The Case of the Faithful Heart: An Anthony Bathurst Mystery

By Brian Flynn

"Before she could finish what she wanted to say, she just gasped once or twice and died there in my arms."

Nothing seems amiss at the Hillier family dinner party but the very next morning Jacqueline Hillier is found dying in her car. Her clothes are dirty and torn, her face bruised, but it was an overdose of chloral hydrate which

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dean Street Press
• Release date: Sep 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9781914150661

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

THE EXAGGERATION

It has been both said and written that between what matters and what seems to matter how should one distinguish with commendable judgment? To many of us, whose lives run along the ordinary channels and down the commonplace corridors, the necessity for this choice may come but seldom. The thought is comforting. On the contrary, to others of us, a specially selected company, it may come reasonably often. Which is a thought less comforting! To a few it may come not at all. Which, however, should not be disturbing. But it came certainly once to Keith Annesley. He was in his forty-fourth year when the incident occurred. The date when it happened was the 8th day of June. It is specially marked in his diary and also—it must be admitted—in the general calendars of the civilized world. The uncivilized world, it is presumed, reserves no place in its records for the tyranny of Time and shows a complete contempt for such matters as calculated calendars.

Keith Annesley, at the time of the incident to which reference has just been made, was a moderately successful novelist and a bachelor. These conditions, separately and as a combination, afforded him a certain amount of pleasure. He lived in a comfortably sized bungalow in the country village of Blackstock, which as everybody knows is but four miles from the market town of Bridge and a mere twenty-two from the great city of London itself. In this way, it will be readily seen, Keith Annesley was able to combine competently and easily the delights of the countryside with the comparative raptures that could so frequently be obtained from regular visits to the metropolis. He was done for (her own description—be it noted) by a housekeeper whose name was Mrs. Fairey. She was a childless widow in the early fifties. Unhappily, the late Fairey had failed to survive an argument with a Boche at Le Cateau—the Boche had been just a trifle quicker with his bayonet. This unconsidered (on Fairey’s part) trifle had made all the difference. In Mrs. Fairey’s case, the name she bore was an entire misnomer, and, as Keith Annesley had said more than once to privileged friends, he was considerably relieved to think that she had not made her original appearance from the bottom of his garden. She weighed over twelve stone, you see, and, as Keith put it to his intimate cronies, he had always been appalled at anything in the nature of upheavals.

On the morning of the particular 8th of June which has already been mentioned Keith Annesley had laboured manfully for some hours, and as a result of these labours had produced a matter of over two hundred words on the pad of foolscap in front of him. He looked at them bitterly, read them over carefully, and suddenly the bitter look on his face gave way to a smile. When read they weren’t by any means as foul as he had anticipated. With a twist here and a turn there they would do. Both twist and turn were speedily accomplished. Keith Annesley nodded pleasantly to himself, gathered his papers together with a look of almost mischievous delight, and prepared, with similarly unholy joy, to put them away until his next sitting. In other words, he had reached the delightful decision that he need do no more work that morning!

He walked into his charmingly kept garden (his gardener, by the way, was both competent and cunning) by way of the french doors of the lounge and then looked at his watch. What he saw indicated there also pleased him. Within a mere matter of ten minutes the laws of the country would allow him to drink beer upon licensed premises. Good beer at that! He therefore called through the open window of the kitchen to the capacious Mrs. Fairey. The call intimated his intention.

Very good, sir, said Mrs. Fairey with an air of resignation, and Keith Annesley went round to the front of his bungalow with a swing in his gait and stepped on to the high road that would take him firstly half a mile to the Running Horse (which was his primary intention), and beyond that the remaining three and a half miles to the market town of Bridge (should he so desire). Upon this present mission—it may be recorded—the former was his sole incentive. Keith Annesley strolled luxuriously down the road. The day was hot. Hot with the clear, clean benevolence of sun in our English country that belongs more to the month of June than to any other. Now that he had been released from the bondage of work Keith Annesley almost lingered in his walking. He passed the forge at the cross-roads where Dick Richardson was swinging his hammer. Then past the row of whitewashed cottages on the fringe of Blackstock and the little general shop where Mrs. Mitchell sold everything from a beetroot to a bootlace. Thus Keith Annesley came to the inn which bore bravely the sign of the Running Horse.

