The Spiked Lion

An Anthony Bathurst Mystery

Brian Flynn

• Editore: Dean Street Press
• Anno: 2020
• ISBN:
  9781913527440
• Edizione: 1
• Argomento: Literature
• Categoria: Crime & Mystery Literature

"Did you hear, during these last few days, any mention from your brother of an animal?"

Amazingly, she nodded! "Yes... I heard him refer once-to a spiked lion."

John Pender Blundell, a codebreaker in the Great War, is found dead in Bushey Park. He met his end, despite the savaged appearance of his body, from cyanide poisoning.

Another similar death is soon discovered, and then yet another. With no apparent connection, Bathurst finds himself faced with a serious puzzle. How do the events link to the recently returned-from-apparent-death heir to the title of Lord Trensham? And what exactly is the spiked lion?

The Spiked Lion was first published in 1933. This new edition features an introduction by Steve Barge.

"Bathurst's solution, a characteristic shared with the other excellent Flynn novels, is construed with unerring logic and its every step accompanied by an unfailing interest." New York Times

CHAPTER I
THE DEAD MAN ON THE GRASS

The Commissioner of Police turned in his chair and picked up the telephone receiver. He frowned in accompaniment; it was a frown that was unpleasant and vindictive, by no means a frown of the sympathetically parental sort. When Sir Austin Mostyn Kemble trafficked in frowns of this nature, those at the “Yard” to whom he said “come” for their coming, and “go” for their going, were excessively careful to mind their step and watch points. Chief-Inspector MacMorran had seen this frown’s elder brother at close quarters about a quarter of an hour previously, and it still remained for him an acute reminiscence.

“Send Mr. Bathurst up at once,” said the Commissioner with peremptory emphasis. “I’m ready for him immediately.”

Anthony Bathurst came to him, smiled, and put his hat on the corner of the desk that fronted Sir Austin.

“A poor thing, sir,” he said whimsically, “but mine own. The English weather must be held largely responsible. In addition to the fact that I abominate umbrellas. Morning, Sir Austin. What’s the latest spot of bother? Head, tummy, gout, or just the ‘Yard’? Can’t a vet. do anything?”

Sir Austin turned gloomy attention from the hat to the hat’s owner. He was not in the mood for dalliance. “The trouble over which I desire to consult you, my dear Bathurst,” he remarked testily, “concerns me officially. That is to say, as Commissioner of Police. Had it been to do with my—er—physical self, I should have hesitated about dragging you into it, much as I respect your ability. Anyhow, sit down. Take that chair over there.”

Mr. Bathurst was dutifully obedient. “I find it difficult to suppress my vivid qualities—the feast of reason and the flow of soul—but I am ready, Sir Austin, to become the perfect listener. There are thousands, I am sure, who would cheerfully give their false teeth for the opportunity that is mine. May I help myself to a cigarette?”

“Of course, of course. Now listen. I want you to assess the facts that I am going to give you as carefully as you possibly can. When I’ve finished giving them to you, I shall call upon you to give me an immediate expression of opinion. Understand? An immediate expression of opinion. The years of experience that, happily, are mine, have taught me to rely more or less on first impressions.”

“They are often the best, I admit,” murmured Mr. Bathurst; “but it would be unwise to exalt them in a statement that went beyond that. Well?”

The testiness in Sir Austin’s tone gradually gave way to gravity. “First of all,” he declared, “I will deal with the extraordinary case of John Pender Blundell.”

Mr. Bathurst caressed his chin. The significance of the movement was not lost upon Sir Austin.

“Heard of him?”

“M’m. The name’s familiar, certainly. Just trying to pick up the threads. They will come to me in a second or so. Still, never mind me—go on. Amongst other accomplishments, I can think and listen at the same time. When I get the connection for which I’m groping, I’ll signal.”

Anthony grinned. Sir Austin always had on him an effect which approximated an inordinate cheerfulness; there was no other man quite like the Commissioner in this respect, with the possible exception of Inspector Baddeley of the Sussex Constabulary.

“What I am about to say should assist you materially. If you want to stop me to ask me anything, don’t hesitate. I know your knack of kernel-finding.”

The Commissioner leaned a little farther forward in his chair. “John Pender Blundell was a man in the late forties. Between forty-eight and forty-nine, I believe. Comparatively well-to-do, as things go nowadays, and unmarried.”

“Spare me these glaring redundancies,” whispered Anthony; “they’re definitely disturbing.”

Sir Austin ignored the interruption and proceeded somewhat hastily: “He was independent. Lived a few miles the Brighton side of Hayward’s Heath at a place called Hurstfold. There has always been money in the Blundell family, and it came to him fairly early in life. His mother died when he was at school, and his father was killed in the Hong Kong earthquake some years after the war. John Blundell, our man, may be classed as one of the best English type. Thoroughly sound and reliable in everything he undertook. Wrykyn and Luther. Not perhaps as hallmarked as Eton and ‘The House’, but in the ordinary way good enough for anything. But you understand that as well as I do.” Sir Austin paused.

