The Horn: An Anthony Bathurst Mystery

By Brian Flynn

"Murder as a fine art, as a pure expression of sadism is almost unknown."

Thus spoke Anthony Bathurst to his friend, Chief Inspector MacMorran, but he will soon come to regret the statement. Julian Skene arrives to ask his assistance in the case of the disappearance of Mark Kenriston. Kenriston walked away after a dinner party on

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dean Street Press
• Release date: Oct 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781913527488

Brian Flynn

Dr. Brian Flynn is currently an Associate Director, Center for the Study of Traumatic Stress, Department of Psychiatry, Uniformed Services University of the Health Sciences (the nation’s military Medical School). Through his career he has had a strong focus on the psychosocial sequelae of large scale disasters and emergencies. During his 31 years in the United State Public Health Service, in addition to other responsibilities, he worked in, managed, and supervised the federal government's domestic disaster mental health program. In that role, he served on-site with emergency management professionals at many, if not most, of the nation's largest disasters When he retired from the USPHS in 2002 at the rank of Rear Admiral/Assistant Surgeon General, he directed nearly all of his professional efforts toward advancing the field of preparing for and responding to large scale trauma. He provides training and consultation to both public and private entities both nationally and internationally.

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CHAPTER I

MR. BATHURST ON SADISM

On the whole, MacMorran, said Mr. Bathurst, you must admit that most crimes, and especially murders, are but the means to an end. My investigations have unmistakably taught me that. The murderer almost invariably kills because the removal of his victim is convenient to him. In other words—it suits his book. It may help him to material gain or it may help him to revenge, to redress either a real or an imaginary grievance. Murder as a fine art, as a pure expression of rampant sadism is almost unknown. At least, that’s as far as my experience goes. Mr. Bathurst lifted his glass and drained it appreciatively. He pushed the tantalus towards the inspector. There’s more than a touch of autumn about to-day. I’m already thinking of mushrooms and English walnuts. Help yourself, MacMorran. Well? Don’t you agree with me?

MacMorran filled his glass and drew leisurely at his pipe. Aye. I suppose you’re about right. And I suppose too, when you come to look at it all round, that it’s just as well for you and me. Your true sadist usually has pretty substantial resources of cold and cunning cruelty upon which he draws liberally. The everyday, commonplace murderer gives us far more chances of getting hold of him. And unchecked cruelty, let me tell you—

Bathurst chuckled. Might be a particularly nasty problem—eh? Is that what you mean, MacMorran? And yet compared with the subtle imagination of the East we are the veriest infants at the game. Have you ever read of the O-Pang, the torturers in the Buddhist hells?

MacMorran shook his head. Can’t say that I have.

Well, in Avichi, the lowest of the eight greater hells, there are, I believe, eighteen of these torturers. Each bears on his head eight bull’s heads, each bull’s head has eighteen horns, and the top of each of these horns ejects the most furious fire. They use huge steel tridents, these O-Pang, by means of which millions of sinners are tossed into seething cauldrons.

The Inspector wiped his forehead in telepathic sympathy. Beads of sweat glistened under his hair.

Bathurst grinned at him. That’s not all, my dear MacMorran. Listen to this for something really exquisite. Buddha is reputed to have had a rival . . . and an enemy. This was Gôpatî, a notorious disciple of Dêvadatta. After this gentleman died, he is said to have been born again in a special hell of his own, the possessor of an enormous tongue. A tongue which hung down several feet in front of him. This tongue, since his re-birth in hell, has been unceasingly ploughed by the horns of a thousand bulls. This ploughing process will go on for ever. Men may come and men may go . . . you know what I mean. And the tongue is rather sensitive, you know, MacMorran. I remember burning mine once . . . as a child.

Anthony leaned back in his chair and watched the Inspector’s reception of the facts. MacMorran became interrogative and sought further details.

Why? echoed Anthony. Oh—a mere eschatological exposition, MacMorran. Gopati was accused of having reviled the Buddha’s chief disciples. Hence the exquisite terms of his punishment.

