The Case of the Purple Calf
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The Case of the Purple Calf

An Anthony Bathurst Mystery

Brian Flynn

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eBook - ePub

The Case of the Purple Calf

An Anthony Bathurst Mystery

Brian Flynn

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About This Book

"This Great Kirby motor-car case. A particularly horrible and soul-shattering murder. And the fact that the Commissioner of Police himself calls it a clear case of suicide won't alter the facts."

Three women have died, each apparently the victim of a car accident. When Bathurst discovers the same travelling funfair had been operating in the vicinity of all three deaths, he chooses to investigate without the help of the police. Before long he makes the connection with the Purple Calf night-club and uncovers a criminal conspiracy. This is a classic whodunit ranking with Flynn's best and most original novels.

The Case of the Purple Calf was first published in 1934. This new edition features an introduction by Steve Barge.

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Year
2020
ISBN
9781913527501

CHAPTER I
DEATH OF A LADY

“I disagree with you, Bathurst,” said Sir Austin Kemble. “I’m sorry, but I disagree with you in toto.”
“Oh—quite,” returned Anthony Bathurst, fashionably—grey eyes amused. “After all—it’s as well to be thorough. Though few seem to appreciate the fact. I loathe tendencies and mere inclinations. I should hate you to disagree with me half-heartedly. It would be so perniciously anaemic.”
Sir Austin shifted in his chair uneasily. “Prove to me,” he commenced—
“Oh—help,” interrupted Anthony—“he talks of proving. ‘O roseate optimism. O pink-tipped Eos.’ If I should die think only this of me—only more so.”
“I’m sixty-three,” declared Sir Austin in a voice that spoke of personal triumph and industrious elation. “I don’t think that I’ve met a clearer case of suicide in all my life. Lord, Bathurst, do you want to know what’s the matter with you? The spur of the game’s growing on you. It’s made you super-imaginative. You’ll see murder in a Chapel bazaar next.”
“Don’t tempt me, Sir Austin. ’Twould be altogether too beautiful,” murmured Anthony—“the completely beatific vision. The perfect end of an imperfect day. Those things definitely do not occur. One only dreams of ’em. But other things do. And one of ’em’s occurred, believe me, here. This Great Kirby motor-car case. A particularly horrible and soul-shattering murder. Of that I don’t harbour the slightest doubt. And the fact that so renowned a bloke as the Commissioner of Police himself calls it a clear case of suicide won’t alter facts. I’m sorry, sir, but the leopard will still retain his maculae. Oh—yes—I’m aware that I’m a damned nuisance. But so are they all—all honourable men.”
The Commissioner fumbled for cigarettes. Bathurst’s certainty made him uneasy. He became doubly practical. “First of all—how in the name of all God’s creatures—did you get an ‘inside’ on it?”
Anthony became portentous. “The Finger of Fate, Sir Austin. There is a Divinity that shapes our ends. I was staying just on the outskirts of Loxeter. Actually I was putting in a spot of leisure at The Lion and Lamb. You know ’em both, sir—the future sleeping partners of Utopia. When the swords all become plough-shares! I was present, one might reasonably say, when the first die rolled from the cup of chance. It didn’t roll towards me exactly, but I was aware of its casting. I don’t think that I shall ever forget the night when the evidence began to accumulate. The first night. I’m going back considerably, of course.”
“Tell me,” said the Commissioner simply. Although he would have been loth to admit it, he was impressed in spite or himself. Behind Bathurst’s occasional levity there lay an unmistakable note of indomitable purpose and Sir Austin was quick to recognise it.
Anthony sat down opposite to the Commissioner, placed his finger-tips together and closed his eyes. “I used the word ‘accumulate.’ This death at Great Kirby makes the third of a sequence. A very strange and sinister sequence. Unless you and I take a hand I’m very much afraid that there may be a fourth. I shall never cease blaming myself that there have been the second and the third.”
The Commissioner stared in amazement. Here was self-revelation. There was no mistaking this for anything but stark truth.
“God, Bathurst,” he said, “you disturb me when you talk like that. You’ve almost converted me in spite of myself.”