“One minute, Sir Austin. Let me get him as accurately as I can. Any war service?”

“I was coming to that. I will explain. He’s always been a whale on ciphers and cryptograms and all that sort of thing—right from his early days at Wrykyn. He’s the author of two standard books on the subject. Regarded in the circles that count as the English equivalent of Le Courvoisier. Can’t give him higher tribute in his own department than that, can I? Well, because of this particular penchant of his, a special job of ‘Intelligence’ was found him during the five war years, and he acquitted himself according to all accounts with signal distinction.”

“These details are all by way of news to me, Sir Austin, but I’ve linked up all right with regard to what I thought I knew of Blundell when you just mentioned the name. There was an S.O.S. message concerning him broadcast about ten days to a fortnight ago. Disappeared from his house one morning, didn’t he, and hasn’t been seen since? Am I right?”

Sir Austin’s reply was delayed. When it came it was startling. “Almost—not quite. He was found in the early hours of this morning.” The Commissioner drummed on his desk with his finger-tips. Anthony Bathurst, stung into acuter interest, looked at him with sharp enquiry.

“Where?”

“In Bushey Park.”

Again Bathurst came in, rapid, insistent. “Wandering, do you mean? Loss of memory?”

Sir Austin shook his head in grave denial. “Worse than that, my dear Bathurst. Perhaps I misled you. The body of Blundell was found in Bushey Park. Dead as a door-nail. Moreover, had been dead some days, the doctor says.”

Anthony stared. There was no levity now in any part of him; there was, on the other hand, work in front of him. Another man’s death to be avenged. He was once again harnessed to the chariot of Justice. “How?” The question was almost curt.

“Well, that’s rather peculiar. Poison. Sugden says cyanide of potassium—a form of prussic acid. Been sprayed up the poor fellow’s nostrils. But there are other extraordinary features of the affair.”

“Such as . . . ?”

Sir Austin drew a paper, towards him. “Fractured skull, three ribs and one leg broken. Tibia splintered, Sugden says. Body one mass of bruises, and a peculiar jagged slash down the right cheek.”

Mr. Bathurst’s stare developed. “Seems all wrong to me—somewhere, sir. Like so many of these cases do when you first start attacking them. Where exactly in Bushey Park was the body found? On a path? Near a seat? Beneath trees? On the grass? Tell me, please.”

“On a stretch of grass beneath one of the biggest trees. I’ve a plan here. Look at it for yourself.”

Bathurst took the paper that Sir Austin passed over to him. “Whose image and superscription is this?”

“An old friend of yours perpetrated that—MacMorran. He went along to the spot directly we got the news through. Chatterton went with him. You see, we’d combed the country for Blundell for a fortnight. Never picked up the slightest trace of him anywhere. He seemed to have vanished into thin air. Till this morning.”

Anthony, after a moment’s examination, pushed the plan back to the Commissioner. “Thanks, Sir Austin. That’s no end of a help to me. MacMorran’s an artist. The lines are hard and clear. When I see him I shall have to compliment him upon his versatility. Well?”

Sir Austin Kemble was hesitant. Bathurst watched him silently. Several seconds elapsed. It seemed that Sir Austin was turning something over in his mind. Eventually the Commissioner broke the silence.

“What do you mean exactly by ‘well’?”

Anthony grinned at him sympathetically. “Tell me the rest. Just that. Nothing more. You know. ‘The primrose by the river’s brim, a yellow primrose was to him.’ Why the coyness?”

The Commissioner chose his words. “You must understand that we identified Blundell this morning entirely from what I will call ‘physical’ evidence. There was nothing on him, for instance, that screamed his identity. His features—his height . . . you understand what I mean? The suit that he wore was bought from a London tailor—not, for example, from anybody in the neighbourhood of Brighton or Hayward’s Heath. There were no papers, letters or documents of any kind found in any of his pockets. But we had three photographs of him that had been supplied to us by his nephew two or three days after Blundell had first been reported missing, and thus we were enabled to establish the necessary identification. But . . . and here I come to the interesting—almost vital—point. In the lower left-hand pocket of the dead man’s vest MacMorran discovered a small, crumpled piece of paper. A fragment of creased and folded notepaper—the ordinary stuff that can be purchased from a stationer in a small way of business. On it there were a few words written in pencil—very much rubbed by the passage of time, as you may well imagine, and, as a result, almost illegible. You shall endeavour to read them and make of them what you can. To me they seem fantastic, to say the least. Still, here’s the piece of paper in question. Let’s hear your views on it.”

Anthony Bathurst extended his hand for the tiny fragment of notepaper. The writing, as Sir Austin had stated, was faint, bordering closely on a condition of erasure. Bathurst smoothed the paper out very carefully and took it to the light. After a time of examination, he turned to Sir Austin and made an announcement.

