Man with the Dark Beard (2 page)

Miss Priestley might have joined the spinster detective ranks along with Agatha Christie's Miss Marple and Patricia Wentworth's Miss Silver, but she never emerges in
The Man with the Dark Beard
as a genuine sleuth. Haynes leaves detecting primarily in the capable hands of Detective-Inspector Stoddart, who in his debut appearance is described by the author as the antithesis of Golden Age detective fiction's eccentric amateur sleuths:

A keen-minded Midlander (like the author herself), Inspector Stoddart establishes, with the help of his young assistant Harbord, just what the man with the dark beard had to do with Dr. Bastow's murder--though not before there are two more unnatural deaths. “Altogether it was a marvelous edifice of crime, and it was within a hairbreadth of success,” reflects Inspector Stoddart near the novel's end, after a too-clever-by-half killer has been exposed. One contemporary newspaper reviewer predicted that few readers of this “well-constructed and briskly told” novel would guess the culprit's identity “till Miss Haynes chooses to let them into her secret,” enthusiastically adding that the author's mysteries “have the essential quality of detective fiction in that they capture imagination and interest and make it difficult to put down the book until the last page has been turned.” The next year the triumphant Inspector Stoddart would solve
The Crime at Tattenham Corner
and deduce
Who Killed Charmian Karslake?
, before embarking, in 1930, on his final recorded case, concerning the perplexing matter of
The Crystal Beads Murder
. During the Golden Age of detective fiction, readers eagerly followed Stoddart's progress. I suspect that modern fans of classic mystery fiction will want to do so too.

Curtis Evans

‘The fact of the matter is you want a holiday, old chap.”

Felix Skrine lay back in his easy chair and puffed at his cigar.

“I don't need a holiday at all,” his friend contradicted shortly. “It would do me no good. What I want is –”

“Physician, heal thyself,” Skrine quoted lazily. “My dear John, you have been off colour for months. Why can't you take expert advice – Gordon Menzies, for instance? You sent old Wildman to him last session and he put him right in no time.”

“Gordon Menzies could do nothing for me,” said John Bastow. “There is no cure for mental worry.”

Felix Skrine made no rejoinder. There was an absent look in his blue eyes, as, tilting his head back, he watched the thin spiral of smoke curling upwards.

The two men, Sir Felix Skrine, K.C., and Dr. John Bastow, the busy doctor, had been friends from boyhood, though in later life their paths had lain far apart.

Skrine's brilliance had made its mark at school and college. A great career had been prophesied for him, and no one had been surprised at his phenomenal success at the Bar. The youngest counsel who had ever taken silk, his name was freely spoken of as certain to be in the list for the next Cabinet, and his knighthood was only looked upon as the prelude to further recognition. His work lay principally among the criminal classes; he had defended in all the big cases in his earlier days, and nowadays was dreaded by the man in the dock as no other K.C. of his time had been.

Dr. John Bastow, on the other hand, had been more distinguished at college for a certain dogged, plodding industry than for brilliance. Perhaps it was this very unlikeness that had made and kept the two men friends in spite of the different lines on which their lives had developed.

John Bastow still remained in the old-fashioned house in which he had been born, in which his father had worked and struggled, and finally prospered.

Sometimes Bastow had dreamed of Wimpole Street or Harley Street, but his dreams had never materialized. Latterly, he had taken up research work, and papers bearing his signature were becoming fairly frequent in the Medical Journals. Like his friend, Felix Skrine, he had married early. Unlike Bastow, however, Skrine was a childless widower. He had married a wife whose wealth had been of material assistance in his career. Later on she had become a confirmed invalid, but Skrine had remained the most devoted of husbands; and, since her death a couple of years ago, there had been no rumour of a second Lady Skrine.