Anthony expressed his gratitude. “Thank you, sir. It’s gratifying to realise that one has uses. I will start by telling you of that evening of mine in The Lion and Lamb at Loxeter. Sometimes—even now—when I lie awake at night I can still hear the appalling noise in my ears. For there was a fair in Loxeter on the evening that I slept at The Lion and Lamb. A fair that had installed itself on the ordinary and usual piece of waste ground. Lights and noise and that strange unreality that seems to belong to fairs of this sort. I remember that I had passed it during the morning when it was being assembled. The name attached to the concern—coram publico—was ‘L’Estrange’s Travelling Showground.’ I remember that fact as well. I suggest, sir, that the point about the somewhat unexpected substantive, for instance, is well worthy of attention. Not ‘show,’ you observe, but ‘showground.’ A rather peculiar use of the word, if I may say so, Sir Austin. Considering how the actual ‘showground’ changes every time the concern moves. Anyhow, it’s probably neither here nor there—although one can’t afford to be cavalier with anything. As a show the whole business was pretty meagre. Coconut shy, roundabout, waxworks, a sensation or so—the entire thing comprising about a dozen fixtures and no more. I was in Loxeter for the latter half of October. The ‘affair’ took place on the twenty-second of October. Nearly a year ago. Can you remember where the girl’s body was found? I’m not alluding to the Great Kirby case—I mean in the Loxeter business?”
Sir Austin, startled at the twist that Bathurst had given to the conversation, wrinkled his brows. “In the road. By a hedge. Near a churchyard . . . I forget the name of the church. There was a smashed car in a ditch on the other side of the road.”
“Exactly! When was the body found?”
“On the morning of the day after—the twenty-third of October.”
“Good again. You probably remember the little discussion we had over it. Now for the cause of death. Can you remember the medical evidence? In anything like accurate detail?”
Sir Austin surpassed himself. “Yes . . . very well indeed. I looked into the case myself. The girl’s neck was broken. In the same sense, that is, as befalls the victims of our English capital punishment. Her wrist and arms were badly injured where she had been thrown forward on to them. There was dislocation of the spinal column and the girl’s shoulder-blades were broken also.”
“Shoulder-blades,” repeated Mr. Bathurst softly. He looked towards Sir Austin. “What reason was given for the Honourable Phyllis Welby’s presence in the Loxeter district? Can you tell me that?”
Mr. Austin shrugged his shoulders. For some reason he felt partly reassured. “Surely, my dear fellow . . . when you ask that, you ask an entirely superfluous question. Any girl that drives a car . . . now I ask you! How far, after all, is Loxeter from London? Eighty miles?”
Anthony nodded. “Just about. Your position is that the girl had gone for a run in the ordinary way . . . the car had skidded . . . she had lost control . . . and voilà.”
“Certainly.”
“May I point out to you that the road was perfectly dry? That there wasn’t the vestige of a ‘skid’ mark to be seen anywhere? You will recall, doubtless, how her father, Lord Sturt, at the inquest, insisted on the point being emphasised?” Anthony watched the Commissioner gravely. Sir Austin, a little embarrassed under the keen scrutiny, rose and paced his room. “Well?” insisted Mr. Bathurst.
The Commissioner approximated petulance. “Anything may cause a motoring accident. Surely that point doesn’t require labouring. Good heavens, Bathurst, they occur almost every day. From the most trifling causes, too! You know that yourself without me telling you. A fly gets in the driver’s eye—an involuntary turn of the head—even a sudden sneeze has been known before now to have been the cause of a man’s death. You’re chasing shadows, my dear boy.”
Anthony smiled at Sir Austin’s vehemence. “No, sir. Not this time. I will take up the challenge that you have thrown down. The evidence of which I spoke shall begin to accumulate. Do you remember the incident of the girl’s money?”
“She had no money—or as good as none! Beyond a few coppers, I believe that her pockets and her bag were empty. Also—if you will allow me to have my say—a matter capable of extremely simple explanation! No one need ride rainbows over that. Listen to a sane exposition. She had intended to motor out somewhere and to motor straight back. An evening’s run. Had probably done many similar runs in the past. Quite conceivably there might occur no need for her to spend a penny.”
