Black Edged

An Anthony Bathurst Mystery

Brian Flynn

• Publisher: Dean Street Press
• Year: 2021
• eBook ISBN: 9781914150647
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Crime & Mystery Literature
• Index: Literature

The moment they entered, Anthony pointed to the floor and to a hand that protruded from beneath the bed.

Dr. Traquair is determined that either he or his wife should die. He decides to allow her to cut a deck of cards to see who will shoot whom - highest card wins.

As the winner of this deadly duel, Traquair takes flight, desperate to elude capture for his crime. Super-sleuth Anthony Bathurst takes up the chase, but it seems that, this time, he may be matching wits with someone just as crafty as he is. And when more corpses turn up, it looks as though the adversary might be far more ruthless than even Bathurst could have anticipated.

Black Edged was first published in 1939. This new edition features an introduction by Steve Barge.

PART ONE
The First Escape

CHAPTER I
CRISIS

(From the Narrative of Stuart Traquair, M.B.)

Two things stand out in my mind every time that I look back on the day of the tragedy. The first concerns the poor devil whose maimed body was brought into my morning surgery. He had been knocked down by a fast-travelling car only a few yards from my place and directly I saw him I knew that I could do little or nothing for him. All that I could do, of course, I did. After sending for his wife—luckily they lived close at hand—I superintended his removal to the Commemoration Hospital. I got his clothes off him as well as I could, ’phoned for the Corporation’s ambulance and saw them both off—the man as comfortable as my skill and attention could possibly make him, and the woman white-faced and tearful. Before they went I promised to do something further.

From what the woman told me, her husband made a living as what I may term an “extra hand” at funerals. That is to say, he was engaged at odd times by various local undertakers, when business from their point of view was flourishing and much pressure in consequence placed upon the staff, to stand at the back of one of the carriages or to walk at the side of the hearse, as occasion demanded. What worried the man and woman was the fact that on the following day he had an engagement with old man Morley, the leading undertaker of the district, and didn’t know how he would be able to let the old man know that he couldn’t come, or, alternatively, fix up to send along a substitute. Which procedure, I gathered from the woman, was quite ordinary amongst the men who followed this class of employment. To allay the woman’s anxiety, I took the man’s name and address and promised that I would ’phone Morleys’ and explain the position to them. That was the first incident. The second I will describe later. Just after I saw the ambulance away from the front door, I heard a step outside and Madeleine came into the surgery.

“How was he?” she said.

“Pretty bad,” I replied. “Touch and go for him, I’m afraid.”

“How awful,” she went on.

“Yes. Internal and multiple. Inter alia, a broken pelvis.”

She shuddered at my words, and I think that it was at that moment my previous suspicions changed their condition and I knew for certain. I went suddenly very cold. I was dazed, too. So dazed, that her words, when she spoke to me again, seemed meaningless and I had to pull myself sharply together to understand them.

“Have you many calls to make, Stuart?” she questioned me. By this time I had just begun to collect myself, and luckily for me she hadn’t been quick enough to detect my uneasiness. “Oh,” I replied . . . “Fairish. Mrs. Casson, the two Bracegirdle boys, old man Dexter . . . and a call’s come through this morning from Aldersmere—Claverton House. They’re the only ‘specials’ that I can think of . . . everything else can wait. And is going to! Why do you ask?”

Her voice was hard as she answered and the blonde beauty of her seemed and looked to be lost on me. “Nothing. I was just wondering—that was all. Will you be wanting the car?”

I hesitated. Then I thought more clearly: “If I’m going out to Aldersmere, I shall. But if you want it for any purpose . . . I’ll leave that call over until after lunch. It’s up to you, Madeleine.”

The words were mine, but all the time my thoughts were far away. I thought of Armitage and of how soon I could get to him. For to get him and have things out with him, I must. As it was, I had delayed too long, and was now facing stark realities which previously had been but nebulous fancies. My wife’s voice softened this time as it had hardened before.

“It doesn’t matter, Stuart. I’ll stay in. What I wanted to do can be left until another time.” She came close to me, half touched me on the arm as though she were about to say something, but then shook her head and turned away. I knew that my arm had stiffened involuntarily at the contact. When she spoke again she was standing by the door and had her back to me. “I shall see you at lunch-time then. Try not to be late.” She turned and gave me a half smile.

“All right,” I said. It was all that my brain could think of to say.

