They Never Came Back

An Anthony Bathurst Mystery

Brian Flynn

• Publisher: Dean Street Press
• Year: 2021
• eBook ISBN: 9781914150708
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Crime & Mystery Literature
• Index: Literature

"I don't like any of it. He's either being prevented from going home by force... or else he'll never go home again."

'Lefty' Donovan, a boxer, leaves home after receiving a mysterious offer that seems too good to be true-and is never seen again. His wife, Flora, approaches Anthony Bathurst to look for her husband, but he fears the worst, especially when he discovers another fighter who had vanished in identical circumstances weeks earlier.

As time ticks down to a crucial bout, a body is found, suffering from terrible clawed lacerations, with a mysterious footprint nearby. The work of a mythical beast? The truth is that Bathurst finds himself up against an enemy even more monstrous...

They Never Came Back was first published in 1940. This new edition features an introduction by Steve Barge.

Chapter I
THE DISAPPEARANCE OF ‘LEFTY’ DONOVAN

Anthony Bathurst looked up and regarded Emily with some amount of mystification.

“You say that this lady insists on seeing me now?”

Emily nodded. “Yes, sir.”

He glanced at his wrist-watch. “It’s a quarter to eleven, Emily. Time all good Christians were in bed—to say nothing of indifferent ones.”

“Yes, Mr. Bathurst, I know. I told her that she should have made an appointment with you. But she seems in such distress, sir, that I promised her I would ask you on her behalf. I hadn’t the heart to turn her away. For one thing,” added Emily with shrewd diplomacy, “she’s wet through to the skin. It’s a terrible night.”

Anthony Bathurst went to the window and looked behind the blind across London. Emily was undeniably right. There was no exaggeration in her statement. A soaking rain which, earlier in the evening, had been a pernicious mist, had now entered its kingdom and set up a climatic condition of supreme misery. Anthony shivered at the mere sight of it. He walked back to his arm-chair by the fire. Emily proceeded to consolidate her position.

“If you could see her face, Mr. Bathurst . . . the state she’s in . . . I feel sure you . . .”

Anthony waved a hand in her direction. “You win, Emily,” he said quietly. “I present you with the sponge. Bring the lady up.”

“Thank you, sir . . . and if I may say so, I’m grateful to you.”

Emily disappeared on her errand with alacrity. Anthony prepared to receive his visitor. He heard Emily’s voice on the stairs, and then the sound of ascending footsteps. Emily tapped on the door and at his invitation ushered in the lady who had called upon him so late.

“This is Mr. Bathurst,” Emily said to her; “will you please come in?”

The girl in the background obeyed. Emily, flushed and successful, returned to her own haunts.

Anthony surveyed his visitor as she came towards him.

“Sit down . . . will you . . . and . . . er . . . make yourself quite comfortable. Come near the fire.”

The girl took the chair he had indicated. She was certainly wet through as Emily had stated. Her clothes, utterly saturated, were clinging to her skin. Her hat was drenched and her gloves soddened. The water showed even in her hair. She was pretty by some standards. Dark appealing eyes haunted by fear and anxiety were companioned by heavy coils of dark hair. In normal conditions an almost insolent air of bravado would have been attractive. But now her face held pallor only, save for the lips which were bravely red and well shaped.

“Take your time,” said Mr. Bathurst.

He walked to the sideboard. She heard the chink of glass. When he came back to her side he said “and drink this.”

The girl made no demur. She took off her gloves and drank. The spirit brought a fleck of colour into her cheeks. Anthony sat opposite and waited for her to speak.

“Forgive me worrying you, sir. Especially seeing that it’s so late. I’m sorry. But I’m pretty well all in and . . .”

She stopped. The tears which her voice held had mastered her words. Her voice surprised him. There was a rich quality about it although her accent was the accent of the working classes. Anthony put her down as Irish but he was wrong as he was to discover before the interview finished. Again he waited for her to recover herself. She dabbed at her eyes with the back of her fingers.

“I’ve come to you, sir, on the recommendation of an uncle of mine, a Mr. Bryant. He lives—or he used to live—down at Upchalke in the West Country. He always says how kind you were to him some years ago when his wife was murdered.”

Anthony nodded sympathetically.

