The Billiard Room Mystery

Seeing Bathurst this evening, after a lapse of eight years, has given me a most insistent inclination to set down, for the first time, the real facts of that cause célèbre, that was called by the Press at the time, the "Billiard Room Mystery." Considering the length of the interval, and regarding the whole affair from every possible point of view, it is sufficiently plain to me that an authentic history of the case can harm nobody and can prejudice no interests. I therefore succumb to the temptation, serenely confident that, no matter what shortcomings there may be in the telling, the affair itself as a whole, is entitled to rank as one of the most baffling in the annals of criminology.

Inasmuch as I was a member of the audience to-night at a private theatrical performance and Anthony Bathurst was playing lead for the company (amateur of course) that was entertaining us, I had no opportunity for conversation with him, but I am certain that had I had this opportunity, I should have found that his brain had lost none of its cunning and that his uncanny gifts for deduction, inference, and intuition, were unimpaired. These powers allied to a masterly memory for detail and to an unusual athleticism of body, separated him from the majority--wherever he was, he always counted--one acknowledged instinctively his mental supremacy--he was a personality always and everywhere. A tall, lithe body with that poised balance of movement that betrays the able player of all ball games, his clean-cut, clean-shaven face carried a mobile, sensitive mouth and grey eyes. Remarkable eyes that seemed to apprehend and absorb at a sweep every detail about you that was worth apprehending. A man's man, and, at the same time, a ladies' man. For when he chose, he was hard to resist, I assure you. Such, eight years ago, was Anthony Lotherington Bathurst, and such had he promised to be from comparative immaturity, for he had been with me at Uppingham, and afterwards at Oxford.

Which latter fact goes to the prime reason of my being at Considine Manor in the last week of July of the year of the tragedy.

At Oxford we had both grown very pally with Jack Considine, eldest son of Sir Charles Considine, of Considine Manor, Sussex, and although Bathurst had to a certain extent fallen away from the closest relations of the friendship, Jack and I were bosom companions, and it became my custom each year, when the 'Varsity came down, to spend a week at Considine Manor, and to take part in Sir Charles' Cricket Week. For I was a fairly useful member, and had been on the fringe of the 'Varsity Eleven; indeed many excellent judges were of the opinion that Prescott, who had been given the last place, was an inferior man. But of that, more later.

Bathurst never took his 'Varsity cricket seriously enough. Had he done so he would probably have skippered England--he's the kind that distinguishes whatever he sets his hand to--but it was cricket that took me to Considine Manor, and it was cricket that took both Prescott and Bathurst--but not in the same direction.

Sir Charles that year was particularly anxious to have a good team--which got Prescott his invitation. An invitation that he had certainly not lingered over accepting. For he had met Mary Considine at Twickenham the previous autumn, and had improved upon that acquaintanceship at Lords' in the first week of July. Mary was the third and youngest child, Jack coming between her and her sister, Helen, who had married a Captain Arkwright--a big, bluff Dragoon. Now whatever Prescott's feelings may have been towards Mary, I had no idea then, what hers were to him. Decidedly, I have no idea now; I can only surmise. But Mary Considine with her birth, her breeding and her beauty was a peach of peaches. She had grace, she had charm, and a pair of heavy-lashed, Parma violet eyes that sent all a man's good resolutions to the four winds of heaven and to my mind at least, it was something like presumption on Prescott's part to lift his eyes to her. Still that was only my opinion. As I said, what encouragement he received I have little knowledge of.

The Cricket Week passed off comparatively uneventfully. The first three one-day games--I forget whom against, except one against the "Incogs"--were relatively unimportant. That is, to Sir Charles! His pièce de résistance was always kept for the Thursday and Friday, the last two days of the week. Then came the hardy annual--Sir Charles Considine's Eleven, versus "The Uppingham Rovers." Prior to this last game I had failed lamentably, my bag being 3, 7 and a couple of balloons. Two of the days were wet and real cricket out of the question. Prescott had a lot of luck and got a couple of centuries and a 70 odd in four times. Which of course gave him a good conceit of himself.