“It’s possible—but in my opinion definitely unlikely. A girl of her class and general upbringing—daughter of Lord Sturt—would usually be prepared for emergencies.”
“Well,” continued the Commissioner, “even then there’s another possibility. One that’s quite on the cards as I see things. She may have been robbed. After she was dead—I mean. There are plenty of tramps roaming the countryside. Men who would jump at such an opportunity.”
“And leave behind the girl’s valuable rings and a handful of coppers?”
“It’s possible. One never knows. You simply can’t lay down hard and fast rules of such a thing as fortuitous theft. My dear Bathurst . . . even now that I’ve listened to you . . . the case seems transparently clear to me. You shook me for a time, but I’ve gone back to my original opinion. It was a pure accident. Only the victim knew the real truth of the affair. There are hundreds like it.”
Anthony scoffed. “Clear? I’m glad you think so. Because to me it’s about as thick as Tewkesbury mustard.”
But Sir Austin had found recovery and had regained his confidence. “Even the injuries to the body are perfectly explainable. They were perhaps unusual, I grant . . . but you constantly get extraordinary physical injuries in these car crashes. One occurred the other day in my own sphere of . . . er . . . acquaintanceship. A most extraordinary happening, There was a collision between two cars, and in one of them a man seated next to the driver was just jerked forward by the impact. No more than that. What do you think he got?”
Anthony shook his head. “I’ll buy it.”
“It broke his neck, my dear boy. Although the odds, I should say, against such a contingency would be about a thousand to one. The doctor who attended the case put it at that anyhow.”
Anthony Bathurst turned his back to the Commissioner and looked out of the window.
“All very interesting, but, I venture to suggest, beside the point. What about the girl’s hands and arms and wrists? What’s your explanation in regard to them? What about the condition of the shoulder-blades? Just the impact of the fall?”
“Certainly! Why not? Why refuse to recognise the simple . . . the obvious? It’s a marvellous thing, but people will do it. They always will fly to the extraordinary. Why always seek Abana and Pharpar when there’s the stream of Jordan ready and to hand?”
Anthony remained imperturbable under the onslaught.
“Very well, Sir Austin, I will go on. I’m not finished yet. Can you recall the evidence of a certain Miss Margaret Fletcher, the intimate friend of the dead girl? She attended the inquest.”
“H’m! I don’t know that I do. Why do you ask? Was it frightfully important? As I remember the case—”
“I will revive it for you. And I’ll ask you to listen carefully. Miss Fletcher deposed at the inquest that she had been in the company of Phyllis Welby during the morning of the twenty-second of October. They had shopped and had morning coffee together. She was questioned pretty closely about this by the Coroner because one of the Coroner’s jury was inclined, judging by the general direction of his interjections, to favour the idea of suicide. But Miss Fletcher stated very definitely that Phyllis Welby was in an ‘excited’ mood when they had been together. Note the word that she used. When pressed further by the Coroner to analyse this ‘excitement’ Miss Fletcher labelled it—rather intelligently I thought—the ‘excitement of anticipation.’ The lady became under further pressure even more precise and informative. ‘Phyllis,’ she said, ‘seemed to be on the verge of something exciting, but—’ and here she chose her words carefully—‘pleasantly exciting. In my opinion she was not “afraid.” She was not “nervy.” She was not “preoccupied.” She was not even moderately worried. She was just “looking forward’ with a ‘certain amount of delighted eagerness.”’ They were Margaret Fletcher’s exact words. I took great pains at the time to remember them—verbatim et literatim—and I have carried the memory of them with me ever since.”
The Commissioner still showed impatience. “I still think that you’ve proved very little. The girl was going for a run in the car and looking forward to the outing. It’s the fashion now to magnify most things. Ordinary episodes are taken away from their proper perspectives and exalted into important events. The present generation is—”
