he possibly know that . . .? All
the same, though, he supposed he'd better let him have his
say—couldn't lose over it, anyway. Any thread thrown
towards one was worth picking up.
"I don't quite cotton on, Covington, but I'm ready to
listen to you. Is that what you want me to say?"
Covington, a little uncertain of his reception, gave him
a sidelong glance. "First of all, Guest, is there any more
news of your uncle?"
Hugh Guest was surprised at the question. "Up to
the moment, Covington, none. Why?"
"Just a minute, old son. Don't travel too fast for me.
Let me get the hang of things. You've been to Scotland
Yard, of course?"
"Naturally. Two or three times. I've interviewed the
Chief Commissioner himself—Sir Austin Kemble. Got fed
up to the eyebrows with the Sussex bobbies and decided to
go to the fountain head. I thought you knew I'd been up
there. What's biting you?"
"Have a spot of patience and I'll tell you. What have
the 'Yard' done? That they've told you?"
Guest frowned. "Made the usual routine enquiries.
People are always disappearing, you know, for one reason
and another. It's only when you run up against it per-
sonally that you realize it. There's a special man on it—
one of the ' Big Six '—MacMorran, his name is, I believe.
Struck me as being pretty capable. So far he's toiled for
days and days and caught nothing. My uncle seems to
have disappeared without leaving the slightest trace.
Pretty sickening, what?"
Covington looked round anxiously—privacy at Sir


28
THE SPIKED LION
Richard's country house was not usually of long life.
"Tell me, Guest, do you suspect foul play?"
Guest bit his lip. He was troubled. "I do. Most cer-
tainly. What else can I suspect? I think—I am almost
sure—that my uncle has been murdered."
Barry Covington eyed him shrewdly. It seemed that
he was assessing the strength of Guest's convictions. When
he spoke his words were startling.
"Guest," he said, "if Scotland Yard know nothing,
you do. I'm quite certain of it. Tell me—that's right,
isn't it?"
Guest shrugged his shoulders with a superficial non-
chalance that he was far from feeling. "Perhaps. But
you tell me something. Let's get back to the position from
which we were supposed to start. There's a reason behind
your saying all this. What do you know?"
Covington returned question for question. "Guest,
think carefully over what I'm going to say to you. Do
you think that you yourself may be in danger? That the.
murderers of your uncle may be out to get you?"
Guest turned sharply, " Out with it, Covington. What
do you know?"
Covington came to the point. Guest's manner impressed
him. "Directly after breakfast this morning I went out
for a stroll. Nowhere in particular. Just footled round
on my own. It's a habit of mine. I may say that my
original idea when I came down was eighteen holes with
Ella. We fixed it up the night before. But she wasn't
keen, she said, when the morning came, so it fell through.
Well, I went over the downland in the direction of Lashey.
Past the old bridge and then on beyond the church. Do


82
THE SPIKED LION
for dinner. There would be no further developments that
day. As he entered his bedroom a valet was standing by
the bedside attending to the studs of his dress-shirt. When
the man turned towards him he saw that it was not a man
whom he had seen before. There had been a change in
the personnel of the staff perhaps. The face of the man
was entirely unfamiliar to him; there was something about
it that suggested a mask. Its owner was tall, thin and
cadaverous. His head was much larger than the average,
with a domelike forehead that suggested the chart of the
advertising phrenologist.
He adjusted a cuff-link and then said something which
made Guest catch his breath in astonishment.
"Mr. Hugh Guest?" The interrogation was definitely
extraordinary. For the voice that uttered it was harsh,
strange and minatory.
Guest pulled himself together so that he should face
whatever might be coming. "I am Hugh Guest. . . . Yes
. . . yes . . . what is it? . . . I think that you have the
advantage of me."
The man smiled—a smile that held no quality of amity.
"Perhaps. Yet we have something in common, I fancy."
"What do you mean?"
"This, I believe, came from you. Is it not so?"
Guest, in astonishment, took the letter from his extended
hand. His eyes immediately told him the truth. Things
were as he had half hoped and half feared. "Yes, yes;
but what are you doing here? In this room, like this?
Masquerading as a servant? For that's what it comes
to. Where is"
The man addressed held up his hand. "S'sh, Mr. Guest.


DEAD MAN AT SIR RICHARD INGLE'S 33
Walls have been said to have ears. Mention no names,
please. Accept my apology also for appearing in this
unexpected guise. Believe me, it would not be so were it
not highly necessary. Have you the letter to which you
yourself made reference? That, I think, if produced, will
seal the matter, shall we say?"
Guest hesitated for a moment. The position was de-
veloping as he had expected, but . . . Then his hand went
to his pocket. The man took the letter and read it through
coolly and carefully. A second smile equalled the first in
its suggestion of hidden craft and cunning.
"Yes," he said at length, tapping the paper almost
maliciously. "We will consider this as satisfactory. It is
as it should be. We understand one another, as one might
say."
He glanced at the door questioningly. "No one will
come in, I suppose, Mr. Guest? We are safe from disturb-
ance? The last thing that I should desire in a matter of
this kind would be an interruption."
"Don't worry about that. That can be attended to
very easily." Guest walked across and locked the bedroom
door. "Well—my uncle; where is he?"
The man to whom he spoke spread out his hands almost
obsequiously. "Safe, Mr. Guest. Quite safe, and most
zealously cared for. Make your mind easy on that score.
He has charged me with a message to you. You are to be
patient while he is away, and to take no further action
unless advised by him. He deplores, rather, the fact that
you have seen fit to consult Scotland Yard. He expects
to be home at Hurstfold before the next week is out. You
are to rest content and just expect him."


84
THE SPIKED LION
Hugh Guest set his teeth. "That's all very well as far
as it goes. But how do I know the truth of it? All the
consideration seems to be on one side. What proof have
I that my uncle isn't already dead? It seems to me
that"
The man whom he addressed swung round on to him
with a hint of violence. "Must you be a child, and think
as a child? Must you see the wires by which the mario-
nettes are worked before you believe in them? God—the
generations of Didymus flourish for all time! Well, so be
it. I might have known. Come here, Mr. Guest, and look
at this."
Guest, startled at first by the man's sudden fury, walked
towards the bed, at the side of which stood the intruder.
The latter's fingers went to the pocket of his vest. With
a quick flick of the wrist he held something up for Guest
to see. It was a counter, creamy in color and square in
shape.
The strange visitor blazed on: "Evolution cannot be
denied; you will admit the truth of that! Argue as men
will! Even in terms of animals, Mr. Guest. Take Helle-
nistic military history, for example. The great warhorse
surely followed the invention of the cataphract or heavy-
armed horse-archer. The arrow was the weapon of the
long range. The elephant, possibly, tusked and ponder-
ous, was the forerunner of our modern 'tank.' Who
knows the truth of these things? But look on this picture
—the sign of another animal. Your uncle has sent it to
you."
Guest stared at the pearly counter, amazed, bewildered.
Into what nest of grotesque mystery had his feet strayed?
/
V


DEAD MAN AT SIR RICHARD INGLE'S 35
"I have a surer proof of your uncle's safety here, Mr.
Guest, if you care to glance at it. 'There are more things
in heaven and earth, Horatio . . .'"
The fingers of the intruder went towards another vest-
pocket and his eyes seemed to signal mysteriously in the
direction of the window. Guest, again reminded of a flesh-
like mask, looked at him with a strange sort of fascination,
and then turned his head towards the window also. What
was coming to him now, and from where? He was off his
guard completely at the moment—forgetful of Covington's
warning to him—for the first time since this extraordinary
interview started.
The man's action, when it came, took him entirely by
surprise. The stranger threw up the window with a quick-
ness of movement that was startling. He pointed and then
advanced on Hugh Guest. Guest moved back a pace-
two paces—but it was too late to ward off the peril that
came to him. He drew a deep breath—which didn't seem
to be there, as it were—it lost its way and escaped from
him, eluded him somehow—and the body of Hugh Guest
slid gently to the floor.
The murderer turned swiftly from the dead body and
departed by the way he had come. He had accomplished
the task he had set himself.


MB. RAPHAEL SUFFERS INTERRUPTION 37
western China, and had the reputation of knowing more
about the secret societies of the Chinese than any other
living being.
The author of many books dealing with the mysticism
and occultism of the East, his fantasy describing the plant-
ing of the sacred Bo tree in Ceylon by Devenipiatissa circa
300 b. c. had created something of a stir from Hong Kong
to Thibet, for it was given to few Westerners to under-
stand the inner workings of the Oriental mind to the fine
degree that Slingsby Raphael did.
His parentage was shrouded in mystery, but it was
freely rumored that he was a prominent member of the
notorious Triad Society.
It was Barry Covington, fortified by his special knowl-
edge, of course, who first called attention to Guest's defec-
tion. Raphael was speaking when Covington interrupted.
"I admit that I am orthodox," said Raphael, " when it
comes to my view of Art. Art should illuminate, my dear
Ella. The artist should never be allowed to degenerate
into a manipulator of mechanical toys . . . clever, per-
haps . . . subtle . . . but inevitably, in time, a mere
second-hand dealer in emotion that should be splendid
... in tragedies, that by all the laws of Nature should be
majestically desperate. It cannot be denied that Life is
violent . . . terrific in its range. . . ."
Here Raphael paused and looked into the color of his
wine. Barry Covington seized his chance.
"By the way," he blurted, "we're one short. Where's
Hugh, Celia?"
"I was just wondering the same thing," returned the
girl a little anxiously. "It's so unlike Hugh to be late


38
THE SPIKED LION
for dinner. For an appointment—yes—but never for
'food.'"
"Where has Mr. Guest been this afternoon, Richard?"
queried Lady Ingle. "Have you seen him about any-
where?"
The people round the table looked at one another; each
seemed to seek the answer to the hostess's question in the
eyes of another. Individuals surrendered their egotisms to
the call of the community. Raphael seemed annoyed at
the interruption which he had suffered. He was the first
to throw off the mood of doubt.
"Is there any need for us to put Guest's activities under
the microscope at this time of the evening?" He turned
to Celia with an exaggerated gallantry. "You will for-
give me, I know, my dear young lady, if I should seem
unkind or ungenerous. But I am the protagonist of in-
dividual responsibility. The champion of the freedom of
the ' ego.' I fail to see why the children's teeth should be
set on edge because the fathers have eaten grapes that
were sour. Your brother, doubtless, is a little late through
some trifling cause and will be with us at any moment."
Celia smiled at him bravely. "I hope and trust so, Mr.
Raphael. All the same . . ." She broke off and crumbled
her bread nervously.
"All the same—what?" he asked her smilingly.
"I don't know. That's all I can think of to say. Pretty
feeble, isn't it?"
"It's nearly half past seven, Daddy," contributed Ella
in a businesslike tone. "I can't think that Hugh would
be as late as this purposely."
Sir Richard turned and beckoned to Garrett to come


MR. RAPHAEL SUFFERS INTERRUPTION 39
close to his chair. "Garrett, when did you last see young
Mr. Guest?"
"About half past four, Sir Richard. Just after tea
had been served. He came and spoke to me. He had been
out, and when he returned he came at once to me to see
if there had been any kind of telephone message for him.
He had asked me that several times during the day, sir.
It struck me that he was rather anxious in regard to some-
thing."
"And had there been?"
"No, Sir Richard. None at all. That was what I told
him."
"Did he go out again, do you know?"
"I couldn't say, Sir Richard—I didn't see him again,
sir."
"How was he dressed when he spoke to you?"
"In a grey flannel suit, Sir Richard."
Celia listened feverishly to Garrett's replies. Raphael
surrendered gracefully to the mood of the moment. He
realized where matters were leading. "If it will help
things at all, why not see if Guest has dressed for dinner?
That may clear up one of our problems. Will his bedroom
tell us anything?"
"That's an idea, certainly," agreed Covington. "Will
anybody come upstairs with me? No—not you, Celia.
You stay down here."
The girl had half risen at Raphael's suggestion, but
Barry Covington, knowing what he did, was determined to
take no chances.
"Why?" she half whispered. "What are you"
Covington patted her arm. "You stay here, Celia, and


40
THE SPI KED LION
don't worry. You don't want to go dashing about for
nothing. What good can you do? We'll be back in half
a jiffy." He looked round to see who was to be his com-
panion. None appeared to have accepted the invitation
that he had issued.
"You go, Barry," said Lady Ingle. "Though, as you
said to Celia, I really don't see what good you're doing.
If Hugh isn't there, we're just as we were in the first place,
still wondering where he is. Never mind—go along up,"
she concluded with resignation.
Covington obeyed orders. They heard him ascend the
stairs. "Let me see, now," said Slingsby Raphael re-
flectively; "where was I when Covington started to scare
us? Ah—I remember. I was about to demonstrate how
Art should jolt us out of the channels of cynicism and
prove to us that Nature has made so many things that are
bright and beautiful. Each generation stands upon the
shoulders of the generation that preceded it. That is in-
disputable. Knowledge is piled upon knowledge . . .
Pelion upon Ossa . . . and yet—despite all that has been
—all that has gone before us, we are only groping blindly
at the beginning of things, with callous fingers and blunted
thumbs."
There was a pause. He proceeded:
"The doors are ajar, perhaps—certainly not more than
half open to us; the question is, therefore, how are we
going to deal with the task of taking real possession and
entering into the kingdom that should be our inheritance?
Art, being by far Life's truest and most noble interpreta-
tion"
Before he could complete his sentence the door opened


MR. RAPHAEL SUFFERS INTERRUPTION 41
opposite to him and Barry Covington entered. He spoke
to the company generally, but it was to the missing man's
sister particularly that his words were primarily ad-
dressed.
"I can't get into Hugh's bedroom," he said; " the door
seems to be locked on the inside."
At this statement the leaven of uneasiness that had
taken hold of the room fermented into fear, but it was a
tribute to the general self-control that no cry of alarm at
imagined tragedy broke the silence. It was as though
each individual mind was at exercise—pondering over what
Barry Covington had said. Eventually Raphael made a
gesture of the head toward the place where sat his host,
and framed the gesture with a practical question.
"Shall we go up, Dick, you and I, with Covington?"
Sir Richard looked askance at Lady Ingle and then
nodded his acceptance of Raphael's suggestion. The men
rose, the three of them. Celia Guest, during all this, said
nothing. She looked straight across the table at Ella and
clenched her hands tight.
The three men departed on their mission and came to
Hugh Guest's bedroom door. As Covington had an-
nounced in the dining-room, it was locked on the inside—
judging, that is, from the fact that the key was not visible.
Raphael tried it. He rattled the handle. Half turning to
his companion, he flung a question over his shoulder. "Did
you call to him, Covington, when you came up here just
now?"
Barry Covington looked doubtful and uncertain.
"That's funny, you know. Now that I come to think it
over, I don't believe I did."


42
THE SPIKED LION
Raphael frowned. "Why not? Surely it was the
first"
"I just didn't think of it, I suppose. I tried the door,
as you tried it a minute ago . . . found it wouldn't budge,
and came downstairs to tell you. I took things for
granted, I think, as one does sometimes."
"What things?"
"Oh ... I don't know. I'm not sure if I called to
him or not. For God's sake don't catechize me now. What
are we going to do?"
Raphael frowned again and looked at Sir Richard Ingle.
"We must break this door down," declared the latter.
a There's nothing else for it. I'll lay ten to one Guest's
queer or something. Help me, will you, please? tYou too,
Barry. Come on now."
The three men put their shoulders against the door and
pushed it with all their weight and might. "Put your
weight just here," grunted Raphael. "This is the place
where it will give . . . that should do the trick, I think."
The door slowly gave to the continued assault . . . un-
til .. .
"My God!" said Slingsby Raphael, his voice hoarse
with emotion. ..." Down there, by the side of the bed
. . . can you see it? . . . Down there . . . look!"
Ingle and Barry Covington each saw it over Raphael's
shoulders. Covington gave a startled gasp. The body of
Hugh Guest was lying on the floor by the bed, his back
towards them as they entered. Not a man now . . . only
the shell of a man. Raphael was the first of the three dis-
coverers to reach it. He strode quickly to the body and
dropped on his knees beside it. After the slightest hesita-


ME. RAPHAEL SUFFERS INTERRUPTION 43
tion he put a hand somewhere on the prone form . . . and
pulled it over . . . that they might see its face.
"Guest!" muttered Covington, although he had known
it all the time—articulate expression of what each one of
them was thinking. ..." Guest . . . dead!"
Ingle was prompt and efficient. "I'll 'phone at once.
There's a doctor quite handy . . . you two fellows stay
up here. . . . I'll see that the ladies stay where they are
. . . leave it to me."
Covington looked fearfully at Raphael. "How did he
die . . . have you thought?"
The man addressed shook his head. "There's no weapon
here. Looks like a sudden seizure of some kind to me
. . . heart, perhaps, or a fit of sorts . . . can't say.
. . . The doctor will tell us all we want to know when he
comes. Perhaps more."
Covington shook his head and edged towards the win-
dow. "Don't move anything, Covington," said Raphael
sharply. ..." You never know. There may be some-
thing in this that you and I can't see at the moment."
Covington turned quickly ... his hands were trem-
bling. It seemed that the shock that had come to him was
overwhelming him.
Dr. Summerhayes answered Sir Richard Ingle's sum-
mons with quiet alacrity. His thin professional figure
moved almost mechanically to the body on the floor. He
knelt beside it as Raphael had done a matter of ten min-
utes previously. He felt the dead man's limbs . . . legs
first . . . arms after that. Staring down at the body,
the academic lines of his face never lost their almost ex-


MR. RAPHAEL SUFFERS INTERRUPTION 45
by what he saw there. His voice, too, took on a note of
strain and harsh excitement, so that its previous culture
went from it. "In that case, then, Sir Richard, where is
the key? Did one of you gentlemen take it out of the
lock? If you did ... I think"
"No," blurted Covington. "I didn't. I know Sir Rich-
ard didn't."
"And I can assure you that I didn't," supplemented
Raphael lightly. "I don't know why I didn't think of it
before, but Guest has it on him somewhere, no doubt. Must
have. Have a look, Doctor. Then there will be no mys-
tery about it. Try his pockets."
Summerhayes returned to the body. This time he knelt
down by it on one knee only. He tried the pockets, and, in
turn, came to the breast pocket of the coat, on the left-
hand side. Those who watched saw his eyes light a little.
The reason for this was soon apparent to them. Dr. Sum-
merhayes held up the missing key for all of them to look
at.
"Then Guest must have locked himself in," cried
Raphael impetuously—" deliberately ... to poison him-
self. He committed"
Sir Richard and Summerhayes looked towards the win-
dow—each with intent. The doctor put into words the
thought that had taken possession of each of them.
"What you say may be true, but it is as well to point
out that we don't know that for certain. Couldn't a sec-
ond person have been here with him and"
"It's absolutely impossible," cried Raphael in impulsive
interruption; " there isn't a foothold from that window for
a cat. Look for yourselves if you don't believe me."


46
THE SPIKED LION
"He's right," conceded the host. "Nobody could have
made an escape that way."
The others, realizing the truth of what had been said,
surveyed the situation rather hopelessly. "Everything
points to suicide, then," declared Raphael. "You can't
get away from it."
Again Summerhayes shook his head. "Don't you agree
with me, Doctor? " urged Raphael.
"It would seem so," admitted the doctor, "when we
think of the conditions—the window and the locked door;
but how did he administer the poison? That's my great
difficulty—explain that away. There's nothing on the
floor anywhere, is there? Or rolled under the bed?"
Every inch of the floor was covered by examination;
nothing could be traced of the nature indicated by Sum-
merhayes. "I think it is a case for the police," declared
the last-named gravely. "I admit, as I said, that the
door being locked on the inside and the key being in the
young man's pocket is most significant and almost over-
whelming. . . . Also, I am forced to say from my exami-
nation that the man has been dead not more than a quarter
of an hour . . . yet I am not satisfied."
He rose and dusted his knees, a resolute expression on
his lean face. Raphael, grasping all that the doctor's
words meant, glanced towards Sir Richard. "Surely you
would be able to"
Ingle seemed to sense what was coming, for he checked
Raphael's statement. "No," he announced with quiet
dignity; "Dr. Summerhayes is absolutely right in what
he says must be done. It's no use kicking against the
pricks. This is a case for the police. I'll see to it at once.


MR. RAPHAEL SUFFERS INTERRUPTION 47
Perhaps you fellows would be good enough to tell the
ladies what has happened. Break it as gently as you know
how—Celia's just about all in, I fancy."
His distress was plain to see as he turned and made his
way from the room.


CHAPTER VI
ANTHONY BATHURST ATTACKS
Mr. Bathurst was precise. "Do I understand that this
is the exact spot, MacMorran? Would an X here show
where the body was found? I want you to be very sure,
Inspector." He gazed long and hard at a strip of green
grass.
"Yes, Mr. Bathurst," replied MacMorran; " that's al-
most the identical place, where you're now standing."
"You know well, MacMorran, that I abominate vague
impressions. If people would only treasure detail in what
they hear and read, many crimes would have been solved
that have gone down to history as undiscovered. The
husbanding and harvesting of detail—how they count in
this game of ours, MacMorran. The vital clue is always
there somewhere for the observant to grasp. The all-
important thread is always to be picked out, and the way
to it may come from a stray word of wit, wantonness or
wisdom, or from a fugitive mood of sense or nonsense, that
only asks for recognition at the psychological moment."
He stared at the grass and ground. "There's disturb-
ance here, MacMorran—look."
"Aye. I observed that, Mr. Bathurst. There was a
struggle. I guess that three or four people were concerned.
in it. But the ground's too dry and hard for any foot-
prints to show. Grass doesn't take 'em too well, either."


ANTHONY BATHURST ATTACKS
49
Bathurst grunted. He neither denied nor accepted
MacMorran's contention. Actually he walked towards the
nearest tree—a big chestnut. He gazed up at it—into its
branches—wonderingly.
"Do you know, MacMorran," he said meaningly,
"there's a lot about this case that's going to be damned
difficult to prove."
"How do you mean, sir?"
Anthony looked at him quizzically. "Well, you can't
put a tree under a microscope like you can a hair, can
you? It's built on too big a scale. N'est ce pas?"
MacMorran screwed up his face. "Where are you
heading for, sir? I don't know that I've arrived."
"Remember my investigation of Colonel Cameron's
death at Dallow Corner? That strange affair of the red
leech? One of the clues that led me to the truth was a
tiny smear of pink blood on a small stone near a puddle
of water in an inn yard. Well, what I mean is this. You
could put that pebble under a microscope, Inspector, but
I'm hanged if you can do that with a tree. Who knows
what horror may lurk in those branches up there?"
Bathurst extended an arm. "Yes, Inspector," he pro-
ceeded; "I mean it. Perhaps a tiny horror. Perhaps a
huge horror. Who knows? And one might search up
there for days on end . . . and fail to find the vital detail
that would open up the truth."
MacMorran nodded. He felt that it was his safest
course. A nod was non-committal.
"Tell me something more," continued Anthony, "for
there are gaps. Who discovered Blundell's body?"
M A workman named Derbyshire engaged on repair work


ANTHONY BATHUEST ATTACKS 51
after some consideration I think I can find one possible
explanation."
"Aye—I reckoned you would. I've never known you
when you couldn't. I'd like to hear it, Mr. Bathurst."
Anthony replied to him with a certain lightness. "I'll
continue with your own simile of the cards on the table.
When you play cards you don't always play with the same
hand, Inspector. During the course of a game more than
one hand is dealt to you. This is how I look at it. Guest
may have had a card dealt to him after he went to Sir
Austin—a card which he had never seen before and which,
for some reason not clear to us at the moment, he may
have decided to play entirely on his own. How's that,
Inspector?"
MacMorran contemplated the idea. Also he rubbed his
nose. "It's feasible, I suppose, but you've not convinced
me, Mr. Bathurst. Why should Guest do that? What
reason had he? It was inconsistent with his having called
in help in the first place. Why should he suddenly change
his tactics, as it were?"
Bathurst shrugged his shoulders. "Ah, you're going
a bit too far. I don't know. We don't know. Something
may have happened ... he may have stumbled on some
piece of truth unwittingly . . . not knowing, perhaps, at
the time, that it was the link that he had been seeking.
I'll grant you that the theory may be what you term ' in-
consistent,' but I won't concede that it's impossible or even
improbable. I've made up my mind on that point."
He prodded the grass with his stick. MacMorran
watched him and made no reply. Anthony allowed him no
respite. He proceeded immediately.:


52
THE SPIKED LION
"You know, Inspector—you haven't found a satis-
factory answer to one of my first questions regarding this
Blundell murder. A question that I put to you when we
originally discussed matters at the 'Yard.' Why should
a poisoned victim have a bruised body, a broken limb and
a scratched cheek?"
MacMorran was still silent. Again Anthony attacked.
"Wingfield, too, down in South Devon, poisoned, we be-
lieve, by the same person, has bruises and a broken arm
. . . but no slashed face. Guest dies from the same poison
as the other two ... so we are now told, but is not
bruised, maimed or slashed. But neither he nor Wingfield
died beneath a tree. The Wiltshire gentleman is found
in somewhat similar circumstances to Blundell, in a valley
of ferns. . . . Hugh Guest himself dies in the bedroom of
his host . . . with his boots on."
Anthony paced the green strip of grass. {iA damned
awkward problem, MacMorran, say what you will about
it." He caressed his chin thoughtfully, to turn, with sud-
den eagerness, upon the dour Inspector watching him.
s' Blundell's clothes, MacMorran? What were they
like? Tell me all that you can remember about them."
MacMorran marshalled his information. "Ordinary
blue serge suit, such as is worn by thousands of men all
over the country, but well above the average, I'd say, in
quality, cut, style and so forth. Shirt and collar of the
usual kind—underclothes ditto. Shoes also. Everything,
as you might say, just ordinary—not distinctive." Mac-
Morran paused in his descriptive adventure.
"Go on," said Mr. Bathurst encouragingly. "Tell me
more of this commonplace type with a stick and pipe."


ANTHONY BATHURST ATTACKS 53
"Eh—what's that you're saying—just what d'ye
mean?"
Anthony returned to the prosaic. "Hat—cap," he re-
turned laconically.
"There wasn't one," returned the Inspector.
Anthony grimaced. "None at all?"
MacMorran shook his head emphatically. "That's just
what I'm saying. And there's not much point in it either,
if you come to work it out. It's extraordinary the num-
ber of folk nowadays that go walking bareheaded. Both
young fellows and young women."
"That's perfectly true, MacMorran, so far as it goes
as a general statement. But was it Blundell's habit to go
abroad without a hat? You've checked up on it, of
course?"
"Aye, I have that. 'Twas one of the first things I went
for. But I haven't come away with a lot of what you'd
call satisfaction. I'll tell you what I'm told. He would
wear a hat sometimes, and sometimes he wouldn't. 'Twould
depend on a number of circumstances—the weather, where
he was going, who was with him, and so on. That's from
his people—this Mr. Guest and his sister. The former
told the Commissioner and the latter told me."
"Missing for a fortnight," quoted Bathurst. "What
about the morning when he left his house in the Hayward's
Heath district? Was he bareheaded then?"
"No. His niece, Miss Guest, helped me with regard to
that. She is able to remember for certain that her uncle
was wearing a hard felt hat when he went out that morn-
ing. That is why she is of the opinion that he was going
somewhere ' important.' I'm using the same adjective that


54
THE SPIKED LION
she used to me when I went down to Blundell's place in
Sussex."
"H'm! Went out with a hat and is found without
one."
"If you'll pardon me, Mr. Bathurst, it's not a bit of
good weaving fantastic theories concerning that felt hat.
The murdered man was missing from his home for about
fourteen days. The good God alone knows where he went
to during that period. He may have visited a hundred
different places, and his hat may be in any one of 'em."
"Much more likely to have visited one, MacMorran,
and one only, the occupant of which could join the good
God in that general knowledge class of yours. Still, we're
only groping, I admit. Now another line of question.
Correspondence, MacMorran—in that Sussex home of
Blundell's. Run across anything?"
"There wasn't a single thing, Mr. Bathurst, that would
throw the faintest light upon the case. I searched every-
where. Miss Guest helped me, and her brother came from
Oxford one afternoon and we all went through the missing
man's papers together. All the recent correspondence was
the same as his clothes—just ordinary. Mostly from peo-
ple near at hand—friends, tradesmen and the like. There
wasn't anything, that we were able to find, to take him
out one morning on an errand that you could call' impor-
tant.'"
"Nothing in the nature of a secret message or crypto-
gram? Hidden somewhere or in something? Of the ex-
cessively simple and innocent kind? Hidden, let me defi-
nitely suggest, in the most ordinary of every-day letters?"
"Not in my opinion, Mr. Bathurst," returned the In-


ANTHONY BATHUBST ATTACKS 55
spector with sturdy doggedness. "I'm not an authority
on these matters, I know only too well, but if the stuff I
looked at wasn't the real and genuine, put me down as a
Dutchman."
Anthony smiled and tried again. a Servants—did you
see any of them?"
MacMorran shook his head and went on to explain.
"Only two—a maid and a housekeeper. It's a charming
house, but on the small side. As a rule, there were only
Blundell and his niece in residence there. The house-
keeper's a downy old bird—foreign blood in her, I should
say. Couldn't get anything out of her."
"Tight-lipped—eh?"
"Tight-lipped? I'd just say so. Compared with her a
clam's a hundred per cent singing and talking."
Anthony grinned appreciatively. "Let me come back
to the dead man's clothes, Inspector, for a minute. You
headed me off just now, and I allowed myself to digress.
Tell me this. The body was bruised, the face was slashed
and a limb was broken . . . were the clothes torn at all?"
"Aye, they were that. The sleeve of the coat was torn.
Ripped. There was a tear about five inches long. I reckon
he got that in the same way that he got his face slashed.
In the struggle. He put up a fight against odds and got
the worst of it. That's all there was to it."
Anthony Bathurst rubbed his hands. "Do you know,
MacMorran," he remarked almost jocularly, '?I fancy
that we've gained a little ground. Half an hour ago I was
torn between Wiltshire and the Isle of Wight. I was in-
clined to move in what I will call the sequence of murder.
That was also the Commissioner's suggestion. But what


56
THE SPIKED LION
I have learned here has decided me. Beech Knoll, I believe,
is the name of Sir Richard Ingle's place."
MacMorran nodded. "Aye."
"Beech Knoll," repeated Mr. Bathurst softly—it might
have been to himself. ..." I find the name distinctly
attractive."
MacMorran smiled a wry smile. "Never could see much
in names, myself."