"Bill," said Mary to me on the Thursday morning, "I do hope you see them all right to-day--Gerry Prescott's getting a bit of 'roll' on, charming man though he be."

I finished my fourth egg and remarked, "Thanks, Mary--I'll have a good try, but I don't seem able to do anything right lately--still my luck must turn before long. Thanks again." She slipped over to the sideboard and helped herself to some Kedgeree--smiled--and then replied, "I think it will--_to-day_." The rest of the crowd then joined us--Jack, Gerry Prescott, Helen and Dick Arkwright, Sir Charles and Lady Considine, three boys from the 'Varsity, Tennant, Daventry and Robertson, and two Service men, friends of Arkwright, Major Hornby and Lieutenant Barker--the last five all pretty decent cricketers--the rest of the eleven being recruited from the Manor staff.

It was, I remember, a perfectly glorious summer morning. One's thoughts instinctively flew to the whirr of the mowing machine and a real plumb wicket. The insects hummed in the sun, and there was a murmur of bees that gave everybody a feeling that an English summer morning in Sussex could give anything in Creation a start and a beating.

"Toppin' mornin'--what?" said Prescott. "Feel like gettin' some more to-day, if we bat."

"You won't," said Dick Arkwright. "You'll field, and this big brute of a Bill can get rid of some of his disgraceful paunch. He hasn't had much exercise all the week. Exceptin' of course walkin' back to the pavilion."

"Feeling funny, aren't you?" I sallied back. "And as for 'big brutes' and 'paunches,' neither you nor Prescott has a lot to telegraph home about."

Actually I was about a couple of inches taller than either of them and decidedly heavier.

"Anybody of the old crowd playing for the Rovers, Jack?" queried Helen.

"Don't know, haven't seen the team yet."

Daventry, I think, handed the Sporting Life to the two girls. They scanned the names.

"Only Toby Purkiss and Vernon Hurst that we know," from Mary. "What a pity."

"I am very keen on winning," boomed Sir Charles. "Very, very keen. We haven't beaten the Rovers for more years than I care to--ah--remember. I spoke seriously to Briggs this morning about it. And I may say, here and now, Tennant--Daventry--I trust without offence, that I viewed with some disfavor your late retirement last night. You were very late getting to bed. I am willing to concede that Auction Bridge has a fascination----"

"That's all right, Governor," said Jack. "They're just infants--stand anything. Think what a tough bird you were at their age."

"Perfectly true. I remember the night I----"

"As long as you can remember it, you can't have been so bad, sir," said Daventry.

Lady Considine smiled.

"Would you like me to stop Auction in the evening, till the week is over, dear?" she said. "You never seem to win anything."

"As a matter of fact, Marion--I have been most unusually successful; and I have no wish to--er--interfere with others' pleasure."

"Thanks, Father. For we don't all play cricket."

"No, Helen, that's so."

"Seems to me, Governor, it takes age and judgment to play really good Auction."

"Thank you, Arkwright. You have keen powers of observance."

The clock chimed ten.

"Gracious," said Mary, "I promised to help get the big marquee ready." She flew off. Very shortly the breakfast party withdrew entirely, the ladies to the selection of appropriate raiment, the men who were playing, to get ready.

I was late getting down to the field and had no sooner arrived than up came Sir Charles.

"Fielding, Bill!" He guessed right. "Know you're pleased!" he grinned.

"Of course--just what I expected! It'll rain in the night."

The first wicket put on a few runs and I was chatting to Robertson and Jack Considine while we were waiting for the next man.

"Good Lord," I heard from behind me.

I turned.

Strolling in, nonchalantly adjusting his left-hand glove, was the very last person I expected to see there--Anthony Bathurst.

"Bless you, Bill," he smiled. "Seeing you is a reward in itself."

"But I had no idea----"