She closed the door behind her. I was left with my thoughts. It was, of course, to some extent, my own fault . . . but she was my wife . . . and I had trusted her. I should have remembered all that I knew of Rupert. It is no use taking anything for granted in this life. My own professional training should have taught me that, if nothing else! I went slowly to the garage, still a prey to conflicting thoughts. Beyond seeing Armitage and thrusting my knowledge at him I had no plan of campaign at all. And Armitage so far was but a name to me. To go to see him at this stage might well mean disaster. After all—I hadn’t definite proof of anything. All that I had was the strongest suspicion. I wasn’t ready. I got out the car and almost mechanically set it in motion. It purred away from the start and I could hear the menace in it as it devoured the roads as soon as I had left the town. I quickly reached fields. Then I ran up the ascent to Cheldersley Common and swung my car over the new bridge across the Brest towards Aldersmere. I could soon see the chimney-tops of Claverton Hall. I wasn’t detained over long, finding just an ordinary hepatic disorder—and I was actually on the point of getting away to the Bracegirdle establishment when a woman, with part of her hair untidily down, came breathless and anxious right to the front of the car and spoke to me.

“Doctor Traquair, is it?” she said excitedly.

“That’s right,” I answered. “What’s the trouble?”

“Oh, and indeed I’m glad to have caught you,” she answered, her breath still coming in convulsive heaves. “Will you come along at once, please, Doctor, to Lockyer’s Corner? We’ve a child there as poorly as can be. Oh, Doctor, it’s glad that I am that I’ve caught you. It was indeed a stroke of good fortune hearing that you were here at the Hall.”

“How far is it?” I asked laconically, for, if I tell the truth, I had never heard of this place that she called Lockyer’s Corner. Actually I couldn’t remember that I had ever been farther than Claverton Hall in this particular part of the country.

“About half a mile, Doctor,” she replied. “Straight round by the road.”

“Then you had better get in the car and come with me,” I gave back to her.

She seemed pleased at the suggestion and with a quick bobbing movement of the body got in the car and we started off. She directed me with a series of sharp gestures and when we reached Lockyer’s Corner I saw that all there was there was a row of straggling, rather tumbledown cottages. “This is the one,” the woman cried, pointing to the end one of the row, and she whisked from the car with me soon on her heels. In a bed within a small room lay a small girl. I saw quickly that it was a diphtheria case and the child about as bad as she could be. The false membrane had already begun to spread into the air passages and there was, of course, the resultant risk of asphyxiation. I came to a quick decision. The girl was very young, so I resolved to try intubation. It would be an easier matter than slitting the trachea. So I soon had the woman busy preparing me the necessaries to the best of her resources and utility, took a short metal tube from my bag, and by way of the youngster’s mouth pushed the tube into the larynx. I got the silk thread in position and made a good job of the entire business. “She should be better in time,” I said to the mother (at least I suppose it was the mother). “That will keep an air passage open for her.”

She nodded blankly, but I could see the gratitude in the woman’s eyes. The intubation operation has the advantage, in practised hands, of being performed within a few seconds and of being done without cutting of any kind. It is not as efficient, in the great majority of cases, as tracheotomy—not, as I said, well worth trying in an emergency like this. I asked the mother several questions, made a few notes on the case generally, and promised that I would come over to Lockyer’s Corner again that evening. She thanked me profusely. When I took my departure from the cottage I looked at my watch and saw that at the best I was going to be very late for lunch. So I thought matters over.

On this particular day I had no special desire to be late for lunch. Also, I wanted quietude, tranquillity—solitude almost. I wanted in addition to think one or two things out. I determined therefore to turn the car in the direction of Grantley, which is a good-sized town, and have lunch in a pub when I got there. Then, I thought, I’d do Mrs. Casson and Dexter on the way back and return to the surgery at my leisure in time for the evening’s interviews and consultations. I put this idea into effect. When I reached Grantley I pulled up at the “White Hart”, had a wash and brush-up, and lunched off the half-crown ordinary in a very comfortable and well-appointed dining-room. The girl brought me a coffee after the sweet and I sat there with a cigarette and tried to think things out. I could not be sure as to how far she had gone with Rupert . . . and then I cursed myself mildly for having married her. If it were only my own destiny and career that were at sake! Was a man justified at a time like this, and faced with a problem of this kind, in taking matters into his own hands and adjusting them? The mere contemplation of all the possibilities sent me alternatively hot and hold.