“I remember him and his trouble quite well. He was a good fellow. But tell me all about yourself and your present anxiety.”

“My name is Flora Donovan.”

Anthony flattered himself that his judgment of her nationality by her speech had been correct but in this direction he was destined for speedy disillusionment.

“It sounds an Irish name . . . and I suppose it is, but really I’m Scotch myself. I was Flora Gillespie before I married . . . my husband is ‘Lefty’ Donovan. He, of course, is Irish.”

As she spoke the name, she gazed at Anthony anxiously. His eyes caught sight of the thin circlet on her wedding finger. He heard her repeat the name ‘Lefty’ Donovan.

The spoken name stirred a chord in his memory. ‘Lefty’ Donovan was one of the most promising heavyweights in the country. Indeed, he might be fairly described as almost the leading white hope to wrest in due time the championship of the world from the hands of the ‘Brown Bomber,’ Joe Louis.

But Flora Donovan was telling her story.

“We have been married three years . . . he’s the boxer . . . I expect you’ve heard of him . . . and no girl could have wished for a better husband. Also . . . I have the dearest little girl . . . I’m telling you these things so that you may understand properly what our home life was like.”

Anthony nodded again.

“I understand. Don’t worry, you’re doing splendidly. All those things help.”

Flora Donovan shook her head helplessly. More tears kept her silent again. Finding courage she went on with her story.

“Today is the seventeenth of November. My husband has been missing now for exactly a week. I think that he must be dead. I’m sure that he must be dead. I can find no other explanation.”

“Tell me all that has happened,” prompted Mr. Bathurst quietly, “right from the beginning.”

“I will try to. But it isn’t easy. ‘Lefty’ had a letter that morning at breakfast time. That would be on the tenth of November. He seemed in two ways about it.”

She paused.

“Tell me exactly what you mean, It’s vitally important.”

“He was pleased . . . and at the same time he was puzzled. And that’s all I can tell you. Because that’s all that I know.”

Anthony felt a sense of dismay at the meagreness of the information. The blank wall had come all too quickly.

“What happened then, Mrs. Donovan? Surely your husband spoke to you about it? Said something?”

She nodded.

“Yes. ‘Lefty’ said that he’d had a grand offer but that it was so good he thought there must be something ‘phoney’ about it. You know what I mean?” she added anxiously.

Anthony smiled.

“Yes. That’s all right. I understand. Go on.”

“‘Lefty’ finished his breakfast almost without saying another word, put on his mackintosh and went out. Smiling and happy but quiet as though he were considering something. Kissed me and little Norah, the baby. He hadn’t a care in the world. I’m sure he hadn’t. That was the last time I saw him,” she concluded simply.

Anthony leant forward to her eagerly.

“What was the letter like?”

“I think . . . I only caught a glimpse of it from my end of the table when I was pouring out the tea . . . that it was written on a piece of paper from an ordinary exercise book.”

Anthony gestured his disappointment.

Flora Donovan continued.

“It was a ‘grand offer.’ I remember that ‘Lefty’ used those actual words to me. But I can tell you nothing more. When I asked him for more details, he sort of put me off. Please help me though, for if ever a woman needed help, I am that woman.”

Anthony rose and paced the room. Suddenly he stopped and turned to her.

“Was your husband in training?”

“Yes. He always kept himself fit.”

“But was he in actual training? As he would be, let us say, if he had a fight coming off a week or two ahead?”

Her answer was simple but direct.

“He had a fight just ahead. In about a month’s time to be exact. At the Belfairs Stadium. He was matched against Phil Blood and would have actually started special training this week. There was a fairly big purse at the loser’s end.”

“Who’s his trainer?”

“Sam Whitfield.”

Anthony sat down and noted the name.

“His manager?”

“Jack Lambert.”

Another note by Anthony.

“Now tell me where you live, Mrs. Donovan. I don’t think that you’ve mentioned it so far.”

“At Wimbledon. 22 Ploughman’s Lane. Near the Stadium.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Donovan. Now what have you done about all this besides coming to me?”

“I went to the police the same night. In the ordinary way, ‘Lefty’ would have been back that same day at midday.”

“He gave you absolutely no indication of any kind as to where he was going?”

