The case of the Black Twenty-Two

The fact that it was an unusually sunny morning for an English summer day had not put Peter Daventry in the mood that it undoubtedly should have done. A riotous evening—during which he had dined not wisely but too well with a number of men who had been at Oxford with him—is not perhaps the best preparation for work on the following day, and Peter heartily cursed the relentless and inexorable fate that had made him junior partner of “Merryweather, Linnell and Daventry—Solicitors.” He thrust his hands into his pockets and walked to the window of his room, gazing disconsolately at the street below.

“Cornhill!” he muttered. “And it might be anywhere else for all it means to me, or for all I care. It’s a dull old world nowadays and devilish difficult to get thrills out of a business like this. After a night with the lads it gets me ‘on the raw’ more than ever.”

He looked down at London scurrying and hurrying. Men, women, young and old, treading their way quickly, decisively and imperturbably on the various errands and ventures that Life had chosen for them. “Poor devils!” he thought. “Day in and day out the same old grind! I sometimes wonder how they stand it. I certainly don’t know how I do.” He walked back to the chair by his desk, carefully selected a cigarette and pressed the bell.

A middle-aged, black-coated clerk appeared in the doorway.

“You rang, Mr. Daventry? You want me?”

“Oh, no, Plunkett! Not for a moment! What on earth gave you that extraordinary idea?”

“The bell——” He indicated the table with a sort of hopeless resignation.

“Merely a matter of ‘physical jerks’ on my part, Plunkett. I’ve been standing on my head on the desk, and in the process I inadvertently butted the bell and caused you——”

Plunkett smiled feebly. He was the kind of man that always did—thirty-five years’ service for the firm had made him afraid to do anything too vigorously—even to a smile. But he knew Peter Daventry and knew his little whims and ways—“he will have his little joke,” he would inform his friends and acquaintances, “and till he’s had it, it’s best to lie low and keep quiet.” It will be observed, therefore, that he had not encountered “Brer Rabbit.”

“You wanted——?”

“This morning’s post, Plunkett! Neither more nor less! Stay though—when you bring it in, you might also bring me all the papers and correspondence relating to the Langley Case.” He drew at his cigarette and watched the smoke rising. Then smiled. “Breach of promise is a God-send, Plunkett! Manna from the heights of Heaven.”

Plunkett stared at him it might be said, sorrowfully—and withdrew unobtrusively. At his second appearance he placed the unopened letters and the required papers on Peter’s desk.

“Thank you, Plunkett!”

“Thank you, Mr. Daventry. Mr. Linnell asked me to tell you he would like to see you in his room as soon as possible, sir. At your convenience that is to say, sir.”

Peter ran the paper-knife along the back of an envelope and nodded acquiescence. “All right, Plunkett. Tell Mr. Linnell I’ll blow along to him shortly.”

Mr. Merryweather, the founder of the firm, had been gathered to his fathers seven years before the date of the opening of this history; but his name had been retained. As Peter remarked to his more intimate friends, “the name of ‘Merryweather’ had a cheerful ring about it and therefore was worth keeping!”

David Linnell was a medium-sized, clean-shaven, spare man of fifty-eight years. He had been born in Lancashire and was a firm believer in the men of the Red Rose. He fully subscribed to the theory that “what Manchester thinks to-day—the rest of the world thinks to-morrow.” In conjunction with the departed Merryweather, he had built up an eminently satisfactory business in London, had attracted to it a sound and rapidly-growing “clientèle,” and when the question arose of Peter Daventry coming in as a partner, he had seen with all a Northerner’s shrewdness and acumen that this young Oxonian would bring to the firm new business and new clients from a hitherto unexplored source.

“Good morning, Peter!” he said as Daventry entered his room.

“Good morning! Plunkett tells me you want to see me.”

Mr. Linnell looked up from his seat and motioned Peter to a chair beside him.

“Sit down, Peter! And listen attentively! Ever heard of Laurence P. Stewart?” Peter had, and said so immediately.

“Naturally! The American millionaire you mean, I presume?”

“The same. Know anything about him—anything special?”

Peter thought for a moment. “Can’t say that I do—beyond what all the world knows. Made his money first in Chicago and afterwards on Wall Street—I fancy he’s a widower.”

“Quite right. With one son—about two and twenty. I’ll tell you more! About three months ago Stewart came to England. At the time Assynton Lodge was in the market. He bought it and, I believe, paid a pretty stiff figure for it. It’s a very fine place—not very far from Wantage—and right in the heart of the Berkshire Downs. I understand that he intends spending the remainder of his days in this country.”

“Don’t think I should, if I had his money,” contributed Peter. “Still—there’s no accounting for taste, I suppose. What’s his pet ambition—to win the Derby or become an O. B. E.?”

“Neither,” replied Linnell a trifle testily. “But your question, flippant though it may have been, brings me to his association with this conversation of ours this morning.” He leaned forward to pick up a letter from the desk in front of him. Then turned again towards his partner. “He has one overpowering interest in life. He is a collector——”

“Horrible word,” interrupted Peter. “Makes me think of Rates and Income Tax.”

“He is a collector,” repeated the elder man, ignoring the interruption. “For many years now, his one hobby has been his priceless and almost unique collection of articles of what may be termed, paramount historical interest and association.”

Peter began to show signs of increased attention. This sounded better! Linnell continued. “I am informed, from a source that is certainly above reproach, that Stewart is the proud possessor of over two thousand articles of great historical significance. He claims to include in his—er Museum—if I may so describe it—a Musk-Ball used by Henry VIII for instance. He has a peculiar passion it seems for objects that are supposed to have Royal associations! Which last fact brings me to the Mary, Queen of Scots business!”

Peter raised his eyebrows—then helped himself to his third cigarette. “We’re apparently moving in exalted circles,” he ventured.

“And a great compliment to us, as a firm—Peter. But I will proceed. If he may be said to have a passion for collecting these objects that I have mentioned of Royal association—then I can tell you that he has a perfect mania—an overwhelming obsession would be perhaps a happier phrase—for anything connected with Mary, Queen of Scots.” He paused. Then looked at Peter. “Laurence P. Stewart, Peter! Note the name—he has got it into his head—or had it put there possibly—that he is a legitimate descendant of that ill-fated lady. Every relic of hers at all possible of acquisition—he acquires. Now look at this letter.”

He pushed the letter that he had picked up from his table, across to Peter.

“Read it!” he said authoritatively.

Peter obeyed the instruction with more than ordinary alacrity.

Assynton Lodge, Assynton, Berkshire, June 7th, 192–.