I smoked cigarette after cigarette and thus I stayed until closing-time. When I left, however, I was no nearer to the solution than I had been when I started my essay in reflection. I even found myself recalling everything: my medical training, my scientific bent, my meeting with Madeleine. . . . Rupert had introduced me to her in the first place . . . it was usually like that . . . and my setting up in my first practice at Wrack. I paid my bill, got the car going again, called on Mrs. Casson (atrophy of the heart) and old man Dexter (tuberculous cystitis), and eventually ran the car into the mews at the back of my surgery a few minutes before six o’clock. It was just getting dark and a most unusual time for me to arrive home. Usually I was either much earlier or about an hour later. I went in the back way through the little room next the surgery where I used to make up most of the medicines (I had a sink there) and walked rather silently upstairs to the room that Madeleine and I always used as a lounge. I wasn’t creeping about the house deliberately. . . . I just didn’t happen to make much noise—that was all. When I was about half-way up the flight of stairs I thought that I heard voices . . . so I stopped on my way up . . . and listened. I was right. I could hear Rupert’s voice. He seemed to be reading something out aloud, very carefully and deliberately . . . the phrases measured to a nicety! I heard him stop reading and lower his voice. I strained to hear what he was saying.

“. . . he must be got rid of . . . when the time comes”. I finished my journey up the stairs and opened the door.

CHAPTER II
TRAGEDY

(Stuart Traquair’s Narrative—continued)

Rupert Halmar was sitting with his arm across Madeleine’s shoulders. She paled as I entered and I knew then that neither of them had heard me as I had come up the stairs. Madeleine hastily turned to hide something from which they had been reading. Her movement in itself told me everything that I wanted to know. My suspicions, which had flared up during the morning, blazed now into a flame of absolute certainty. Madeleine knew everything. My secret and all that it meant to me, to her and to all. In some way, that I had known nothing about, she had gained access to my private drawer and had read my private papers. I steeled myself to the inevitable ordeal that was close at hand.

“Hallo!” I said quite casually. “I had no idea that you were here, Rupert. Madeleine didn’t tell me that you were expected. How are you these days?”

His handsome, swarthy face flushed a little, but in a second he had recovered and had himself under complete control. “Oh, pretty fit, Stuart, thank you. I was at a loose end this afternoon . . . and I hadn’t been over for some time . . . so I came along. How are you? Living the strenuous life . . . what?”

“Yes,” I replied, “more or less. I’m certainly tired, if that’s anything.”

“I’ll ring for tea,” said Madeleine coldly and quietly. “I presume that you’ve lunched . . . somewhere. I waited half an hour for you.”

There was reproof in her cold tones. Madeleine had always possessed a flair for turning the tables . . . I knew that, none better. I flattered myself that the revelations of the day had come to me before it was too late.

“I’m sorry,” I replied to my wife, “but I was called farther away than I had anticipated. To Lockyer’s Corner. A diph. case. I had to operate, it was the kid’s only chance. As I was well on the road I went on to Grantley and had lunch there. I couldn’t have reached here in time for you. Sorry if I put you out at all.”

“No,” she was saying impersonally, “a doctor’s wife can never really be inconvenienced. She learns that early in her married life. If I were to—” She was interrupted by the maid bringing in the tea-things. There came a silence into the room. Rupert Halmar was now sitting with his back to the door and every now and then he would twist his body round to look at one of us. The maid arranged the tea-wagon as Madeleine instructed her and then went out again. Madeleine poured out tea and passed the first cup, I remember, to me. Then Rupert began to talk. All through his speeches I knew that he was warning me. The insistence upon the pronoun “we” . . . he scarcely ever said “I” . . . held a sinister significance for me that I should have been mentally blind to have ignored.

The inner meaning of little things began to come home to me. Trivial things that had meant but nothing to me when they had occurred. As you come down the main staircase of my house the hall is more or less exposed to the eye of the descending person. I remembered coming down some few weeks back when we were throwing a little supper-party and finding Madeleine standing by the fireplace in the library, on the left-hand of the fireplace. Alone—although some of our guests had already arrived. As I had descended she had been bending down, looking into the red heart of the fire, so that her back was towards me.