Outside, there stood an ugly squat motor lorry from which rolled barrels of beer and on to which were being loaded other barrels that had served their turn and been emptied of their fragrance. Annesley walked up the square cobbled yard and turned sharp right into the bar. The bar was low-ceilinged, with oak beams and similar ancient appointments. Reliable authority ascribed the house’s birth to the time of Richard II of Bordeaux. Less reputable rumour whispered that Bolingbroke himself had breakfasted there not long before Richard’s imposition. Keith Annesley accepted both the authority and the rumour with interest and the good beer that the Running Horse dispensed with thanksgiving and charity.

Luke Weir, the landlord, greeted him from behind the bar with a hearty Good Morning. Luke liked Annesley and Annesley returned the compliment. One of them book-writin’ fellers, commented Luke during Annesley’s occasional absences, and sometimes a bit strange to understand, but a rare good chap in spite of it. Keith Annesley walked towards his host and smilingly gave his order. Luke heard and then accepted Annesley’s almost immediate invitation. The two men drank in a dignified silence. Annesley put down his tankard with a sigh of contentment. That was good, Luke. All of it. Do you know I’m strongly tempted to have another. I am really.

Luke Weir grinned. He had heard that sentiment expressed many times in the past. And you was never a good one for resistin’ temptation. He filled Annesley’s tankard again and the two men began to talk. Annesley reached to his hip pocket for his cigarette-case.

Luke, you miserable old sinner, he said at length, do you know—I’ve been thinking. I feel that I need a holiday. The urge to laze is most assuredly upon me.

The urge to travel, sir?

No, Luke. You heard what I said. The urge to laze.

Wouldn’t you benefit by something more like a change, sir? thrust in Luke Weir slyly. From under his shaggy brows he stared down at the only occupant of his bar.

Annesley laughed easily. That’s good from you, Luke. You’ve never done a real day’s work in your life, you old fraud. No—I said ‘laze’, and ‘laze’ I mean.

What part are you thinkin’ of going, sir? At home here or abroad?

Annesley waited to blow a smoke-ring effortlessly. Oh—England. West Country. Definitely West Country. Coombe and tor, green meadow and lane. It’s the Pick of England, Luke. There’s no arguing about that. Once you’ve been to the West Country you’re spoiled for everywhere else. This time I’m inclined towards Cornwall—the delectable Duchy.

Yes, sir, replied an uncomprehending host. When will you be going, sir? he added.

Somewhere towards the middle of the month, Luke. Don’t think I can manage it before; wish I could. I’ve a book to finish.

Luke Weir nodded in admiration. The word book captivated him. Annesley looked at the time. Time the midday paper was in from Bridge, he said.

Weir took a step backwards so that he too could see the hands of the big clock in his bar. "You’re right, sir. Well past time if you ask me! It’s that new boy of Caldwell’s. Blast me if he don’t get later with the papers every day. With no reason for it. Saucy young rat, too! Yesterday he comes into the bar here, smacks down my Star on the counter, and shouts, for everybody to hear, ‘Here y’are, Weary.’ What do you think of it? And that’s what they call education. I don’t hold with it, and never did, sir."

Keith Annesley smiled broadly. He had heard mine host of the Running Horse in this strain many times before. He leisurely selected another cigarette from his case.

Weir pursued the thread of the previous conversation. "Education so-called makes people think above their proper station. Them papers are a good twenty minutes late already. The way this boy’s goin’ on—we shall get ’em after lunch soon. Lot o’ chance for you, then, if you want anything on for the first race. Next time I see him I’ll give Caldwell a piece of my mind. The words had scarcely left his mouth when the door of the bar opened. That is to say it was thrust back to the accompaniment of much noise. A thin-faced boy entered. He placed two papers of those he carried, on the counter in front of the landlord of the Running Horse". As he did so he grinned provocatively. Weir frowned at him. Then, as the boy turned, Keith Annesley noticed the announcement on the contents bill that had almost wrapped itself round the boy’s knees. Instead of the customary curt headlines concerning the day’s racing, he saw something, that seemed at first sight, not only to be vaguely alarming, but also to be hazily familiar. Luke Weir noticed it too. The newspaper boy went out, and Weir’s eyes met Annesley’s. The latter laughed lightly.

I’ve often wondered how it would look in cold print, he said. Now I know.