In appearance the two friends presented a remarkable contrast. Bastow was rather beneath middle height, and broad, with square shoulders; his clean-shaven face was very dark, with thick, rugged brows and large, rough-hewn features. His deep-set eyes were usually hidden by glasses. Skrine was tall and good-looking – the Adonis of the Bar he had been called – but his handsome, ascetic-looking face was almost monk-like in its severity. Many a criminal had felt that there was not a touch of pity in the brilliantly blue eyes, the firmly-closed mouth. Nevertheless the mouth could smile in an almost boyish fashion, the blue eyes could melt into tenderness, as Dr. John Bastow and his motherless children very well knew.

The two men smoked on in silence for some time now.

John Bastow sat huddled up in his chair, his rather large head bent down upon his chest, his eyes mechanically watching the tiny flames spring up and then flicker down in the fire that was burning on the hearth.

From time to time Skrine glanced across at him, the sympathetic curiosity in his eyes deepening. At last he spoke:

“John, old chap, what's wrong? Get it off your chest, whatever it is!”

John Bastow did not raise his head or his eyes. “I wish to Heaven I could.”

“Then there is something wrong,” Skrine said quickly. “I have thought several times of late that there was. Is it anything in which I can help you – money?”

Bastow shook his head.

“A woman, then?” Skrine questioned sharply. “Whatever it may be, John, let me help you. What is the good of having friends if you do not make use of them?”

“Because – perhaps you can't,” Bastow said moodily, stooping forward and picking up the poker.

Felix Skrine shot a penetrating glance at his bent head.

“A trouble shared is a trouble halved,” he quoted. “Some people have thought my advice worth having, John.”

“Yes, I know.” Bastow made a savage attack on the fire with his poker. “But – well, suppose I put the case to you, Felix – what ought a man to do under these circumstances – supposing he had discovered – something –”

He broke off and thrust his poker in again.

Felix Skrine waited, his deep eyes watching his friend sympathetically. At last he said:

“Yes, John? Supposing a man discovered something – what sort of discovery do you mean?”

Bastow raised himself and sat up in his chair, balancing the poker in his hands.

“Suppose that in the course of a man's professional career he found that a crime had been committed, had never been discovered, never even suspected, what would you say such a man ought to do?”

He waited, his eyes fixed upon Skrine's face.

Skrine looked back at him for a minute, in silence, then he said in a quick, decided tone: 

“Your hypothetical man should speak out and get the criminal punished. Heavens, man, we are not parsons either of us! You don't need me to tell you where your duty lies.”

After another look at his friend's face, Bastow's eyes dropped again.

“Suppose the man – the man had kept silence – at the time, and the – criminal had made good, what then? Supposing such a case had come within your knowledge in the ordinary course of your professional career, what would you do?”

“What I have said!”

The words came out with uncompromising severity from the thin-lipped mouth; the blue eyes maintained their unrelaxing watch on John Bastow's face.

“I can't understand you, John. You must know your duty to the community.”

“And what about the guilty man?” John Bastow questioned.

“He must look after himself,” Skrine said tersely. “Probably he may be able to do so, and it's quite on the cards that he may be able to clear himself.”

“I wish to God he could!” Bastow said with sudden emphasis. 

As the last word left his lips the surgery bell rang loudly, with dramatic suddenness.

Bastow sprang to his feet.

“That is somebody I must see myself. An old patient with an appointment.”

“All right, old fellow, I will make myself scarce. But one word before I go. You have said ‘a man.' Have you changed the sex to prevent my guessing the criminal's identity? Because there is a member of your household about whom I have wondered sometimes. If it is so – and I can help you if you have found out –”

“Nothing of the kind. I don't know what you have got hold of,” Bastow said sharply. “But, at any rate, I shall take no steps until I have seen you again. Perhaps we can discuss the matter at greater length later on.”

“All right, old chap,” Sir Felix said with his hand on the door knob. “Think over what I have said. I am sure it is the only thing to be done.”

As he crossed the hall, the sound of voices coming from a room on the opposite side caught his ear. He went quickly across and pushed open the half-closed door.