“I know it is, sir. It always was. Once again I will continue in my work of ‘accumulation.’ Following on from—”
“Just a minute, Bathurst. I must ask you to come to the point more. Please! You said a few minutes ago that the girl in the Great Kirby case had been murdered. That was how you started. Are you telling me that this Loxeter girl was murdered in the name way?”
Anthony Bathurst walked from his position near the window and faced the Commissioner.
“Phyllis Welby was murdered at Loxeter. A girl named Vera Sinclair was murdered at East Hanningham and Clare Kent was murdered at Great Kirby yesterday. They have made a tragic trio, Sir Austin. And I am inclined to think that they are three victims of the same man or possibly men. Assuming, that is, that the sex of the killer is male. May I now proceed further with the terms of my indictment?”
The Commissioner seemed lost in thought. Bathurst’s words had ruffled the strings of the melody of memory.
“You assert these things—but I still want convincing, I’m afraid. Tell me this. Give me a practical suggestion . . . don’t depend so much on . . . er . . . mythical . . . theorising. If you are right—how was this Welby girl murdered? I can’t for the life of me see the faintest—”
Anthony Bathurst shook his head. “Can’t tell you that, sir. Please—no! Ask me something easier. All the same—that’s where I castigate myself. I was in Loxeter in the October, as I told you. I saw the red light of murder as plainly and as unmistakably as I’ve ever seen it . . . and then the Elmer’s End abduction case turned up a day or so afterwards to drag me into it and to take all my attention. If you remember, it took me as far as Rangoon.” Anthony’s persistence came to its highest pitch. “Surely, sir, you must see that the death of this girl Clare Kent is almost similar to that of Phyllis Welby in the Loxeter ‘accident’?”
Sir Austin agreed. “The Loxeter verdict was ‘Accidental Death.’ The East Hannington verdict was ‘Accidental Death.’ And although Miss Sinclair, like Miss Welby, had only a few coppers on her when she was picked up, the circumstances of the affair were not entirely the same as they have been in these other two cases. Have you thought of that?”
“It’s a point in your favour, I admit. But not an overwhelming one. I know what you mean. You’re referring to the cause of death. Instead of Miss Sinclair’s neck being broken as Miss Welby’s and Miss Kent’s have been, her head had been almost severed from the body. It was presumed by the doctor who was called to the body to have been cut by the broken glass of the windscreen. There was a large jagged piece of ‘non-safety’ glass picked up near the smashed car that had an edge like a knife, and would have sliced almost anything. Now, sir, may I at this juncture play my ace of trumps?” Anthony leant forward in his eagerness.
The Commissioner was startled into acceptance. “You must. Of course you must. What is it?”
Bathurst came across to him and sat down quietly. “Hear now the personal touch. On the evening that Phyllis Welby is believed to have met her death, I left the bar parlour of the Lion and Lamb an hour or so before closing time and went for a stroll on the outskirts of Loxeter. October nights, when they are truly autumnal, hold a special appeal for me. Always have done. As I walked away from the town I heard the noise of ‘L’Estrange’s Travelling Showground’ away in the distance. I saw the dull glow of its lights reflected in the sky. The subdued hum of it all came to me—that almost indescribable medley of sounds that invariably comes from a country fair. You know what I mean, sir—I’m sure that you do. The mechanical monotony of the music from roundabouts and ‘chair-o-planes,’ the tumult and the shouting that doesn’t die—until the show closes down and its patrons wend homewards. I walked towards this fair, feeling an irresistible attraction to take a closer look at it. I came up with it and made my way into it, through it and round it. As I told you a little time ago, it was on the parsimonious side. Meagre. It had no generous proportions. Let me see now! What did I patronise? After knocking some nuts down for a group of kids I looked in at the waxworks and then passed on to have an interesting few minutes’ conversation with an attractive cove who apparently earned his daily bread by training alligators. Quite a personality this chap, I can assure you. Wore a monocle, if you please. Hard as nails ...

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