Weir repeated the words of the placard in wonderment. ‘Death of Keith Annesley.’ Gave me quite a turn with you standing there. What’s the idea? Somebody’s hand at a practical joke?

Annesley, still laughing silently, shook his head. No. Don’t you know to whom that refers? It’s the American Senator. The armaments magnate. He’s been confused with me before this. Before I look at the paper I’ll bet you what you like that it’s he who’s dead.

Luke Weir was still shaking his head. Go on. I’ll still say it gave me a turn. Curious how these things take you. I expect it was because you were standing there at the time. Is he any relation of yours?

Not that I know of. May be a sort of distant cousin. I believe that one of my grandfather’s brothers went to the States many years ago, but I know nothing more than that. Actually I was over thirty before I ever heard of this fellow. Then the first time I ever did see his name it gave me a bit of a shock, I admit. Though, of course, there’s no earthly reason why it should have done. Think of all the John Smiths there are knocking about. Annesley laughed again. Damn’ funny, that. That paper fellow crashing in like that.

The man seems pretty famous at any rate, commented Weir, for his death to give him headlines like these. He picked up the paper in a quest for more detailed knowledge.

Oh, rather! Quite a big shot. He’s been the head of a fierce armaments ramp over there for some time. The American papers have been full of him. Right in the public eye for some months now. What’s it say there about him?

Weir read the news. ‘Keith Annesley, the Armaments King, died suddenly this morning at his house near Wadour, U.S.A.’ Weir cocked a sapient eye towards his listener. Expect somebody bumped him off from the way that’s put. That’s about the size of it.

Couldn’t say, replied Annesley. And I don’t know that I’m very much concerned, either.

Guess if you’re not, I’m not, returned Weir, turning to greet a fresh arrival at the bar of the Running Horse.

No, said Keith Annesley with a chuckle. You can class me now with Mark Twain. When I looked at that placard a few minutes ago I felt that the whole business had been—as Mark himself said—‘grossly exaggerated’. Good morning, Luke. You needn’t buy any black for me yet awhile. I’ll see you again before I go away.

’Morning, Mr. Annesley, saluted Weir from behind the bar.

Keith Annesley walked out of the Running Horse into the sunlight. When he got back to his Fairey she wondered what it was that had made him so unusually light-hearted. After all, as she said to herself, "it wasn’t as though he was going to the ‘Running Horse’, he’s been there."

That evening, Keith Annesley sat in the parlour of the Running Horse and joked again with Luke Weir. It’s all right, he said with a grin; don’t keep looking at me like that, I’m not a ghost, you old ass. Fill that tankard again. And Luke Weir filled it many times.

CHAPTER II

DINNER PARTY AT HILLEARYS

Annesley was destined to remember that day for all time. For, by a coincidence, on the evening of that same day Jacqueline Hillier was found poisoned in her car. The dinner party at Hillearys on the evening of the 8th of June—that is to say about seven hours after the main events recorded in the previous chapter—consisted of eight people. As they were fated to play a most important part in this history their respective names were as follows. Paul Hillier, the host, his wife Jacqueline, their son and daughter Neill and Ann Hillier respectively, his brother Maurice, his brother Maurice’s wife Belle, and the Vicar of Lanrebel, the Rev. Septimus Aylmer, with spouse attached. As has been stated, they were destined, in their different ways, to play important parts in the history which is to follow. Some description, therefore, of each of them may not be out of place.

Paul Hillier was a big bulky man of about fifty-five years of age. He had a heavy swarthy face, dark-brown eyes, and iron-grey hair, but despite the fact that he was aging rapidly, his mind was always alert and well-ordered. He said little or nothing, but, mostly, that trifle which he did say was to the point. He was entirely conservative in all matters and a willingly slave to the whole gamut of the conventions. Shrewd observers of him would have formed the opinion that he loved both himself and his wife a little more than either of his children. But, of course, there is always the possibility that those observers whose shrewdness we applaud might have erred in their judgment. Jacqueline Hillier, his wife, was considerably younger than her husband. In every way. If her husband’s mind were alert, hers was always at least two paces ahead of it. Her eyes were dark blue and her hair, although double shaded in parts, in the main was a rich dark brown. Her eyes, besides being dark blue, were also lovely and made her almost beautiful. They certainly in themselves saved her face from the stigma of mere prettiness. And yet there was an indefinable quality in her eyes, when you caught her face in repose, that made you wonder about Jacqueline Hillier . . . wonder whether Fate had really handed her the court cards which it appeared to have done upon the surface of things.