When she heard my step on the stairs she had turned suddenly . . . eagerly . . . and looked up. Then had taken a step or so towards the staircase. When she saw that it was I who was descending she had come to an abrupt stop and an emotion very much akin to acute disappointment had showed on her face. But there was watchfulness in her eyes, too . . . all these points came back to me now. I had engaged her in conversation at the time and her uneasiness had grown all the time that I was with her, until the sound of a door shutting somewhere upstairs had floated down to us, followed by the tread of another step upon the stairs. Madeleine’s awkwardness had then come to its greatest height and she had jumped up with a semi-apology to me for her too-evident inattention.

“Forgive me, Stuart, I’m afraid that I’m not very bright to-night . . .” and there had been a curious loudness of voice and an unusual stressing of the name . . . “Stuart”. The sequel had been that the man who had been descending had . . . shall we say . . . understood—and gone back. Ascended the stairs again and beaten a retreat. Rupert’s face, however, half an hour afterwards, had been, when I scanned it, quite inexpressive and nonchalant. Just as it was now . . . as he sat there and warned me. “Peace may be all very well, my dear Stuart, but sometimes that condition of peace has to be purchased at the price of war. And we are prepared thus to purchase it.”

I argued with him. “But you can’t with certainty go all the way even then.”

His eyes were insolent as he looked me over. “I don’t know that I quite understand you, Stuart. Explain—please.”

“You spoke of war as the purchasing price of peace. But war means combat. Combat means combatants. And it isn’t always the expected one that wins. The dark horse has been known to triumph before now. You must have heard of the insiders’ club.” I gave him back insolence for insolence, arrogance for arrogance, look for look. I saw Madeleine flinch at my words. Almost as though she feared a blow. Or sensed that violence was unpleasantly near. But Rupert Halmar was unmoved. He knew that he and I had started level at the beginning, which fact I think gave him a certain confidence.

“At any rate, Stuart, you and I will soon know exactly how we stand. Which will be all to the good from the point of view of each of us. Thank you, Madeleine.” He acknowledged something that she passed to him and his white teeth showed as he spoke. From that moment the tension eased a little and I kept myself well in hand. The conversation became commonplace. But I knew that it could only be the lull before the storm that was bound to break before very long. After a time, when tea was over, Rupert began to talk ag...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page/About the Book
• Contents
• Introduction by Steve Barge
• PART ONE The First Escape
• CHAPTER II TRAGEDY
• CHAPTER III I GO INTO MOURNING
• CHAPTER IV OUTWIT THE WATCHERS
• CHAPTER V I SET THE PACE
• CHAPTER VI I RIDE BEHIND A HEARSE
• CHAPTER VII I REMEMBER HELEN TREVOR
• CHAPTER VIII I FIND SANCTUARY
• CHAPTER IX I TAKE MY CUE
• CHAPTER X I FACE DANGER
• PART TWO The Chase
• CHAPTER II IN THE HOUSE OF DR. TRAQUAIR
• CHAPTER III SOMEBODY SHUTS A FRONT DOOR
• CHAPTER IV THE DEAD MAN UNDER THE BED
• CHAPTER V FRESH CAST. BY ANTHONY
• CHAPTER VI BENEFIT PERFORMANCE
• CHAPTER VII CURRENTS AND CROSS-CURRENTS
• CHAPTER VIII THE FRAGMENTS THAT REMAINED
• PART THREE The Second Escape
• CHAPTER II FRIDAY
• CHAPTER III RED FOR DANGER
• CHAPTER IV I TAKE—ANOTHER CHANCE
• CHAPTER V DEATH ON MY DOORSTEP
• CHAPTER VI TWO’S NOT COMPANY
• CHAPTER VII DESPERATE MEASURES
• CHAPTER VIII AT BAY
• PART FOUR The Second Chase
• CHAPTER II THE THINKING-CAP OF MR. BATHURST
• CHAPTER III MR. BATHURST HARKS BACK
• CHAPTER IV METROPOLITAN SENSATION
• CHAPTER V A MATTER OF BACK WINDOWS
• CHAPTER VI IN MISS FLEETWOOD’S FLAT
• CHAPTER VII THE WHITE FLAG
• CHAPTER VIII THE PATH STRAIGHTENS
• CHAPTER IX NUMBERS EIGHT AND NINE
• CHAPTER X MR. BATHURST HEARS OF B. AND N. 666
• About The Author
• Titles by Brian Flynn
• Copyright