MacMorran shook his head and looked at Anthony Bathurst with definite meaning. And—to come to the point—what’s behind all this, Mr. Bathurst? For I’ll wager a month’s salary that there’s something on your mind. You’re not telling me this for nothing.

Anthony grinned again. You’re a wise old devil, MacMorran. You don’t miss much, do you? He fished in his pocket and then pushed a letter over to the Inspector. Read that and see if you can become mathematical. It came by this morning’s post.

MacMorran removed the envelope and took out the sheet of blue-tinted notepaper. He read the following. He read it carefully—as indeed he performed most exercises.

"ILMINGTON HOUSE,

"WHITTON, NORTHUMBERLAND,

"October 17th.

"DEAR SIR,

"I purpose calling upon you to-morrow in order to consult you upon a matter of the gravest importance. My train is timed to arrive at King’s Cross at 3.17. If my visit is inconvenient to you, kindly wire me.

"Faithfully yours,

"JULIAN SKENE.

ANTHONY L. BATHURST, Esq.

The Inspector wrinkled his brows. Skene. He repeated the name of the signature as though it held a secret meaning for him.

Mr. Bathurst’s eyes were fixed upon him . . . unswervingly. Well, MacMorran? Got it? The association?

MacMorran shook his head again. Can’t say that I have, sir. And yet I should be able to pick up the thread. Because that name . . . Skene . . .

Mr. Bathurst handed him a newspaper. MacMorran glanced at the name at the head of the title page. It was the North Mail and Newcastle Chronicle. As a true Scotsman he thrilled in response.

There’s a paragraph there that may interest you, MacMorran. On the front page there. Read it. Mr. Bathurst indicated the place in question with the stem of his pipe.

The date of the paper, remarked the Inspector, is September 24th.

Exactly. Getting on for a month ago. Read the paragraph and then you’ll feel more at home.

Anthony Bathurst extended his length in the armchair and awaited events.

MacMorran read. We regret to say that although two months and more have passed since the sudden disappearance of Mr. Mark Frayne Kenriston, of Ilmington House, Whitton, there is still no news of the missing gentleman, and it is feared that he has been a victim of foul play. It will be remembered that Mr. Kenriston was last seen on the afternoon of Sunday the 2nd of July. For a time, we are prepared to say, the police authorities suspected that the missing gentleman was suffering from a temporary loss of memory, that the phase would pass and Mr. Kenriston return home. Up to the moment of going to press, however, nothing has transpired to lend definite colour to that suspicion and the secret of Mr. Kenriston’s disappearance remains as big a mystery as ever. Mr. Mark Kenriston’s father, Mr. Ewart Kenriston, the well-known scientist of Ilmington House, informed our representative yesterday that absolutely no news of the missing man had reached him and his family, since they first realised that his son was missing. It was evident from Mr. Ewart Kenriston’s manner yesterday that the strain was telling upon him severely and that he approximates a condition of despair. He makes an earnest appeal to anybody who may possess the most trifling scrap of information in regard to his son’s movements on or about the 2nd of July last, to come forward and pass on such knowledge to the proper authorities.

The Inspector lowered the newspaper and looked at Anthony Bathurst. Ilmington House—eh? You think that your correspondent, Mr. Julian Skene, wishes to see you on this matter? He tapped the column in question.

Not an unreasonable supposition, MacMorran, surely?

MacMorran frowned. No. I suppose not. Odds on it, I should say. But who’s Skene exactly? Where were you placing him in the Ilmington House gallery?

Mr. Bathurst filled his pipe with studied deliberation before he answered. You will drag me into the country of conjecture, won’t you, MacMorran? You never seem able to resist the most trifling spot of temptation?

MacMorran smiled happily and rubbed the side of his nose. Sorry, sir. But I know your habit of looking ahead, and I’m forced to reckon with it. I thought that you might have—

Anthony Bathurst raised his head and listened. Rising from his chair he walked to the window. Well, MacMorran, he said, whimsically, whatever I’ve conjectured and whatever I haven’t, can equally go by the board. He looked at his wrist watch. It’s four o’clock and here, if I mistake not, is Mr. Julian Skene himself. The Inspector rose as though on the point of departure. Not at all, MacMorran, said Mr. Bathurst. You will oblige me by sitting down and making yourself comfortable. You and I are going to listen to the story of Mr. Julian Skene. He’s come a long way, you know . . . to consult us on a matter of grave importance . . . it’s only right that his audience should be distinguished by quality and quantity. Two heads, you know, old man. Chief-Inspector MacMorran grinned, grunted and resumed his seat. The door opened.