CHAPTER VII
SLINGSBY RAPHAEL LOOKS AT PICTURES
On the second morning after the death of Hugh Guest,
Slingsby Raphael walked through the house named Beech
Knoll—the house in which Hugh Guest had died. Raphael
was the prey to many thoughts and some visions. He
moved with the directness of purpose. His steps were
turned towards the famous Long Gallery, which filled all
the upper floor of the west wing. Here were the Valhalla
and the treasure-house of the Ingles. Here the portraits
of bygone Ingles hung in the exquisite company of in-
finitely precious things which they, and their ancestors
before them, had wrested from the earth.
Raphael's breath almost stopped as he stood in the gal-
lery and gazed up at this long line of pictures. There was
a catch in his throat. He worshipped beauty with an un-
usual passion, and would have crossed a continent for the
acquisition of a beautiful thing; to him it would certainly
be a joy forever. The outward calm of Sir Richard Ingle
at the tragedy that had so suddenly come upon his house
surprised him. But Raphael shrewdly suspected that this
calm was more or less superficial and no real index to the
disturbing and alarming doubts which were agitating him
within.
Slingsby Raphael had more than once publicly declared
himself as an apostle of cheerful barbarity. He always


SLINGSBY RAPHAEL, LOOKS AT PICTURES 59
from where he stood. Before he could reach it to command
the passage, the person whose steps he had heard had
gone. With a stride quickened by surprise he descended
the stairs.
An uncomfortable feeling of distrust took hold of him.
By impulse or instinct, he determined to find his host. Sir
Richard was on the lawn in front of the music-room when
Raphael came upon him, and it appeared that he had just
been joined by Celia Guest. Raphael's quick pace dropped
to a leisurely saunter as he came towards them. When
close enough, he spoke Carelessly.
"I've been in the Long Gallery. A marvellous place,
Ingle. I both envy you and congratulate you. Ever been
up there, Miss Guest?"
In the circumstances the words sounded like cold
cruelty. But Raphael cared nothing for considerations
such as these. He fought for his own, in his own way and
on his own terms. If, in the fight, it happened that a
woman fell in his path . . . well . . . there were at least
five Chinese proverbs that he could apply with a shrug of
the shoulders to the satisfaction of his personal honor.
Each of the five was an exercise in cold blood, apart from
the fact that one wench (to him, as to so many) was as
good as another.
On this occasion, however, Sir Richard Ingle gallantly
entered the breach. He stole a glance at his young com-
panion and quickly determined how things were. "I'm
going to take Celia up there myself," he said kindly; "but
not just yet—a little later on. When things are—more
settled, you know."
He blew his nose rather violently, and the slim figure,


60
THE SPIKED LION
silk-haired and slender-ankled, looked at him with
gratitude in her grey eyes.
Sir Richard went on: "Yes, it's a marvellous place,
Raphael, the Long Gallery, as you say, but the Tresham
gallery is incomparably finer and grander. I remember
going over it with my father one afternoon when I was a
boy. I fancy that it was on the occasion of my eighth
birthday. Anyhow, that's of no consequence, but it was
an experience that I shall never forget.. You'll have to
come to Tresham when I get there, Raphael, and go over
it. You'll be delighted."
Raphael nodded rather coldly. "A Richard will be
somewhat out of place at Tresham, won't he?"
"Yes, I suppose he will. Every one of 'em in the past
who's held the title has been named Martin." He turned
again to Celia. "You slip away, my dear, and find Ella.
She told me that she wanted to talk to you. Then you'll
feel better. You've been very brave, and I'm proud of
you. Two blows in two days such as you've had would
try the hardiest."
He patted the girl's hand as she started to obey him.
Raphael's eyes followed her and there were both question
and wonderment in them. Sir Richard continued to talk.
Any subject other than the subject attracted him these
days.
"The founder of the Tresham family was of Royal
blood, you know. In the Tresham library there are shelves
upon shelves of books of the family history. Chronicles—
records—some early French, some early English—some
even from Normandy. I doubt whether I should ever be
able to drag you away. You'd revel in them, Raphael."


SLINGSBY RAPHAEL LOOKS AT PICTURES 61
»
A curious gleam shone in the eyes of the man addressed.
Apparently it was unnoticed by Sir Richard, who pro-
ceeded with serenity:
"The eldest sons of the house have always been called
Martin because the first of the Treshams was interested—
shall we say?—in the Abbey of St. Martin at Lacroix.
The Abbey that stands there to this day."
"Interested? " Raphael frowned. '* How—interested?"
Sir Richard shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know
that it is a pretty story. I'll tell it to you, though, all
the same. A certain English King was hunting in Nor-
mandy; he came to the Abbey St. Martin at Lacroix, and
fell in love with the young abbess there. She was a girl,
we are told, of singular beauty. For a time there was
virtue that refused to yield; but the Royal desire would
not be denied, and the son of the alliance was recognized
by his kingly father, brought to England and given both
lands and a title. The land of the King's gift was a tract
by this southern sea here. Along the Hampshire border.
Over there."
Sir Richard pointed across the stretch of blue water to
the mainland. "The Tresham castle was built on a ridge
so that it might bridle the dunes and the marshland.
There is a legend that in its earliest days it was guarded
by six huge lions which roamed the grounds all night.
Hence the Tresham lions."
He paused and then made his last contribution. "And
now it seems that all is coming to me."
"Lions as well?" Raphael laughed.
"I don't know about that."
'4 You will go there, of course?"


62
THE SPIKED LION
"I must. No man would be justified in turning his
back on a heritage of that kind and with that history.
But I shan't desert Beech Knoll entirely. I can't bring
myself to do that . . . even considering the cloud that
has now come over it. It's been too big a part of my life
for so long. Probably I shall divide my time between
Tresham and here."
"How old would the missing Tresham have been now? '*
"Nicholas? Well, it's a hell of a time since I last saw
him, but in the late forties, I imagine—if he's still alive.
But he's not. You can bet your life on that."
"You think not?"
"No. He was wild and harum-scarum right from his
boyhood days. More than that—a real bad egg. Nobody
was surprised when he left the country. All I know about
him is that he was reputed to have the Tresham eyebrows.
There was one other piece of information, too,' that he
sent me gratuitously when he cleared out, that might have
come in useful. But the need hasn't arisen. He was prob-
ably shot in a drunken brawl somewhere for cheating at
cards or stealing somebody's liquor. I should think they
would have been two of his most likely hobbies. He's dead,
right enough."
Raphael smiled at Ingle's certainty. "Don't count
your chickens before they leave the incubator, Richard.
You never know. Ghosts of the past often rear their ugly
heads at us."
Before Sir Richard could reply, a shadow was thrown
across the terrace behind them. "Yes, Garrett," said
Sir Richard; "what is it?"
"You'll pardon me, sir," replied the butler, "but


ASSISTANCE OF BARRY COVINGTON 65
that, because I watched your face when he asked Summer-
hayes that question about the cyanide. But here the beg-
gar is, looking like Charles Laughton in Payment De-
ferred."
Raphael's lips tightened. Sergeant Pullinger came on
to the terrace a couple of paces in advance of Anthony
Bathurst. Garrett convoyed them.
"Good morning, Sergeant," said Sir Richard.
"Good morning, sir."
Anthony stepped forward. "Good morning, Sir Rich-
ard. I must thank you for consenting to see me. My
reason for troubling you is this. Sir Austin Kemble, the
Commissioner of Police at Scotland Yard, has asked me
to look into the death of Mr. Hugh Guest. I expect, how-
ever, that you understood that when your butler first
announced me."
Sir Richard softened a little. Things were a little more
bearable. This man was a gentleman, a hundred to one
on it. Somehow he hadn't expected that. You didn't as-
sociate police matters with ... Or at least it wasn't so
in the old days. He pulled himself together.
"Oh yes—good morning. This is Mr. Slingsby Raphael,
a great friend of mine. You may speak as frankly to him
as to me."
Mr. Bathurst bowed.
Raphael acknowledged the bow courteously. a Shall
we seat ourselves? Personally I find that this stone ledge
makes an irresistible appeal. On this part of the terrace
one is able to enjoy the morning sunshine so thoroughly.
It may be informal, but comfort is always my first consid-
eration. You don't blame me—eh?"


66
THE SPIKED LION
"Not at all. I am entirely in agreement," returned
Mr. Bathurst. "May I talk?"
"Of course. I am expecting you to. And we will
listen."
"One moment, gentlemen, if you please." The interrup-
tion came from Sergeant Pullinger. His voice was curt
and businesslike.
"Yes. What is it, Sergeant?"
"I'd like to say just this, Sir Richard. I feel that I
ought to."
"Go on. We are anxious to hear all that there is to
know. Are there developments?"
"No, sir. Not what you'd call developments. But Dr.
Summerhayes is even more emphatic now than before that
Mr. Guest was poisoned only a short time before he was
called to the body. He puts that time now as ' a few min-
utes.' Secondly, I've received a communication from a
gentleman who, I believe, is staying here with you at the
present time. A gentleman by the name of Covington.
He says in his letter that he has information for me that
he considers extremely important. I wrote and told him in
reply that I would see him here when I came along to see
you. I have your permission, I take it, Sir Richard?"
"Certainly." Ingle's tone was now definitely cold.
"Thank you, sir. When Mr. Bathurst agrees, then,
I'll have a few words with Mr. Covington."
Sir Richard caught Raphael's eye and nodded. "Very
well then. Now, Mr. Bathurst, you were going to talk;
perhaps you'll have better success this time."
Pullinger rubbed his nose. He could stand as much of
that stuff as Sir Richard cared to hand out to him. Pul-


ASSISTANCE OF BARRY COVINGTON 67
linger not only knew his job, but had considerable belief in
himself. Things weren't as they used to be either; it
wasn't a scrap of good the old man thinking that because
he was . . . He came away from his contemplation and
found himself listening to Anthony Bathurst.
"The murder of Mr. Guest—happening as it did, so
soon after the murder of his uncle, Mr. John Blundell—
seems to the authorities whom I represent to have assumed
proportions far beyond the ordinary. I presume that you,
Sir Richard, can throw no light upon the death of Mr.
Blundell? You can give no hint—make no suggestion,
arising from your knowledge of Hugh Guest, say—that
would prove helpful to us?"
"None whatever," replied Ingle promptly. "I am not
in that position. The late Mr. Blundell was a complete
stranger to me. A name only. I just knew of his ex-
istence—that was all. I had never set eyes upon him."
"But you were on a different footing, doubtless, with
Hugh Guest?"
"Oh, bless your heart—yes! Hugh's father was one of
my oldest friends. We were boys together at Winchester,
and our friendship continued right up to Leonard Guest's
death two years ago."
"I see. That brings me to a question that I must ask
you. I am sure that you will realize that I consider the
question an urgent one, otherwise I wouldn't dream of
asking it. Did you actually invite Mr. Guest here on the
occasion of this last visit of his?"
"Invite? Specially, do you mean?" Sir Richard's
frown interested Raphael as well as Anthony Bathurst.
"Yes. Specially—on this last occasion."


68
THE SPI KED LION
"Well, putting it like that—no. Let me explain things.
Guest and his sister, Celia, were always welcome here. Al-
ways have been. Beech Knoll has been open house to them,
as you might say. They could always come here if they
wanted to. They knew that very well. When Hugh Guest
wrote to me at the beginning of last week to say that he
and his sister"
"That's just what I meant, Sir Richard. What I
wanted to know. The suggestion that he should come here
emanated from him, then? He wrote to you?"
"Yes. That is so. He wrote to me."
"Now tell me this, Sir Richard," continued Anthony
Bathurst; "was he a frequent visitor here?"
"No. Just lately—by no means. More frequent when
he was a good many years younger. Used to come here
a lot. When was he last here?" Sir Richard reflected.
"At Christmas—either four or five years ago."
"That would be a house-party, I suppose?"
"Oh—undoubtedly. Forty or fifty people would be
staying here at the time. That's about our usual com-
plement."
"On those occasions invitations would be issued, of
course?"
"Naturally. As in all affairs of that kind."
"When you received Guest's letter to say that he was
coming on this last occasion, were you at all surprised?"
Sir Richard fingered his chin before he ventured upon a
reply. Raphael watched him intently. He thought that
he could see the drift of Bathurst's questioning. Anthony
Bathurst waited patiently. Eventually Sir Richard groped
on the shelf of his brain and found suitable words.


ASSISTANCE OF BAEEY COVINGTON 69
"Well, to tell the truth, I was perhaps a little surprised
at the first. I will attempt to explain my feelings when
I first read his letter. He wrote to us from the Varsity,
you see. Although he was in residence, it meant him get-
ting special leave. The Trinity term doesn't end till early
July. It seemed awkward . . . inconvenient." Sir Rich-
ard paused for a brief space. "But then I began to think
things over. Look at them for yourself, Mr. Bathurst.
There was this trouble concerning his uncle hanging over
him. The man was missing. Had been missing for some
days. A dreadful thing that. A wearing, worrying anx-
iety. That fact alone tended to place matters in the cate-
gory of the abnormal. I turned it all over in my mind.
The boy wanted help, perhaps ... or advice. An old
man's counsel. Who knows?"
"Do you happen to have kept this letter from Guest,
Sir Richard, to which you have just referred?"
"Oh, good gracious—no! It is not my habit to retain
letters of that sort. Why on earth should I?"
"Quite so," returned Bathurst. "What I was trying
to discover was this. Did there seem to be anxiety or a
keen cksire on Guest's part to come here? You admit that
the idea originated with him—did he appear to be really
eager to make the visit?"
Raphael listened carefully for Sir Richard's thoughtful
answer.
"That's a difficult question. You are asking me to tell
you what was going on in another man's mind, for that's
what it comes to. Always a very unsatisfactory thing to
have to do."
"I am only asking you for your opinion, Sir Richard,"


70 THE SPIKED LION
interposed Anthony Bathurst. "That puts the question
on a somewhat different footing, I think."
Ingle frowned. "I refuse to commit myself beyond
this. I think Guest wanted a refuge, as it were. He was
worried about his uncle. There was certainly hospitality
here, and there might be help. The latter contingency was
definitely on the cards. Understand my meaning?"
"Yes—and no. Viewed from one standpoint, I should
have espected Guest to have devoted all his time and all
his attention to the task of tracing and finding his missing
relative. He couldn't have expected to find him here with
you, could he? However, as you said yourself just now,
Sir Richard, it is idle for us to assert with any degree of
certainty the motive that had taken possession of his mind.
It was known to him only, and now, alas, he will never be
able to tell us. We will leave matters there for the pres-
ent."
He turned away to Sergeant Pullinger, a patient listener
to the last exchanges of conversation. "Perhaps it would
be convenient for you to see Mr. Covington now, Sergeant
Pullinger. It would suit me all right."
The sergeant sought corroboration from Sir Richard
Ingle.
"I will arrange that for you immediately, Sergeant.
Mr. Covington is in the library. I will tell Garrett that
you would like a word with him. Though I haven't the
slightest idea what he has to talk about."
Sir Richard was away and back again in the matter of
a minute. "I have told my butler. He will bring Mr.
Covington to you as soon as possible."
Anthony Bathurst saw the opening for which he had


ASSISTANCE OF BARRY COVINGTON 71
been waiting, and took it. "One more question, Sir Rich-
ard. When Hugh Guest wrote to you the other day, did
he know if anybody else were staying with you at the
time?"
Ingle looked a little puzzled. "I hadn't informed him,
if that's what you mean."
"And he didn't raise the point in the letter?"
"No, Mr. Bathurst."
"Thank you, Sir Richard. That is most important in
my opinion."
"Here's Barry Covington," declared Ingle, "and I'm
dead interested to hear what he's got to say that he can
put under the heading of important."
Covington, looking a little scared, came forward to the
group of men awaiting him.
"Not too sure of himself. Wonders if he's done the
right thing," commented Bathurst mentally. "But he's
got so far and can't retrace his steps. Might prove
awkward."
Garrett ushered his charge and retired again.
"Good morning, gentlemen," said Barry Covington.
"Sergeant Pullinger?"
"I'm Sergeant Pullinger, Mr. Covington. Good morn-
ing. I've come to see you about that letter you wrote to
me."
Covington glanced askance at the three men with them.
"That's all right, Mr. Covington. I'd rather Sir Rich-
ard were here and heard what you have to say. He knows
you've written to me. I told him."
Covington accepted the situation with the best grace he
could muster. "What I've got to tell you, Sergeant, falls


72
THE SPIKED LION
into two divisions. Perhaps I can call them 'my sus-
picions ' and my ' definite facts.'"
As he spoke, Covington found himself wondering who
the keen, grey-eyed man with the clean-shaven face was,
who was watching him and listening to him so intently.
Looked a useful sort of customer at most things ... as
hard as a bag of nails . . . very fit indeed, thank you.
. . . Covington collected his thoughts and went on:
"First of all, I'll tell you what I suspected as opposed
to what I really know. I won't beat about the bush. I
think that Hugh Guest had discovered something about his
uncle."
"You mean—concerning Mr. Blundell's disappear-
ance?"
"Exactly. I think that he had found out something,
and was definitely on the track of somebody who had
harmed, or who was about to harm, his uncle. And I
think, too, that up to that time he had kept his knowledge,
whatever it was, very much to himself. I don't think he'd
told his sister even."
"What made you think that, Mr. Covington?"
Barry Covington took the interruption with the essence
of good humor. "If you'll allow me to get on with my
story in my own way, Sergeant, I'll tell you that later. I
should much prefer to do that, with your permission. I'll
come to it, as it were, in its proper and logical sequence.
That will bring me, too, to the part of my story that I
designated as ' definite fact.'
"On the morning of the day that Guest was murdered
I had nothing much to do, so I went for a stroll over
Lashey Down." Covington's voice was lowered a little as


ASSISTANCE OP BARRY COVINGTON 73
he proceeded. He told the men who listened to him the
full details of what he had previously told Hugh Guest.
He went on to the finish. "Well, Guest didn't seem at all
bothered about it—at least, nothing to speak of; not as
much as you might have expected—and I cleared out."
Covington paused for a moment. "I never saw him
again—alive, I mean."
Anthony Bathurst made a sign to Sergeant Pullinger.
The latter nodded understandingly.
"You say that Guest seemed anxious?"
Covington turned to this second questioner—this grey-
eyed man. "No. Hardly that. I wouldn't say anxious.
How shall I put it? His mind seemed occupied. I got the
impression that there was a problem which he was tackling
—single-handed in all probability. That was why I spoke
to him. I wanted to help him if he would let me. It was
a warning to him as well. I had heard this threat against
him, and I put the two things together."
"You say that you would be unable to recognize either
of these men whose conversation you overheard?"
Covington nodded. "Their voices just floated to me
down-wind."
"Let me check this. You say you heard ' Guest,'' door-
step,' 'Sir Richard Ingle,' 'Beech Knoll' and ' Ralph '—
all these significant words? Is that correct?"
"That is so," returned Barry Covington.
Mr. Bathurst looked from Sergeant Pullinger to
Slingsby Raphael. Neither answered the glance with
speech. It was Anthony himself who eventually broke the
silence.
"There are many strange features about this case,


74
THE SPIKED LION
Sergeant, as you will no doubt agree, but the strangest one
of all is the method of the murderer's escape. A locked
door, with the key of it in the pocket of the dead man.
The murderer, therefore, not having made his exit by the
door, ergo must have discovered another means of escape.
Which it will be our duty, Sergeant, to find out also."
He swung round on to Sir Richard Ingle. "If con-
venient to you, Sir Richard, I should very much like to
look at Guest's bedroom. I should like you, too, to come
with me."
Sir Richard acquiesced immediately. "Certainly. You
may do so with pleasure. Come this way, Mr. Bathurst."
The company of men made its way indoors—to the
bedroom where Hugh Guest had kept his last appointment.
On the threshold Bathurst paused to examine the damaged
hinges. Then he looked at the lock, on the inside and on
the outside.
"The key, I suppose, was handled by several people
after you say the doctor handed it over?"
Sir Richard showed signs of annoyance. "It was, I
think. We .were careless, I suppose, at the time. I doubt
if any of us realized the importance of the thing, or
thought much about what we were doing. At moments
like that, values are difficult to assess. One is apt to . . ."
He turned to Raphael for confirmation of the opinions
that he was expressing. "You know what I mean,
Slingsby. You can express it better than I can. You
were here with us. We did the things that came to our
minds."
"That is so. That is always so. It must be. Civiliza-
tion and the conventions generally are forgotten in times


ASSISTANCE OF BARRY COVINGTON 75
of stress, fear or danger. One falls back on primitive in-
stincts. I am sure that Mr. Bathurst himself would be the
first to admit the truth of that."
"I know what you mean, I think." Bathurst closured
the discussion rather abruptly and glanced round the
room. "Where was the body when you came into the
room?"
Sir Richard pointed to the floor. "Just there, at the
side of the bed."
Bathurst, with his eyes, measured the distance between
the bed and the window. "You've found nothing, I under-
stand, Sergeant?"
"Nothing, sir. And while you're here, have a look out-
side that bedroom window."
Bathurst walked to the window and looked out. Pul-
linger continued his criticism. Unknowingly, he repeated
the words that Raphael had used just after Guest's body
had been discovered. "A cat couldn't have got away
from that window-ledge."
"I happen to be fond of cats," remarked Anthony,
"and I agree with you."
He whistled softly under his breath. "Mr. Covington,"
he declared suddenly, "if all that we are told is true "—
he paused as quickly as he had begun to speak—" you see,
of course, the inevitable implication?"
Barry Covington looked at him fearlessly. *' I think I
do. Tell me what you mean, though, so that I may see if
I'm right."
"The implication to which I refer is this. The medical
evidence leaves no room to doubt that Guest died but a few
minutes before you gentlemen entered this room. Sergeant


'76
THE SPIKED LION
Pullinger assures me that the doctor will stake his medical
reputation on that point. Therefore it is almost a cer-
tainty that the murderer must have been inside the room
when you, Mr. Covington, came to the bedroom door the
first time and knocked."
Covington nodded in appreciation of what Bathurst had
said. * That's quite right. I thought that was what you
meant. I can't deny the probability of it."
"The certainty of it, rather," amended Bathurst
quietly. "You heard no sound, I suppose, when you came
to the door?"
Covington shook his head. "None. Everything inside
was absolutely quiet and still."
Bathurst searched for detail. "What did you do first?
Knock on the door, or call to Guest?"
"Knocked—tapped on the door. Getting no answer, I
spoke to Guest as one would have done had the room been
occupied by him. When I was first asked about this I
couldn't remember speaking at all. I didn't think that I
had. My mind was all blurred. But it has come back to
me since. I am clear on it. I didn't call out or shout,
I just spoke in my ordinary voice. I think that I said—
* Hugh, are you there?' two or three times. That was
all."
"What did you do then?"
"Tried the handle of the door. Shook it and rattled it,
but to no purpose. The door was locked. Then I went
downstairs again to the dining-room and reported—and
the others came up here with me. You know what we
found."
"How do you explain it yourself, Mr. Covington? The


ASSISTANCE OF BARRY COVINGTON 77
locked door, I mean, and the key in the murdered man's
pocket?"
"There is only one possible explanation, surely? That
the murderer escaped by way of the window. I know that
looking at it makes the idea seem perfectly ridiculous—
but what else could have happened? One must deal with
possibilities."
Bathurst went to the window, pushed it open and leaned
out. With his right hand on the sill, the long lithe body
was balanced. He craned his neck, to look upwards; and
then in the reverse direction, to the ground below. Slingsby
Raphael and Sir Richard Ingle watched his every move-
ment, as though their minds were following the course of
his own—as though they were confronted at the same time
with the identical ramifications of the same problem.
"No footmarks below, you say, Sergeant?"
"No, Mr. Bathurst, not a mark. Nobody went that
way. I've been over the ground most carefully several
times."
Anthony drew in his head and closed the window again.
"Motive must mean a lot here, gentlemen. Until we hit
upon that, we may well describe ourselves as wanderers
pure and simple. Lost adventurers, gazing at ports and
cities that are always foreign. It has been established,
you will remember, that both Guest and Blundell met their
death by the same means, if not at the same hands."
He caressed the ridge of his jaw thoughtfully. Then he
came, as it were, to a new idea. *' Which of you gentle-
men was the first to discover that Guest was dead?"
Raphael, Covington and Sir Richard looked at each
other. There was uncertainty amongst them. The last-


CHAPTER IX
DOCTOR SUMMERHAYES SPEAKS OUT
Doctor Arnold Summerhayes drew at his cigar with
grateful appreciation of its price and quality. He had
had a long and arduous day; perhaps the worst since he
had taken over his present practice. The day, too, had
been hot, and the doctor disliked hot weather intensely.
He looked at his wrist-watch. It was moderately late.
More than that—it was comfortably late. The latter
adverb meant more to him than the former. With ordi-
nary luck there should be nothing that evening to disturb.
Things that day, on the whole, had gone well for him; the
future was beginning to look much more roseate. He had
been called to Sir Richard Ingle's . . . the fact pleased
him. Sir Richard was a man who counted. He went to
the sideboard and took out the liquor brandy that was his
especial fancy. The portion that he was about to drink
was carefully measured in the pouring out.
He had scarcely raised the glass to his lips when there
came a soft tap at the door. Dr. Summerhayes raised his
eyebrows in annoyance. "Yes? Who is it?" he called
sharply.
The door opened and the man who had tapped came
partly across the threshold. "You're wanted, Doctor."
Dr. Summerhayes frowned for the second time. "Who
wants me? A patient? At this time of night?"


DOCTOR 8UMMEEHAYES SPEAKS OUT 81
fact, I've almost been expecting a visit from somebody.
The death at Sir Richard Ingle's—eh?"
Anthony Bathurst took the chair that Dr. Summerhayes
had previously offered to him. "That's true, Doctor. If
you would be so kind, I'd like you to assist me in regard
to one or two matters connected with the dead man. No-
body can do that as well as you. I won't take up any
more of your time than I can possibly help."
"That's good of you. We doctors are busy men—even
in the country like this. I haven't been here long, but
already my practice has grown considerably. Cigar?"
"Thank you."
Dr. Summerhayes exhibited the box. "Take that one,
Mr. Bathurst," he said. "I pride myself on being a con-
noisseur of cigars—you will find it excellent. Not too
new. Light? Good."
The two men settled down opposite to each other.
"Guest died of poisoning—cyanide of potassium.
That's so, Doctor, is it not?"
The doctor nodded gravely.
"How administered?"
"Up the nose. Sprayed in some way, shall we say, up
the nostrils."
"Thank you, Doctor. If I may say so, that is the
answer which I desired. You are aware, of course, Dr.
Summerhayes, that Guest is the third victim of this kind
during the last few days?"
"My morning and evening papers tell me so."
Bathurst supplied details. "Blundell in the Hampton
Court district, Wingfield in the South Devon, and now
- Guest in the Isle of Wight."


82 THE SPIKED LION
The doctor nodded. "I remember the names—now that
you specify them."
"Blundell," continued Mr. Bathurst, "was Hugh
Guest's uncle. I have not yet discovered any connection
either of them had with Mr. Wingfield."
"None, possibly." Summerhayes was essentially matter-
of-fact.
Anthony gave him a dry smile. "You may be right in
that supposition, Doctor, but you must give me a certain
amount of leave to doubt it. Would you say that Guest
was a healthy man, Doctor?"
"Oh, undoubtedly. There was no organic weakness
anywhere. I should describe him as a very fit and athletic
young man." The doctor's thin face clouded, and creases
showed in his big forehead. "From an insurance com-
pany's point of view he would have been a first-class life
anywhere. That fact makes this affair so extraordinarily
sad. For such a young man to pass out in such a sad
way . . ." Summerhayes shook his head eloquently in
silence.
Mr. Bathurst came to closer quarters. "My notes of
the Guest case contain this statement, Doctor. I'll read
it to you. 'When Dr. Summerhayes arrived at Beech
Knoll, the murdered man had been dead but a quarter of
an hour.' But Sergeant Pullinger, whom you have seen
since, I believe, now states that the time that had elapsed
between Guest's death and your examination of his body
was ' only a few minutes.' Which is correct, Doctor?"
"The latter. There was no evidence whatever of rigor
mortis" The doctor was coldly precise.
Anthony Bathurst looked up at him interrogatively.


DOCTOR SUMMERHAYES SPEAKS OUT 83
"Which means, of course, if we pursue it to its logical
conclusion ...?"
Summerhayes nodded and placed his finger-tips together.
"Quite so, Mr. Bathurst. You are absolutely right. The
murderer had only just escaped. I realize that just as
you do. It must have been so. There is no other possi-
bility. He could have had only seconds to spare. Had
Sir Richard Ingle's party come a few minutes earlier to
the bedroom door, they must have caught him in flagrante
delicto."
"We are in agreement there, Doctor. You've cleared
up a point over which I was puzzling a little. Now for
the next, and perhaps most important, feature of all."
Anthony paused.
Dr. Summerhayes smiled genially and encouragingly.
"And that is?"
"I allude to ' the incident of the bedroom door key,' as
Holmes himself would have put it. I find that key a most
intriguing factor."
"I think I know what you mean. Perhaps if I describe
to you what exactly occurred in Guest's bedroom whilst I
was there it will materially assist you. At any rate, it
will give you a clearer idea of what happened."
Dr. Summerhayes drew his chair forward an inch or so
and lowered his voice a little. "When Sir Richard Ingle
'phoned to me here and told me what had happened, I
naturally went over to the house at once. As a matter of
fact, he was rather fortunate to find me in. I had just
been summoned to a case over at Lashey Down, and had
Sir Richard's call come a matter of two minutes later than
it did I should have been on my way there. Luckily, how-


84
THE SPIKED LION
ever, this other case wasn't urgent and no harm was done
—I was able to attend to it later on.
"When I entered Guest's bedroom I noticed, of course,
how the door had been forced open. 'Hallo,' I said to
myself,' suicide. Door locked on the inside to obviate any
chance of being disturbed.' But the suicide theory was
soon exploded. If I may be allowed to mix my metaphors,
it wouldn't hold water for an instant. Nobody in the
world could have destroyed himself by taking cyanide of
potassium and then have proceeded to eliminate the evi-
dence. Cyanide of potassium, as I've no doubt you know,
Mr. Bathurst, is a compound of prussic acid and potash.
The symptoms of a victim of it would be similar to those
associated with poisoning by prussic acid itself—a single
drop of which will cause death. The symptoms brought
on by a fatal dose are rarely delayed beyond one or two
minutes, and death occurs very quickly—very quickly in-
deed. There is only one possible way, as I view the matter,
in which Guest could have committed suicide. He would
have had to have a companion—confederate if you like—
who, waiting till Guest was dead, took the incriminating
evidence from the room with him. It's extremely far-
fetched, I know, but an arrangement such as I have in-
dicated might have been made. Possible, but highly im-
probable, I should say."
Mr. Bathurst gave way to meditation. "Help me here,
Dr. Summerhayes," he asked at length. "If I am wrong,
please correct me. A sufferer from true angina pectoris
obtains relief, I believe, when an attack has seized him, by
crushing a capsule or glass bead containing five drops of
nitrite of amyl. The bead is usually crushed between the


86
THE SPIKED LION
"To do that was my intention. Let me think, now. I
raised the question of the key myself when I realized that
the bedroom door had been forced because it had been
locked on the inside. The statement may sound tautolog-
ical, but I am trying to explain to you how my brain
worked as I knelt by Guest's dead body. In sequence of
thought, as it were, I then asked if any one of them in the
bedroom had removed the key from the lock."
"One moment, Doctor." Bathurst's interruption was
eager and insistent. "Who was the first man to answer
that question?"
Summerhayes reflected. "I don't know that I can an-
swer that. I'll try to, however. Let me think again."
Summerhayes put his hand to his forehead, covering his
eyes. "I think that young Covington replied to that ques-
tion first of all. Yes—now that it comes back to me with
a greater wealth of detail, I'm convinced that he did. Now
what was it that he said? What were the words he used?
He said that he hadn't touched the key, and he knew that
Sir Richard Ingle hadn't, either."
"I wonder why he added that?" remarked Bathurst
thoughtfully. "It wasn't as though"
"I couldn't say. Let me see, what happened after that?
Ah—I know! Raphael said that he hadn't removed the
key and seemed to censure himself for not having given
the thing a thought, as it were. He followed that up by
making the suggestion that Guest had it on his person
somewhere. Told me to have a look for it on Guest's body
. . . 'try the man's pockets,' were, I think, the words
that Raphael used. I couldn't be absolutely sure on that
point, but that's near enough. I went back to the body


DOCTOR SUMMEBHAYES SPEAKS OUT 87
and carried out Raphael's suggestion. You know that I
found the missing key. That's all that I can tell you, I
think."
The doctor relaxed again.
"In which pocket did you find it?"
"In the inside breast pocket."
"Which side, Doctor?"
Summerhayes frowned. "Left."
"Left." Bathurst repeated the word after him. "Do
you know, I think I would have preferred that you an-
swered my question in that way. Thank you, Doctor."
Summerhayes shook his head doubtfully. At the mo-
ment he failed to understand this expressed preference of
Mr. Bathurst.
"Sergeant Pullinger tells me that on the evening of the
murder Guest had not dressed for dinner."
"That is so," confirmed Summerhayes. "His evening
clothes were lying on the bed, ready to be put on. I think
he must have gone to the bedroom for the purpose of
dressing. They were almost the first things to catch my
eye when I entered the room—the white shirt and the black
clothes seemed to stand out above everything else that the
room held."
Anthony rose, on the point of departure. "You've
been a tremendous help to me, Dr. Summerhayes. Sev-
eral features of the affair that were vague and nebulous to
me when I came in are now much more clear and definite.
I always find that 'talking over' a case with one who is
able to supply first-hand evidence has a great value. Defi-
nite facts are so much more valuable than individual
theories."