Neill, her son, was more than a year younger than his sister Ann. He was like his mother as regards his features. He had inherited her eyes and, in addition, the Marsham nose . . . before her marriage his mother had been Jacqueline Evelyn Marsham and her father the Rev. Francis Cloud Marsham, Master of Arts of the University of Oxford. Neill’s face was thin and, for his age, curiously pale. There was seldom but little blood beneath his skin, and ordinarily a deep frown pulled together the dark-brown brows over the deep-set dark-blue eyes. By inclination he was drawn more to his father than to his mother. Most of the years of his life had been spent during his father’s prosperity, and he retained but little memory of the time when they had lived at a school in Sussex, and such things as a country house and landed estate were very much figments of the imagination. Neill had been to Repton for five years and was going up to Oxford at the beginning of the following October for the Michaelmas term.

Ann Hillier, his sister, was twenty and the first-born of her parents. According to the accepted standards, she was neither beautiful nor pretty, even after making allowance for the undoubted fact that Beauty, after all, lies in the eye of the beholder. But, despite these admissions, she was definitely attractive. She had a fine intellectual forehead and amazingly serene grey eyes. Her voice, too, was unusually musical, and she had to a remarkable degree her brother’s quick, sensitive intelligence. This last quality, perhaps, was the main reason why she was her mother’s almost inseparable companion. In fact, so constantly were they together, and so marvellously had Jacqueline worn during their term of years, that they were commonly accepted in most places to which they went as sisters or friends instead of mother and daughter.

Maurice Hillier was forty-seven—eight years younger than his brother Paul, at whose dinner table he was sitting. He was a small edition of his brother. With the same eyes and the same colouring, but spare where Paul was bulky and thinnish where Paul was comfortably covered. His eyes were more restless, though, than Paul’s, and darted ceaselessly from object to object. Through Paul’s help and generosity, extended to him from prosperity, he had been enabled to go on to the Stock Exchange and was doing very nicely, thank you. He and his wife were childless, and secretly, although the fact was probably much to their credit, rather ashamed of the condition.

Belle was thin, small-talkative, small-bodied, and small-minded. She was in the early thirties. Her redeeming feature, physically, was a head (very neat) that glinted with a sheen of coppery gold. At times she amused Jacqueline but, in her heart, Jacqueline despised her and after a short time tired of her completely. Belle Hillier, however, had a habit when she was listening to Jacqueline, in Jacqueline’s finer moments, of assuming the most delightful and unshakable meekness. She would sit in her chair and listen to a sparkling Jacqueline’s concise utterances, very straight and prim and with her hands clasped together in her lap. To her sister-in-law, at these moments, she always suggested an insubordinate schoolgirl being taken seriously to task for her delinquencies by a new and extremely enthusiastic headmistress.

The two remaining members of the Hillearys dinner party need perhaps a less detailed description than has been given to the people of the Hillier family. As has already been recorded, they were the Rev. Septimus Aylmer, Vicar of Lanrebel, and the Rev. Septimus’s wife, Mildred Ramsay Aylmer. Hillearys and the Vicarage itself are the only houses of any real size within the village of Lanrebel, which is situated in the county of Glebeshire in the south-western corner of England. In many directions, the Rev. Septimus was an extremely fortunate man. There were reasons. He had taken a certain amount of care with regard to that. His living of Lanrebel was worth about £800 a year and his premarital love for Mildred Ramsay had been considerably stimulated by the knowledge that although she was plain (a euphemism in itself) she would bring him another comfortable income. After marriage this income assisted his fund of affection even more, and there had come a time when it might be almost truthfully but regretfully said that it had completed usurped its place. Septimus’s most difficult task in his cure of Lanrebel was the taking of the evening service on the Sabbath. The rest of the week he spent in his beautiful garden or in his car, which (chauffeur drawn) took him over a considerable area of the most beautiful county in England.

Both the Rev. Septimus and his wife, Mildred Ramsay, loved to be invited to dinner at Hillearys even though there were occasions when the clever tongue of Jacqueline sported unmercifully with them, mainly for daughter Ann’s delight. The contents of Hillier’s cellar, however, gave the Rev. Septimus at all times the most gratifying compensation.