“I’ll read it as I see it:

“To-night I heard that crackling voice use those same strange words that I have heard twice before in this house. But the animal is not normal, it is spiked, and remember, too . . . Wing . . .”

Bathurst looked up from his reading. “That’s as near as I can get to it, sir. Some of the words are almost indecipherable, but I’ve supplied them by the context. The last word, I suggest, is probably, when completed, ‘winged’. There are some more letters, I think, after the ‘g’, but it’s impossible to tell what they are. ‘Spiked’ and ‘winged’ animals, eh? Wyverns and griffins and such-like almost indicate the Book of Revelation, eh? Do you agree, sir?”

The Commissioner caressed his cheek nervously. “My interpretation of the writing is almost identical with yours, Bathurst. Also, I am forced to remember this: John Blundell, whom I was seeking to protect, has been murdered. Why? How? By whom? By a spiked and winged animal? There’s that slashed cheek, you know.” Sir Austin stopped as he spoke and shrugged his shoulders. “You can’t expect me to believe that, my dear Bathurst; unicorns and those things belong to the age of superstition; we are not living in a time or territory of—er—mythology.”

“No, Sir Austin. And there’s something else of which we ought to remind ourselves. John Blundell, poor devil, is not living at all.”

“Exactly, Bathurst. Hence my sending for you. It seems to me a problem after your own heart.”

CHAPTER II
INSPECTOR MACMORRAN CONTRIBUTES SOMETHING

Mr. Bathurst took his seat again, hard by the Commissioner’s desk, and smoothed out the worn piece of paper for the second time. Sir Austin scented further developments.

“What is it?” demanded the Commissioner.

Bathurst turned the paper over. “Are you satisfied that this is Blundell’s handwriting?”

Sir Austin pulled open a drawer. “I expected that you would ask me that. Yes—I am. Once again I will ask you to form your own opinion from what I am able to place in front of you. Blundell left his house on the morning of the fourth of May, fifteen days ago. As you know now, he never returned. After his disappearance had been broadcast and advertised everywhere, various data were brought to us and placed in our hands. All in the natural course of events. Amongst those data were these specimens of his handwriting. If you examine them you will be satisfied, I think, that these faintly pencilled words were written by Blundell himself. There is just enough of them to make the comparison possible.”

Bathurst took the papers, and, scrutinizing them carefully, made the comparison. A quick nod was an indication of his agreement with the Commissioner’s contention.

“I think you’re right, sir. Who put the case in your hands? In the first instance, I mean.”

“The dead man’s nephew—the missing man’s nephew, as he was then. By name, Hugh Guest. He and his sister lived with Blundell. I had a lengthy interview with him. Young Guest’s still up at Oxford. Intends, so he told me, to come down next December, at the end of the Michaelmas Term. At the moment, owing to the special circumstances, the Varsity authorities have allowed him an extended leave.”

Mr. Bathurst thrust his hands into his pockets and stared at the telephone. Sir Austin embraced discretion. He allowed the stare full latitude. A question from Bathurst was his reward.

“Is MacMorran handy, sir? If so, I’d like a word with him. If not, I’ll ask you to—”

“Unless something’s turned up he should be accessible. He was in here with me just before you arrived. We’ll see. I’ll send for him.”

The Commissioner was as good as his word. MacMorran appeared, a little perturbed, perhaps, at this second summons from the “old man” coming so soon after its predecessor. His eyes falling on Anthony Bathurst, however, the perturbation was dissipated. He and Bathurst had hunted before in double harness. “There were amateurs,” he was wont to say, “and amateurs.”

“Cheer-o, MacMorran,” Anthony greeted him.

The Inspector extended his big hand. “How do you do, sir? Pleased to see you again.”

Sir Austin took the reins. “Er—sit down, MacMorran. We want to ask you a question or two. Concerning this Blundell murder. There are one or two things that are not quite clear. Go ahead, Bathurst.”

“I understand that you found nothing in Blundell’s pockets, MacMorran, with the exception of this crumpled piece of notepaper? No money, letters, keys, papers or anything?”

“That’s so, Mr. Bathurst.”

“Who examined them first of all? You or Constable Chatterton?”

“I did.”

“Good. Now tell me. Would you say, from what you saw during that examination, that the dead man’s pockets had been deliberately emptied and that this creased piece of paper had been left behind because it had been accidentally overlooked?”

The Inspector’s eyes glinted. “That’s exactly what I should say, Mr. Bathurst. I’ll go further. I’ll say, too, that there’s precious little doubt about it. That creased piece was left behind because it escaped somebody’s notice. Whoever murdered Blundell intended that nothing should be found on him. I’ll tell you why. The quality of that notepaper is but poor. It’s the cheapest stuff. It rubs easily. In a li...