88
THE SPI KED LION
Dr. Summerhayes smiled agreeably. "Of course. In
my own sphere I have often found the same thing. The
commerce of thought must mean that mental exposure is
inevitable. Ideas are dragged from their hiding-places;
more than that, they beget other ideas—the mind being
the soil—as one can say, in which they germinate. That
happens to you and to me and to everybody. Shall I have
the pleasure of seeing you again, Mr. Bathurst?"
"That depends, Doctor. At this stage of the case it
is impossible for me to promise. I am only just beginning
to see the first few prints of the trail. I have no idea to
where that trail will lead. Good night, Doctor."


CHAPTER X
THE LATE PROFESSOR WINGFIELD
Hukeilow is a quaint little Wiltshire village, chiefly noted
for its pigs. The neighboring village of Beckhampton is
much more famous for a nobler animal. It may even be
termed the darling of the Downs. Hubert Athelstan
Wingfield, whose body had been found in the ferns of Sid-
mouth, had resided at Apperley House, which lies a dis-
tance of between two and three miles from the outskirts of
Hurrilow itself.
Mr. Bathurst travelled there in a car that he was trying
out for the first time—a Chrysler with several new fea-
tures about it. An automatic clutch was a particular
source of unalloyed pleasure to him. It was simplicity
itself, which is saying something. His left foot took a
holiday, except when he was forced to reverse. The jour-
ney down, therefore, was a delight. Sheep fed by brook-
sides, lambs ran stilted races under the rows of hedges, or
curled themselves in comfort on grass that was sheltered.
In Swindon he turned to the right at the "Goddard
Arms," and then left into the Devizes road. Through the
villages of Wroughton and Broad Hinton, he came to
Berwick Bassett, where the externals of the church at-
tracted him so much that he stayed his course and went
inside, to be rewarded with the sight of an Early English


90
THE SPIKED LION
font and Perpendicular rood-screen. Then on through
Winterbourne Monkton and Avebury, Anthony Bathurst
came to Beckhampton, and two miles beyond, to Hurrilow.
Judiciously placed enquiries prevented him from wasting
time in the finding of Apperley House. It stood on a high
swell of ground; a long, low house of crinkled white, with
each end fashioned into a protruding gable. Anthony ar-
rived at a central porch under a peaked roof and rang the
bell. A step sounded within.
The door opened to reveal a maid. As was his wont, he
was lucky. All was plain sailing, and within a minute
Anthony stood in a long, narrow hall.
From his position near the front door he could just
discern the first steps of a stairway, with old, carved end-
posts. The maid beckoned him. "In this room, sir, you
will find my mistress." She pushed a door open and spoke
a question: " Miss Wingfield?"
Seeing her beckon again, Anthony entered. The appear-
ance of the woman who welcomed him took him by surprise.
He thought that she must be the tallest woman that he
had ever seen. Judging from his own height, this woman
must be at least six feet three, and gaunt and lean with
it. Her voice was harsh and strident, in thorough keeping
with her appearance. As Anthony entered she glowered at
him. It seemed as though she desired to launch her out-
raged feelings at his innocent head; that she had been
waiting such an opportunity, and now that it had come
was determined to embrace it with both hands. Mr. Bath-
urst, however, returned the glare with an apparently
unheeding eye. Miss Wingfield was dressed in deep black,
relieved only at her neck and wrists with touches of white.


THE LATE PROFESSOR WINGFIELD 93
"He told Mrs. Wingfield that he was keeping an im-
portant appointment, you say?"
"Yes. That was the word he used. But he was a man
who talked little, you must understand, and we, who lived
with him, knew that and rarely pressed him for details."
"Was it unusual for him to go out as he did?"
"Most." Miss Wingfield was emphatic.
"When was the last occasion it happened? Can you
remember?"
Miss Wingfield set her lips. "Over a year ago. At
least that."
"On that occasion did he return the same night?"
"Oh yes. I can't ever remember an occasion when he
idid not come back to sleep here. He was a creature of
the most regular and ordinary habits."
Mr. Bathurst became eloquent. "One fact that, it seems
to me, must emerge from all this is—how did this impor-
tant engagement come about? Here we have an eminent
man of letters, living in a comparatively secluded part of
the country, suddenly leaving his home for an unknown
destination. Now that appointment must have been made
by somebody—in some way. And it's those two unknown
quantities that we have to discover. Tell me of your
brother's habits in regard to his own particular metier—
the legendary inscription. According to what I have read
in the Press it was a frequent occurrence for him to be
consulted thereon." He looked at her enquiringly.
"That is so. Both by correspondence and sometimes
even by callers here. But there has been no recent corre-
spondence, at any rate, that we have been able to find.
Neither Mrs. Wingfield nor I can remember any recent


94
THE SPIKED LION
callers. That fact, however, must not be regarded as
absolutely conclusive, as the interview might have taken
place when we were both out. We must not ignore that
possibility. I told the police as much. We go out a good
deal. For instance, I play golf most afternoons, and Mrs.
Wingfield is a keen motorist. So you see that between
us"
"My difficulties are obvious," returned Mr. Bathurst.
"The secrecy with which the whole business has been sur-
rounded only points all the more to the grave issues in-
volved."
The lean, gaunt face which looked at him seemed to
grow more interested. She might have been a daughter of
Lear, he thought. "That is my own idea, Mr. Bathurst
—absolutely. I can think of nothing else. I've told my
sister-in-law so when we've discussed it. I am convinced
that my brother was the victim of a cunning and diabolical
plot, just as Mr. Blundell and that poor young man,
Guest, were. The plot's big, too. Bigger than you and I
probably dream of." She rose and towered over him, an
elderly Amazon of slowly simmering fury. "Shall I tell
you what was wanted of these three dead men, Mr. Bath-
urst? Their brains. Brains to be picked and pilfered,
and then destroyed! They had brains, and their mur-
derers hadn't. The conspiracy, whatever it was, lacked
them. Contradict me if you can—or if you dare." She
returned to her chair.
Mr. Bathurst was imperturbable. "Your theory satis-
fies me in one way, Miss Wingfield, but not in another. If
you yourself look at it a trifle more closely, I think that
you will see what I mean and understand my difficulty.


THE LATE PEOFESSOR WIN6FIELD 95
Another question. You say that your brother was a man
of methodical habit?"
"Very. Exceedingly so. I don't think that I have
ever known a man more so. But why do you ask?"
"Because it is the little things that count. The sermon
is in the stone. You and I have to catch a straw from
somewhere that will tell us the wind's direction. Now is
there any straw—any tiny fragment, even, of straw—
that is floating in the air somewhere, waiting for you or me
to grasp it? In that possibility, I fancy, lies our one and
only chance."
Miss Wingfield nodded acquiescence slowly. "Yes—I
think that your meaning is clear to me. I must rack my
brains for some fugitive thought that will count for a lot,
but which has so far completely eluded me. That is what
you want me to do, isn't it? Am I right?"
Mr. Bathurst pressed forward in an eagerness that was
undisguised. This woman was an ally after his own heart.
"A straw, Miss Wingfield. Any little incident. A torn
letter. An unusual phrase or a chance remark. Any de-
viation from the normal course of habit. An unlooked-for
action. A chair moved. A book consulted. An enquiry
about"
Miss Wingfield came to quivering life and sat bolt up-
right in her seat. "There is just one thing, Mr. Bath-
urst," she said slowly. "It may be of some importance,
and, on the other hand, it may not. Your mention of a
book brought it back to me. But my brother was not by
any means an omnivorous reader. Almost without excep-
tion his reading was confined to the books dealing with his
own especial interest. But an evening or so before he dis-


96
THE SPIKED LION
appeared—it would be about April the twentieth, I should
say—I saw him looking at a map. That's the only thing
I can think of that"
"A map," interrupted Bathurst; " a map of what, Miss
Wingfield?"
"The Isle of Wight, Mr. Bathurst. It was an
ordinary"
Anthony Bathurst sprang to his feet and rubbed his
hands. "The straw is in our hands, Miss Wingfield, and
we must hold it. Thanks to you. Now tell me this—that
one thought which we have resurrected may act as an in-
spiration to revive another. Did you hear, during these
last few days, any mention from your brother of an
animal?"
He bent down over her in eager anticipation of her reply.
Amazingly, she nodded!" Yes . . . that has come
back to me too. I heard him refer once—jokingly, I
should say it was—to a spiked lion."
Anthony almost held his breath. "It's the right straw
too, Miss Wingfield, that you've seen in front of you and
that we've grasped. Thank God for that!"


SHOCK FOE SIR RICHARD INGLE 99
already had have been more than enough. Both Jean and
Ella are pretty well all in, although they've been deuced
plucky about it all the way through, and haven't dropped
the suggestion of a moan. All the same, I'm not going to
say that another shock mightn't be too much for one or
both of them. Especially if it were handed out by Mr.
Gregory Lomax. So, on the whole, Slingsby, I think I'll
trot up to Seely Place to-morrow, since my immediate
decision is required. I'll send Lomax a wire at once. I'll
get Garrett to see to it for me."
Hard on his departure, Barry Covington entered the
room. He hung about hesitatingly before coming to the
point of words. When he spoke to Raphael, it was in the
form of a question.
"I don't want to seem unduly curious, or to be butting
in on anything which doesn't concern me, but has Sir
Richard had bad news?"
Raphael shrugged his shoulders. "Don't ask me,
Covington. Why should you imagine such a thing? Also,
admitting the truth of your conjecture for the sake of
discussion, why should you think that our host would
confide in me?"
Covington sensed hostility. He sought temporary
refuge in generalities. "Oh—it's nothing. I merely
thought that Sir Richard looked a little worried when he
passed me just now. And as I saw no evidence of this
anxiety first thing this morning, I thought, perhaps, that
something unusual might have come along since. About
Guest's murder, I mean."
His voice held eagerness. Raphael noticed it and re-
mained distant and aloof. "I really don't know. Why


100
THE SPI KED LION
do you ask? Are you fancying yourself as an investigator,
or do you suspect anybody in particular?"
"I? Why, no. Why should I? How can I? All I
know is that Guest's life was threatened and that I warned
him against the danger. You heard me tell Sergeant
Pullinger that. But whom I warned him against"
He broke off with a gesture of hopelessness.
Raphael smiled cynically. "I'll say this for you, Cov-
ington—when you're gyrating on thin ice you've the intel-
ligence to realize it. Some people don't. It's a peculiarly
modern tendency, that! I thought that you told Bathurst
and Sergeant Pullinger just enough in that story of your
doze on Lashey Down. Not a word too much—not a word
too little. You were alert. You didn't let your conjec-
tures interfere with the information you had that was
based on fact."
Covington stared.
Raphael went on: " Some people in your position might
have been tempted to say a great deal more. It's a rare
gift to know when and where one should stop. Must stop.
Some authors, for instance, write books that will never
be read. Others write books that will never be published.
But if any of them write checks that will never be cashed—
well, they're on thin ice, and the cleverer ones realize it
and do their spot of skating extremely gingerly. If all
eventually goes well—or better—they earnestly repent and
endeavor to live in love and charity with their neighbors.
Cheero for now, Covington! You'll excuse me, I know. I
want to have a word with Celia Guest."
He knocked the ash from his cigarette and strolled off.
Covington turned to watch him. He heard Raphael's


SHOCK FOE SIR RICHAED INGLE 103
come to see me to talk about the weather. You are anxious
to know why I wrote to you. I'm well aware of that."
He paused, giving Sir Richard the idea that he was
waiting for something to be said to him. He was disap-
pointed. The only recognition that his visitor afforded
him was the very slightest suggestion of a bow. Gregory
Lomax strummed nervously on his desk with his fingers.
To tell the truth, he disliked, intensely, the position in
which he found himself. Almost as intensely as the posi-
tion that had arisen in regard to Tresham. He had hoped
that his client would have given him a conversational open-
ing and so rendered his task easier. He ceased his five-
finger exercises on the mahogany and cleared his throat
ostentatiously.
"Well, Sir Richard, now that you're here, I will come
to the matter upon which I wrote to you. A matter that
is excessively important. I had hoped that . . ."
He rose, walked to the door of the apartment, opened
it, closed it, and returned to his chair behind the roll-top
desk. "I am particularly anxious that what we say
should not be overheard. That is why, also, I was so
uncommunicative, shall we say, in the letter that I sent to
you to the Isle of Wight. You thought so, doubtless . . .
h'm . . . eh?"
Sir Richard smiled. "Go on, Mr. Lomax."
The latter leaned over impressively. "Sir Richard, big
things are afoot. On Monday last I received the greatest
shock of my professional career. And when I remember
everything, that's saying something, I can assure you."
"I suppose so."
Lomax swayed back in his chair and placed his finger-


104
THE SPIKED LION
tips together. "About a quarter past three on Monday
afternoon, Sir Richard, my clerk brought me word that two
gentlemen were downstairs and wanted to know if they
could see me as soon as it was convenient. I asked Walters
—that's my clerk—if he knew their names, and whether
they had an appointment with either me or Mr. Chipper-
field. He told me no; so, being a bit curious, and also
more or less free at the time, I told him to bring them up
here. Well, Sir Richard, they came up, and one of them
sat where you're sitting now, and the other next to him."
He paused. Sir Richard waited for him to go .on.
When he proceeded, he spoke with the utmost deliberation.
"Their names, Sir Richard, as they gave them to me,
absolutely stunned me, or, rather, one of them did. They
were Lord Tresham and Captain Forbes, the famous
aviator."
Gregory Lomax, sensing the drama of the situation,
paused again as he made this startling announcement. Sir
Richard, stung into activity, sat bolt upright in his chair.
"Lord Tresham!" he cried in amazement. "What on
earth are you talking about? Lord Tresham died in his
bed at Tresham on"
Gregory Lomax raised his hand. "Le roi est mort.
Vive le roi."
Sir Richard realized the meaning behind the words. He
forced the issue. "In that case, then, thank you, Mr.
Lomax, for the expression. I sincerely hope, with you,
that I shall be spared for many years."
Lomax shook his head and accepted Ingle's challenge.
"I am afraid that you misunderstand me, Sir Richard.
The late Lord Tresham, to whose death you referred just
<


SHOCK FOR SIR RICHARD INGLE 105
now, had three sons. Martin, the eldest; Henry, the
second; and Nicholas, the youngest."
"I am aware of all that," returned Ingle somewhat
qurtly, "seeing that my mother was a Tresham."
"Of course, of course." Mr. Lomax's tone became in-
gratiating. "I was just attempting to sketch the position
as it is now. The deaths of Martin and Henry Tresham
in 1910 and 1913, respectively, and the many years' dis-
appearance of Nicholas Tresham, with the consequent
presumption of decease, put you in the enviable position
of standing next in the Tresham succession. When the
late Lord Tresham passed away a few days ago, you
naturally expected, out of the habitual anticipation of
years, to succeed to the title. The position, however, Sir
Richard, has undergone a change. More than that, from
your point of view it has completely disappeared. Nicho-
las Tresham has returned, alive and well. Lord Tresham
—as I said before—to give him his true title."
Ingle's lip curled in open cynicism. "Which is why you
Wrote to me?"
"Exactly, Sir Richard. What else could I do?"
Sir Richard bit his lip and shrugged his shoulders.
"The whole procedure seems to me to be distinctly extra-
ordinary. What has this man—I almost said impostor—
in support of his claim?"
Gregory Lomax was obviously nettled at the remark.
His tone, in reply, was cold. "That statement, Sir
Richard, is not gracious; it is far from complimentary to
me, and certainly unworthy of you. Do you imagine for
one instant that I should have accepted Lord Tresham's
statements without authentic verification of them?"


106
THE SPIKED LION
"Not for a moment, but even so"
"Even so, what, Sir Richard?"
"The mere possession of a document is not necessarily
a convincing proof that the possessor is all that he claims
to be. I tell you, Mr. Lomax, I am very far from being
satisfied. How is it that the gentleman whom you have
mentioned failed to present himself to his father when the
late Lord Tresham was alive? Or even when he lay dying?
He timed his appearance very cleverly, don't you think?"
"I raised that point myself, Sir Richard, and Lord
Tresham supplied me with a perfectly adequate explana-
tion. Personally I haven't the slightest doubt of Lord
Tresham's bona-fdes. Not only has he documents that
only a Tresham could possibly possess, including his own
birth certificate, but he also has the historic counters—the
famous mother-of-pearl counters bearing the Tresham
arms, impaling Strangeways. I saw them and examined
them myself. When he left Tresham, after the quarrel
that he had with his father, he took them with him. Stole
them, if you like, but' convey, the wise it call.' That fact
I know to be absolutely true—the late Lord Tresham told
me of the incident himself soon after it occurred—all those
years ago. Nicholas Tresham couldn't have deceived me
over that, even if he had wished to. After all, as he him-
self says, they belonged to the family."
Sir Richard Ingle sat there silent. The affair was more
serious than he had originally anticipated. Lomax pro-
ceeded on his essay of discomfiture.
"Moreover, Sir Richard, there is the physical evidence."
Ingle looked up at him. "The physical evidence?"
Lomax nodded to confirm his words. "One has only to


SHOCK FOR SIR RICHARD INGLE 107
look at Nicholas Tresham to see who he is. To look at
him—once. Fate—er—Nature plays strange tricks.
Think of the Tresham eyebrows."
Sir Richard started in his chair. He remembered his
own statement to his friend Slingsby Raphael, of a few
days before. "He has the Tresham eyebrows, then?"
Lomax gestured with his hands. "Beyond the slightest
suspicion of a doubt. You will recall how the middle of
each brow is covered with a darker shade of hair—a
physical peculiarity that has persisted, so I understand,
in the Tresham line for generations. Believe me, there's
no mistaking it."
Sir Richard grunted non-committally. Lomax at-
tempted to interpret the grunt. "Of course, if you still
remain doubtful and unsatisfied, you are at perfect liberty
to contest the claimant's position in the courts. We have
the historic instance of the Tichborne claimant—Orton—
as an example. But"
He broke off and picked up his pen. Sir Richard noticed
the abruptness of the pause. He sought essentials.
"Well? " he queried.
Gregory Lomax finessed. He avoided the main issue.
"If you wish for my advice, Sir Richard, I shall be most
pleased to give it to you. Were I in your position I should
accept the inevitable. I do not see that you have any
reasonable alternative. I can't say any more."
Sir Richard then asked a question that caused Mr.
Lomax some surprise. "How old is this Nick Tresham—
or Lord Tresham, as I suppose I should say?"
Lomax referred to a file of correspondence. "Let me
see now. Forty-nine on the fifteenth of November next."


108
THE SPIKED LION
"Is he? As much as that? I am a little surprised. I
should have given him two or three years less than that.
Still, time rolls on and one scarcely notices its passage.
Especially when one has reached my age." Sir Richard
fingered his moustache. "I think it would be as well, Mr.
Lomax," he proceeded, " if I saw the new Lord Tresham—
before his father's funeral. What do you think yourself?"
The lawyer smiled. It was a smile of self-satisfaction.
"You will forgive me, Sir Richard, I am sure, for antici-
pating this intention of yours. It seemed to me, when I
sat down and reflected on the position in its first develop-
ments, that by far the happiest thing that could possibly
happen would be for you and Lord Tresham to meet and
to talk things over amicably. When, therefore, I heard
from you to the effect that you were coming here to-day,
I arranged with Lord Tresham that he should come along
half an hour after the time you fixed for your appoint-
ment. If you desired to meet him, as I felt certain you
would when you heard how things stood, there were both
of you ready to hand. If, on the other hand, you ex-
pressed no such desire—there was no harm done—I could
see Lord Tresham on another matter to do with the estate,
and neither of you would be any the wiser as to my little
arrangement."
He smiled again indulgently and consulted his watch.
"I have no doubt, Sir Richard," he remarked cordially,
"that by this time Lord Tresham is waiting to see me.
Or, rather, to see us."


CHAPTER XII
NICHOLAS—LORD TRESHAM
Gregory Lomax leaned forward to use his telephone. Sir
Richard watched him interestedly.
"Is that you, Walters? Has Lord Tresham arrived?"
he heard him ask.
There was a short interval hefore Lomax issued an
order. "Thank you. That's all right, then. Bring Lord
Tresham up to my private room, please. Yes—I know.
As I said, that's quite in order."
Sir Richard turned towards the door, eagerly anticipat-
ing the entrance of Lord Tresham. He was not destined
to wait for long. After a period of silence the door which
he watched opened. A clerk stood on the threshold and
announced " Lord Tresham." There entered a tall, spare,
sun-burned man—with sharp face, a pronounced swing of
the shoulders and an eager, alert manner. Sir Richard
regarded him intently, his face rigid and his lips com-
pressed.
Gregory Lomax rose from his chair, but a half move-
ment from Ingle turned him from his purpose and he sank
back in his chair again. Ingle looked at Tresham and
addressed him with easy nonchalance.
"So you don't remember me, Nick?"
Tresham stopped short in his tracks. Then he stepped


110
THE SPIKED LION
forward again, hesitant, irresolute. There was doubt in
his eyes. "I'm afraid I don't. Putting it quite candidly..
you have the advantage of me."
"I'm trying your memory pretty highly, I admit. It's
a cool forty years, I suppose, since we met. Must be, if
it's a day. I'm Dick Ingle."
Tresham's eyes flashed with pleasure. "Of course.
How utterly stupid of me. I can see it now. You've worn
thundering well, old man, but you're changed, you know.
I expect I am too, eh?"
"Yes, somewhat. Forty years is a hell of a long time—
no matter where you spend it. By the way, where have
you been all this time?"
"Oh—dodging about for most of the years. In Mo-
rocco, though, most of the time."
"As far as that, eh? When did you return?"
"About six months ago. When I heard of the old
man's illness I put a feeler round over here, and what I
heard was good enough to bring me home. My informa-
tion told me that my father couldn't possibly last long, so
I came home. I knew that it would save trouble if I were
on the spot when he went west."
Ingle's face was indicative of his feelings. Tresham
observed the indication. He shrugged his shoulders.
"Why should I pretend a sentimentality that I don't
feel? That I never felt? I had a bust with the old boy
soon after I came down from Cambridge, and as far as I
was concerned that ended everything. There was no love
lost between us after that. My teeth were clenched and
my fists. were tingling, so I just cleared out with a chap
who had been at the Varsity with me, meaning to be dead


NICHOLAS LORD TRESHAM 111
to the whole shoot of them; my crowd, I mean. Now I've
come back. That's all there is to it. Satisfied?"
"You have been kept posted with family news, I sup-
pose?"
"More or less. I knew that Martin and Henry had
both ' shuffled off this mortal coil,' if that's what you mean.
Bad luck for them—but good for me. I realize the truth
of that perfectly. None better. Well?"
"I don't quite know what to say to you, Nick. The
whole thing has taken me by surprise. I only heard of it
half an hour ago. Don't take me literally, but I feel that
I've been well on the favorite and that a hundred to one
outsider has turned up." Ingle smiled a wry smile.
Nick Tresham shrugged his shoulders.
"I suppose I'm a bit thoughtless. My life has made
me so. I haven't been cradled in comfort, exactly. It
didn't strike me at the time that I must add your name
to the ' hard-luck' gallery. They say that it's an ill wind.
Luck runs in cycles. My turn to-day—yours to-morrow."
"I'm afraid not. About the to-morrow, I mean. Those
generalities don't always apply. Have you been down to
Tresham yet?"
Tresham shook his head in emphatic denial. "No.
Even I, strange though it may seem to you, Ingle, have
my inherent decencies. Twenty-seven years of globe-
trotting haven't eradicated all my better feelings. I shall
attend to-morrow's funeral, naturally, but I shall preserve
a modest and moderate incognito. As a matter of fact,
I shall be in the company of a dear old pal—Andy Forbes.
The Andy Forbes. You will be in the front choir of
mourners, of course? You know what I mean—' Now the


112
THE SPIKED LION
laborer's task is o'er'—eh? Which side do you intend to
decorate—Decani or Cantoris?"
Sir Richard's cheek flushed, but otherwise he ignored this
taunt of execrable taste. "In that case, Tresham, I shall
see you then. If I don't hug you, or fall on your neck,
you'll understand."
Tresham grinned. "Oh, that's all right, Ingle. It will
be mutual. I'm not thin-skinned, I assure you. Knocking
about with Dagos—rainbow-hued at that—teaches you to
cultivate a thoroughly businesslike and serviceable hide.
You won't penetrate mine in a hurry. The elephant's my
half-brother."
Gregory Lomax, silent for so long, looked anxiously
from one man to the other. There was an atmosphere
about this meeting that he had engineered that contained
the elements of disturbance. The conversation had taken
a turn that he found disconcerting. He decided, there-
fore, to pour oil on waters that were already beginning to
simmer with trouble.
"Lord Tresham," he said with an apologetic cough.
"Er—Sir Richard Ingle—the whole position is unfortu-
nate, I admit—in a way, unfortunate for each of you—
and I am deeply gratified that you two gentlemen have
reached such an amicable understanding so quickly." He
coughed again.
"As I've maintained for years—I couldn't have carried
on the traditions of the firm of Lomax and Chipperfield, if
you will allow me to say so, without that belief—' Noblesse
oblige.' That counts, and must always count. I shall be
at Tresham to-morrow. I hope to have the pleasure of
seeing both of you."


NICHOLAS — LORD TRESHAM 113
"I shall wish you good day, then, Mr. Lomax. Many
thanks for the interview. I don't think any purpose will
be served by my staying longer. Good day, Lord Tresham.
We shall meet again shortly, I've no doubt, excluding to-
morrow's possibilities."
Sir Richard walked towards the door, but suddenly
turned in his stride. "What a good job you wrote that
letter to me, Nick."
Tresham flushed. "Letter? Which one?"
"Can't you remember?"
"For the life of me, I can't . . ."
Sir Richard smiled and deliberately rubbed the back of
his left leg. Nick Tresham's face cleared instantly.
"Oh, of course! I've been away so long I'd forgotten
it. That idiotic business had gone clean out of my mind.
But 'blood's thicker than water,' eh?"
Ingle laughed understandingly. "Quite so. That has
always been accepted." He bowed courteously and took
his departure. Tresham, laughing lightly, turned to
Lomax.
"Bit of a blow, eh? Taken part of the count. That's
what comes of looking too far ahead. You never know
what's coming to you in this world, and the kingdom round
the corner usually turns out to be vastly different from
the picture of your expectations."
Lomax agreed—with a strong suggestion of subser-
vience. "Naturally, Lord Tresham. Very true! How
right you are. Sir Richard Ingle is nettled—that was
very obvious. But, after all, when you come to look at
the position all round, he has many consolations. He's
already a comparatively rich man, living in a most charm-


NICHOLAS — LORD TRESHAM 115
at school and at Cambridge with a bloke named John
Blundell. I fancy his second name was Pender. And, say
what you like, Lomax, blood's thicker than water."
Lord Tresham looked at his lawyer and laughed softly
to himself. Lomax appeared to be on the point of speak-
ing, but changed his mind.


CHAPTER XIII
MR. BATHURST MINGLES WITH THE CROWD
It was obvious to the most casual observer that on the
morning in question Mr. Bathurst had dressed with an
abundance of care and a studied deference to the sartorial.
He clad himself in the garments of civilization when it
mourns, and attended the funeral of the late Lord
Tresham. Chief-Inspector MacMorran, excessively grate-
ful for something akin to a holiday with no expenditure
attached, drove him down to the south coast of England
where the Tresham lands lay.
The car on its journey ran by common after common
all golden with gorse. The white ribbon of the road
stretched out in front of it-seemingly forever. Always
beyond! Bathurst and his new chauffeur saw the dark,
lush meadows of many valleys; rivers like winding white
laces that rippled lazily under the breeze that stirred them,
and belts of trees that had been the Creator's majestic
witnesses for spans of time. The sunlight shone on the
roses, but the clouds held more than a hint of the rain
that was to come.
Assisted in direction by more than one pedestrian, Mr.
Bathurst, his car, and Inspector MacMorran came at
length to the turning which led to Tresham church. The
churchyard of Tresham lies under the hill. Stolid plough-


BATHURST .MINGLES WITH CROWD 117
men of Tresham had laid the dead lord of their homeland
upon one of their own farm wagons, and brought him in
the cold dignity of death to the acre where his flesh would
rest forever. There, too, in the still sunlight under the
blue tent of sky, stood those of Tresham blood and
Tresham sinew, and those also who had called the dead
man friend.
In a sparse company nearest to the grave stood the late
Lord Tresham's nearest and dearest—the " ta philtata"
of the Greeks. They were as stated—very few. The
Treshams for many years had been a scattered clan, and
this dead Tresham had for some long time known the bitter
tang of loneliness. Wealth had been his—the tinsel and
the trappings that wealth brings—but never happiness.
"Better a dinner of herbs where Love is . . ."
As he lay beside his forefathers in their eternal sleep, he
came nearer to the state of company than he had come
during all the years of his life. Anthony Bathurst, for
reasons of his own, stayed on the verge of the crowd.
MacMorran remained in the lane that ran by the back of
the church. The branches of the trees dipped in the wind.
MacMorran watched them and listened to their music. He
leaned against the door of the car. Words of a hymn
came to him:
"... their vigil keep,
While yet their mortal bodies sleep,
Till from the dust they too shall rise,
And soar triumphant to the skies."
The company of mourners slowly followed the coffin to
the grave. Sir Richard Ingle, Mr. Bathurst's chief in-


118
THE SPIKED LION
terest, be it said, stood near to the graveside, his left arm
linked in the right arm of Slingsby Raphael. Ingle stood
straight, dry-eyed and cold. He was no pretender, and
the grey lass, sorrow, had not visited him.
The voice of the aged vicar of Tresham rose querulously
and trailed into the wind. He had read St. Paul's glorious
and triumphant epistle to the citizens of Corinth, without
meaning and without the slightest hint of its cry of vic-
tory. He closed his book and commenced to read the
words of the last offices, equally badly. His voice grew
more querulous and even shrill. Clouds scudded across the
sky, and the first drops came of the promised rain. The
earth from a man's hand rattled on the lowered coffin.
The vicar hunched himself against the lashing onslaught
from the skies, and Anthony Bathurst craned his head and
listened to him. The wonderful words he uttered came to
Anthony over the heads of the people who had placed
themselves between them: "In sure and certain hope of
the Resurrection to eternal life . . . who shall change our
vile body that it may be like unto His glorious body, ac-
cording to the mighty working where He is able to subdue
all things to Himself."
Thus it went to the last warm words of comfort: " The
Grace of our Lord Jesus Christ. . . ." Some of the
mourners surged forward towards the grave, others of
them began to drift slowly away. Anthony Bathurst's
attention became directed towards the tall man who stood
between two others, the one elderly and wizened and the
other of distinctly military appearance and bearing. The
three men at whom he looked stepped to the edge of the
grave.