On the evening of this 8th of June Jacqueline had already given ample evidence that she was a long way from her usual self. Paul Hillier had watched her anxiously several times from his end of the table, because he was certain that she was companioned by care. Up to now, indeed, Neill and the Rev. Septimus had been the brightest lights at the table. Both Paul and Ann were affected by Jacqueline, and Belle and Maurice were content for a time to listen to Neill crossing swords with the Vicar of Lanrebel.

Yes. The country’s all very well, said Neill, if you’ve plenty of cash and can get out of it at the moment just whenever you want to. Otherwise, it’s cold and cruel and mentally suffocating. What do the people ever talk about? The main conversation is of flower shows, and ‘turnips and tatties’ almost always top the bill. I thank the Lord every day of my life that I’m going up to Oxford in the autumn. And if it hadn’t been for the fact that I ran a tonsil at the wrong time I’d have been there now.

Ah, said the Rev. Septimus, Oxford. . . . Dear me, what a vista it conjures up for me! . . . If I could only roll back the years. Dear, dear! Dreaming spires . . . the Magdalen bridge . . . the Iffley road . . . the House . . . My dear Neill . . . if you talk any more in this strain I shall have to pray to be delivered from the sin of envy. The Vicar Lanrebel smiled a somewhat fatuous smile, drained a glass of Paul Hillier’s exquisite sherry and murmured inevitably: The kindly fruits of the earth so that in due time we may enjoy them.

Paul attempted to rally his wife. He tossed her several fragments of conversation which in the ordinary course of events she would have welcomed avidly and returned with an additional sparkle. Ann tried gallantly to support her father in his especial endeavour. But Jacqueline remained moody, almost silent, and refused to be comforted. She answered most questions in monosyllables, and Paul Hillier saw how her fingers plucked nervously from time to time at the stem of her wineglass. Towards the end of the meal, she improved a little in spirits and tendered apologies that were occasionally accompanied by smiles which lit up her face and hinted at her attractiveness.

I’m truly sorry, she said, but I know I’ve been an atrocious hostess this evening. You must all forgive me for my aloofness and I’ll promise to make up for it all— She paused abruptly and again her fingers toyed with her glass.

Next time, prompted Mildred Aylmer with a self-conscious brightness, . . . that’s what you were going to say, isn’t it, Jacqueline?

Next time, repeated Jacqueline Hillier almost wonderingly. . . . Yes, that’s what I did mean, I suppose. There will always be a next time. There must be, of course.

Ann detected the strange note in her mother’s voice and looked towards her with increased anxiety. Mowbray, the butler, hovered behind chairs.

I feel, said Belle Hillier, with a certain nervous tensity, that if I play bridge this evening I shall play a positive ‘blinder’. That remark is intended primarily to attract a partner.

Paul Hillier smiled and gave her the necessary sign. The guests understood and rose.

In that case, returned the Rev. Septimus, fatuously gallant, count on me, Mrs. Hillier. Last week, if I remember rightly, Jacqueline and Neill chastised us with whips. This evening you and I may redress the balance with a chastisement of scorpions. That is if the cards are moderately kind. He chuckled to himself with sacerdotal satisfaction, and Neill’s eyelid drooped suspiciously in Ann’s direction.

Playing, Jacky? queried Ann of her mother.

Jacqueline shook her head. No, not tonight, Ann darling. I’ve a wretched head. It’s utterly foul! I’d be sorry for anybody whom I partnered this evening.

Ann slipped to her mother’s side and put an arm round her. What’s troubling you, little Mother?

Nothing, Ann. Nothing, my angel, really. Just one of my heads, that’s all. I shall be all right if you leave me alone. Go into the lounge with the others. I’ll join you later. Leave me to myself for just a little while longer, will you, darling? She smiled, but Ann knew that the smile was forced for her benefit. Ann shook her head doubtfully.

All right, Jacky, but promise me you’ll come in to us before very long. It’s always so dull and empty when you aren’t anywhere.

Jacqueline nodded brightly. That’s a promise, Babe. I’ll come in just as soon as I feel a bit better.

Ann moved off and with some reluctance joined the rest of the party in the lounge. As she entered the Rev. Septimus was still in full song.

I always speak as I think, Ann heard him say. The wife of