Mr. Julian Skene, sir.

Show the gentleman in, Emily, returned Mr. Bathurst.

CHAPTER II

THE STORY OF JULIAN SKENE

The man who answered Mr. Bathurst’s invitation was in age, to appearances, that is, between thirty-five and forty. He was tall . . . in the region of six feet . . . and as is so often the case with men of his height, inclined to stoop. His hair was dark and beginning to thin on the top of his head. His eyes were dark too, and moved quickly and alertly . . . so quickly that he took in the details of the room and its occupants in but little time and with but little trouble.

Mr. Anthony Bathurst? he demanded somewhat brusquely. He looked with interrogation from the one to the other of the two men who faced him.

I’m Anthony Bathurst. Please sit down, Mr. Skene. This is Chief-Inspector MacMorran of New Scotland Yard. Mr. Julian Skene of Whitton, Northumberland. You must be tired after your journey, Mr. Skene. A whisky and soda, Mr. Skene?

Thank you.

Help yourself, then. You’ll find a glass on the tray there.

Skene filled his glass. Bathurst watched him carefully. It was clear to him as he watched that his visitor was supremely cool and had his nerves well under control. Also, he had no intention of being worried into hastiness. On the contrary. He was quietly determined to take his time over what he intended to do. He tasted his whisky appreciatively and looked across at Inspector MacMorran.

Mr. Bathurst, he said quietly, it was my intention when I came here that our interview should be private. That is to say between you and me. Quite candidly, I was not expecting the presence of a third party.

Mr. Bathurst glanced at the Inspector with a suggestion of whimsicality. MacMorran betrayed signs of embarrassment under the quizzical scrutiny. Anthony turned from MacMorran to his visitor.

Mr. Skene, he said quietly, you may regard Inspector MacMorran as one of the first disciples of discretion. When he so chooses he is as a sealed book. Everything said to me in his hearing will be considered by him as strictly confidential. Need I say anything further than that?

Skene hesitated, and then drained his glass. With great calmness he replaced the glass on the table.

In the first place, why do you imagine I have come to you, Mr. Bathurst?

Anthony replied lazily. I seem to remember that your written phrase was ‘a matter of the gravest importance.’ Please correct me if I am inaccurate. He closed his eyes.

You are accurate enough. Skene was equally imperturbable. "But that is the reason of my coming, rather than the reason of my coming to you—to you especially, that is. Please mark the difference. You understand what I mean?"

Anthony Bathurst smiled. Perfectly.

Skene went on. In other words, I chose, for very good reasons, to put certain facts in front of you rather than in front of the usual authorities at Scotland Yard.

Exactly. I can’t say that I’m surprised. That is the condition that I anticipated.

When I arrive, however, and am shown into your room I find officialism at your side. I hoped and expected to find you alone. Least of all audiences did I desire an ‘official’ one. Hence my remark of a few moments ago.

Bathurst leant forwards towards him. And yet what you say isn’t entirely true. Officialism, as you describe it, may be at my side, but it is officialism ‘off duty.’ In mufti—if you like to look at it so. Which I submit, with all respect, makes a decided difference.

Skene looked appraisingly, from one to the other of the two men. It appeared to MacMorran that he was waiting for one of them to speak. But the Inspector—the oldest of old hands—took his cue from Bathurst and kept silent. Skene, therefore, sensing more keenly the niceties of the situation sought justification of his attitude.

"Please don’t misunderstand my position. I have not the slightest reason to fear or to resent publicity. Get that into your heads first of all. But I must consider the rights and the—er—claims of others. Claims which I have no right to resist, or inclination even, to ignore." He rose from his chair and walked to the window; Bathurst still refrained from interruption. He was determined to allow Skene to wrestle with his problem in his own way. There was silence in the room for a period of two minutes. Then Julian Skene left his place at the window and returned to his chair. Even though he had been disturbed, he retained his coolness.