BATHURST MINGLES WITH CROWD 119
For some reason born of instinct, possibly, Anthony
Bathurst moved a few paces towards them. The crowd
was thinning rapidly now, and it had become compara-
tively easy to make a smooth and comfortable way for
oneself. A chance remark from the military-looking man
caught Bathurst's ear and set his brain at work and his
imagination racing. What in the name of heaven had
happened since he had been at Lashey Down? His de-
termination to see Sir Richard Ingle became a stronger
force than ever. This latest turn of the wheel rendered it
more important by far.
Making up his mind immediately, he turned quickly in
the direction that he had seen Ingle and Raphael take a
few minutes previously. It was vital that he should
overtake them before they reached their car. He suc-
ceeded in his effort. Also, there was no need now to finesse
concerning an appropriate opening. Anthony Bathurst
ranged himself at Sir Richard's side. When the latter
recognized the man who addressed him he gave a start of
surprise.
"Mr. Bathurst? This is an unexpected meeting. I
scarcely thought"
Bathurst interposed before he could complete his sen-
tence. "I came down in the hope of speaking to you."
Sir Richard frowned and half turned towards Raphael.
"Quite so. But this is hardly"
Mr. Bathurst smiled courteously. "You mean that the
time and place are inopportune? For that, forgive me.
To a certain extent, you see, my hands are tied. But the
living, Sir Richard, have greater claims than the dead. I
am sure that you would admit the truth of that."


120
THE SPIKED LION
Ingle bowed stiffly. "If you will enter my car, Mr.
Bathurst, we will discuss what you have to say."
"I will tell my chauffeur to follow, then, Sir Richard.
You will excuse me for one moment. It will not take
more." Anthony was with MacMorran in a twinkling.
"Follow up with my car, Inspector. For the time being,
I'm going along in Sir Richard Ingle's car. Keep a short
distance behind us, so that I can give you the tip and
pick you up directly it's necessary."
The Inspector accepted the instructions and permitted
himself two questions. "What's doing, sir? Anything
afoot?"
Anthony Bathurst put his forefinger to his lips. "I've
just heard a most extraordinary piece of news, MacMor-
ran, and when I heard it, it certainly wasn't intended for
my ear. I can tell you that."
He dashed off again, and MacMorran climbed into the
car. Sir Richard waited for Bathurst to enter the other
car and then pulled the door to behind him. "Sit there,"
he said, as the car gathered pace. "Now what have you
to say to me?"
Before Bathurst could reply, Slingsby Raphael inter-
vened from his seat opposite. "One minute, Mr. Bathurst,
if you please. I should like you to answer me a ques-
tion. Are you still at work on the Guest murder? Sir
Richard and I would like to know that before this conver-
sation commences. Sergeant Pullinger has formed certain
opinions, we understand, and, because of them, has asked
us to adopt a certain procedure. With that in view,
therefore, Mr. Bathurst, and considering our position,
would you be good enough to tell us where you stand?"


3BATHUEST MINGLES WITH CROWD 121
Raphael sank back into the rich upholstery of the car.
His remarkable eyes probed Mr. Bathurst's face.
Anthony smiled at them. "The Guest case is only part
of my problem, sir. Just one piece of the pattern. But
it is a part of it, and because of that the fact must be
admitted. It's no use shutting one's eyes to it. At the
same time, my primary object in desiring to speak to Sir
Richard here, was not in direct relationship to the murder
of Hugh Guest. You will notice that I refer to him as
Sir Richard Ingle."
Ingle looked across at him intently. Anthony con-
tinued: "A few days ago I believed that he would have
been Lord Tresham on the death of the man whom to-day
we have seen buried. I will come to my point. May I
inquire into the inner history of the Tresham succession?
I will confess that it interests me considerably. That in-
terest is not based on ordinary curiosity."
Sir Richard's reply was curt. "The late Lord Tresham
had three sons. Martin, Henry, and Nicholas. It was
believed that all three were dead and that I was the next-
of-kin, but Nicholas, the third son, happens to be still in
the land of the living, and has very naturally come forward
to claim his inheritance. That's all there is to it and
there's no need to make a fuss. His credentials are beyond
dispute."
Anthony Bathurst looked from Sir Richard to his com-
panion. "Hallo!" he declared; " the death of his father
has served to bring him from his hiding-place, eh?"
"Where he has been hasn't necessarily been a hiding-
place," remarked Raphael. "He has been abroad, we
understand. In Morocco, to be exact. You can't say with


122
THE SPI RED LION
justification that he has been hiding." He paused for just
a second. "I pride myself on being a sportsman, and
such a statement, considering the circumstances, would be
manifestly unfair."
Mr. Bathurst nodded in evident acceptance of the posi-
tion. He sought other information. "The new Lord
Tresham had two companions at the graveside to-day.
They interested me rather. An elderly man who looked
like a lawyer should look, and a tall, upstanding man of
middle age. This latter man was of distinctly military
appearance. You may have seen them with Lord Tresham.
Do you happen to know who they are?"
"Yes, I can answer that question," declared Sir Richard.
"The elderly man is, as you surmised, Nicholas Tresham's
lawyer, a Mr. Gregory Lomax of Seely Place, London.
The other man you should know by reason of his own
reputation in another sphere. It is Forbes, the aviator."
Mr. Bathurst attempted to probe deeper. "You said
just now, Sir Richard, that the new Lord Tresham's
credentials were beyond dispute. Those were the words
you used, if my memory serve me correctly. Do I under-
stand from that that they have been gone into thoroughly,
and that you are absolutely satisfied?"
Ingle shifted in his seat a little. The question taxed
his patience. "Before I answer that, I should like you to
view the situation as it has developed, in proper perspec-
tive. The Tresham lawyer is the Mr. Gregory Lomax to
whom I referred just now. He is a man whose reputa-
tion and—er—integrity have never been questioned. He
wrote to me a few days ago, and in response to his letter,
which I saw was urgent, I went to see him. He told me


BATHURST MINGLES WITH CROWD 123
then of the facts concerning the succession that had re-
cently come to light. Although I hadn't been previously
informed, he had arranged a meeting between Nicholas
Tresham and me at his offices. I saw Nicholas up there.
Now, mind you, I hadn't set eyes on him for forty years.
He was a boy of nine then."
Sir Richard stopped in his narrative. Anthony Bathurst
felt his interest quicken. If only he could see into Ingle's
mind. "Well, sir," he queried, "and after that? What
then?"
Ingle, after a sidelong glance at Raphael, leaned for-
ward. "Mr. Bathurst," he said quietly, " do you imagine
that a professional man of the standing and integrity of
Lomax would accept a position, such as I have outlined
to you, without tangible and irrefutable evidence thereon?
Ask yourself the question seriously."
Mr. Bathurst smiled. "In the ordinary way, sir—no.
But circumstances alter cases, and I am able to visualize
a certain set of conditions that would remove this par-
ticular case from what may be termed ordinary grooves.
Granted that, we begin to move in other directions. An-
other thing, sir, which I am sure you will permit me to
point out, you haven't quite answered the question that I
asked you. Are you—apart from Mr. Gregory Lomax—
entirely satisfied with things as you find them?"
Raphael intervened with a murmur of impatience.
"Surely, my dear Bathurst, that is more or less imma-
terial? Sir Richard may be acquiescent and, at the same
time, dissatisfied. Consider the position as you yourself
might have found it. As he said to you a little while
ago, Nick Tresham has come back to Tresham—unex-


124
THE SPIKED LION
pectedly perhaps—but come back nevertheless. What else
remains?"
He shrugged his shoulders with a gesture that betokened
finality. Somewhat to Anthony Bathurst's surprise, Ingle
appeared to resent Raphael's intervention. Perhaps he
was disinclined for Raphael to assume a responsibility that
clearly belonged to him. On the other hand, perhaps
Raphael had said too much. The result was that he
embarked upon a more ample and more detailed explana-
tion. He applied himself with a greater measure of direct-
ness to the query that Bathurst had put to him.
"You must understand, Bathurst, that Lomax is
thoroughly satisfied with Tresham's hona-fdes. Any other
possibility is unthinkable. There is no need for one to
labor that feature of the issue. Putting all that on one
side, however, we will come to what you evidently regard,
from the direction of your questioning, as my own par-
ticular and personal point of view. It would be an idle
and ridiculous boast on my part if I said that I recognized
Nick Tresham, the man whom I had known as a boy.
Candidly, if I were taxed on this one point only I should
have to plead my inability . . . that I was being required
to do something unreasonable . . . something that was
entirely beyond me. But, and I stress the conjunction,
Mr. Bathurst, very deliberately, there are certain physical
tendencies belonging to the Treshams that have persisted
for generations."
"I knew it." The half-whispered words were Bathurst's.
Sir Richard proceeded:
"The most marked of these is a certain peculiarity with
regard to eyebrows. All the male Treshams have been


BATHURST MINGLES WITS CROWD 125
given this eyebrow distinction. Nick Tresham had it as a
boy—I do remember that, very well indeed; I've chaffed
him about it many times—and he has it now. All other
proofs, documentary and certificated, that concern Lomax,
and not me, I will ignore. Every man to his own trade.
There you are, Mr. Bathurst. I have put things as
plainly as I know how, and I have told you all that is in
my mind."
"Everything, Sir Richard?" Anthony was quietly
persistent.
Ingle frowned. "I think so. Why do you ask that?
What are you thinking of?"
"My persistency may be disconcerting. It may even
be redolent of discourtesy. But a successful investigator
simply cannot mind his own business. Any more than an
inspector of taxes can. I assure you that nothing is
further from my intention than to be discourteous. I
have two—perhaps three—murders to solve, and because
of that the data that I seek must be real, definite and
convincing. I am seeking that data now. Hence my
passion for exactitudes." He looked both Sir Richard and
Raphael straight in the eyes—Ingle first, and afterwards
Raphael. Each of them sensed his eagerness.
"Well," said the former with a touch of uneasiness,
. "let me know what's troubling you. I may have the
prescription, even though I don't feel like lodging an
objection."
Anthony laughed lightly as the car swung round a
corner and gave him a glimpse of his own car behind.
"Oh, it's not so bad as that, sir. But there's just this.
Coming back to the legal Lomax and the strictly profes-


126
THE SPIKED LION
sional part of the business—were you informed, by any
chance, during the course of your interview, as to the exact
nature of this supposed Mr. Nicholas Tresham's fortifica-
tions?"
"Fortifications?" Ingle frowned and repeated the
word curiously.
"Yes. The exact nature of the evidence that he was
able to produce in support of his claim? I am desperately
interested."
Ingle's frown softened into a smile. Even Raphael's
face lost some of its cynicism. The former spoke first.
"This is a reversal of positions. Your attitude to me,
Bathurst, is very similar to my attitude to Lomax when
he first broached the news. Several of your questions have
been replicas of my questions to him." His smile developed
into a laugh. Bathurst formed the opinion that he was
nervous.
"Nicholas Tresham has all the necessary documentary
evidence to support his succession. There isn't the
slightest doubt with regard to that. Birth certificate,
private letters and papers, that could be in the hands of
a Tresham only—and also the historic Tresham counters.
When he left his home years ago he took the counters with
him. Strictly speaking, he had no right to do such a
thing. It was, at least, intelligent but non-moral anticipa-
tion. But he has brought them back with him—something
like an amende honorable. I will repeat to you, Bathurst,
in conclusion, the words that Gregory Lomax used to me.
'Personally I haven't the slightest doubt of Lord
Tresham's bona fides.' I find myself in the same position,
Bathurst. Reluctantly, perhaps, but there, nevertheless.


BATHUEST MINGLES WITH CROWD 127
I am absolutely convinced that he is Nicholas Tresham.
Blood's thicker than water."
He, like Raphael previously, relapsed into the comfort
of the car. Bathurst, however, had scarcely listened to
his last few sentences. He heard them, but the effort was
mechanical. On the other hand, a word that had just
fallen from the lips of Sir Richard was burning itself into
his brain. The bright letters of it danced in front of him.
"Counters "—the historic Tresham counters. His mind
flighted back to the day when he had stood in Sir Austin
Kemble's room at New Scotland Yard. The day when
MacMorran had produced the paper that told them and
the world of the murder of Hubert Athelstan Wingfield.
He remembered MacMorran's appeal for instruction in
the matter of Wingfield's almost unique erudition. He
recalled, too, his own answer to the Inspector. "A jet-
ton," he had explained to the knowledge-seeking MacMor-
ran, " is a small metal plate or counter." Counter. And
here was the word again. Costumed in vivid and vital
dress. Bathurst took a firm grip of himself. What was
to come next must be weighed and balanced meticulously.
He realized only too acutely that he was, as yet, on the
fringe of the problem only. What was the sinister secret
that concerned these historic counters of Tresham? If
this Lord Tresham held them—had held them—for years,
why should Wingfield's body have lain in the Valley of
Ferns . . . and Blundell's in Bushey Park? And then
there was Hugh Guest, who had stayed with Sir Richard
Ingle and died in one of his bedrooms. Such were the
thoughts that raced through and flooded his brain. . . .
He determined to test Sir Richard Ingle. Time was get-


BATHURST MINGLES WITH CROWD 129
all over again. There was something missing here, surely.
He changed his tactics.
"It appears to me," he said challengingly, "that, for
all we know, everything in the possession of the new Lord
Tresham may very well have been stolen."
He watched Ingle's face carefully. There was nothing
on it, however, save the utmost composure.
"Dismiss the idea at once. That would be an essay
into the realms of fiction. Exciting, entertaining—but
absurd. If I'm satisfied and Lomax is satisfied, you must
be. But here we are, I think." He looked out of the
window. You won't be coming any farther with us, I
take it?"
Anthony Bathurst was forced to come to a quick de-
cision. "No, Sir Richard. I must alight here and wait
for my own car. I expect that I shall find that it won't
be very far behind us. I told my chap to follow us closely.
Good-bye, Sir Richard. Many thanks for all that you
have told me. Good-bye to you, sir." He half opened the
door of the car before finishing what he had to say. "I
may come and see you again, Sir Richard," he said quietly,
"within the space of the next few days. You won't mind,
will you? Sir Austin Kemble may wish me to."
He slipped out of the car without further words and
■waited for the oncoming MacMorran. When the latter
eventually arrived, Anthony Bathurst almost rivalled him
in taciturnity. Whereat the son of Caledonia was by no
means pleased.


CHAPTER XIV
WHERE HAD WINGFIELD BEEN?
Two days later Mr. Bathurst was as good as his word.
With MacMorran at work on the Sussex end of the
triangle, he found time to visit again the house of Sir
Richard Ingle. It is not recorded either, in spite of what
Mr. Bathurst had said, that Sir Austin Kemble had any
knowledge of this action on Mr. Bathurst's part. Cer-
tainly he had issued no instructions on the matter. Hav-
ing watched Sir Richard drive off from the house in his
high-powered Daimler, Anthony chose the moments that
immediately followed for the time to make his call.
As he had expected and hoped, he found himself in
conversation with Garrett, the butler. The latter, with
expressed regret, supplied the information that his master
was not at home; he explained by how little Mr. Bathurst
had missed him. Mr. Bathurst showed signs of equal
regret. He even indicated annoyance. But these little
inconveniences had a knack of occurring, he stated, and
the only sensible thing to do when they did turn up was
to make the best of them. Perhaps Garrett himself might
be able to assist him on the special matter that had
brought him back to Beech Knoll?
Garrett bowed to the speaker-a doyen of deference.
If it were in his power-well, Mr. Bathurst could com-


WHERE HAD WINGFIELD BEEN? 131
mand him. He thought that the gentleman was aware of
that.
Mr. Bathurst thanked him and did as Garrett suggested.
The first order issued to Garrett was in the form of a
question. "Garrett," he said, "you have an excellent
memory, I'm sure. A man holding the post that you do
would be lost without one."
Garrett accepted the tribute with obvious pleasure.
"Thank you, sir. I suppose you're right, sir. I have
been in Sir Richard's service for many years, and I think
I've proved myself an efficient servant. What was it that
you wanted to ask me, sir?"
"Just this, Garrett. Have you ever heard of the name
of Wingfield?"
Garrett opened his eyes. "In what particular connec-
tion, sir?"
"That was what I expected you to ask. I'll tell you.
In connection with this house of Sir Richard Ingle's—
Beech Knoll."
Garrett began to shake his head. Anthony persisted.
"Has anybody named Wingfield ever been a visitor here?
Either recently, or some time ago?"
Garrett's head went to one side in consideration. He
pondered for some few seconds before he answered. "Well,
sir, we have a number of people here in the course of the
year, as you can guess. Sometimes at a house-party there's
been as many as forty or fifty of them. For instance, a
Christmas or so ago we had quite as many as that—if not
more. So, as you can see, it's hard to remember the names
of all of them."
He stopped. The magnitude of his task of remem-


132
THE SPIKED LION
brance seemed to deter him. Mr. Bathurst considered
that a seasonable word would be in the nature of an en-
couragement.
"Many people, Garrett, situated as you are, would, I
am sure, remember very few of them. Perhaps only the
intimate friends of the family."
Garrett brightened visibly. "Thank you, sir. Well,
looking back, to the best of my memory and ability, I can't
say that anybody of the name of Wingfield has been a
guest here. I think I should have been certain to recollect
a name like that."
." Why? " urged Bathurst in semi-remonstrance. "Why
that name in particular?"
Garrett's eyes twinkled. His moment came. "I've been
to Henley several times, sir, in the old days. Saw Ten
Eyck win the Diamonds. Bit of a sculler myself. Old
member of the Vesta, sir, as it happens."
"Stout fellow," returned Mr. Bathurst; " Charon, an-
other famous ferryman, was bright and fierce-eyed, too.
So your answer to my question is—' certainly not re-
cently '?"
"That is so, sir. Certainly not recently. I'd vouch
for that."
"And probably never. Eh?"
?' I think that would be my answer, sir. I can't remem-
ber ever having heard the name in connection with a visitor
here. Thank you, sir—although there was no need—I'm
sure it's been a pleasure. . . ."
The transference of a note bearing the Bank of Eng-
land's promise having been quickly effected, Anthony
judged that the time was ripe for departure. He turned


WHERE HAD WINGFIELD BEEN? 133
his car away from the house known as Beech Knoll with
his problem still churning in his mind.
The situation, so far as he could judge, was becoming
desperate. The words of the tall, gaunt sister at Hur-
rilow couldn't possibly be ignored, he thought; and this
after incessant probing. He rehearsed the vital portions
of her story to him. She had seen her brother, this mur-
dered Wingfield, just before he took his staff in hand and
sought the road . . . and lay down forever ... all his
sayings said . . . deeds all done . . . and songs all sung.
... So the words jangled in Anthony's brain. . . . She
had seen him looking at a map of this delightful island in
which he himself journeyed now. The island of the spiked
lion? It was not a mere coincidence, Anthony felt sure.
It couldn't be. The accumulation of circumstances was
too great by all the laws of logic and reasoning. Wing-
field must have come to Ingle's—the home of the third
and last murder. He must have come as Hugh Guest came
after him . . . and Blundell too. What could be the at-
traction?
Tresham itself was surely not within the picture. It
was across the water—on the mainland. No map of the
island would be required by any visitor to Tresham. Un-
less it had been a case of Tresham first and, from there,
to a second and more important rendezvous. Or perhaps
back to Tresham. But, if either of these contingencies
were so, how could he explain that straw of salvation that
the woman had tossed to him in Wingfield's house at Hur-
rilow? That straw of the spiked lion? Where was its
home? Anthony Bathurst took a corner a trifle sharply,
and as he did so, caught his breath. Here was revelation.


134
THE SPIKED LION
"My dear Watson," he murmured to himself, "I de-
serve to be kicked from here to that church at Tresham
'which lies under the hill. The father of my clan is Bar-
timaeus. Of all the decrepit crawling brains. . . ." He
slackened speed a little to allow another car to leave the
drive of a biggish house and turn into the road. It was
Ingle's high-powered Daimler, that he had seen take the
road just prior to his conversation with the versatile Gar-
rett. He took care that Ingle, seated, he could see, with
Barry Covington, did not see him.
Bathurst accelerated after the two cars had passed
each other, and about a quarter of a mile along the road
pulled up, to hold conversation with a rude forefather of
the hamlet whose time had not yet come for sleep.
"Cold day," he sang out.
The old man straightened himself from weeding. "Aye,
sir, it is that—a borrowed day."
Mr. Bathurst delved for a greater truth. "That's a
new one on me. A borrowed day, did you say?"
"Aye, sir," returned the old man with the weather-
beaten face; "there's days we get given to us at times,
that are borrowed, as you might say, from another month
of the calendar. That's a sayin' that us country-folk get
told us early in our lives. A bit o' sun sometimes, a touch
o' cold and wet it may be, at other times even snow or fog.
Them's borrowed days. They come where they don't
properly belong."
Mr. Bathurst smiled cordially. "Do you know, I've
never heard that before. But I get the idea, and I think
it's a very happy way to explain our island's weather
vagaries. June, July and August must be a trio of spend-


136
THE SPIKED LION
promised comforting hospitality, and decided to lunch
on his problem. The promise of the hostelry was well
fulfilled. Anthony lunched at "The Open Gate" with
many degrees of satisfaction. The food provided was
both well cooked and well served.
But his mental problem still remained with him. Clearer,
it is true, but still—very definitely—a problem. There
were two or three courses open to him he considered, and
tossing away a half-smoked cigarette, he resolved to carry
out two of them then and there. The third could wait.
First of all he would return to Beech Knoll and inter-
view a certain young lady whom so far he had not seen
—Celia Guest—the sister of the third man who had come
by a violent death. That is, if she were still staying with
the Ingles. If she had returned to Sussex, he made up his
mind to follow her there. But he still clung to the hope
that his luck would be in and that he could find her a mile
or so away. As he drove through the gates of Beech
Knoll, the ubiquitous Garrett quickly appeared to greet
him. The butler had news for this visitor, which he hast-
ened to impart.
"Sir Richard has returned, sir, and I put that question
to him, sir, which you asked me concerning a Mr. Wing-
field. And my master informs me, sir, that nobody bear-
ing that name has ever stayed here. He knows nobody of
the name—neither does Lady Ingle—therefore the idea
that you mooted is an impossibility. I thought you would
like to know for certain, sir."
"Garrett," murmured Mr. Bathurst, "your worth is
above rubies—I do not know what I should have done
without you."


CHAPTER XV
CELIA MERELY WONDERS
Anthony rose from his car and descended. "Now, Gar-
rett," he said, " I wonder if you would be good enough to
do something else for me? Something quite easy this time.
Would you be good enough to tell Sir Richard that I am
here? That I've come back, tell him, in the hope of a little
conversation with him? Thanks awfully, if you would. I'll
wait here, the soul of patience, until you come back."
Within a few minutes of the envoy's departure Sir
Richard came bustling out. His face was red and flustered
as though he had recently indulged in much argument.
Anthony, from the corner of his eye, could see the young
man, Covington, moving about in the morning-room.
"Well, Bathurst?" said Ingle as he came up to his
visitor. "I'm sorry I was out when you first called. What
brings you here again? Are there any developments?"
"No, sir. Hardly anything to report at all. Every-
thing's most discouraging. I've heard from Pullinger, as
I arranged when I left here on the last occasion, and In-
spector MacMorran from the Scotland Yard end is at
work on the Blundell thread. Neither has advanced at all.
We're all of us just about in statu quo."
Ingle rubbed his cheek with impatience. Anthony pro-
ceeded imperturbably: " When we parted after the funeral
of the late Lord Tresham, you will remember that I took


138
THE SPIKED LION
the liberty of inviting myself here again. Here I am."
He smiled hopefully.
"Well, what can I do for you?" Sir Richard was very
direct.
"I should be eternally obliged if I could have a spot of
conversation with Miss Guest. I am hoping that she is
still here with you. Will you arrange that for me?"
Ingle's face furrowed. Evidently the suggestion found
no favor with him. "Er—do you mean privately?"
Bathurst became manifestly joyous. "Good Lord, no,
sir! That is to say within reason. It need not be a deux,
but I'm not yearning for the company of multitudes."
Sir Richard seemed to understand the position a little
better. "I will tell her, Bathurst. You realize, of course,
how the poor girl is? Essentially plucky, but ... go
into the morning-room and wait, will you? It will be
empty by now. I'll bring Celia in to you."
He was as good as his word. Anthony gave a sympa-
thetic hand to the slim, dark-haired girl whom Sir Richard
brought to him.
"This is Mr. Anthony Bathurst."
She nodded to her host as though the proffered invita-
tion meant little or nothing to her. He amplified his state-
ment. "Mr. Bathurst wants to speak to you for a little
while about Hugh."
She released Anthony's hand and pressed her lips to-
gether. Anthony waited. But here was no collapse. Here
was no tender trembling to the edge of tears. The grief
of her was made of sterner stuff. When she looked up at
him her face was hard and cold, stiffened, it seemed, into
a cast of set, indomitable purpose.


CELIA MERELY WONDERS
189
?' I feel, Mr. Bathurst," she said with composed resigna-
tion, "that I shall disappoint you. I am living through
an endless succession of horror-haunted days. I think
sometimes that I have very nearly come to the end of
everything."
He shook his head. "Don't you think, Miss Guest," he
returned, " that' ends ' of everything are not always easily
discernible—that we often mistake them?"
She shook her head. "I don't think that I understand."
He led her, as he had intended to do. "Let me try to
explain out of my own experience. I am afraid that when
I was a boy at Uppingham I used to divide the year into
two seasons—the cricket season and the football season.
And always, each year, when July came, I used to feel
in the silences of high noon, as the sun lighted and warmed
the brown, sweet-scented earth, that I could hear the
lovely golden sands of summer running out. Such was
my boyish thought, and it saddened me beyond measure.
It wasn't so, because July itself had to go and August to
come in its wake, but that's how it seemed to me. I could
never put the thought behind me, and sometimes, even now
in these after years, the same thought comes to me and
stays until I drive it away. They were wonderful days,
Miss Guest. All the sweet sounds of England, at the
crown of its year, would come to me and companion me.
The magical whir of a mowing-machine away in the dis-
tance, the short, sharp clipping of a hedge under swift
shears, or perhaps no sound at all only that wonderful
soundless beating of the pulse on a hot day in July.
"In the same way, the third week in February always
heralded to me the passing of wintry discontent and the


140
THE SPIKED LION
incoming summer. Winter had gone for me then, if for
nobody else."
He looked at her in that whimsical way of his. "So you
see, Miss Guest, that sometimes what seems like the inevi-
table end to us is nearer even to the beginning. It's a ques-
tion of personal perspective—that's all. Our scheme of
life needs readjustment."
"You are trying to comfort me, Mr. Bathurst. I know
that and appreciate it, deeply. I thank you for your
kindness."
"I have no other course open to me, Miss Guest. I am
your friend. I am on the side of right and justice. That
is why I have come to see you here. Sir Richard has given
me permission to ask you something. I should like your
permission too. May I?"
Ingle looked exceedingly uncomfortable and blew his
nose hard. The girl replied.: "Of course. There is no
need to ask me. I long to help to avenge poor Hugh. But
I'm afraid that I have little assistance to give you. Please
tell me how I can help you?"
"First of all, Miss Guest, make yourself thoroughly
comfortable. Sit down here."
The girl did as she had been directed. Anthony, how-
ever, remained standing, one arm across the corner of the
mantelpiece. There was a period of silence during which
Sir Richard Ingle, on tenterhooks, watched Bathurst
closely. It was unlike Bathurst, he thought, to be at a
loss for an opening.
"Miss Guest," remarked Anthony at length, "when
your uncle, Mr. Blundell, was first missing, how did your
brother seem?"


CELIA MERELY WONDERS
141
"Seem?" she repeated uncertainly. "I don't quite
understand"
"Let me put it a little differently then. How did he
take it—pretty badly?"
Miss Guest attempted to explain. "Hugh first heard
that uncle was missing, from me. He was at Oxford. I
sent to him—told him all the trouble and all that I knew.
Of course, he came down to Hurstfold post haste. But he
was frightfully upset—I can say that with absolute cer-
tainty. But why do you ask me this, Mr. Bathurst?"
He ignored her question. "Was your brother more up-
set or less upset than you would have normally expected
him to be?"
She shook her head definitely. "Neither the one nor
the other. He was upset. That's all I can say. I
couldn't make any statement beyond that."
Mr. Bathurst was undeterred. "Thank you, Miss
Guest. I'll accept that implicitly. I'll change my ad-
jective. From 'upset' to ' surprised.' Did he seem sur-
prised at your uncle's disappearance?"
"Oh, more than that, Mr. Bathurst. Much more than
that. He was shocked. Stunned, almost, during the first
few days."
Anthony persisted. "And that condition which you
have just described was maintained all the time? Would
you say that?"
Celia Guest was on the point of reply when she suddenly
checked herself. "No, I think I see what you mean; how
you want me to help you. In the first stages he was
shocked, as I said. When no news of my uncle came, and
Scotland Yard seemed powerless to help us, he got list-


142
THE SPI KED LION
less—distressed—dispirited—crushed almost. Then he
changed."
Bathurst was in like a flash. "Let me help you. His
depression gave way to excitement. Would that be true,
Miss Guest?"
Her eyes were wide open. "Yes, that would be true—
but how did you know?"
"It was hardly knowledge. I found myself hoping so;
that was all. Now tell me, Miss Guest, what did your
brother say to you when he was excited—like that? Tell
me anything of which you can think. When this change
came over him. What had caused it."
"But I've no idea. Not the slightest."
"He didn't confide in you at all?"
She shook her head. "Oh no, Mr. Bathurst. Hugh
wasn't like that. He was frightfully obstinate and self-
reliant, and—another thing—he probably didn't want to
bother me. The only reason that I knew he was excited
was through his wanting to come here."
Anthony Bathurst rubbed his hands. "Now that's in-
teresting. The desire to come here, then, came upon him
suddenly? He didn't consider the idea for a time, turn it
over in his mind and then decide to act upon it?"
Celia's answer was this time most decisive. "No. He
came to me one night obviously laboring under a great
excitement. I could tell that from the look in his eyes.
'Celia,' he said, ' I've made up my mind to go and stop at
Sir Richard Ingle's, in the Isle of Wight. You know we
can go there whenever we like. That's always been an
understood thing. And you must come with me.'"
"What did you say when he suggested that to you?"