“No. Not the slightest. Just said ‘out’ as he often did. I was beside myself . . . from midday onward . . . when he did not return I mean . . . and when the evening came I just couldn’t stand the strain and suspense any longer. So I put on my hat and coat and went to the police.”

Anthony determined to test the issue.

“You have hidden nothing from me?”

She met his eyes with the utmost candour and frankness. “Nothing at all, sir.”

“You had no quarrel of any kind with your husband?”

“Never,” she replied proudly. Anthony saw the flash in her eyes.

“There was no other attachment?”

“For ‘Lefty,’ you mean?”

He nodded.

“Never on your life, Mr. Bathurst. He’s a ‘one-girl’ man. And I’m a ‘one-man’ girl. That’s the reason I’m so dreadfully worried. There’s only one thing which could stop him coming back home. If he were dead.”

She spoke the words white-faced and trembling.

Anthony was grave.

“And yet I can think of another reason, Mrs. Donovan. You’ll agree with me too, when I tell you what it is.”

“What is it you mean, sir?”

She looked at him in blank wonderment and acute anxiety.

“If he were being kept a prisoner somewhere and couldn’t get back to you. Forcibly detained.”

“Who would do that? And why should anyone do it? He’s as straight a man as ever lived. Nobody’s got anything on ‘Lefty’.”

“That’s only as far as you know. Did he discuss most of his affairs with you, Mrs. Donovan?”

She nodded.

“Pretty well everything.”

“And yet you admit that he only mentioned this particular letter you speak of in general terms? Gave you no details at all?”

“I know. I thought at the time that he would tell me about it afterwards.”

Anthony was sympathetic.

“I expect he intended to. Now coming back to that letter . . . did you notice the postmark?”

Flora Donovan shook her head.

“No. I never looked at it. You see . . . when it came . . . it didn’t matter to me . . . did it? All I know about it is that the envelope was a blue colour. A deepish sort of blue.”

“H’m. There are no money difficulties, I suppose?”

“No, s...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page/About the Book
• Contents
• Introduction by Steve Barge
• Chapter I THE DISAPPEARANCE OF ‘LEFTY’ DONOVAN
• Chapter II THE POSTMARK ON THE ENVELOPE
• Chapter III THE NEWSAGENTS BY THE QUAY
• Chapter IV THINGS BEGIN TO MOVE
• Chapter V LOOSE ENDS
• Chapter VI THE MARKS ON DONOVAN
• Chapter VII THE MARKS ON THE SAND
• Chapter VIII STAR MERRILEES
• Chapter IX THE BAILEY WHO DIDN’T COME HOME
• Chapter X THE HOUSE IN TRESADERN STREET
• Chapter XI GODFREY SLADE
• Chapter XII THE END OF MIKE JAGO
• Chapter XIII ASATER
• Chapter XIV PANIC AVERTED
• Chapter XV THE FIGHT AT BELFAIRS
• Chapter XVI WHO LAUGHS LAST
• Chapter XVII AT THE ‘DOUBLE-TOP’
• Chapter XVIII ASATER SHOWS HIS TEETH (METAPHORICALLY)
• Chapter XIX A LINK WITH LIFE
• Chapter XX THE TELEGRAM
• Chapter XXI THE RENDEZVOUS
• Chapter XXII THE THIRD SEAT FROM CLEOPATRA’S NEEDLE
• Chapter XXIII WHAT HAPPENED TO GODFREY SLADE
• Chapter XXIV THE SANDED FLOOR
• Chapter XXV OPTIMISM FROM ANTHONY
• Chapter XXVI THE BOYS THAT WERE BORN IN THE SPRING
• Chapter XXVII INTERLUDE AT MURILLO’S
• Chapter XXVIII HONOUR FOR DAGEN BAY
• Chapter XXIX LETTER FOR BRADSHAW
• Chapter XXX THE HUNT IS UP!
• Chapter XXXI THE MAN IN THE SHAWL
• Chapter XXXII THE DOMED HALL
• Chapter XXXIII SECONDS OUT OF THE RING
• Chapter XXXIV ANOTHER’S TERROR
• Chapter XXXV L’ENVOI
• About The Author
• Titles by Brian Flynn
• Copyright