I have turned the matter over in my mind and I have decided to accept your terms, Mr. Bathurst. That is to say, I place both myself and my story unreservedly in your hands. In return, therefore, I ask again that you will treat what I say, for the time being at least, as strictly confidential. Both you and Inspector MacMorran.

I have already given you that assurance. Anthony Bathurst was direct to the point of curtness.

I know. I’m sorry if I appear to have laboured the matter. Believe me, I took the stand I did for no selfish reasons. For the first time since he entered the room Skene betrayed a little uneasiness.

Anthony became gently insistent. If you tell us your story, Mr. Skene, we shall be the better judges of that statement. Until then— Mr. Bathurst paused—to continue almost at once, I presume that there is still no news of Mr. Mark Frayne Kenriston?

Skene turned and looked at him deliberately. The look approximated a stare.

"So you are partly aware why I have come to you?"

I imagine that your visit is not unconnected with Mr. Kenriston’s disappearance. That doesn’t surprise you, surely.

No-o. Except that I was uncertain as to how much importance his case held just on three hundred miles away from the place of its genesis. As far as I know, the London papers paid very little attention to it, and as far as I have been able to judge, London people are not interested in it. You went by the address on my letter, of course?

Naturally. Ilmington House, Whitton, was enough to revive in my mind the mystery of Kenriston’s disappearance. Now, Mr. Skene—your facts, please. We have wasted far too much time as it is.

Skene’s mouth twisted into a half-smile. I’m to tell you everything, I suppose, and not to leave out the seemingly unimportant trifles. I know my book, you see. Well, I’ll start first of all by describing the personnel at Ilmington House, then I’ll tell you what I know of the trouble and I’ll wind up by telling you the real reason why I’ve come to you. Because not even you, Mr. Bathurst, with all your gifts as an investigator, can guess that.

Skene lifted his left leg from the floor and clasped it just below the knee. Anthony mentally approved. He saw that the man was sincerely endeavouring to achieve concentration.

In the first place, Mr. Bathurst, said Skene, there is the head of the house, Mr. Ewart Kenriston, known to hundreds of the villagers, and for miles around, as ‘Doctor’ Kenriston. And not without sound reason. For Mr. Kenriston is not only an exceptionally clever man, but a man of extraordinary charm. He has travelled widely, is an accomplished scientist, naturalist, geologist and biologist, and one of the greatest authorities in the world on marionettes . . . the ‘Fantoccini.’ I would assert, with but little fear of contradiction, that there are very few matters that he doesn’t understand perfectly, and that there are also ‘few things undreamt of in his philosophy.’ He is a man who could hold his own in the most brilliant company. He has just turned sixty, and up to the time of Mark’s disappearance, enjoyed splendid health. Latterly, as is perhaps quite understandable when one considers the circumstances, he has given way under the strain, and from a health point of view is by no means the man that he was. Ewart Kenriston married comparatively late in life—when he was between thirty and forty. He married a lady whom he had met whilst travelling abroad. They made one another’s acquaintance, I believe, in the original instance, on board ship. She was a Mademoiselle Denise St. Alary, elder daughter of a wealthy French landowner. Unhappily the lady broke down in health after ten years of marriage and died—leaving her husband with a son and a daughter. That son was Mark, of whose disappearance you know, and the daughter, Juliet. Mark is twenty-three and Juliet celebrated her twenty-first birthday last July . . . a fortnight or so after her brother vanished. In addition to Mark and Juliet there is at Ilmington House the late Mrs. Kenriston’s sister. An unmarried lady. Known to the household as Auntie Sophie, Mademoiselle Sophie St. Alary. She would be about forty-two years of age, having been eight or nine years her sister’s junior. I am giving you all these details so that you may know all about the various people at Ilmington House. Now for the servants and employees generally.

You are doing excellently, Mr. Skene. You are telling us neither too much nor too little. But leave the staff for the time being. If I want information concerning one or all of them, I’ll ask you for it later. In the meantime, keep to the main track. I’m extraordinarily interested.