CELIA MERELY WONDEES
143
"I asked him why he wanted to go there, then of all
times, considering how we were worried concerning Uncle's
disappearance. I said wouldn't it be better for us to stay
in Hurstfold, so that we could be on the spot in the event
of anything turning up. I thought it would be a more—
not exactly sensible—but reasonable course, under the
circumstances."
"What did he say when you said that? Did he argue
it out with you?"
Celia Guest shook her head emphatically. "Oh no.
Hugh was never one to argue with me. He was older
than I and he always expected me to fall in with his de-
cision or opinion, whatever it might be. What he said, he
always expected me to accept as conclusive. He said that
Beech Knoll was always 'open house' to us and that we
would go there."
"That is quite true, Bathurst, as I told you before.
Hugh certainly knew that." This contribution was from
Sir Richard Ingle.
"Miss Guest," said Anthony, "did you ever definitely
ask your brother his real reason for asking to come to this
house?"
She shook her head again. "No, Mr. Bathurst. I
tried to, but his manner put me off. I often worry myself,
now that it's too late, and wish that I had. But it wouldn't
have made a scrap of difference, I'm sure. Hugh would
never have told me if he had made up his mind not to.
Oh, he was like that, was Hugh. I was his little sister,
you see, waiting there always to do what he told me. I
can only wonder at it all."
Bathurst was silent—thinking hard. His thought came


144
THE SPIKED LION
to translation. "You said, I think, that he came to you
one night with this idea of coming to the Isle of Wight?"
"This is so, Mr. Bathurst. One evening after dinner.
I remember it all so clearly."
"Where had he been that day? Out anywhere, can you
remember?"
"No. He had been indoors with me all the time."
Bathurst seemed disappointed at her answer. He tried
again. "What had he been doing? Anything special?
Think hard, Miss Guest."
She passed her hand over her eyes. "As far as I can
remember, he had been in Uncle John's study all the morn-
ing and the better part of the afternoon. I can't recall
him having gone anywhere else."
Bathurst's face grew grim and hard. "Yes . . . that
might conceivably fit the case. He found it and brought
it with him. . . ." He looked up. Ingle was regarding
him curiously.
Anthony turned to Sir Richard with quick and ready
apology. "I'm sorry, sir; I'm afraid that I was thinking
aloud and that the thoughts were running away with me.
It's a wretched habit from the point of view of other
people."
Ingle shrugged his shoulders with a hint of irony. "It's
no good sitting on a horse unless you're its master, and un-
less too ..."
"Unless what, Sir Richard? " Anthony asked the ques-
tion eagerly.
"Unless, too, that the horse knows you're its master."
Bathurst rubbed the ridge of his jaw thoughtfully. But
to Sir Richard's last statement he made no immediate re-


CELIA MERELY WONDERS
145
ply. On the contrary, he advanced to Celia Guest.
"Good-bye, Miss Guest, you've been very patient with my
insatiable curiosity. Thank you. But believe me, it's been
in a good cause. But you know that. Au 'voir, Sir Rich-
ard. I'll remember what you've told me. I'll see you at
Tresham."
At the last word Ingle turned to Celia in amazement.
Tresham—why Tresham?


CHAPTER XVI
THE TURN OF THE SCREW
The road that Anthony now travelled he had travelled
before. When he came to the turning that he desired he
made his way down it and pulled up the car in front of the
first house on the right. There was a brass plate affixed
to the wall, by the big gate. It read, "Arnold Summer-
hayes, M.D."
Mr. Bathurst descended from his car, walked up the
drive and rang the bell. To his surprise he was admitted
by no less a person than Summerhayes himself. Judging
by the expression on the doctor's face when he realized the
identity of his visitor, this condition of surprise was mu-
tual.
"I'm afraid that you're "He stopped and looked
round rather hopelessly, as though at a loss for a word.
"Inconvenient, possibly," returned Anthony, "but
surely not unwelcome? That thought would cut me to the
quick. May I come in, Dr. Summerhayes?"
"Well," responded the doctor, "you must, of course,
having come, I suppose, some distance to see me. I can't
very well talk to you at my front door. Come this way,
Mr. Bathurst."
Anthony obeyed and followed the doctor into what was
evidently the latter's consulting-room.
"Sit down, Mr. Bathurst. If you can say what you


THE TURN OF THE SCREW
147
have to say in ten minutes, I should be infinitely obliged.
Truth to tell, I'm in the devil of a hurry." Summerhayes
looked pointedly at his watch.
"You humiliate me, you know, Doctor, when you stress
so the inconvenience of my arrival."
Summerhayes laughed in apology. "Now you're put-
ting the boot on the other foot. I'm sorry if I appear
inhospitable. That would be the last thing of which I
should like to be thought guilty. I assure you that I
have excellent reasons for my apparent haste. I'll explain
what they are after you've had your say." A smile flitted
across his lean face.
Bathurst began to wonder more and more. He deter-
mined, however, to let this condition lie fallow for a time,
and come, first of all, to the main point of his visit. There
was no gainsaying the fact that Dr. Summerhayes had
certainly given him the broadest of hints. "Something
has happened, Doctor, since my last visit, which I regard
as so tremendously important that I have come back to
ask you two more questions concerning the murder of
Hugh Guest."
Summerhayes looked puzzled. "I'm afraid that I don't
quite understand. To what do you allude? I, myself,
have"
"I allude, Doctor, to the unexpected change in the
position of our mutual acquaintance, Sir Richard Ingle."
Bathurst watched him keenly. How had he reacted to the
mention of Ingle's name?
"I'm aware of it, of course," replied Summerhayes,
f< but I fail to see how it concerns the poisoning of Guest—
in the slightest." His tall figure fidgeted in his chair.


148
THE SPI RED LION
"We'll waive that," conceded Anthony, "willingly. I
didn't expect that you would. It will save us time. Now,
Doctor, let me come to my two questions. When I called
upon you before, we talked about the key, the locked
bedroom door and the way in which the murderer might
and could have escaped. Do you remember?"
Summerhayes nodded. Anthony proceeded: " But what
we didn't consider was the question of a duplicate key,
Doctor. How does that possibility strike you?"
Summerhayes rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I cer-
tainly hadn't thought of it. But it's an idea, nevertheless,
that's worth consideration. It makes a big difference."
"It might explain things, eh?"
Summerhayes nodded emphatically. "Most assuredly."
"Good, then. Now for item number two. I am going
to take the liberty of asking you an extremely direct and
pertinent question. You examined the body of Guest . . .
and you had a number of people^-ound you while you were
there. You were able to see and watch the reactions of
those people because you were peculiarly placed. He had
been dead for but a few minutes when you were called to
him. Do you see what I mean?"
Anthony stopped. Summerhayes turned deliberately to
look at him.
* That's so, isn't it, Doctor?"
"You are right, Mr. Bathurst; but I was wondering
what the exact meaning was that lay behind your words.
From what I've seen and heard of you, you're not the man
to talk like that without having a definite object behind
it." He spoke heatedly.
Anthony smiled at his vehemence. "I wouldn't con-


150 THE SPIKED LION
against any one person . . . suspicion, too, that would
not be based on definite facts or evidence, but on a look,
a word, or even a gesture? You have no right to ask
such a thing, and I must refuse to do it."
He resumed his seat, visibly affected. Mr. Bathurst
shrugged his shoulders. "In that case, then, Doctor,
there only remains for you to do what you hinted at just
now. You were going to explain why you were in such
a hurry to get away from me."
Summerhayes nodded his acceptance of Anthony's point.
"And my explanation, as it happens, will come at a most
appropriate moment. Mr. Bathurst, something has hap-
pened within the last twenty-four hours that has made
it imperative for me to leave this practice. I am going
from the Isle of Wight altogether, either to-morrow or the
day after. I shall never set foot in it again. And I am
going from here for two reasons. I'll make a perfectly
clean breast of them. The first is, that I shall consider-
ably profit by going . . . materially . . . which is, you
will readily admit, no small consideration these days: and
the second—the more important—is . . ." He paused
and looked round . . . almost as though he had heard
somebody else come into the room. His face unmistakably
held fear.
"Yes," said Mr. Bathurst softly ..." and that sec-
ond reason is . . ."
Summerhayes swung round to him almost fiercely.
"What do you think it is? Because I am afraid to stay,
man! Desperately afraid." The man's face twitched
convulsively as he spoke the words. Bathurst refrained
from interruption. He waited in patience. But hoping


THE TURN OF THE SCREW
151
for revelation he was doomed to disappointment. Dr.
Summerhayes bit his lip hard and pulled himself together.
"I don't think I ought to say any more, Mr. Bathurst.
I've said enough already. Too much in all probability.
If you take my advice you'll get away from the island
yourself. Good-bye." He held out his hand.
Anthony realized at this moment that if he wanted any
more information from Dr. Summerhayes he would be
compelled to do the extracting himself. "Thank you for
the hint, Doctor. It's something, at least, to be fore-
warned. But tell me this before you go—of whom are you
afraid? Of what are you afraid?"
Summerhayes glanced round in agitation. u Don't ask
me any more, for heaven's sake! I told you just now that
I'd said too much. I can't tell you any more, Mr. Bath-
urst. I dare not tell you any more. Get out of the
island while you can. If you stay longer it may be too
late."
Anthony, seizing the psychological moment, played his
ace. "And beware of the spiked lion, eh, Doctor?"
Summerhayes caught his breath. It was glaringly ap-
parent that Anthony had hit him hard. "What do you
know of the spiked lion?" The sentence came from him
in a whisper.
"At the moment," returned Mr. Bathurst coolly, " very
little, compared, that is, with what I'm going to know."
Summerhayes leaned over towards him. "Have a care
—lions have claws, Mr. Bathurst."
"So have I, Doctor . . . and I may have the chance
pf using them. Who knows?"


CHAPTER XVII
THE SPIKED LION
Anthony Bathuest sat at his desk in his own room. Try
as he would to escape from it, he was unable to rid himself
of an idea. Certain words jangled through his brain.
Words from the history of that bizarre case of the great
master Holmes*—the case of the spectral hound. "They
were the footprints, Mr. Holmes, of a gigantic hound."
"And the case which I am investigating," he said to him-
self, "I am asked to believe in a spiked lion. A spiked
lion with claws! Fantastic nonsense."
He rose and walked to the window, remembering that
other idea that had come to him when he had motored near
Slingsby Raphael's house in the Isle of Wight. His mind
dwelt on the counters that had gone to the house of
Tresham from the English Pope. Walking back to his
desk, he looked again at the book of reference which lay
open in front of him. This is what he read:
The Heralds' College was incorporated and endowed by
Richard the Third (Crookback) in the year 1484) as a
College of Arms. It was presided over by the Earl
Marshall, the other members being the then Kings of Arms
and the Six Heralds. Their duties were the regulation of
the granting and the bearing of Coat Armor, in addition
to the ordinary functions of the heralds. The first resi-


THE SPIKED LION
153
Hence of the Heralds' College was in Pulteney's Inn, but
in the year 1554, in the reign of Queen Mary, the zealot
of the old religion, that monarch granted the present site.
Derby House was acquired at that time and actually stood
on the site of the present College building, the original of
which was destroyed during the Great Fire of London and
afterwards rebuilt. Enquiries concerning all phases of
heraldry may be addressed to the officer on duty in the
Public Office every day between the hours of 10 a. m. and
4 p. M.
Mr. Bathurst closed the book. Help would be forth-
coming if he were able to gain the precise information that
he coveted. He looked at his watch. The time was right.
A visit to the home of Armorial Bearings was certainly
indicated. He decided not to use his car, but to walk.
He was there by half past twelve. He addressed an enquiry
to the officer on duty in accordance with the instructions
that he had assimilated.
The official listened with an almost incredible dignity,
solemnly directed him to the appropriate room, and at the
same time added further information which was no doubt
intended to be helpful.
Mr. Bathurst still toyed with his idea. He tried to
recall the words that Sir Richard Ingle had used to him
with regard to the gift to the Treshams of those mother-
of-pearl counters of Pope Adrian IV. There was neither
motto nor poetic Latin on them he had said. Anthony
remembered that statement for a certainty. They bore
the arms only of the Treshams, and the late Hubert
Athelstan Wingfield had been the author, amongst all
those other distinctions, of the heraldic brochure, "The


154
THE SPIKED LION
Crown of England and its former possessions—Normandy,
Guienne and Aquitaine."
"Of course he had," murmured Anthony to himself
semi-ecstatically; "besides his knowledge of legendary in-
scriptions he was an expert on matters heraldic." Eventu-
ally the book for which Anthony had requisitioned was
brought to him. He turned its pages until he came to the
Lion Passant; he read with avid interest:
The shield Gules three lions passant guardant, pre-
sumed to be the shield adopted by the Norman Kings, has
one lion for Normandy, another for Guienne, and a third
for Poitou or Aquitaine, three former possessions of the
Crown of England.
"Here entered Professor Wingfield," communed Mr.
Bathurst with himself. "Here he stepped right into the
arena." Anthony read on:
There is also yet another heraldic lion. The lions used
as a bearing by the House of Tresham have a spiked
collar round their neck. This lion, in all probability, came
originally from France. It may be remarked, in conclu-
sion, that lions passant are very seldom charged with
badges such as occur upon lions rampant, and seldom also
hold an object in their paws.
Mr. Bathurst looked up from the book and rubbed eager
hands. His eyes held the light of success. At last he had
run the spiked lion to earth. "But the animal is not
normal, it is spiked, and remember, too, Wingfield . . ."
They were the words found on the creased piece of
paper in Blundell's pocket. He was hot on the trail at


THE SPIKED LION
155
last. He immediately sought further details. Details of
this house of Tresham. The book into which he now delved
told him much that he knew—much that had come to him
during his investigation of the case. Certain other things,
however, proved to be of immense interest. There was the
following, for instance:
Amongst the most valued possessions of the House of
Tresham is a set of rectangular mother-of-pearl counters,
given to the family by Adrian IV, Pope of Rome. A more
recent gift to the House of Tresham was an old rosewood
snuff-box, believed to possess an ancient and most remark-
able history. It was found in the cellar of a house in the
Isle of Wight and presented to the family because of the
Tresham lion that it bears on its face. A man dressed in
Elizabethan style, grey trunk hose, sleeveless waistcoat
and white shirt, with medici collar, is standing with a
sword in his left hand, and is gazing in seeming horror at
a spiked lion which is to be observed coming through the
door and apparently advancing towards him.
Mr. Bathurst closed the book and began to think on
these things ... to think desperately hard. Right back
to Nicholas Brakespear. Far enough in all conscience.
It might have been worse, he commented mentally, with a
twist of humor. After all, there had been a Paleozoic
time, and possibly even then Treshams and Ingles had
"side by side, on the ebbing tide, crawled through the
ooze and slime."
He took stock again of the position. If they had wanted
Wingfield, as was now eminently conceivable, why had
they wanted Blundell? For the presence of Guest he could
satisfactorily account . . . but why, in hell's name, Blun-


THE SPIKED LION
157'
on the 3ay that he had first touched the case? Here they
were: "Comparatively well-to-do and unmarried. . .. .
"Father killed in an earthquake at Hong Kong. Edu-
cated Wrykyn and Luther College, Cambridge . . . recog-
nized authority on ciphers and cryptograms . . . regarded
as the English reply to Le Courvoisier . . . special job in
Intelligence for the best part of the war years 1914—
1918."
Anthony reflected. Here were several fields of possible
explanation. Anthony essayed more meditation. Taken
on the whole, he thought, it was the most intricate case
that had ever fallen into his lap. The strands were so
infernally twisted. One more thread, he felt, if he could
but gather it, would straighten out the skein. But he was
definitely bothered as to "locale ". . . . Did the key to
the mystery lie at Tresham or in the Isle of Wight? There
was Sir Richard Ingle, to be sure. His mind began to
wrestle again ... to grapple with the problem ... to
endeavor to find light that would illumine his darkness.
Wingfield . . . Blundell . . . Guest. They were the three
men. Had he been wrong in taking the three of them
singly, as it were? . . . Would he have been better
advised to take them together? To look for likeness be-
tween them ... to search for something which they had
in common . . . and not for individual distinctions?
Leaving Guest out of the picture for the time being—he
was a horse of another color—could he concentrate to
advantage on Blundell and Wingfield? Had they the least
little thing in common? Knowledge—any possession—
any something, infinitesimal even, but belonging at the
same time to each one of them? Once again his mind


158
THE SPIKED LION
churned the mass of revealed and collected matter. He
determined to take the two men, step by step and point by
point, in every meticulous particular. Like an English
lesson in the old days at Uppingham—the analysis of a
sentence or the parsing of a word.
Names—John Pender Blundell, Hubert Athelstan Wing-
field. No inspiration there that he could see of any kind.
Residences, respectively—Hurstfold, Sussex, Hurrilow,
Wiltshire. "Pass," murmured Anthony to himself, shak-
ing a dubious head. Ages—between forty-eight and forty-
nine; forty-nine. Bathurst looked at the cardinals with
the interest of sudden unexpected excitement. Hallo!
Here was something that he hadn't particularly noticed
before. Might be the purest of coincidences, of course—
with nothing in it—but all the same, he censured himself
for concentrating on the apparently bigger data, and
thereby neglecting the seemingly smaller. AU data, he had
consistently advocated and argued, should be thoroughly
sifted and examined, irrespective of the magnitude that
they appear to present to the investigator. Here he had
been false to his own creed.
Forty-nine years of age, say, each of them. Born in the
same year, and at school at the same time. Exact con-
temporaries. That apparently insignificant fact might
mean a lot—it might mean the very thread for which he
was seeking. If they had been forty-nine when they were
murdered, that meant, making the usual allowance that
..." Hold hard!" whispered Anthony to himself. . . .
"Forty-nine years of age. . . . Who the devil besides, in
this grotesque case, was also the bearer of that identical
tale of years? . . ." He was positive that there was some-


THE SPIKED LION
159
body. That he had heard it somewhere. He lashed his
brain. The words came to him. Ingle's words in the car,
driving back from the churchyard that lay under the hill.
"I hadn't seen him for forty years. He was a boy of nine
at the time." Nick Tresham, too, was forty-nine. Was
this revelation? Or just one of those combinations of
coincidence that develop the length of its arm?
He visualized again that journey in Ingle's car when
MacMorran had followed on behind. What had they dis-
cussed? As he pondered he wrote the three names idly
on the diary to which he had previously referred. "Blun-
dell," "Tresham," "Wingfield." As men will at times
like this, he began to draw weirdly misshapen lines, that
left the three names at all angles. Ingle had been abso-
lutely in agreement with the strength of Tresham's creden-
tials. Raphael, too, had insisted on that fact. Documents,
the mother-of-pearl counters, the way in which the solicitor
Lomax had dealt with the case, had all thoroughly satisfied
Sir Richard.
"I am absolutely convinced that he is Nicholas
Tresham," Ingle had said: " Blood is thicker than water."
Again Bathurst's nomadic pen traced idle words—words
which he decorated with fanciful and fantastic capitals.
"Blood is Thicker than Water." He made even more
ornate the "B," the " T" and the "W." Suddenly An-
thony saw something that he had failed to see before. It
leaped from the paper in front of him and plucked at his
eyes. B. T. W.! Blundell, Tresham, Wingfield!
"Well, I'm unutterably damned!" muttered Anthony
Lotherington Bathurst. "Blood's Thicker than Water.
Now, what the hell does that mean?"


CHAPTER XVIII
EXHUMATION
Once again Mr. Bathurst sat in the Commissioner's room
at New Scotland Yard. Sir Austin Kemble at his side
listened to him with many signs of attention. Every now
and then he would punctuate Anthony's remarks with a
nod.
"Remarkable," conceded Sir Austin. "Almost incred-
ible. And where's all this leading up to?"
"To what I asked you just now, sir. I want orders
granted immediately for the exhumation of the bodies
of"
The Commissioner broke in rather impatiently—" Blun-
dell, Wingfield, and Guest, I suppose? All three of them?"
Mr. Bathurst shook his head. "No, sir. Of Blundell
and Wingfield only. I am not concerned in this particular
matter with the body of Guest."
"Why not?"
"He doesn't fit in, sir. Guest was murdered in the same
way as they, but for a different reason. I fancy that
Blundell and Wingfield were murdered for the same reason.
I want to find out what that reason was." Anthony spoke
quietly, but there was anxiety in his voice.
Sir Austin became acutely uneasy. "That's all very
well, my boy, but I don't see how the exhumation is going


EXHUMATION
161
to help you. We know that these two men were murdered
in the same way—by poison. What else can you possibly
find out?"
Anthony stuck doggedly to his guns. "I want to look
at their bodies, sir. I want Sir Roderick Hope to look
at them too, perhaps. I blame myself tremendously for
not having done so before, but my excuse must be that
events happened so fast and so furiously that it was a job
to keep pace with everything."
Sir Austin still finessed. "What does MacMorran say
about it? Have you discussed it with him?"
Anthony smiled. "Not exactly, sir. You could hardly
call it a discussion. I mentioned the possibility to him,
that's all."
Sir Austin tacked. "Is it absolutely necessary, Bath-
urst? It isn't as though the cause of death was in doubt.
Can't you get what you want in any other way? How
about seeing the two doctors? Sugden, up here, and the
chap down at Sidmouth who attended the body of Wing-
field. They examined the bodies, didn't they? Don't you
think that if you could arrange it, it might give you the
information which you require?"
Anthony held his ground. "No, sir; candidly, I don't.
If I did I shouldn't have troubled you. You see, it's like
this. I already know something which I haven't as yet dis-
closed to you. I didn't intend to tell you until I was more
sure of my ground. I've been appallingly blind, but, like
a new-born kitten, my eyes are beginning to open at last.
I think I must be a tortoise-shell."
Sir Austin tapped the floor with his foot. "Tell me
what you know," he said curtly.


EXHUMATION
163
been down to Hurrilow again, sir—the little village at the
back of the Wiltshire downs where Miss Wingfield lives.
The first time I ran down there I saw his sister, Miss
Wingfield, as you know. This second time I saw his wife.
I asked a few questions"
■ "I don't doubt that," flashed Sir Austin.
"Touche!" returned Anthony good-humoredly. "I'm
bound to, you know, if I want to solve the problems you
put in front of me. The questions I asked Mrs. Wingfield
were directed to one vital point. Well, it came to this,
sir. I was successful beyond my wildest dreams. I want
an application made for those two exhumations."
Sir Austin turned in his chair. He rather enjoyed mak-
ing Bathurst ask for things. "Tell me more. You're
just getting interesting."
"Well, sir, it's a longish yarn, but I wallowed in Wing-
field's ways, whims and witticisms. You know the sort of
thing: 'Tell me all about your husband, Mrs. Wingfield.
The smallest details may prove to be the most important.'
Much, of course, that she told me was irrelevant, but sud-
denly she said this: 'He had some funny little marks at
the back of his left leg—in the fold, where the leg bends
—right behind the kneecap. I asked him once what they
were and he told me they were a sporting relic of his days
at Cambridge. He laughed then and said, "Just a re-
minder for all time that blood's thicker than water."'"
Anthony became grave. "Sir Austin, those words were of
blessed meaning."
"Why?"
"Why? Because Sir Richard Ingle had used the very
same words to me only a few days before."


164
THE SPIKED LION
The Commissioner was still unconvinced. "It's a com-
mon phrase, Bathurst."
"I know; but it means something important here. I'm
positive of it—I feel it in my bones."
Anthony was determined to say no more. The lines
showed round his lips. Sir Austin would have to be con-
tent with that.
"The Sidmouth doctor who performed the p. m. made
no comment on any marks behind the patella," remarked
the Commissioner doubtfully.
"Would he look for them, sir? After all, why should
he? There were other and (to him) more important marks
on the body—bruises and things like that."
"H'm! You can always argue to suit your case, can't
you?"
Anthony shrugged his shoulders. Sir Austin was quick
to observe the gesture. He employed sarcasm. "Again,
why exhume the body of Blundell as well as that of Wing-
field? I presume that the latter's widow gave you no in-
formation about Blundell's legs?"
"I can't tell you my reason, sir. But I'm simply hop-
ing for certain results, that's all."
The Commissioner rose from his chair and paced the
room. Once . . . twice . . . thrice. His obstinacy was
a force. Suddenly he turned to Anthony. "Supposing I
refuse to entertain your idea? What will you do next?"
Mr. Bathurst stretched out his long legs. "Nothing,
sir."
"Nothing? What do you mean?"
"That I shall be compelled to relinquish the case, sir,
that's all. To turn it over to MacMorran completely."


EXHUMATION
165
Sir Austin surveyed him critically. He could hardly
believe his ears. "Eh! What's that? Relinquish the
case! You're not serious?"
"I am, sir. Perfectly serious."
Sir Austin walked to his desk with quick strides. "You
get your own way, don't you? All right, then. I'll apply
for the orders." He took up the telephone receiver. "Put
me through to the Home Office at once."
Mr. Bathurst smiled. "So far, so good," he said to
himself.
Then he heard Sir Austin's voice again. "The Commis-
sioner of Police speaking from New Scotland Yard. . . ."
The exhumation of the body of the late Hubert Athel-
stan Wingfield was carried out expeditiously and under
conditions of extreme secrecy. Few of the inhabitants of
Hurrilow saw the three vehicles drive up to the church-
yard, and amongst those few, only one or two ventured
upon articulate wonderment.
Sir Roderick Hope, the Crown pathologist, was not
present; the Commissioner had taken Anthony's word that
he would not require Sir Roderick except as a last re-
source.
It was approaching midnight when, under Sir Austin's
directions, the coffin was removed from the grave and con-
veyed to a small shed that had been specially requisitioned
for the purpose. It was there laid on a trestle. Silent
men opened it for its human burden. Not a man in the
shed spoke. Then one of the grim squad stepped back
and nodded.
"Now, Dr. Sugden," said Anthony to the divisional


166
THE SPI KED LION
surgeon whom the Commissioner had insisted upon bringing
down with them, "the place I want you to look at is in
the crease of the leg, behind the left patella."
Sugden went to his gruesome task, under the flickering
light of candles. Again there was a period of complete
silence. It was broken by Sugden turning quietly to Sir
Austin Kemble and Anthony. "Come here, sir, please, and
you, Bathurst."
The two men named stepped forward.
"The body has been in the coffin for a very short time,"
said Sugden, " and naturally is well preserved. Now look
here. Can you see anything?" Sugden took one of the
candles and held it against the back of the corpse's left
leg.
"H'm! Red scratches. Scarlet marks," muttered the
Commissioner. Anthony looked at them intently. Bend-
ing down, he pulled the skin tighter and taut, so that some
of the looseness of the creases was lost.
"More than that, sir, if you look carefully. More
than mere marks."
"H'm! Hold the candle a little closer, Doctor, will
you, please?"
Sugden obeyed the Commissioner.
"See what I mean, sir?" queried Anthony. "Look
down there."
There was no reply from Sir Austin.
"What about you, Doctor? Can you see what I mean?"
Sugden cursed softly and scientifically at hot wax that
dropped on to his thumb.
"Yes. I think that those marks are intended to be
letters," he said. He looked more closely. "Three letters,


EXHUMATION
167
I fancy there are, all told. Done by some form of tattoo-
ing."
Anthony made no attempt to conceal his satisfaction at
Sugden's statement. "Thank you, Doctor. I agree with
you. They are three letters. Could you name the three
letters?"
Sir Austin had now arrived. "There's a * B,' " he said
slowly.
"A ' T' and a ¥ W,'" supplemented Sugden.
"Exactly," said Anthony with finality. "' B,'' T,' and
'W,' or, as Wingfield put it when alive, 'Blood's Thicker
than Water.'" He watched their faces for appreciation.
"Good God!" muttered Sir Austin. .
"You remember my insistence on the phrase, then, sir?"
flashed Anthony.
The Commissioner nodded. "Good gracious, yes. Well,
I'll be hanged!"
"1 hope not, sir; but I'm gaining confidence in the belief
that somebody will."


