The League of Matthias: An Anthony Bathurst Mystery by Brian Flynn

Author:Brian Flynn [Flynn, Brian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B08FPCK7C8
Publisher: Dean Street Press
Published: 2020-10-05T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XVI

FROM THE WATERS OF THE SCHELDT

(Story continued by Lance Maturin)

But my blood was up now and my brain hard at work, and eventually there came rejoicing in my heart. For an excellent reason too. For, if Anthony Bathurst had scored over me in the matter of the pyjama-jacket and had definitely put me on the wrong side of the fence, as it were, it was now my turn. The time had arrived for me to score over him, and who is there amongst us big enough to scorn the sweet delight of the equalising goal or of the try that levels matters?

Consider the position as it appeared to me at that identical moment. I had worn the jacket—it is true—but who could prove that fact beyond Philippa Castleton and—very improbably—the dancer, de Verviac? But, against this, the jacket was not mine and never had been, and that is where Mr. Anthony Bathurst had hit a snag. Moreover, the truth had come home to me that the jacket must be my cousin’s—most of us Maturins are christened Lancelot, after our ancestor, the famous cavalier of that name who rode single-handed through a detachment of Ironsides at Marston Moor in 1644.

Although the direct and damning significance of the jacket in relation to Miss Castleton stung me beyond the telling, I realised that I might benefit from it because it afforded me a loophole of escape. So I drew the guv’nor away by the arm, and turned to Bathurst with a smile on my lips.

“I can’t explain,” I said to him curtly.

“You can’t? Or you won’t?”

Even then, although the beggar was questioning me and putting me through the mill, as you might say, I never felt that he was the slightest bit inimical or hostile towards me.

“No,” I said lightly. “It’s not that. I can’t explain—because I don’t know that that jacket actually has my name on it.”

Bathurst raised his eyebrows—critical and interrogative.

“I’m sorry, but I’m unable to follow you there, Mr. Maturin. Let me tell you that this pyjama-jacket was found in the street that runs along the back of that Antwerp lodging-house in which Inspector Rawlinson was shot. On the tab in the neck is a name—you’ve just seen it yourself—that name is Lancelot Maturin. Now you have just returned from Antwerp and your name is Lancelot Maturin. Also, you have escorted a lady home—to use your own words of a few moments ago—who is known to have lodged for some time in that particular house. And yet, despite this accumulation of evidence, if I understand you aright, you assert that you don’t know that this jacket does bear your name. Come, Mr. Maturin, you intrigue me, as our lady novelists would write. And, besides intriguing me, you interest me profoundly. Please proceed. I am all ears. You were about to remark . . . ?”

The beggar grinned at me again but in such a matey sort of way that my desire to score off him and get him down grew considerably less frantic.

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