Skene bowed to Anthony Bathurst and proceeded.

"As far as I know, the relations that have existed in the house have always been completely happy. I know of no troubles, no serious quarrels, no misunderstandings. I have had unique opportunities of judging. Since my people died, I have lived with the Kenristons. My father was an old friend of the family. Mademoiselle Sophie St. Alary is hot-tempered . . . what we should call a little spitfire . . . but we are told that it’s the small showers which last long. Hers are sudden storms . . . and sudden storms are short. She has taken the place of her dead sister in an eminently admirable manner and he would be an extremely ungenerous and hypercritical man who would seriously fault her. Ewart Kenriston may count himself an exceedingly fortunate man to have had her there. I will now deal with the son Mark in more detail. As I said, twenty-three years of age, and like his father, a very charming young fellow. Had I been asked, I would have said that he hadn’t an enemy in the world. In temperament, more like his mother than his father. In love with life and what life had to offer him. And he had good reasons for his roseate outlook. If anybody had, he certainly had. His courtship of a singularly attractive girl had run quite smoothly, and the engagement between them had been announced in the spring of this year. His father approved it and Miss Halliwell’s father approved it. Everything was couleur de rose. The wedding was to have taken place this month. He would have been relatively well-to-do, his mother had been a lady of comparatively affluent circumstances, and, as far as I know, his personal horizon was innocent of the smallest cloud. Julian Skene paused and helped himself to another whisky and soda. As the stage is now set, I will come to Sunday, the 2nd of July last. In the Church’s year, the third Sunday after Trinity. We had lunched at Ilmington House, as was our invariable habit, if we were all at home, at half-past one. It was a blazing hot afternoon and directly after lunch was over, I went into the garden for a deck chair, a shady spot on the lawn and a book."

Anthony held up his hand. An interruption, Mr. Skene—if you will forgive me! Would you be good enough to tell me the names of all the people who had lunch that afternoon? Those facts would help me considerably to accurate visualisation. Yes?

Certainly—as you wish. Ewart Kenriston, Mark, Holderness, that’s Mr. Kenriston’s secretary, and I. That accounts for the male members of the party. Now for the ladies. There were Aunt Sophie, Juliet, Imogen Halliwell, that’s Mark’s fiancée, and a fourth girl, a girl who had been at a ‘finishing’ school with Juliet, and a friend of hers for years, by name Shelagh Bernays. Eight of us all told and equally balanced—four-four.

Thank you, Mr. Skene. That clears the air for me and I know better where I am. You were on the lawn in a deck chair, I fancy, when I interrupted you.

"That’s so, I was. I was reading. I usually am in leisure moments. I remember that. I was reading Mitcoff’s The Art of Puppetry. Lunch ended, I suppose, at about a quarter past two. It usually did if it ran its normal course, and as nothing exceptional happened on this particular afternoon, I have little doubt that that would be about the time. Juliet stayed indoors. She told us that she wanted to write some letters. Holderness and Miss Bernays came into the garden after a time and a snatch of conversation passed between the three of us. I gathered from what they told me that they were going for a stroll down by the river—the Ilmer, you know, is only about half a mile from the house, and it’s a glorious walk for nearly the whole of the way. I chaffed them for what I called their positively indecent industry on so hot an afternoon. Asked them what was the matter with my shining example. I can remember that Shelagh Bernays threw some banter back at me over her shoulder, and the two of them passed out of my sight. Now let me think what happened afterwards—carefully! About ten minutes past three, I suppose it would have been, I saw Mark Kenriston come through the open double doors and out into the garden . . . on to the lawn where I was. It was insufferably hot . . . if you remember . . . that Sunday . . . and I had found, I suppose, on that lawn, the one comparatively cool and sequestered corner. There was a purple haze over Belsay Woods that was like the bloom on a ripe plum. Mark passed quite close to my deck chair, and I chy-iked him as he went by me. Nothing important. Probably I hurled at him the usual commonplace insult. Much to my surprise, he told me that he was going to take a walk down to the village. That’s the village of Whitton. He seemed a trifle more serious than usual and ignored my chaff. As he passed out of my