CHAPTER XIX
BATHURST'S THEORY IS STRENGTHENED
Two days later the village of Hurstfold witnessed a similar
scene to that which the Wiltshire village of Hurrilow had
seen. The coffin containing the body of John Pender
Blundell was taken into a little mortuary chapel used by
a local undertaker, and Sugden needed no instructions
from Bathurst, on this second occasion, as to what he was
required to do.
"You're right, Bathurst," he said eventually; "the
scarlet marks are here. In the same place as on Wing-
field."
Anthony assured himself by personal inspection. "B,"
"T," and "W." He, Sir Austin, and Dr. Sugden drove
back to town together in the Commissioner's car. Anthony
was unusually silent. Sir Austin rallied him.
"My dear boy," he said, "what's come over you?
Aren't you well?"
"How do you mean, sir?"
"You've proved your point; you've made me to a cer-
tain extent ashamed of my pig-headedness, and you haven't
once said,' I told you so.' You have raised yourself above
the angels. It's perfectly inhuman of you—don't you
think so, Sugden?"
"'Tis rather, Sir Austin. We shall have to buy him the
dinkiest thing we can find in halos if he goes on like this.


bathtjkst's theory is strengthened 169
iYet another St. Anthony. There are already about a
dozen of 'em, I believe." The doctor turned to Anthony
smilingly. $' What's on your mind now, Bathurst?"
Anthony grinned back. "What's worrying me, do you
mean?"
"If you like. If that's the truer term."
"Well—why should blood be thicker than water—when
it applies to three men who, as far as we know, had no
birth affinity whatever?"
"But does it mean that, Bathurst? Hang on a bit,
man. Does it mean just what it says? Much more likely,
to my way of thinking, to be a phrase used because it
fitted and—er—summed up, so to speak, their three
initials, ' B,'' T,' and'W.'"
Sir Austin delivered himself of this opinion with com-
mendable emphasis. Anthony looked at him curiously.
"I think I agree with you, sir, as far as it goes. But the
theory that you have just put forward leaves so much to
be explained. Why have the marks at all? Take us three
now, as we sit here in this car. You and Dr. Sugden and I.
We have no blood relationship. Unless, of course, we
count those little incidents in the garden of Eden. Or
have we the backs of our knees tattooed with the three
letters ' K,'' S,' and' B' ;which trio of letters might mean
merely Kemble, Sugden, and Bathurst, or, falling into line
with our present case and groping for something more
tangible, might come to be int srpreted,' Kippers Sell better
than Bloaters,' or something equally fatuous? The first
of which you would at once say was distinctly fishy. There
I am—back at the beginning. Why have the marks at
all?"
■
i


170
THE SPIKED LION
"What's your own idea about them, Bathurst? " queried
Sugden.
"How can I have one, Doctor? I've really no data on
the marks, or, at least, it's of the thinnest. The business
dates back years." He curled himself back into the corner
of the car. The Commissioner frowned at the situation as
he imagined he saw it.
"What do you purpose then? Without your precious
data how do you intend to move? Are you going after
it?"
"Surely there's an obvious indication as to that,"
observed Sugden.
Anthony was immediately interested. "Tell me, Doc-
tor."
Sugden smiled. "Two dead men—and another man
alive. The dead and the quick. Blundell and Wingfield—
the dead. Tresham—the quick." He shrugged his shoul-
ders. "Surely your line of attack for the data which is
so vital to you is Tresham—Lord Tresham."
"Highly ingenious, Doctor, and thoroughly logical at
the same time. But not by any means easy to carry out."
"You mean difficulty of approach?"
"Naturally. It's one thing to look at the legs of a
corpse. Lord Tresham's legs, though, are an entirely
different proposition." Anthony grinned. "If I may say
so, they are his own affair."
"The considerate Bathurst," murmured Sir Austin.
Sugden lit his pipe; he watched the flame curl round the
tobacco.
"I appreciate all that, of course. I think, however,
that I might be able to help you if, in the first place, you


172
THE SPIKED LION
Anthony parried the question. "Again that depends.
What do you mean by * key'?"
"I'll vary my words. Which murder has helped you
most towards, shall we say, solution?"
Anthony smiled and shook his head disclaimingly.
Sugden sensed his meaning. "I see what you want me
to do. Very well, I'll put it like this. Which murder is
helping you most towards the truth?"
"I'll answer you that with pleasure. The murder of
Hugh Guest."
« Why?"
Anthony rubbed his lip. "Because there's little doubt
that Guest was on to them. Putting it bluntly, he'd struck
the trail and they knew it. He was getting dangerous.
So he was removed. That was what I meant just now
when I said it might suit their book to effect other re-
movals. It's on the cards that somebody else may hit the
trail. We're up against people who are absolutely ruth-
less, you know. Witness the three murders already.
They'll stick at nothing to achieve their ends."
Dr. Sugden nodded again. "I follow all that. In fact,
they were my own impressions. The murder of Guest gives
us a definite 'locality,' you mean?"
"That's it, Doctor. You've got it."
Sugden tapped his teeth with the stem of his pipe.
"And the motive, Bathurst?" <
Anthony waved deprecating fingers. "I'm not answer-
ing that because I'm not yet sure. I'm only just getting
on the truth of that motive now. That's mainly why I
wanted these two exhumations. I found Sir Austin very
hard to convince of their necessity."


bathurst's theory is strengthened 173
The Commissioner felt it was time that he took part in
the discussion. "Adopting your principle of elimination,
Bathurst, if we accept your theory that Guest was close
to—er—successful investigations, can't we be thoroughly
scientific and see where we are? Where we stand, as one
may say? For instance, Guest went to stay with Sir
Richard Ingle, didn't he? Why? What was his real
reason? Because he was a friend of the Ingles or because
he wanted to be at Beech Knoll—to be near Ingle?"
"Seems to me," said Sugden thoughtfully, " that if one
person can be excluded from the circle of suspicion it is
Sir Richard Ingle himself."
"Meaning that Ingle comes out of it all with a great
deal of real loss and no profit?"
"Well, he does, doesn't he? That's moderately obvious."
"Yes," conceded Anthony gravely; "the heritage of
Tresham for which he had waited has gone elsewhere. Sir
Richard Ingle must stay and end his days at Beech Knoll."
"Who else remains? There were three women in the
house at the time of the murder, I believe. Guest's sister,
Lady Ingle the hostess, and Ella the daughter of the
house. We can surely rule all them out of it. Yes?"
"All right, go on then."
The Commissioner took up the parable. "Now that
we're on this subject of elimination, I'll tell you something.
When I looked through Pullinger's notes I thought that
something emerged from them as remarkably significant."
"What was that, sir?"
"The evidence of the young man Covington, who was
supposed, on the strength of his own story—entirely
uncorroborated by the way—to have warned Guest that


174
THE SPIKED LION
he was in danger some time before he was murdered."
The Commissioner paused and then proceeded: " It seemed
to me that, all through, this young fellow Covington was
too prominent by far. That there was too much spotlight
on him altogether. Called attention to Guest's absence
from the dinner-table, went up to Guest's bedroom door,
couldn't get in, came down again, etc., etc. There was
Covington always playing a leading part. And while I
was thinking all this I noticed something else, something
that struck me as extremely significant."
Anthony's eagerness spurred him to a question. "What
was that, sir?"
"The way in which he contradicted himself. According
to Pullinger's notes he was asked, when he returned to the
dining-room on the first occasion, whether he had called
out to Guest, the man whom he had gone upstairs to
endeavor to find. What was his answer? Something like
this. I won't vouch for the exact words, speaking without
the book. 'When I come to think of it, I don't believe I
did.' An extraordinary admission, to my mind, for a man
to make, placed in the circumstances that we know young
Covington to have been. Moreover, what do we find hap-
pening afterwards? When you arrive, Bathurst, on your
first visit to Ingle's place, Pullinger reports as follows.
He says, in effect, this." Sir Austin paused for a moment.
"' Evidence by Barry Covington: I knocked and tapped
on the bedroom door. There was no answer from within
the room. So I spoke to Guest, hoping against hope that
he might be in there. I didn't shout out or call loudly
. . . I just said, "Are you there?'" In other words,
gentlemen, nothing more or less than a complete contradic-


bathuest's theory is strengthened 175
tion in terms. The young man made a bad mistake and
had to get out of it the best way that he could. What do
you say to that, Bathurst?"
"I think, sir, that you've put an unerring finger on the
most vital part of Covington's evidence. Personally I rate
it of the highest importance."
"Circumstances alter cases," put in Sugden thought-
fully; "the most trifling thing may throw the whole
machinery out of gear. A quick, alert mind seizes on those
trifles. I'll tell you something that happened to me the
other day. I couldn't help thinking at the time how
mental processes vary. It's a story against myself too.
Two or three weeks ago my wife was away on the Riviera.
One evening I was at work in my den on a police report,
when there was a ring at the front door bell. It was
pretty late, and the maids were out. They weren't due
back, I suppose, for another half an hour or so. Cursing
at the interruption, I answered the ring myself. A curious
old bird stood on the step wearing a battered old ' topper.'
I don't quite know how best to describe him.
"' Good-evening, Doctor,' he says to me; ' any old rag
or bone?' or some gibberish meaning that that I didn't
pay much attention to.
"' No,' I said curtly, on the point of closing the door.
But with consummate audacity he had another go at me.
"' Any old clothes, boots, newspapers—sorry to be
troubling you, Doctor, but perhaps your good lady
could . . .'
"' No,' I said very curtly this time; 'my good lady
could do nothings—she's away and she won't be back for
at least another fortnight.'"


176
THE SPIKED LION
Sugden chuckled. "What do you think the old rascal
said to that?"
"I'll buy it," returned Anthony.
"' Let me take the empty bottles away then, Doctor,
before she comes home.'"
Sir Austin paid tribute boisterously.
"Your point being, Doctor," said Anthony, " that this
high priest of refuse collection would have brought distinc-
tion to the C.I.D.?"
"Exactly," said Sugden. "Our job in this case is to
grasp the trifles—they must be there somewhere—and
turn them to account."
"Returning to Ingle for a moment," put in the Com-
missioner; "what would you say about him, Bathurst, if
you were asked? You've been to his place?"
"As a man—as a host do you mean, sir?"
"Yes; more or less like that."
"In private life I should put him down as a man who
would never lose the respect of those who served him. An
easy, good-tempered, good-natured, facetious companion,
I should say. Not over-moody «... on the whole equable.
Free in his speech, excessively candid in the expression
of his desires, hearty eater, moderate drinker, and with
the best part of his heart buried in sport. Racing in
particular. Loves horses, I fancy, intensely, and dogs
probably only a little less. There you are, Sir Austin,
pen-picture of Sir Richard Ingle by Anthony Lotherington
Bathurst."
"Was he comfortable, Bathurst, would you say, as far
as the things of this world go? No fly in the amber any-
where, I suppose? Prosperous, all right?"


bathurst's theory is strengthened 177
"My dear Doctor," replied Anthony a little com-
placently, "prosperity may be the most fatal of endow-
ments. It may fatten the body, but choke and poison the
soul. And in that case—who can say the measure of
Ingle's prosperity, or worth of Ingle's soul?"
"There was a third man present, I believe, when Guest
was murdered," remarked Sugden, ignoring Bathurst's
departure into metaphysics, "a man named Slingsby
Raphael. What can you tell us about him?"
Anthony made no reply.
"Hallo? " said Sugden, " sicklied o'er with the pale cast
of thought—does silence sit on Anthony Bathurst?"
The last named shook his head tentatively. "Slingsby
Raphael? I find him very interesting. In fact, so much
so that MacMorran's getting a line on him to-morrow for
me."
"You can't eliminate him from the circle, then? It
comes to that, eh?"
"Although I've very definite ideas, I certainly can't,
altogether, Sir Austin. It does come to that." Anthony
blazed into vehemence. "But where the hell does he fit,
Sir Austin? Tell me that if you can. Where the hell do
any of them fit?"
Anthony made a gesture of resignation and relapsed
into silence. The two men respected it and watched him.
Suddenly they saw a curious light come into his grey eyes.
Were the puzzle-pieces coming to him?


CHAPTER XX
ON THE TRACK
"Yet a third visit, Mr. Bathurst?" queried Sir Richard
Ingle. "We are indeed honored."
Anthony bowed to the speaker and to Slingsby Raphael,
who sat with him on the same stone ledge upon which they
had sat before.
"How do you come this time? As a triumphant con-
queror of a ticklish problem?"
Anthony shook his head. "To think that, Sir Richard,
would be, I fear, a dangerous ecstasy. I must avoid such
a condition at all costs. I am still a suppliant after
truth."
Raphael's eyes glinted after their habit. "Do you
know, Mr. Bathurst," he declared, "you intrigue me?
Few of my own sex have been privileged to do that. But
you are a gentleman of such swift subtlety. Most so-
called detectives I have known have been empty-headed,
fish-eyed or jelly-gutted—sometimes I have known them
to be all three. You are none of these things. A lithe,
various creature. Light and fierce like a flame. Im-
pervious to set-backs and highly persevering and resolute.
I can imagine that Bruce of Scotland would have used
you to catch his superfluous flies. On the other hand,
however, I think that I should like to see you as a lover—


ON THE TRACK
179
hear you faltering exquisite endearments in your own
tongue—watch you as a merchant trafficking in the in-
timate and treading on tiptoe through le pays du tendre.
You would give a woman homage, make her your most
humiliated servant by avowing yourself hers and thereby
touching her generosity even more than her humility. The
Irish have that trait to an unusual degree. Yes, my dear
Bathurst," he conceded softly, "I should like to see you
as a lover. I am certain that you would intrigue me more
than you do even now, and give me into the bargain rich
memories that I might bequeath unto my heirs."
"Thank you. By the way, who told you that I was
Irish?"
Raphael's face flushed. "I did you the honor to look
you up. Uppingham and Oxford, I believe. I must con-
gratulate you on some of your achievements."
"Thank you again. That also is rather a coincidence.
I've been looking you up. I even put a Scotland Yard
man on to you. I can't congratulate you on some of
yours."
. Raphael's cheeks were dull red now, but Anthony turned
away to address Sir Richard Ingle. "What I wanted to
ask you, Sir Richard Ingle, is ' Why is blood thicker than
water?' That is the question that has prompted my
visit."
To Anthony's surprise, Ingle burst into a hearty and
uncontrolled laugh. Raphael's face was still twisted, how-
ever, and it seemed to Anthony, as he watched him from
the corner of his eye, that he did not share, by any means,
Ingle's humorous point of view.
"My reception to-day," murmured Mr. Bathurst, "is


180
THE SPIKED LION
certainly mixed, if nothing else. I suppose that I should
be grateful for the infinite variety. I provoke cynicism in
the mind of one of my hosts and risible effervescence in
the other. Behold me humble, the seeker, as always, for
explanation and truth. I now add patience, too, to my
humility."
Ingle motioned him to a seat on the ledge. Contrition
showed on his face. "My dear chap, forgive me, do. I
am sorry that I laughed. But you sprang it on me rather,
you know.
"My dear Slingsby," said Sir Richard,?' can you recall
that day a short time ago when you were discussing the
missing Tresham with me? When you proved to be such
an intelligent anticipator?"
Anthony pricked up attentive ears. So Raphael had
expected this Tresham claimant to turn up! At least, he
presumed that that was Ingle's meaning. Most interest-
ing of facts.
"Only too well," returned Raphael. "I warned you,
didn't I?"
"You did—and you were right. Do you remember,
though, what I told you?"
"As to what, precisely?"
"What I knew of the real Nick Tresham. I said that
I hadn't seen him since we were boys, but that he had the
Tresham eyebrows. Can you remember anything else that
I said just about then?"
"Very well," replied Raphael coolly. f' I remember the
sentence that you used. After you mentioned the eye-
brows, you said, ' and one other piece of information that
he sent me gratuitously, when he cleared out, which may


ON THE TRACK
181
come in useful.' You weren't explicit, and I remember,
too, that you set me wondering what that piece of informa-
tion was."
"No. I didn't tell you at the time. It was hardly
necessary. I think, now that I look back upon it, that I
was inclined to keep the information to myself purposely.
You shall hear what it was now, however, when I pass it
on to Bathurst."
Sir Richard turned to Anthony. "I suppose I must
have used the expression to you on one of the occasions
that you were here before. That's why you've lobbed it
back to me. Is that so?"
"That will do for a reason as well as any other."
Ingle nodded. "Then I must really congratulate you,
Bathurst, on a piece of most extraordinary and unusual
discernment."
Anthony disclaimed the compliment. "Perhaps I was
hardly fair to you in my previous reply. I must not
accept bouquets under false pretences. I know more than
I appeared to know. By the time I leave you, Sir Richard,
I hope to know all."
Ingle laughed. "You know more, eh? Well, there's
no secret about any of it, as far as I'm concerned per-
sonally. Raphael and you can hear the news together.
The only pity is, that it will have to be verbal. I've no
document that I can show you that would have given cor-
roboration. I did have, but I destroyed it. Don't know
why exactly. Except that I had the information that the
letter contained tucked away all right in my noodle, and
certainly shouldn't ever forget it. So there was really no
point, you see, in my keeping Tresham's letter."


182
THE SPIKED LION
He paused, and his mind seemed to flight back in reflec-
tion.
"It's a strange business altogether. When Nick
Tresham bolted, taking the mother-of-pearl counters with
him to remind him of England, home and beauty, he wrote
me a letter. I have often wondered why. But these things
are hard to explain. I sometimes think that Fate takes a
hand in the game absolutely deliberately. We are made
to do these things through the will of a Higher Power
than ourselves."
"There is a destiny . . ." quoted Slingsby Raphael.
"Exactly. That's something of what I meant. It
seems almost that Tresham had a vision of part, at least,
of the future. That he was able, in some way that is
unfathomable, to foresee the deaths of his two elder
brothers, and that he, himself, despite the rigors of the
adventures that he was about to give himself, knew that
the heritage of Tresham would, in the fullness of time,
come to him. Personally I wouldn't have rated his chance
in those early days at a tinker's damn. Wouldn't have
given him a quotation in the market. As I told you,
Slingsby, when we first discussed the matter, I was con-
fident that somebody a bit quicker on the draw than he
was had put daylight into him, with little ceremony and
less regret. As we know now, I was wrong. Still, to get
to the letter that he sent me. Expect you're cursing me
for being long-winded, but I'm no good at short cuts or
five-furlong sprints."
Ingle's eyes twinkled, and Anthony remembered the
description of him that he had given to Sir Austin.
"In this letter Tresham intimated, first of all, that he


ON THE TRACK
183
was leaving the country—destination unknown. Cabin-
trunks, labelled, he said, had always produced in him a
restless urge. An irresistible impulse to chuck everything
stable and go a-voyaging round the world. Seeking
always that kingdom that lies round the corner. At last
he had succumbed to it. He pointed out that, in a certain
combination of circumstances, there was the possibility
that the heritage of Tresham would come to me. If he
and his two brothers shuffled off and left no issue. Then
he wound up, in a joking vein, by making a statement to
this effect. He could always be identified, he said, apart
from the peculiarity of the Tresham eyebrows. He had
been at the Varsity—Cambridge—with two men with
whom he had grown tremendously thick. They were
known as the 'Three Musketeers.' As a matter of fact,
I forget the names of the other two now. It's so long
ago, for one thing, and for another, I never troubled over-
much to remember them. There was no real reason why I
should. I can tell you only one thing about them. One's
surname began with a 'B' and the other with a 'W.'
That's easy to remember—they were the blood and the
Water."
Ingle chuckled at the savor of the reminiscence, and
Anthony looked at him curiously.
"By a strange coincidence these three men owed each
other a debt. Tresham had saved the lives of the other
two men on the Cam—a punting or boating accident of
some kind. I can't tell you the exact particulars because
I've forgotten them. Nick Tresham was a strong swimmer,
and had turned up to save them at great personal risk
when everything seemed all over. The year after, they


184
THE SPIKED LION
had gone to Switzerland for the summer vacation. And
here these two men, by one of those tricks of Fate I spoke
of, had been enabled to repay Tresham what they owed
him. They were mountain-climbing together, so Tresham's
story went. The usual tragedy. Bad conditions, a slip
and a broken rope. They held on to Tresham literally
for hours and—happily—until help came. When it did,
one of them fainted from sheer exhaustion. Now mark
the sequel. Nick Tresham had always been a wild, im-
pressionable sort of chap, and the bigness of the two
affairs caught and held his imagination. The two events,
he said, must be marked in some way so that their memory
should last forever for all three. Nothing would satisfy
him otherwise."
Sir Richard shifted his position. ?' All this detail he
told me in the letter. The upshot of it all was that the
three men were tattooed together—behind the left knee—
in the crease of the leg. There was a fellow up at Luther
at the time who was an expert at that kind of thing and
very thick with Tresham. They were tattooed with the
three initials 'B,' 'T,' and 'W.' There, gentlemen, now
you know all that there is to know. That's the story as
I had it from Nick Tresham's pen."
Sir Richard Ingle looked at his two auditors critically,
but semi-humorously. From Anthony Bathurst came
questions, shrewd—incisive questions after a moment or
two of reflection.
"And because of that, Sir Richard, because of your
special knowledge of this marking of these three men, you
were satisfied with the present Lord Tresham's bona
fides?"


ON THE TRACK
185
Ingle smiled. "Of course. Can't you see it all now?
I told you that I was."
"Pardon the question. How did you find it Out?"
"Find out what?"
"That he had the identification marks. Did he make
a point of showing them to you?" Anthony Bathurst's
face showed intense eagerness.
Ingle shook his head. Both Anthony and Raphael,
strangely enough, seemed creatures of disappointment.
"What happened then?" asked the former, "that you
are able to"
"Well, I decided to clinch matters that day I met
Tresham in the lawyer's office up in Seely Place. Towards
the end of the interview I rubbed the back of my left leg so
that he could see me—deliberately. Anybody who pos-
sessed the particular knowledge that I had couldn't mis-
take the action. Bathurst, my dear chap, he understood
my meaning at once! Believe me, there wasn't the shadow
of a doubt about it. The way his face showed his under-
standing was really remarkable. He picked up the cue
almost on the beat. Not quite, but good enough. Then he
said something about having been away from England a
long time, and out it came—' Blood's thicker than water.'
There was no argument against that, Bathurst. It was
Tresham right enough."
Once again his look interrogated the faces of his two
companions. "Seems conclusive to me," cpmmented
Raphael.
The situation was ripe for development.
"Sir Richard," remarked Anthony Bathurst with grave
emphasis, " there is something else that I am in a position


186
THE SPIKED LION
to tell you. When you hear it, make of it what you will.
There have been three men murdered recently—each by
cyanide of potassium, administered in some way through
the nostrils. One of them, Hugh Guest, was murdered in
this house of yours. His murderer has not yet been
found. The other two were murdered somewhere unknown,
the places have not yet been definitely located, but their
bodies were discovered in Bushey Park and the Valley of
Ferns, Sidmouth."
Anthony stopped. He saw that Ingle seemed mystified
and that Raphael's face was turned full towards him.
"Well," said the former, with a touch of jauntiness,
"what has all this to do with me? About these other two
murders, I mean? Guest, of course"
"Wait, Sir Richard. The names of these two murdered
men, Sir Richard, were Blundell and Wingfield. They
were contemporaries at Cambridge. Of an age with Lord
Tresham."
Ingle stared, as Anthony made each successive state-
ment, while Raphael smothered an exclamation.
"Good God!" cried Ingle. "Blundell and Wingfield!
It all comes back to me. I remember the names now.
Before this they had held no significance for me. These
are deep waters, Bathurst. Where are we?"
Anthony made a movement of broad shoulders. "Strug-
gling slowly towards the light, Sir Richard. By degrees,
it's true, but getting there all the same."
"Just a minute, though. Let's see where we are. The
initials of the surnames fit the equation, I agree, but are
you absolutely certain of the peculiar identity of these
two men? After all, you know, you're trying to"


ON THE TBACE 187
"Entertain no doubt whatever, Sir Richard. I have
established the truth of it. I'll tell you something in
strict confidence. The bodies of Blundell and Wingfield
have been exhumed. The tattoo marks of which you have
just spoken are visible on them. In the exact place you
indicated."
Raphael intervened. "I find your pace a little discon-
certing, Bathurst. There are gaps in your story. Gaps
that must be filled. Why these exhumations? Without
any particular knowledge you brought off a remarkably
long shot. I'm afraid that I can't"
Anthony was unable to restrain a smile. "I'm sorry.
The exhumations did take place so that these marks might
be examined. I will admit that cheerfully. I obtained
my information with regard to them from another quar-
ter. But my informant was unable to tell me 8 why.'
Only ' of.' That is why I have come to Beech Knoll to Sir
Richard here. My first question to him was, if you remem-
ber, * Why is blood thicker than water?'" Anthony's
smile took unto itself sweetness.
"And now you know."
"And now I know. And now we know."
"Makes a difference, certainly," said Raphael.
"Undoubtedly," returned Anthony carelessly, "knowl-
edge and fear are twin tyrants. When they take command
they become like the God of Moses—most jealous and
uneasy despots. Other gods have a thin time. Even a
respectable G.P. like Dr. Summerhayes with a practice in
the Isle of Wight can vouch for the truth of that."
He flicked perilously-placed ash from the end of his
cigarette. There was a moment of heavy, pregnant silence.


188
THE SPIKED LION
Ingle seemed surprised at the remark. Too surprised to
offer comment. The eyes of Slingsby Raphael, however,
came to that strange glitter that made them so remark-
able. Was it the product of excitement or of some deeper,
intenser quality?
"What do you mean by that, Bathurst? Why must
you drag in Summerhayes?"
"For an excellent reason. Haven't you heard that the
worthy doctor, under the influence of one of those restless
potentates whom I mentioned just now, seeks fresh fields
and pastures new?"
"My God! How do you know that?" demanded
Raphael hoarsely.
"Once again—from the best of reasons. I couldn't
have had a more reliable informant. He told me so him-
self. The dear fellow became quite communicative the last
time I called upon him."
Plainly Ingle was perturbed. "Summerhayes is leaving
the island now, do you mean?"
"Has already left would be nearer the truth, I should
say, judging by the almost indecent haste that he exhibited
during my short visit. Still, he had his good points. One
must be fair and look at the thing all round. Towards the
close of our little tete-a-tete he became definitely altruistic."
"Explain, please," demanded Raphael curtly.
Mr. Bathurst raised his eyebrows. "I beg your par-
don."
"Oh, I'm sorry. But don't stand on ceremony now.
About Summerhayes—what you have said seems to me
to be extremely important."
"I should be the last man in the world to contradict


ON THE TRACK
you. And please don't anticipate too much. I wouldn't
raise your hopes for all the King's horses, plus bodyguard.
Summerhayes left the island, according to his own story,
because he is desperately afraid. He as good as said, too,
that he was acting under coercion. Not to put too fine
a point on it, the man seemed terrified. Also, he was good
enough to pass a warning on to me. That was the al-
truism. Hinted that I should find the island distinctly
unhealthy if I remained in it."
Raphael made no reply. He stood lost in thought, with
his foot on the ledge.
"What do you make of it, Bathurst? " questioned Ingle.
"Well, on the whole I think that I've changed my mind
about things. Originally I formed the idea that Summer-
hayes had found out something—some clue that was going
to prove of tremendous value—and, in a moment of in-
discretion, had opened his mouth a bit too wide. Now "—
he spoke very slowly—" I'm not so sure."
Raphael turned swiftly and brought his feet to the
level. "Why, Bathurst? What has happened to make
you change your mind?"
"My mind has become clearer, that is all. The great
difficulty, as always in cases of this sort, has been to
separate ' true' clues from ' false.' What may seem to be
an avenue to sanity may turn out, from the point of view
of success, to be nothing more than that notorious road
which is paved with good intentions."
Raphael tried again. "But surely you were able to
drag something from what this doctor told you—you seem
to have found him in a condition that bordered on nerves,
to say the least of it. The going's never better than then,


190
THE SPIKED LION
when you want information from anybody. At any rate,
that's always been my experience. Of whom was he
afraid? Of what was he in terror?"
Mr. Bathurst answered with suavity. "He mentioned
something about a spiked lion . . . with claws. Some
nonsense of that kind. I didn't pay much attention to it."
Ingle started up from his seat. "A spiked lion?
Tresham again, Raphael. What can a man like Summer-
hayes know about that?"
Raphael shook his head, but Anthony saw that his
teeth were set and his hands clenched.
"There are two spiked lions, I believe," said Mr.
Bathurst, continuing, " on the Tresham coat of arms; and
somehow I fancy, from what I have been able to discover,
they have never been what may be termed popular amongst
the Treshams. There is a family snuff-box, I under-
stand. . . ."
"I am not a Tresham," returned Sir Richard curtly.
"I'm an Ingle. Only Treshams know these secrets."
Late that evening Mr. Bathurst, after a long consulta-
tion with Sir Roderick Hope, the Crown pathologist, rang
up Sir Austin Kemble. The call was put through to the
Commissioner's private address. Sir Austin answered it
in person. He listened to Anthony's query with every
attention.
"I see what you're after, Bathurst. But I don't think
that I can help you myself. Tattooing's never been in my
line—not that kind, at least. Stay a moment, though.
. . . I'll tell you what to do. Get through to the Yard
again—tell them I told you to—and ask to speak to


CHAPTER XXI
THE YARD HAS ITS POINTS
Mr. Bathubst dropped his hat on the table and beamed
on Chief-Inspector MacMorran.
"Good morning, sir," returned the latter.
"MacMorran," said Mr. Bathurst, "behold me with a
tankard that requires replenishment. I thirst for news
—for details—for information. Don't tell me that I'm
too early—that I have overestimated your abilities. Life
has enough of disappointments." He sighed approvingly.
MacMorran's eyes twinkled in appreciation. "The
'Yard' has its points, then, Mr. Bathurst, eh? When
you gentlemen want information that's authentic and can
be relied on."
"Have I ever denied the truth of it, MacMorran?
'Twould be the most unkindest cut of all. Palmam qui
meruit ferat. Honor to whom honor is due. Bon chat,
bon rat. I can't think of any others at the moment. That
would be as appropriate, I mean."
The chief-inspector shook a wondering head. "We'll
take it as read, Mr. Bathurst; never mind what it might
have been. I'd better get you what you want, I suppose.
Incidentally, you aren't too early. I haven't let you down,
and I think that I shall be able to quench that thirst of
yours. Let me see first of all what I have here."


THE YARD HAS ITS POINTS 193
MacMorran turned over some papers. "I've had one
of my very best men on this. There's not a man in London
who would have done better. Let me see now: Barry Cov-
ington—he's the first on the list, I think. Now what have
we? Aged twenty-three. Of independent means. Edu-
cated Marlborough and Cambridge. Colors at former
for hockey. Came down last year. Third Trinity. Son
of Gerald Covington of Combe House, Datchet. Mother
was a cousin of Lady Ingle's. Father, Member of Parlia-
ment for Kislingbury division of Wessex. Apart from
that, nothing whatever known against him. Only contact
with authority was when summoned at Southampton two
years ago for exceeding the speed-limit. Fined ten guineas
and costs. Well-known amateur actor. Member of the
Cambridge University ' Footlights.' All movements, since
murder of Hugh Guest, above suspicion. Carefully
watched on a sudden journey that took him to Town at
the end of last week, but went about his business in the
most transparently open and straightforward manner."
"Jolly good," interpolated Anthony; "extracts from
the Band of Hope. The new Sir Galahad. All is not lost.
There is hope for the world yet. God send us more Cov-
ingtons—and there will be a ray of hope on the human
horizon at last. Came the dawn. I wonder what are his
vices. He must have some, you know."
MacMorran proceeded. "Prominent lawn-tennis player.
Only just missed representing the Varsity."
"Thank you, Inspector," said Mr. Bathurst; "you've
said it. You must admit that I have a genuine flair for
anticipation. Spare me the rest. Who's next?"
"Captain Andrew Forbes. I have his chit here.


194
THE SPIKED LION
"Distinguished aviator. Served with considerable dis-
tinction during the Great War 1914-1918. Gained D.F.C.
in 1916 for bombing raid on Turkish ammunition dump
near Damascus. Severely wounded in same raid, but made
marvellous recovery. Concerned, towards the end of the
campaign, with rioting incident in the Blue Mosque at
Cairo. Since the war, however, has formed attachments
and connections that may be described as ' peculiar.' Reg-
ular frequenter of some of London's most questionable
night-clubs, namely, the 'Mistletoe Bough' and the
'Purple Calf.' At times appears to be well supplied with
mopey, at others seems to be just the reverse. Left Air
Force in 1927—only flies now for recreation. Age thirty-
eight, and unmarried."
"Occasionally has money, and bombed Damascus,
eh?" murmured Mr. Bathurst. "I wonder how many gen-
erations it would take to bridge the gap between Forbes
and the Levantine. What a marvellous world it is—the
Blue Mosque at Cairo, and the ' Purple Calf ' not a couple
of miles from here. Pretty unconventional—what? How's
that for the eternally-separated twain meeting, eh, Mac-
Morran?"
"Ah—well, I'd hardly call it that, Mr. Bathurst, and
I don't think that's what Kipling meant. Here's number
three on your list. Slingsby Raphael. Beyond the fact
that he is a man who has travelled the world over, there is
very little definite that is known of this gentleman. Sev-
eral enquiries in what seemed likely to be fruitful sources
produced nothing that is really worthy of record. Ac-
cording to rumor, may have served in the higher branches
of 'Intelligence' during the Great War, but if so, his


THE YARD HAS ITS POINTS
195
career was closely veiled and shrouded in mystery. Is
reputed to have extensive knowledge of the inner workings
of the Chinese ' tongs'—more than any other white man
—and is rumored also to have penetrated during the
course of a most adventurous career to some of the most
inaccessible monasteries of Tibet. Very wealthy and ex-
tremely active member of that exclusive society known as
the Endorites—the name is believed to have been taken
from that historical lady known as ' The Witch of Endor.'
After living abroad for a considerable time is now residing
at Vesey, on the outskirts of Trinque, in the Isle of Wight.
Age—about fifty. Unmarried. Credited with being mar-
vellously athletic and an expert in all branches of gym-
nastics."
"H'm," muttered Anthony; " all very interesting, don't
you think, MacMorran?"
"Interesting, Mr. Bathurst, and all that, but hardly
what you'd call helpful. For my own part, I can't see
the slightest reason why any of these gentlemen should
attach himself to a string of murders. Poison, too, of all
devices."
MacMorran sniffed disdainfully—he might have admit-
ted, had you argued with him, that death was compara-
tively decent when it came from dirk or claymore. But
poison—up a man's nose—was beyond the pale.
"And yet, MacMorran," said Anthony, turning over
the papers that the inspector had handed to him, " there
are points, you know, about your man's harvesting that
have vital significances. Take the case of Raphael. Lives
near Trinque. An Endorite and an expert athlete. Then
take the case of friend Andrew Forbes as another example.