“May I come in, Hilary?”

“Oh, of course, Sir Felix,” a quick, girlish voice answered him.

The morning-room at Dr. John Bastow's was the general sitting-room of the family. Two of its windows opened on to the garden; the third, a big bay, was on the side of the street, and though a strip of turf and a low hedge ran between a good view could be obtained of the passers-by.

An invalid couch usually stood in this window, and Felix Bastow, the doctor's only son, and Skrine's godson and namesake, lay on it, supported by cushions and mechanical contrivances. Fee, as he was generally called, had been a cripple from birth, and this window, with its outlook on the street, was his favourite resting- place. People often wondered he did not prefer the windows on the garden side, but Fee always persisted that he had had enough of grass and flowers, and liked to see such life as his glimpse from the window afforded. He got to know many of the passers-by, and often, on a summer's day, some one would stop and hold quite a long conversation with the white-faced, eager-looking boy.

But Fee was not there this afternoon. It had been one of his bad days, and he had retired to his room early.

The voices that Sir Felix Skrine had heard came from a couple of young people standing on the hearthrug. Skrine caught one glimpse of them, and his brows contracted. The girl's head was bent over a bunch of roses. The man, tall and rather noticeably good-looking, was watching her with an expression that could not be misunderstood in his grey eyes.

The girl, Hilary Bastow, came forward to meet him quickly.

“Have you seen Dad, Sir Felix? He has been expecting you.”

“I have just left him,” Sir Felix said briefly. “I have only one minute to spare, Hilary, and I came to offer you my birthday wishes and to beg your acceptance of this.”

There was something of an old-time courtesy in his manner as, very deliberately, he drew the roses from her clasp and laid them on the table beside her, placing a worn jewel-case in her hand.

The colour flashed swiftly over the girl's face.

“Oh, Sir Felix!”

After a momentary hesitation that did not escape Skrine's notice, she opened the case. Inside, on its bed of blue velvet, lay a string of magnificent pearls.

“0–h!” Hilary drew a deep breath, then the bright colour in her cheeks faded.

“Oh, Sir Felix! They are Lady Skrine's pearls.”

The great lawyer bent his head. “She would have liked you to have them, Hilary,” he said briefly. “Wear them for her sake – and mine.”

He did not wait to hear her somewhat incoherent thanks; but, with a pat on her arm and a slight bow in the direction of the young man who was standing surlily aloof, he went out of the room.

The two he had left were silent for a minute, Hilary's head still bent over the pearls, the roses lying on the table beside her. At last the man came a step nearer.

“So he gives you his wife's pearls, Hilary. And – takes my roses from you.”

As he spoke he snatched up the flowers, and as if moved by some uncontrollable influence, flung them through the open window. With a sharp cry Hilary caught at his arm – too late.

“Basil! Basil! My roses!”

A disagreeable smile curved Wilton's lips.

“You have the pearls.”

“I – I would rather have the roses,” the girl said with a little catch in her voice. “Oh, Basil, how could you – how could you be so silly?”

“Hilary! Hilary!” he said hoarsely. “Tell me you don't care for him.”

“For him – for Sir Felix Skrine!” Hilary laughed. “Well, really, Basil, you are – Why, he is my godfather! Does a girl ever care for her godfather? At least, I mean, as –” She stopped suddenly.

In spite of his anger, Wilton could not help smiling.

“As what?” he questioned.

“Oh, I don't know what I meant, I am sure. I must be in a particularly idiotic mood this morning,” Hilary returned confusedly. “My birthday has gone to my head, I think. It is a good thing a person only has a birthday once a year.”

She went on talking rapidly to cover her confusion.

All the wrath had died out of Wilton's face now, and his deep-set, grey eyes were very tender as he watched her.

“How is it that you care for Skrine?” he pursued. “Not as – well, let us say, not as you care for me, for example?”