Inspector Stoddart Mysteries Series

"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.

The big clock outside struck 7.30. Early as it was, Inspector Stoddart was already in his room at Scotland Yard. He looked up impatiently as his most trusted subordinate, Alfred Harbord, entered after a sharp preliminary tap. "Yes, sir. You sent for me?" The inspector nodded. "You are detailed for special duty at once. We are starting in the runabout immediately, so if you want to send a message?" He nodded at the telephone. Harbord grinned. "My people are pretty well used to my irregular habits, thank you, sir." The inspector rose. "The sooner we are off the better, then." He handed Harbord a typewritten paper. "Wired up," he said laconically, "from the Downs."  

"Beastly mess the place seems to be in," grumbled Sir Arthur Penn-Moreton, looking round the room with a disgusted air. "Well, if you will give balls you have to put up with the aftermath," said Dicky, his younger brother, screwing his monocle in his left eye as he spoke. Dicky was already seated at the table devouring kidneys and bacon with apparent relish. Sir Arthur glanced at him as he sat down opposite. "You don't look up to much this morning, Dicky!" "How can a chap look up to much when he has sat up to the small hours of the night before, dancing round with a lot of screaming young women, and eating all sorts of indigestible food?" Dicky questioned, taking another helping of kidney. "You don't look any great shakes yourself for that matter. We are neither of us in our first youth, Arthur, you must remember. Years will tell, you know."

This, the last of twelve mystery stories writtesn by the late Annie Haynes—who died last year—was left unfinished. One of Miss Haynes's friends, also a popular writer of this type of fiction, offered to undertake the work of completion, and it says much for her skill that she has independently arrived at Miss Haynes's own solution of the mystery, which was known only to myself. It is not generally known that for the last fifteen years of her life Miss Haynes was in constant pain and writing itself was a considerable effort. Her courage in facing her illness was remarkable, and the fact that she was handicapped not only by the pain but also by the helplessness of her malady greatly enhances the merit of her achievements. It was impossible for her to go out into the world for fresh material for her books, her only journeys being from her bedroom to her study. The enforced inaction was the harder to bear in her case, as before her illness she was extremely energetic. Her intense interest in crime and criminal psychology led her into the most varied activities, such as cycling miles to visit the scene of the Luard Murder, pushing her way into the cellar of 39 Hilldrop Crescent, where the remains of Belle Elmore were discovered, and attending the Crippen trial.