196 THE SPIKED LION
The riot in the Blue Mosque at Cairo, ' peculiar' acquain-
tanceships formed since the war in some of London's haunts
of vice, fluctuating financial fortune and an accomplished
airman."
MacMorran cocked to one side an interrogative head.
"What the hell's the Blue Mosque at Cairo to do with it
—and all? Don't tell me I've got to go chasing over there
for evidence. I'm not one o' them that's got the wander-
lust, by any means. I've never yet found a strange bed
that was as comfortable as my own."
Anthony laughed. "Don't worry, MacMorran. We'll
get to the truth of this business without sending you either
to Egypt or to view the hennaed heads of Tangiers. Now
here's some information that ought to be interesting.
When the late Lord Tresham was translated to the cold
comfort of the grave, and we travelled there in double
harness, Captain Andrew Forbes, aviator and disturber
of Moslem peace, was present. He was in the company of
the new Lord Tresham and his lordship's solicitor—I know
this because Sir Richard Ingle, at my request, identified
them for me. Now what puzzles me, MacMorran, is this
—why should those people hunt in trios? Any suggestion
on the point, delivered with your habitual excellence of
elocution, will be enthusiastically welcomed."
"Maybe they've a motto," replied the inspector guard-
edly.
"The late Alfred Lester all over again, do you mean?
Always merry and bright?"
"Maybe the motto's—Each for all and all for each."
Anthony eyed him curiously. "I see. 'The Musket-
eers,' or who will stand on either hand and keep the bridge


THE YARD HAS ITS POINTS 199
member is that Tresham has attracted, and now harbors,
two more of the members of the cast."
He rose abruptly and walked to the window. "Or, in
other words, my dear MacMorran, the vultures are gath-
ering."
"Vultures—eh? That sounds like another dead body
in the offing, Mr. Bathurst. Is that what you mean—
wrapped up a bit?"
The only answer that came to the inspector was a move-
ment that emanated from a pair of broad shoulders. These
were all of their owner that MacMorran was able to see.
They were shrugged—almost imperceptibly. Nothing
daunted, the inspector continued to broadcast his opinions.
"In that case, then—and I fancy you do agree with
me, Mr. Bathurst, in spite of your silence—I wouldn't
be in the blackmailer's shoes for a king's ransom. I reckon
I'd soon be feeling where they pinched."
"That would be bad," replied Anthony, on the half-
turn, " especially when you happen to be a policeman."


SKELETON PLAN
201
At the same time, it must be recorded that he came to
no sudden decision about her. Nights of comparative
tranquillity—save for incessant mental exercise—at last
gave him what he wanted and brought him—understand-
ing—to the spur of movement. Anthony thought that he
could see something slowly but surely emerging from the
screen of vision, upon which he was able to trace distinct
and definite lines. He saw this woman as Atropos—a
gaunt, implacable, unfaltering Atropos stalking down the
corridors of Time, intent upon the work that Fate had
given her to do. His fancy flighted farther. His imagery
increased; it seemed to him as he dwelt upon her that she
must have been from the beginning; it seemed to him
equally certain that she would be to the end. He quoted
to himself inspired words: "We shall rest, and faith we
shall need it, lie down for an aeon or two. Till the Master
of all good workmen shall set us to work anew."
But Diana Wingfield, because she would never know
the need of rest, would surely go on forever. Thus it
was, out of this mixture of meditation, that Anthony
Lotherington Bathurst came once again to the Wiltshire
downs, to Beckhampton, and to Apperley House, Hur-
rilow.
Miss Wingfield played golf, he knew. That information
he had had from her herself. Might she not have played
—and be willing to play again—if cunningly tempted—
in a greater game? She was in the garden when Anthony
came to her. Her physique, even though he was prepared
for it, almost shocked him when his senses took it in again.
She left her roses, removed her great gloves, put down her
pruning shears and waited for him as he advanced up the


SKELETON PLAN
203
tion. In addition to that, I wasn't fortunate enough to
meet you. As far as I know, you were not here."
"I was out when you called," she said. "I was playing
golf."
"That fact should make me all the more thankful that
you are not playing golf now."
She shed a little more of gaunt grandeur. "As you see,
I've been attending to my rose trees. I'm afraid that
lately they've been rather sadly neglected. This part of
the garden has always been considered to be my own
especial property and under my own especial care. When
there is work to be done out here, there comes a time when
golf has to take second place."
Anthony smiled. "May I talk to you confidentially?"
"Of course. Come to the house." She stooped and
picked up the gardening gloves and pruning shears that
she had previously dropped on the path.
"That almost looks as though I shall find you willing
to accept my challenge, Miss Wingfield."
By the rockery she turned to him following her.
"Challenge?" Annoyance tinged her voice. "I don't
think that I understand you, Mr. Bathurst."
"Or that we understand each other—eh?"
They crossed the threshold of the morning-room of this
long, low house. Diana Wingfield was the victim of an
unusual feeling. She felt uncertain. She waved him to
comfort.
"Take that chair, Mr. Bathurst. Now tell me some-
thing, please. Why do you keep coming to Hurrilow?
The mystery of my brother's death has not been solved.
Something tells me that it never will be solved. I am as


20G
THE SPIKED LION
"You know all about it, then? All the truth of the
conspiracy? Why they have all been killed, and for
what?"
Anthony shook his head slowly. "I wouldn't say yes
to all that, Miss Wingfield. It would be presumption on
my part. I haven't all the threads in my hands yet. I
know why Guest was killed, but I'm not fully conversant
yet with the details of the stories that apply to Blundell
and your brother. But I hope to be, very soon."
He rose from his chair and said something to her in a
low tone. She stared again in amazement.
"Are you serious?"
He nodded. "Perfectly, Miss Wingfield. Never more
so in all my life."
"But why me—why pick on me of all people? Surely,
when you "Her voice was harsh and strident.
"The idea doesn't attract you, then?"
"Do you call it attractive, yourself?"
"Perhaps 'attractive' is the wrong word. And
yet"
"And yet what?"
"There is an inducement," he said carelessly.
She looked at him, a direct glance, straight into his
grey eyes. "Why do you accuse me of the possession of
these things? You can't prove what you said to me just
now. You are basing certain decisions on pure instinct—
and you can't deny it, Mr. Bathurst. Confess now."
"Not altogether," he replied doggedly. "You gave
certain things away, that was all. For instance, your big
gloves came as a godsend to me. Well—which is it to be?
The one or the other?"


SKELETON PLAN
207
"What is the alternative? Tell me again." She em-
braced sullenness.
"I told you what might happen if you refused my
suggestion. I won't hide anything. I will be quite candid
with you. I don't suppose for a moment that Tresham
will be either a home from home or a sanatorium during
the next few days. Because I don't know all that there is
to know, I am forced to take steps to protect myself.
That's all there is to it."
"But why Tresham of all places, Mr. Bathurst? How
can you be certain that you are right with regard to
that?"
"Because I am positive that the last act of this drama
will go on a stage at or near Tresham. Summerhayes, the
doctor who was called in when Guest died, and a man
named Slingsby Raphael, have both already gone there.
They will remain there for some time, I think. Sir Rich-
ard Ingle, I fancy, will also be drawn there as by a magnet.
And I know that I am going there, too."
"I must know more than you have told me. Why are
you going there, Mr. Bathurst?"
"Because it is the home of the spiked lion, Miss Wing-
field. That fantastic creature that has been used in the
case so cleverly. Can you think of a better reason?"
She made no answer.
"Well? " he queried. "What is your decision?"
She drew her lips together while the struggle went on
within her soul. "All right," she said at length. "I give
in. But you're wrong about me, all the same. You're
clever, and you find out lots of things, but in this you may
have the surprise of your life."


i
CHAPTER XXIII
WATCHER AND WATCHED
Most of the streets of Tresham are cobbled and narrow,
but the road that leads up the hill to the castle is better
than the others. One by one, the succeeding lords of
Tresham had seen to that. After all, good roads are a
necessity—in certain places, that is. The "Plume of
Feathers " is a hostelry which stands right at the foot of
that hill to the castle. It is not far from that churchyard
at Tresham which Anthony Bathurst had visited some
short time before. But, none the worse for that, it always
presented a smiling face to guest, habitue and stray cus-
tomer.
Slingsby Raphael, when he came to Tresham, alert and
watchful, and with a special task on hand, had had no hesi-
tation whatever in inscribing his name in the "Plume of
Feathers'" visitors' book. The exterior attracted him.
Its host amused and entertained him. Its cuisine satisfied
him. Its propinquity to Tresham Castle delighted him.
What more, therefore, could he desire?
On the second evening of his stay there, however, he
received something that was in the nature of a shock.
Although, perhaps, :" surprise" would be the word that
would describe the situation better. The meal which the
menage of the " Plume of Feathers " designated as dinner
was timed for seven o'clock. A few minutes before this


WATCHER AND "WATCHED
211
of eacK of these possibilities Raphael curled his lip in
disdain. Who were these people to pit themselves against
him? Against Slingsby Raphael, a member of the dread
Triad Society, and an Endorite?
'* Cursed presumption," he muttered to himself, with
clenched hands. "It seems to me that I shall be compelled
to teach them a lesson." He strolled down to the " Plume
of Feathers" dining-room, therefore, with cold calcula-
tion in his heart. He would see, at any rate, the personnel
of the diners—whether there were changes or additions
compared with that of the previous evening. On this
previous occasion that he had dined there, matters had
progressed quietly. He had neither seen nor heard any-
thing calculated to arouse his suspicion. This evening,
however, his eyes were wider open than usual when he
entered the dining-room. As before, he took his place at
the head of one of the smaller tables that the room held.
There was always a fair number of people staying at the
"Plume of Feathers," and at the present time there was
no exception to this rule.
Slingsby Raphael looked round the room comprehen-
sively and wished everyone within hearing good evening.
His exterior seemed to radiate good feeling. He gave the
impression that he was prepared to like all his fellow-
diners, and that he wished them to know it. Even the some-
what lugubrious-looking waiter, who had been awaiting
the stream of diners, cheered up appreciably at the sight
of Raphael's affability. He felt a sense of gratitude
towards this gentleman—that very lively sense of favors
to come.
The other occupants of the room who had heard it re-


WATCHER AND WATCHED 213
him, as he had been at first inclined to suspect, was watch-
ing one of the waiters. There was no mistaking it. The
eyes of Barry Covington watched this waiter ceaselessly
and with intimate comprehension. Wherever the man went,
Barry Covington's glance went also. The man whom Cov-
ington watched was of average height and extremely well-
proportioned. As he awaited the coming of the entree,
Raphael took mental stock of him. Dark, vivacious, rather
coarse features, brownish eyes, hair inclined to be curly,
good white, even teeth, and a mouth that was the reverse
of attractive. A mouth always more open than a mouth
should be; and a clear hint about it of cruelty and rapa-
ciousness.
The courses of the dinner followed one upon the other,
and as the time went on Raphael felt convinced in his
mind that Barry Covington had not yet spotted him. This
fact was scarcely surprising, seeing that Covington had
eyes only for this waiter of his. Small commonplaces and
fragments of exaggerated politeness passed between the
diners. Raphael, taking little part in these exchanges,
had by this time, to all appearances, given himself up
devotedly to the slow and painstaking appreciation of his
radiant Lafitte 1900.
But this was not so, for he was wrestling with a problem
—a problem, too, to which he was unable to supply the
right answer. The presence of Covington here was likely
to interfere seriously with his plans. That fact stood out
clearly defined. He had always thought him to be a young
meddlesome fool, and now he was damned sure of it. Sud-
denly, however, Raphael brought himself up with a jerk.
Surely there was a contingency here that he hadn't con-


214
THE SPIKED LION
sidered! He looked up, to find Barry Covington's waiter's
eye fixed upon him. Raphael came to a quick decision.
From which, he thought, he might kill two birds with one
stone.
Raising his left hand, he beckoned to the man to come
to him. Somewhat surprised by a gesture that came from
the other side of the dining-room, the waiter obeyed the
summons.
"You called me, sir?"
Mr. Raphael nodded curtly, and at the same time at-
tempted to add to the physical inventory of the man that
he had already commenced to prepare. Before he replied,
he took in all that he could of the man's expression and
outward bearing.
"Yes, I called you. Would you be good enough to open
that window that was behind you where you were standing
—just a few inches? That one over there. It's insuf-
ferably hot in here." He put a finger between collar and
neck. "And I can't mix my dinner with a Turkish bath.
Some people can, I know. But I can't—never could—
never learned the habit."
The waiter glided swiftly away and gave Mr. Raphael
those inches of cooler air. But not before Mr. Raphael
had had time to notice certain things. Indications, per-
haps, rather than definite inferences. The dress-suit that
the man was wearing had been made by an absolutely first-
class tailor—there could be no argument about that.
Raphael's knowledge of the sartorial told him the fact
immediately. Also, there was a button missing from the
cuff of the right-hand sleeve. Despite this deficiency, how-
ever, the quality stood out for all to see. Moreover, it


WATCHER AND WATCHED 215
had been made for the man who wore it. In this respect
alone, Slingsby Raphael decided, as he glanced round the
room at the various waiters, it was—in this gallery—
unique. He realized, too, a moment later, that his brief
interview with the waiter had had one of its two desired
effects. It had drawn Barry Covington's attention towards
him.
Covington's eyes flashed a look of surprised recognition
across the room. On the whole, Raphael was puzzled at
the turn that things had taken. Once again he fell to sur-
mise. Covington had made no attempt to evade him, it
was true—which fact might, or might not, mean that Cov-
ington was playing with fire; on the other hand, it was
futility to speculate, because it might mean anything.
The meal came to an end.
At the first possible and convenient moment, Covington
came to Raphael's side. "My dear chap," he said, with
outstretched hand, " what on earth are you doing here?"
Raphael looked him straight between the eyes. "Come
to think of it—that is the identical question which I was
about to ask you."
Covington at once showed signs of acute uneasiness.
"I suppose I asked for that, but I'd rather not answer
here, if you don't mind. You see—it's not altogether"
Raphael interrupted him. "Yet you expected me to
answer your question. I'm afraid you young Englishmen
don't practise what you're so fond of preaching."
Covington nodded, still uneasy. "Sorry, and all that.
Expect I seem all sorts of a snivelling cad, but you don't
understand—that's all. I've got something pretty big on.
Where can we talk? Any idea?"


216
THE SPIKED LION
Raphael, ever a disciple of open warfare, determined on
a bold stroke. "Do you happen to be aware," he asked
quietly, " that, at this precise moment, you and I are the
subjects of a little—shall we call it?—espionage? Don't
look round, please."
Covington played up well. He lit a cigarette with a
perfectly steady hand. Not a muscle of his head or eyes
moved. "From whom? " he asked, with an almost ominous
quietness, as he blew out the flame of the match.
"One of the waiters. A chap that was over your side
of the room. Is he expecting a tip or something?"
Barry Covington shook his head hurriedly. "No, no.
It's not that. I think it's because I've come to speak to
you. It's made him suspicious of us. Which brings me
back to where we were just now. Where can we talk? In
the lounge? Or is it too crowded, do you think? They'll
be bringing the coffee out there in a moment or so."
"It was pretty congested last night," replied Raphael.
"What about coming upstairs to my room? I'm on the
second floor—number twenty-five."
"Righto. That ought to do splendidly. I'm on the
floor above you. We'll go up in the lift. Come on."
The two men came to Raphael's bedroom. "Take that
big basket-chair, Covington," said Raphael, "and I'll sit
on the bed. Comfortable?"
"Oh yes, thanks. I want to talk to you. I want to tell
you something."
Raphael raised an imperative hand. "Before you start
to do that, Covington, let us understand each other. No
man ever hated a misunderstanding more than I do. When
people pit their wits and brains against Slingsby Raphael,


WATCHER AND WATCHED 217
it's as well that they should learn certain things right at
the very start. I like them to know that it is both danger-
ous and unprofitable to play with fire. Will you forgive
me if I recall to your memory those historic words re-
corded by M. de Marsac? 'You had better steal the
King's crown jewel—he is weak; or the Guise's last plot—
he is generous at times; or Navarre's last sweetheart—he
is as easy as an old shoe. You had better do all those to-
gether, I tell you, than touch one of Turenne's ewe-lambs.
Unless your aim be, you fool, to be broken on the wheel.'
In this respect, my dear Monsieur Covington, please regard
me in the light of the Vicomte de Turenne. I have no
doubt that, if necessary, I should have little difficulty in
finding a convenient wheel."
He paused, and then muttered softly, "Mon Dieu,
yes!"
Covington looked a little puzzled. It appeared that he
understood neither remarks nor attitude.
Raphael embellished his point. "You do not under-
stand me, Mr. Covington. I can see that. I will endeavor
to make myself more clear. Why did you attempt to enter
this room just before dinner?"
At the direct accusation, Covington flushed to the roots
of his hair. Then he laughed nervously. "Good lord!"
he replied. "I wondered what on earth you were getting
at. I was beginning to have cold shivers down my spine.
I'm most awfully sorry about that, and must apologize for
the little faux pas here and now. Fact of the matter was
this. I didn't come up in the lift; it was full up. I walked
upstairs and thought that I was farther up than I actually
was. Mistook the second floor for the third. Quite easy


CHAPTER XXIV
MR. BATHURST DELVES INTO THE PAST
The Commissioner of Police listened to Mr. Anthony
Lotherington Bathurst. When what Mr. Bathurst had
to say had become history, he executed a half-turn in his
chair and listened to Chief-Inspector MacMorran. After
a period devoted to a considered examination of the two
statements, he delivered judgment.
"According to your theory, then, Bathurst, this con-
spiracy may be said to have been aimed at what we will
call the Tresham succession. H'm? That the idea?"
"In a way, sir—yes."
Sir Austin was quick to pounce on Anthony's indecision.
"What do you mean by that? Aren't you satisfied?"
Bathurst rose and paced the room. Once, twice, three
times. They watched him silently. They knew him of old.
Suddenly he turned to them. "No, sir, I'm not. 1 can't
deny that I'm puzzled by at least one aspect of the case.
I can't make a certain piece fit."
"What's your worst trouble?"
Anthony gave himself up to a moment's meditation.
"This man who joined the cast as Lord Tresham, and
whom we are now calling Lord Tresham. I can't alto-
gether"
The Commissioner was quick to interrupt. "You can't


222
THE SPIKED LION
other hand, there may be a deeper and more deliberate
significance somewhere."
He paused and seemed to shake himself free of some-
thing. "But let's hear what the inspector has to tell us
with regard to those pre-war years at Cambridge. When
Blundell and Co. were at work on bugs and drugs. Have
you traced the man I wanted, MacMorran?"
The inspector went across to a table and picked up a
docket. He smiled as he turned to the others. "Aye,
Mr. Bathurst, I have that. Taking all things into consid-
eration, it didn't turn out to be too difficult. A long time
had elapsed, it's true, but at the same time we had some-
thing pretty definite to go on. You've given me more
ticklish tasks than this one. It wasn't as though the
chap's hobby was fishin' or stamp collectin'—tattooin's a
bit different. Dr. Valentine, who is the present director
of the FitzWilliam Museum and Marlay Curator at Cam-
bridge, was at the University when those other people
were there, and remembers them all fairly well. The name
of the fellow you're wantin', Mr. Bathurst, is Eddington.
He was up at Luther College. The eminent doctor recalls
that this man Eddington was a contemporary of Tresham,
Blundell and Wingfield, and that there was a rumor extant
at the time that he was a marvellously clever hand with the
tattoo needle."
"Excellent, my dear MacMorran. You have surpassed
yourself. Continue, please, with details of this Comrade
Eddington."
"Well, this young man Eddington went abroad some
time afterwards in the companionship of Nicholas
Tresham. To be heard of afterwards in Morocco. At


224
THE SPIKED LION
death, Inspector? Locale, year, etc., etc. I shall be eter-
nally obliged if you can."
MacMorran nodded acquiescence. Sir Austin looked
curiously at Anthony. "You think that Eddington, know-
ing what he did about three people, gave something away?
In delirium, perhaps? That's the idea, isn't it, Bath-
urst?"
"I'm coquetting with the theory, Sir Austin, but it's
Tresham that's bothering me. Tresham, probably, spent
years with Eddington. Eddington's all very well as far as
he goes. Which isn't very far, you know, considering
everything. The point that's worrying me—where is
Tresham himself, as I said? Where's Tresham? Does
he touch the circle anywhere?"
"That's easily answered," returned Sir Austin didacti-
cally.
Anthony regarded him critically. "How would you
answer it then, sir?"
"He's dead, of course! Died years before, in all prob-
ability. Eddington knew it. Was with him when he died,
no doubt. Got hold of his papers and of those infernal
counters. Realized their worth—their extrinsic worth.
Knew all about the spiked lion—knew about everything, I
should say. Then, when his turn came to hand his checks
in, gave the whole bag of tricks away to somebody, and
that somebody is the man whom we have to find. Edding-
ton blew the gaff! Unintentionally, perhaps, but blew it
all the same."
"It's quite possible, sir, I agree. But it's all conjecture
—and at this stage of an investigation I don't like con-
jecture. I could bear to discover a great deal more fact."


BATHUEST DELVES INTO THE PAST 225
"Facts aren't easy to get hold of sometimes, Bathurst.
When you can't get 'em you're bound to work on what you
have—theories and conjectures. To a hungry man half
a roll is better than a bag of flour."
Anthony Bathurst shook his head. "When I get those
dates and details from MacMorran here, that I asked
him for just now, I am hopeful that I may be able to see
a little more light. Till then, I'm determined to keep an
open mind on more than one aspect of the case. You'll
get to work on them at once, won't you, Inspector?"
"Rely on me, Mr. Bathurst."
Anthony became reminiscent. "The great tragedy of
the affair is that Hugh Guest took nobody into his con-
fidence. He elected to see the thing through off his own
bat and, as we know now, went to his death. A chance
word to his sister, even, might have proved enough to have
turned the scale in our favor."
As Anthony finished speaking, Sir Austin's telephone
rang. The Commissioner hastened to answer. "Yes?
What's that? Oh yes . . . send him up here at once, by
all means. For Mr. Bathurst, you say? . . . Yes, yes
. . . that's quite right ... to my private room . . .
he's with me at the present time."
Sir Austin replaced the receiver. "There's a telegraph
boy downstairs for you, Bathurst. I've told them to send
him straight up here. Something important, do you
think?"
"I shouldn't be surprised, Sir Austin. As a matter of
fact, I've been expecting a message for some little time.
However, if we possess our souls in patience we shall know
all about it in a very few minutes."


226
THE SPIKED LION
He answered the tap at the door that followed almost
immediately. "There are four telegrams here, Sir Austin.
Wait just a moment, will you, my boy, in case I want you
again?"
Anthony came back to the middle of the room. "We'll
take them seriatim, sir." He grinned. "If that's pos-
sible." Opening the first telegram, he read it aloud.
"Appointment referred to made but not kept. Reason
given illness. Serge Valdar."
Anthony opened the second telegram and repeated the
previous performance.
"For our use, the kindly fruits of the earth so that in
due time we may enjoy them. Adam."
Anthony rubbed his chin.
Sir Austin looked at him blankly. MacMorran smiled
his dry, twisted smile. "Aye," he said, "Mr. Bathurst
likes bein' a wee bit cryptic."
"We will pass on to telegram number three," said An-
thony, " and murmur a thanksgiving for our Litany." He
opened the third telegram.
"To Anthony L. Bathurst, New Scotland Yard, Lon-
don. Please come at once to Tresham Castle for most
important consultation. Wire tram if necessary and car
will meet you. Tresham."
"Hallo," said Anthony. "Things are moving, what!
Our friend calling himself Tresham has hauled down the
skull and crossbones and is now Hying signals of distress,


SUMMERHAYES REMEMBERS AN OBLIGATION 231
I repeat it?" He waited. "Right. You've seen my car
and you'll know it again. Don't forget I'm going to
have a look at the ' Golden Hoop' before I put my nose
inside the castle. Now, to take no chances, I'll repeat
what I said about the inside business. If the worst come
to the worst . . . and I need your assistance . . . I'll
communicate with you in the way that I suggested, but
I'm relying generally on your intuition and initiative. . . .
That's the lot . . . and cheer-o for the present."
Anthony replaced the receiver, stood for a second in
contemplation, and then closed the door of the kiosk quietly
behind him.
Samuel Tosswill, licensee of the "Golden Hoop," sur-
veyed the tall, grey-eyed stranger who faced him, with
undisguised interest. Ordinarily, life was dull at the
"Golden Hoop." Then his glance dropped to the card
with which this same stranger had presented him. The
attachment of Sir Austin Kemble's name, with appropriate
designation, worked wonders. He wiped his hands ostenta-
tiously upon his apron and gave Mr. Bathurst cordial
invitation.
"Come in, sir. Come into the sitting-room, sir, and sit
yourself down. You're very welcome. And have a glass of
refreshment, too. Ale, sir? Very good, sir. You've come
about that poor doctor, sir, who's disappeared? I've no
doubt on it."
Anthony expressed assent. He followed this up with a
question. Tosswill put a tankard of ale on the table and
made rapid reply.
"No, sir. The good doctor was a complete stranger to


SUMMERHAYES REMEMBERS AN OBLIGATION 233
the bedroom the doctor had, sir. This one facin' you.
And pretty bare I'll think you'll be findin' it."
Tosswill's statement was only too true. Summerhayes
had gone—leaving no trace. Bathurst's search yielded
nothing at all. He turned to his host.
"It looks to me," he said, "as though the doctor in-
tended sleeping one night in Tresham Castle at least.
Otherwise, why should he take all his personal things with
him? Don't you think so yourself?"
Tosswill nodded his agreement. "Aye. That's as may
be. But he never settled his bill with me, you know. He
meant to come back here all right. There's no manner of
doubt about that. He wasn't the sort to swindle an
honest man. I reckon I'm judge enough of character to
know that."
Anthony smiled at the man's certainty and at the foun-
dation upon which he averred it to be built. *' What have
the police learned at Tresham?" he asked. "Have you
any idea?"
"Aye. I had a bit of a chat with Sergeant Wookey.
I've known him since he was a nipper no higher than that,
so I reckon I can talk to him pretty freely. Lord Tresham
said the doctor had been up there on the evening that he
left here, but had gone away again. He said he didn't
know where he'd gone so he couldn't tell them any more."
Tosswill adorned his statement with more than adequate
gestures.
Anthony reflected. "I wonder if he gave a reason for
Summerhayes going up there to see him. Seems rather
strange to me—all of it—this doctor arriving here, put-
ting up with you and then going off to the castle to see


234
THE SPIKED LION
Lord Tresham himself. Going up by what he calls invita-
tion, too."
Tosswill led the way downstairs. A postman had en-
tered the bar. He handed a letter to the landlord. The
latter opened the envelope and then felt in his pocket for
necessary spectacles. He peered at the letter almost
frowningly.
"Now, dang me, if this isn't what them writin' chaps
call the long arm of coincidence. This is from Dr.
Summerhayes himself." He became material and assessed
values. "Let me see now. Postal orders, amountin' in
total to two quid—that's very generous of him, because
his bill didn't come to as much as that—and a letter.
Let's see what he's got to say for himself."
Tosswill began to read the letter with slow deliberation.
He then passed it to Anthony Bathurst. There was no
address shown. Also, it was terse and distinctly to the
point.
Herewith find postal orders value two pounds in settle-
ment of my outstanding account. I shall not return.
Yours faithfully,
Arnold Summerhayes.
Mr. Bathurst handed it back to Tosswill. "Doesn't
waste words on explanation, does he? May I glance at
the envelope?"
Tosswill complied.
"Thanks." Anthony's interest lay in the postmark. It
was Tresham. He pointed out the fact to Tosswill and
continued.


CHAPTER XXVI
ALL ROADS LEAD TO PHILIPPI
TO TELL the reader the truth, Anthony Bathurst stopped
his car outside the “ Plume of Feathers” for two reasons.
One that he had nurtured the intention to stop there
ever since he had come to Tresham; and twowhich was
perhaps the more important-he saw Slingsby Raphael
and Sir Richard Ingle in close conversation on the steps
of the hotel.
Anthony stopped his car, as has been said, descended
and approached them with obvious cordiality. The two
men ceased their conversation and waited for him.
“I told you that we should meet at Philippi, Sir
Richard. Substituting Tresham territorially, that is, sir.”
Sir Richard and Raphael each shook hands with him.
Neither exuded enthusiasm. Then the latter shrugged his
shoulders. “ One might be inclined to imagine all sorts of
things,” he declared cynically, “if one paid attention to
signs and portents. First Summerhayes, then our young
comrade Covington, then you, Richard, and now our
friend Bathurst. Tresham must have magnetic attrac-
tions.”
Anthony smiled at the thrust. Raphael always roused
within him the elements of hostility. He couldn't help
thinking that Raphael brought about this condition
deliberately.
- -
-
-


ALL ROADS LEAD TO PHILIPPI 237
"And yet there is not one rendezvous, Hut two ren-
dezvous."
"What do you mean?"
"Surely there must have been others who have met
similarly, before us, Mr. Raphael? In the not so dim and
distant past?"
Raphael's marvellous eyes glinted. "Is that so? I
wonder if I understand you?"
Anthony imitated Raphael's gesture of a moment or
so before. He shrugged his shoulders. "If not here, in
the Isle of Wight, shall we say? Blundell, Wingfield,
and"
"And who?"
"The man who murdered them. Who else?"
Ingle gasped his astonishment at Mr. Bathurst's calcu-
lated statement. Raphael nodded what Anthony thought
was meant to be corroboration of his own theory. His
words, when they came, confirmed the idea.
"We do understand each other, Bathurst, after all. I
was just a little, shall we say, uncertain? It's as well, I
think, that we do."
Anthony decided upon a policy of supreme frankness.
"All the same, I don't think my coming to Tresham has
the same origin as yours."
"If we get down to essentials I rather think it has."
Raphael's face was set as he made this almost contradic-
tory statement.'
"Which, being interpreted ...?"
"Curiosity, inquisitiveness! The desire to know things
—to find things out. To use your own words—the
habitual defence of the crime-investigator against the


244
THE SPIKED LION
"He's rattled," communed Anthony with himself.
"Forbes is here as support. The situation becomes extra-
ordinarily eloquent."
"Good afternoon. What is the meaning of this intru-
sion?" Nick Tresham's demand was cold.
Mr. Bathurst's frown matched his.
"I beg your pardon," he said curtly. "I'm afraid that
I don't quite understand you. Did I hear you say 'in-
trusion'?" The grey eyes were inscrutable
"Yes, that is the word I used. You heard it all right.
Don't pretend that you didn't."
"What the devil does the Johnny want?" demanded
Captain Forbes, on the verge of truculence. "And who
the hell is he, anyway? Forcing his way in here."
Anthony was coolness personified. "This is a most
extraordinary reception that you're giving me, you know.
The standard of English hospitality, concerning which so
much ink has been spilled and paper spoiled, appears to
be on the decline. I will endeavor, though, to clear up
any misunderstanding that there may be. I am Anthony
Bathurst."
Anthony handed over his visiting-card.
Forbes burst in again. "Even so, what the hell are you
doing here? Your usual job of Mr. Nosey Parker?"
Anthony scratched his cheek. "I think you must be
referring to the Gloucestershire Parkers. I am sorry to
disappoint you, Captain Forbes, but I can't claim any
relationship with them. In the meantime . . ."
Nick Tresham himself seemed to become a little more
reasonable.
"Cut out the rough stuff, Andy. At any rate, till we


CHAPTER XXVIII
INSIDE THE CASTLE (NIGHT)
It was approaching darkness when Anthony returned to
Tresham Castle. He ran the car deliberately past the
gates—having first hooted twice. At a convenient part of
the road he turned, took the car under the dusky shadow
of an overhanging hedge and alighted. Then he looked to
the welfare of a revolver that he placed carefully in a
side-pocket. There was little moon. Heavy dark clouds
that raced up, one behind the other, flotilla of the sky,
had almost obliterated it. There was rain in the wind
already, and probably much more of it to come before
morning broke.
Three times he looked at his watch. It was late.
Somewhat later than he had intended it to be for what he
desired to do. Suddenly he heard the hoot of another car.
It seemed to come from inside the grounds. It was the
signal for which Anthony had been waiting. Turning up
the collar of his jacket, and pulling down the brim of his
hat, he crept under the shadow of the hedge and strode
onwards, until he reached the high wall of Tresham. This
wall was not one to present insuperable difficulties to him.
Lithe and lean, he scaled it, at the comparatively trivial
expense of a barked shin, and found himself within the
Tresham grounds.


INSIDE THE CASTLE (NIGHT) 251
It had already become much darker. Anthony could
have hugged himself at the thought, for his luck was in.
[No conditions could have suited him and his purpose
better. Comparative darkness ... no moon . . . and
rain to come. Taking his torch from his pocket, he
flashed it once, twice, thrice . . . four times. To his
intense pleasure his flashes were immediately answered.
His way was clear now, and the disposition of his forces
in accordance with his desires.
Again he looked at the illuminated dial of his watch.
Not so bad after all. If his calculations were anything
like correct, the coast should be moderately clear for, at
the very least, another quarter of an hour yet.
With an almost uncanny certainty of direction, he came
to a door that his quick eye had spotted during the after-
noon. Anthony felt in the breast-pocket of his coat; the
tool that he took from it had once been the property of a
gentleman named "Flame" Lampard, who had figured
prominently in an affair that has since been designated as
the case of "The Triple Bite." It had formed part of
Lampard's housebreaking kit, and inasmuch as the rightful
owner would have no opportunity of using it for some
years, Anthony was about to use it himself, for the first
time.
Although unskilled in the use of the centre-bit and
crowbar, he wielded Lampard's tool so effectively that the
door he attacked quickly yielded him entrance. Mr.
Bathurst's bump of locality was rather more than mod-
erately useful, and, as he had anticipated, the door that
he had forced opened on to a long corridor that ran,
roughly, along the west wing of the castle. If he followed


252
THE SPIKED LION
straight along it, he argued to himself, it must bring him
to a more or less central situation.
Half a minute's rapid and noiseless travelling, past
several closed doors, found him outside another door.
From the interior of the room it guarded came the sound
of many voices. The realization of this thought brought
him two sensations: satisfaction, that his calculations had
been accurate—and a knowledge that the position that he
now occupied had a distinct tendency towards unhealthi-
ness. Obviously, it would not do for him to remain where
he was a second longer than was absolutely necessary. At
any moment the room might be vacated. He must get to
his destination without further delay. That fact was
most certainly indicated.
Keeping close to the shadow of the wall, Anthony made
more silent progress. Then, to his intense delight, the
corridor took an unexpected turn, and he could see in
front of him the pale purple walls of the apartment where
he had been that afternoon with Lord Tresham and
Captain Forbes. It was in darkness, save for the subdued
glow of a standard lamp that stood almost at the foot of
the staircase. What he had to do now had to be done
quickly.
Crossing at once to the picture of the spiked lion, and
feeling inordinately grateful for the state of comparative
darkness that the room enjoyed, he looked up at the lion
intently. What he saw there evidently pleased him. He
gave a quick nod that seemed to express assent, made what
appeared to be a mental measurement, turned and began
to tiptoe up the staircase. In doubt for a second or so
as to whether to put out the light that came from the


254
THE SPIKED LION
hear some of the things that were being said. If he were
to move, he must move immediately. A thought came to
him. What about the side of the staircase, hard by the
thirteenth stair? Merciful heaven! He had been right,
after all. There was a protuberance in the wood . . .
something in the nature of a knot or raised stud. To use
it was a dreadful risk, he knew perfectly well, but there
are times in life when one must take one's risks . . . and
Anthony took one now. Maybe he was forced to ... to
stay on the stairs where he was would be to court instant
and certain discovery and possible disaster.
He pressed the raised stud, hard. A panel slid open in
front of him easily and smoothly. . . . There was a
cavity . . . large enough to admit a man's body. He
extinguished his torch and wriggled through the opening.
The panel swung to again at the insistence of his hand.
In the nick of time. He breathed freely again. More-
over, he knew exactly where he was. Although in the dark,
he determined not to use the torch ... he was uncertain
as to the effect that the light might have. He soon came
to the conclusion that there was ample room in the cavity
for two men. He wondered how long the hiding-place had
been there. Had it been originally a priest's hole, or had
it been constructed during more recent years? The picture
of the spiked lion had been let into the wall at the side
of the staircase. He was immediately behind the spiked
lion, he knew.
He held up a hand and felt in front of him . . . with
the utmost care and vigilance. Then, after a moment's
consideration, he went on his knees . . . still feeling above
him. Suddenly his heart almost stood still with excite-


INSIDE THE CASTLE (NIGHT) 255
ment. There were two “ somethings” that were not so
smooth as the rest of the surface. He caressed these parts
with the daintiest of touches ... this way ... that
way ... coaxingly ... up ... down. A certain move-
ment of his fingers . . . and he felt those two roughnesses
give way, and move. Simultaneously, he placed his eyes
in the exact places where his finger-tips had been and
looked down into the apartment below him ... the room
of the pale purple walls.
He could see distinctly. There were four people there.
Four men. The men whom he expected to see there.
Tresham himself, Captain Andrew Forbes, Slingsby Raph-
ael and Sir Richard Ingle. A door opened and a man
entered carrying a tray.
“ Coffee,” said Anthony to himself-strangely elated
...“ coffee in the lounge after dinner. I timed my
arrival beautifully—a triumph of psychology_if I do
say it myself.”
“ Black, sir," he whispered to himself ..." of course
you're saying it, old scout ... I can almost see your
lips moving ... all the same, I wish I were wearing
knee-pads. This floor's cursed hard.”
Then another idea came to him. Was it probable that
this hiding-place would have been constructed and used for
the purpose of espionage only? Surely such an ingenious
weapon-considering the times through which it had
passed—would be turned to offence as well as defence? If
that were so and he felt certain that he was right—there
would be another indication somewhere. His attention,
however, was arrested by a movement on the part of
Raphael. How he watched the man who called himself


CHAPTER XXIX
THE SHOT FROM NOWHERE
"That Ingle's a confounded old Sore," growled Forbes,
as he seated himself. "Waggles a wonderful jawbone.
'Pon my soul, I thought the blighter was never going.
Raphael would have cleared out ages ago if it hadn't been
for him." He paused, seemingly uneasy. "Don't forget,
old man, that you and I have something to discuss before
we toddle up to Uncle Ned."
Tresham remained cool and nonchalant. "Which
is . . .?"
"Oh—don't fence, you old devil! Summerhayes put it
pretty plainly to you, didn't he? I don't think that I can
put it any more plainly."
"You know how I dealt with Summerhayes, don't you,
Andy? If I'm forced to do it again, believe me"
Forbes interrupted him with an ugly laugh. "You'll
try the same game on with me—eh? That's what you
mean, isn't it?" He shrugged his shoulders. "Ah—well
—threats won't frighten me. You'll have to put up some-
thing more convincing than threats, Stephen. Beg pardon,
Nick."
Tresham flicked the ash from his cigarette. His hand
was as steady as a rock. Forbes noticed this and ex-
tracted no comfort therefrom. Anthony, behind the door,


THE SHOT FROM NOW HERE 261
“ The man who was here this afternoon ... Anthony
Bathurst."
Tresham laughed contemptuously. “Now tell me the
one about the three bears. I fear him, my dear Forbes,
as I fear you ... and as I feared Summerhayes. That
is to say—not at all.”
Anthony smiled at the words, and as he did so some-
thing away from the two men whom he watched caught
his eye. What he saw set all his nerves tingling ... the
spiked lion was in action again!
Forbes moved uneasily. “ I'm not in mourning over the
departure of Summerhayes. Far from it. I'm ready to
admit the fact. Besides, two' gives a better dividend
than three.' That's how I've learned to look at things.”
Tresham looked at him-straight between the eyes.
“Get that idea out of your head, Forbes, once and for all.
Right now! As far as you're concerned . . . there's
going to be no dividend. Or, in the words of the inimitable
and immortal Phil May, there ain't goin' to be no core.'
I'm Lord Tresham of Tresham in the county of Hants
... and you ... well, we'll call you a soldier of fortune
who's backed a favorite that's come unstuck. I know
some people who'd call you something else . . . something
much worse if you'd care to know.” Tresham stuck out
an uncompromising jaw.
Forbes chewed his underlip. Here was plain speaking
indeed. He decided to adopt different methods. “Lord
Tresham-eh? That's the line you're going to take?
Don't you forget something?"
“ What's that?”
“ Blundell and Wingfield ... and young Guest."


CHAPTER XXX
THE ARREST
Forbes stared at his companion with amazement. He
looked round the room, trying to discover who had fired
the shot.
"The staircase," he muttered to himself, looking hehind
him, " that was the direction it came from." He gazed at
the stairs fearfully. Then his better nature asserted itself
and he went to the fallen Tresham. Kneeling by his side,
he attempted to staunch the flow of blood from the wound
with his handkerchief.
Before Anthony could come to help him, however, Mr.
Bathurst had another duty to perform. He went to the
window of the tapestried chamber, pushed it open, and
flashed his torch across the dark space that lay beyond.
Receiving his appropriate answer, he flung open the ante-
room door. The picture of the spiked Hon told him what
he wanted to know.
By this time Tresham's manservant had also arrived
upon the scene. Forbes was peremptory. "A doctor,
quick, man! Go and 'phone the nearest you know of.
There's been an accident to your master."
The man, inarticulate, understood the order and ran
quickly from the room. Anthony advanced to the dying
man. "Can I be of any assistance?"


THE AEEEST
265
Neither man seemed surprised to see him. Tresham
shook his head with a faint smile . . . game to the last.
"I'm finished, Bathurst." The words came with difficulty.
"But I'd give a hell of a lot to know the name of the
swine who got me." The blood welled to his lips as Forbes
turned accusingly to Anthony. Tresham shook his head
again . . . more slowly this time.
"No, you're wrong, Andy! Wrong as usual. No sense
of judgment. Your old trouble. Bathurst isn't that kind.
Can't you see that, you damned old fool? It's from the
lion "Again words refused to come.
Forbes seemed bewildered. "The lion? Then who"
Anthony looked straight at the questioning Forbes, and
put a finger to his lips. "Wait," he whispered, "if you
want to see the end."
He had hardly spoken, when three people entered. The
manservant, whom Forbes had sent out for help, the gar-
dener, whom Anthony had met when first he had entered
the grounds of Tresham, and Chief-Inspector MacMorran.
Forbes, from his kneeling position, looked up at the
new arrivals with undisguised disapproval. Before he
could speak, however, the servant stepped forward.
"I have 'phoned for Dr. Emerson, sir. He's the nearest
doctor to here. I told him as much as I could of what had
happened. He will be here as quickly as he can."
"Thank you, Gibson. That will do for now. You can
go."
"Who are these people? " continued Forbes to Anthony;
"why are they here? Can't a man die"
The dying man rallied a little. "They've come to
honor a dying Tresham. Let them be, Forbes. Why


260
THE SPIKED LION
should I die alone . . . like a commoner?" His courage
forced a smile on to his lips.
Anthony caught MacMorran's eye. An almost imper-
ceptible nod passed between them. Quietly and unob-
trusively, the inspector moved to the foot of the staircase.
Convulsive coughs, each bringing blood, began to come
from the figure propped against Forbes' knee. Anthony
dropped on his knee to help. Forbes was on the point of
pursuing his previous question when Gibson's voice was
heard again—a short distance off.
"This way, Doctor, please."
Dr. Emerson entered . . . quick and efficient. He went
to the dying man . . . ministered to him. After a brief
but thorough examination he looked at the others and
shook his head slowly.
"No hope. I can do nothing. A few minutes . . .
only . . . gentlemen. He cannot possibly last longer than
that. Shot through the lungs."
The end came almost as he finished speaking. Anthony
covered the dead man's face. "Your brother is only
partly avenged, Miss Wingfield," he said, turning to the
tall gardener and speaking with stern resolution, "but
that knowledge should give you a certain satisfaction.
Also, you will oblige me if you will come and stand at the
foot of this staircase. I can't take any more chances, you
know."
Diana Wingfield looked at him—testing his worth as it
were. . . . Their eyes met and challenged . . . and then
she slowly obeyed him.
MacMorran, after dismissing Gibson and the doctor,
came forward and stood by her side. Anthony whispered


2G8
THE SPIKED LION
to the element of surprise, were too great for the man who
had hidden behind the panel. He rolled over on the stairs,
Bathurst and MacMorran on top of him . . . pressing
his shoulders down ... his hands powerless to use the
revolver that he had drawn on the dead man in the room
below.
A sudden jerk of Anthony's elbow shot the weapon
flying from the murderer's hand. "Quick, Inspector,"
cried Anthony, "now's your chance!"
MacMorran planted a skilfully wielded kneecap under
the man's chin that knocked him half senseless, and, with
Anthony's help, snapped the handcuffs on his wrists.
"There you are, MacMorran," said Anthony, " there's
your man . . . murderer of John Blundell, Professor
Wingfield, and Hugh Guest. Dr. Arnold Summerhayes,
late of Lashey, in the Isle of Wight. > Bring him down-
stairs, will you?"
MacMorran prodded his prisoner in the back. The
three men came downstairs, the prisoner between the other
two, sullen and defiant. They advanced into the middle
of the room. Captain Forbes, dazed and wondering,
wondered still more when MacMorran stepped forward
quickly and handcuffed him also. The inspector's words-
of arrest, however, brought him to his senses and he
understood . . . only too well.
"You can also, Inspector," said Mr. Bathurst, "add
to your charge against the first prisoner the wilful murder
of Nicholas, Lord Tresham."
Summerhayes turned to the speaker, hatred burning in
his eyes. "Then that's where you slip up, Mr. Smart
Alec. The dirty double-crosser that lies in front of us


THE ARREST
269
there was no more Lord Tresham than I am. And he got
no more than rough justice when he got what I gave him.
So you can cut that charge out. If you want to know
his real name, it was Stephen King. Tresham died years
ago in a British CCS. out East ... a Turkish shell
had got his number on it. One of England's heroes—I
don't think."
His voice was hoarse and seethed with menace. Mac-
Morran was reminded of Blundell's creased piece of paper
..." the crackling voice."
But Anthony was speaking . . . replying to the mur-
derer. "And that's where you slip up, my dear Doctor.
Singularly enough, it was Eddington who died from that
Turkish shell and not Nicholas Tresham. He was in the
next bed answering to the name of Stephen King. And
it's taken all these years for you to find that out. Rather
a bad break for both you and Captain Forbes, right from
the beginning—what? Ah, well—the way of transgressors
is hard—even though blood may be thicker than water."
He motioned to MacMorran and turned to Diana Wing-
field. "My car's outside, Miss Wingfield. The Inspector
will see to these people. Will you please come along?
And there's one other thing I should like to say to you
. . . can I ever thank you enough?"


MB. BATHURST AND EECONSTEUCTlON 271
name—King. The shell which first wounded and eventually
killed Eddington had wounded Tresham also; not badly,
I imagine, but a little—shall we say?—facially. Edding-
ton, besides being wounded in the face, had lost his arm
and his left leg. Don't forget that I'm conjecturing, a
lot ... a lot, too, that we shall probably never know.
Anyhow"
"Just a moment," intervened Tresham; "how did you
find out"
"All in good time, sir, if you don't mind. I'll tell the
bare story first and then follow up with the details of my
investigation and deductions." He smiled. "That suit
you?"
"I'm sorry. I understand. Please go on."
'' I am certain that Eddington and Nicholas were
casualties together—probably in the next bed to each
other. One was dying; the other had, I think, a wounded
forehead. I'll tell you why I think that a little later on.
Near them—in the next bed to Eddington—was another
wounded man: Captain Andrew Forbes, D.F.C. And
the medical attendant on these three wounded gentlemen
was a certain Dr. Arnold Summerhayes. There's little
doubt about any of these last statements. Before he died
Eddington became delirious. Forbes, the doctor, and
Tresham (alias King) heard his delirium. By a strange
freak, his mind, I should say, was reacting all the time to
his associations with Tresham, Blundell, and Wingfield.
The tattooing of the three men that he had done all those
years before, 'blood's thicker than water,' the marks
behind the left knee, the flight from England with
Tresham, the counters that Nicholas had stolen from his


272
THE SPIKED LION
father ... Tresham ... Tresham ... Tresham Castle
... the spiked lion ... all that he had learned from
Nick concerning Tresham ... its heritage . . . and its
heir ... the next in succession ... his many years'
absence from Tresham.
“Summerhayes, a wrong ’un right through and always
on the lookout for the main chance, listened avariciously
... so did Forbes . . . and Nick Tresham himself,
hidden under the identity of Stephen King, saw them,
overheard them talking when they probably thought he
was asleep ... and realized in a flash of intuition what
they were thinking ... that Eddington was none other
than the heir to the Treshams. Eddington died, with
Forbes and Summerhayes still hugging the idea ... and
its possibilities! Tresham, ever ready for new sensations
and adventures, attached himself to them and fanned the
flames of their fancy. Corroborated what they were
thinking . . . confirmed the idea with which they were
coquetting. Told them that they had got hold of Ed-
dington's secret-previously only he had known. Told
them--a master-stroke this—of certain things that Ed-
dington had left behind ... in his care. Produced them
... the mother-of-pearl counters, Tresham's birth cer-
tificate ... other documents that he naturally possessed.
Described the peculiar eyebrows (and their history) that
he said Eddington had had before he was wounded.”
“One minute, Bathurst, please. Surely you've for-
gotten something there.” Sir Austin had interrupted.
“ Tresham, or King as he then called himself, had the
eyebrows himself! Couldn't the two men see - "
Anthony smiled. “That was my reason, sir, for say-


MR. BATHURST AND RECONSTRUCTION 273
ing that I thought Tresham had been wounded in the
forehead. Because of the wounds the feature that you
mention was not plainly apparent."
"I see. Proceed, please."
"Well, the plot was hatched . . . just in embryo, one
might say, for Lord Tresham was still alive . . . might
live years . . . and did—Nick Tresham, the cool and
callous devil that he was, laughing at his fellow con-
spirators all the time. For it suited his book splendidly.
At least, that's how I explain what happened. Details
began to be discussed. Nick himself, by reason of his
height—Eddington was tall—and by reason, too, of his
intimate knowledge of Eddington from many years of
companionship, was chosen as the substitute. They three
alone knew that the Tresham heir had been gathered to
his fathers! When the time came they would profit
hugely. But there were difficulties, and here, I think, was
where the plot suited the book of Nick Tresham."
Anthony paused to light a cigarette. His three hearers
were hanging on his words.
"The main difficulties, as I see them, lay in the marks
of the tattooer. Eddington's delirium had told them that
Blundell, Wingfield, and Tresham had been marked behind
the left knee. But how marked? They didn't know.
Eddington's leg had been blown to pieces. Tresham knew
that fact all right. They dared not risk an heir minus
these telltale signs, because their existence might be known
to many. Summerhayes and Forbes discussed it together
time and again. However, there was no hurry, they had
years for the maturing of the plan, and the matter was
probably left over, I should say, by agreement, until the


274
THE SPIKED LION
old Lord Tresham began to ail. This news leaked through
to them and then the vultures gathered. The details of
the scheme were discussed with greater care. I will sketch
them for you as I imagine they were arranged . . . and
first of all, I will come to the suiting of Nick Tresham's
book, as I called it just now."
"I'm blessed if I follow you," said Richard, Lord
Tresham.
"I'll endeavor to make myself as clear as possible, then.
Summerhayes, I feel sure, was the master-mind of the con-
spiracy. Nick Tresham, of course, held a more or less
watching brief. He could afford to, with a sleeveful of
laughs. Summerhayes played his first card. Blundell
and Wingfield must be got hold of in some way, and then,
when they had yielded the vital information that they
carried on their bodies . . . must be removed. This
scheme had Nick's entire approval. I can well imagine
that he rubbed his hands when he first heard the plan
broached."
Anthony turned to Tresham. "Perhaps you can help
me here, sir. Was there any scandal at all, do you know,
when Nick Tresham was at Cambridge? Any, I mean, in
which he might have been implicated rather seriously?"
The new Lord Tresham rubbed his chin contemplatively.
He repeated Anthony's words. "In which he might have
been implicated rather seriously? That's asking me a
good deal, isn't it? But I can tell you this. A man
hanged himself in his rooms after a card-party in Nick
Tresham's rooms—but it was a clear case of suicide as far
as I can remember. At the time there was no doubt as to
the verdict. As far as I know, no real suspicion ever


ME. BATHURST AND RECONSTRUCTION 275
attached itself to Nick. That's the only affair that I can
think of."
Anthony was all interest immediately. "Were Blundell
and Wingfield in attendance at the card-party in ques-
tion?"
"I couldn't answer that, after all this lapse of time,
but I should say it's highly probable. Where Tresham
was, they were—usually. 'Les Trois Mousquetaires,' you
know."
Anthony nodded. "I see. Well, I'm aware that I'm
drawing a bow at a venture, but I'm going to suggest that
in that story we have the real reason why Tresham left
the country with Eddington. That Blundell and Wing-
field knew the truth of this so-called suicide . . . that it
was much more like murder. So that when Nick Tresham
heard the first plans being mooted for the deletion of
these two men—a removal, also, which would give him his
real and rightful inheritance—he had no objection what-
ever to offer. On the contrary, however, he found the
idea vastly refreshing. It removed from his path two
men who knew too much. They had kept silence for years,
it is true—bargained with him, perhaps, the price of the
bargain being his flight abroad—but circumstances alter
cases and it would be distinctly more comfortable for him
to avoid all risk of their talking tongues."
Anthony lifted his glass to his lips.
"Well, we've reached what may be termed the turning
point in the scheme. The news has reached the three
conspirators that the old lord has but a few months to
live. They commence to assemble the flats and set the
stage. Summerhayes settles down in a practice near


276
THE SPIKED LION
Lashey, so that he may be as close to Sir Richard Ingle,
here, as possible."
Anthony turned to Sir Richard. "You were the heir,
you see, with Nick Tresham out of the way, so it would be
as well to be in a position to watch you, if necessary.
Many a vital point might be picked up in this way.
Tresham and Forbes took up residence with the doctor.
Blundell and Wingfield then became their next problem.
How to get hold of them? The old man was dying . . .
the substitute heir, as Summerhayes and Forbes thought,
must be equipped . . . must be made ready to be pro-
duced . . . for the time of his being wanted might arrive
now at any moment. There was little time that could be
safely cut to waste. Now Nick Tresham, of course, knew
Blundell and Wingfield pretty well. Knew their habits.
Knew their foibles. Knew their inclinations. Each of
them had a definite, and, if I may use the word, peculiar,
avenue of approach. Blundell was a recognized authority
on ciphers and cryptograms. Wingfield was just as
famous for his knowledge of legendary inscriptions and
his intimate touch with heraldry. They decided to at-
tempt to trap these two men by dangling their own special
baits in front of them. Cunningly worded correspondence,
I would confidently assert, was prepared and sent to
Blundell and Wingfield, containing much that influenced
their curiosity, much that was furtive and secretive. The
plot worked almost magically ... it developed. . . . The
mother-of-pearl counters with the spiked lion became
special bait, and both Wingfield and Blundell, caught and
held on the spurs of their all-absorbing hobbies, and
pledged to the utmost secrecy, left Hurrilow in Wiltshire


MR. BATHURST AND RECONSTRUCTION 277
and Hurstfold in Sussex for the house of Dr. Summer-
hayes1 in the Isle of Wight. It is comparatively easy to
guess what happened when they arrived there. Nick
Tresham, naturally, was kept in the background. Neither
of them ever set eyes on him. For a time the pretence of
the enquiries was kept up—information was sought from
them . . . their respective reputations were flattered to
the full. When all the information necessary was obtained,
the gloves came off, and Wingfield and Blundell were re-
moved by the agency of Summerhayes's special apparatus.
The same one, no doubt, that Inspector MacMorran found
in his case the day after he was arrested. By the way, you
must get MacMorran to show it to you, Lord Tresham.
An ingenious affair, with a mechanism, as I anticipated,
after the manner of a scent-spray."
Anthony Bathurst resumed the thread of the main
explanation.
"The bodies of the murdered men were disposed of by
Captain Forbes, the distinguished aviator. They were
taken from the house of Summerhayes. . . . One was
dropped in Bushey Park and the other near Sidmouth, in
Devonshire. Each under cover of darkness. The greater
the distance between them, the more perplexing the case
became from the standpoint of police investigation. The
two men had served their primary purpose and delivered
up their message . . . 'blood's thicker than water.' But
there came, at this juncture, an entirely unexpected
development. I refer to the entrance into the tragic arena
of Hugh Guest."
Sir Austin interposed with a question. "Are you con-
jecturing here, Bathurst, or speaking from knowledge?"


CHAPTER XXXII
THE SCIENCE OF DEDUCTION
Anthony turned to his circle of listeners with a smile of
whimsicality. "That's the point from which I began to
make progress, gentlemen. I was faced with a problem
that suggested in its main features one of my earliest
cases. I refer to the case of the singular hiding-place of
the famous black pearls of Lorraine. It has been handed
down by my commentator under the title of the Black
Twenty-Two. In that case, there was a piece of evidence
that was deliberately imposed by the murderer upon the
minds of two other people. These two people were pre-
pared to swear quite honestly that, upon their entrance
to a room, a certain pair of French doors was shut,
whereas the doors were open, and were shut after their
arrival.
"In the case of the death of Hugh Guest, we were up
against a missing key; that turned out afterwards to be
on the body of the dead man, who couldn't, by any reason-
able stretch of imagination, have committed suicide.
Apart from the possible existence of a duplicate key, how
had the murderer got away from this room with a locked
door if Guest retained the key in his pocket? Escape in
any other direction than the door was impossible, unthink-
able. I immediately, therefore, asked myself the question:


280
THE SPIKED LION
Had the murderer brought the key back with him and
placed it in the dead man's pocket? I thus had my first
circle of suspicion in front of me already. Raphael,
Covington, Dr. Summerhayes, and, if you will pardon
me, sir, you, Lord Tresham—as Sir Richard Ingle. But
Barry Covington I decided to eliminate as soon as I had
time to consider the evidence with any care."
"Why?" flashed the Commissioner. *' You asked
M acMorran"
"I'll tell you why, sir. Because of the two stories that
he told me about his knocking on Guest's bedroom door.
One amounted to an almost flat contradiction of the other.
You pointed that fact out to me yourself, sir, if you
remember."
"I do," returned Sir Austin. "It struck me as highly
suspicious."
"I know it did. You told me so. But, after considera-
tion, I decided that it pointed in the opposite direction.
I argued that no guilty man would have made such an
appalling mistake. Surely the first thing he would have
done would have been to have his story 'pat'? Coving-
ton first stated that when he went upstairs to the bedroom
he didn't call to Guest; then he said that he had called.
It was simply an instance of the frailty of memory in a
time of stress. At any rate, influenced by something else,
I ruled him out of my guilty circle for the time being, and
subsequent events proved that I was right.
"The ' something else' was this. I was convinced that
Guest had gone to the island to be ' on the spot.' No—not
in the Chicago sense. But he didn't know that Covington
was at Beech Knoll. I learned that by enquiry. So


282
THE SPIKED LION
next that everybody's loved by someone, a fragment of
philosophy that I've denied for years. Well, there I am,
having a good look at friend Summerhayes, and beginning
to have a better look at' motive.' Don't forget, too, that
being called in when Guest was dead gave Summerhayes
the chance of establishing a false alibi. He was able to
fix the time of death. The inquiries that I had made
concerning Raphael and Covington brought me nothing to
cause me to alter my opinion. It was pretty obvious to
me now that we touched the Tresham succession. We had
the reappearance of Nick Tresham at a propitious mo-
ment. He had been unheard of for years, and I found out
that this spiked lion was a part of the Tresham coat-of-
arms. So it was the Tresham succession they were after,
right enough; that fact was, by now, plainly indicated.
Also, I was intrigued by the proximity of Captain Forbes
■—an aviator. For I had long ago deduced an aeroplane.
Blundell's body had fallen through a tree and his face had
been scratched by a broken branch. So I bracketed
Forbes with Summerhayes and the pairing pleased me.
"But why had they gone for Blundell and Wingfield?
Where did they come in? For a long time I labored to
no purpose, and wasted an appalling amount of time.
Hammered at the attractive . . . ciphers and heraldic
inscriptions . . . and missed the simple and unostenta-
tious . . . just the plain fact that Blundell, Wingfield,
and Tresham were the same age and had been at Cam-
bridge together. Not something particular or peculiar
about each individual, you see, but, on the direct contrary,
something they had in common. Well, you know how I
cottoned on to it. The exhumations and what they told


284
THE SPIKED LION
"My first call at the castle told me a lot. I telegraphed
to myself in Tresham's name, asking for a consultation,
and walked in as bold as brass. The name 'Eddington,'
the man we eventually picked up from Sir Richard Ingle's
story, put the cat among the pigeons properly. And
then—just as I was going, to return again that same
evening, I made a momentous discovery. It was indeed
a most fortunate thing for me that I made it when I
did.
"I discovered the secret of the spiked lion . . . the lion
of whom generations of Treshams had gone in fear . . .
because it had so often spelled death. Not only to their
enemies, but also, I am afraid, to some of them. Behind
the picture of the lion there is a cavity. The eyes of the
lion, in the picture, gentlemen, are movable, so that a
watcher may use the vacant sockets to spy upon the
people in the room below; the right nostril of the lion had
a similar condition; for a revolver to speak through, for
example. I suspect, too, that, in years gone by, there were
other features of the canvas, since re-modelled, that ac-
commodated certain weapons of the periods. Summer-
hayes had learned this secret in the same way, probably,
as I did. I saw the right eye move as I looked at it.
When he and Tresham quarrelled, because the latter
showed no inclination to share the spoils, there was a scene
and he cleared out. Or so Tresham and Forbes thought.
I fancy Nick had used violence on him. But he didn't
clear out. He stayed, hidden in the castle, and used the
lion's hiding-place when he chose—as I did later on, dur-
ing one of his temporary absences. You know how he
shot Tresham when he realized beyond any doubt that


THE SCIENCE OF DEDUCTION 285
Nicholas wasn't parting up and meant every word that
he said."
Anthony paused. Any more flats to join for you?"
Sir Austin jumped in. "What brought Raphael to
Tresham?"
Anthony scratched his cheek. "I think he suspected
the guilty man and was after him on his own account."
"You're right," said Lord Tresham, "he did. He's
told me so since. Young Covington, too, got on the track.
Recognized the voice of one of the men whose voices he
had heard that day on Lashey Down. One of the men-
servants in all probability. They'd installed him at the
* Plume of Feathers' to keep a lookout for and report
suspicious arrivals. Will they hang, Sir Austin?" he
asked the Commissioner.
"Summerhayes will without a doubt—for Nick
Tresham's murder alone. I think, too, that we can bring
the other murders home to him and Forbes. Certain
clothes, the poison apparatus and correspondence with
Blundell and Wingfield are already in the hands of the
police. Yes, I think they'll enjoy the morning walk—more
or less."
Chief-Inspector MacMorran, forever practical, also
desired information.
"Will you explain this to me, Mr. Bathurst? Why did
the murderer 'feature' the spiked Hon so? Right from
the start of the case, you might say, he has made a rare
lot of it. I don't know that I quite see why."
Anthony became all interest. "I think this, MacMor-
ran. I had to consider the same question myself. The
lion was sinister and bizarre. It frightened people—even