Annie Haynes - Inspector Stoddart's Murder Mysteries (4 Intriguing Golden Age Thrillers)

Annie Haynes

Including The Man with the Dark Beard, Who Killed Charmian Karslake & The Crime at Tattenham Corner

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musaicumbooks@okpublishing.info2017 OK Publishing ISBN 978-80-7583-245-0

The Man with the Dark Beard The Man with the Dark Beard Table of Contents Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Chapter XIII Chapter XIV Chapter XV Chapter XVI Chapter XVII Chapter XVIII Chapter XIX Chapter XX Chapter XXI Chapter XXII Chapter XXIII Chapter XXIV

Who Killed Charmian Karslake? Who Killed Charmian Karslake? Table of Contents Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Chapter XIII Chapter XIV Chapter XV Chapter XVI Chapter XVII Chapter XVIII Chapter XIX Chapter XX Chapter XXI Chapter XXII Chapter XXIII Chapter XXIV Chapter XXV Chapter XXVI

The Crime at Tattenham Corner Annie Haynes

The Crystal Beads Murder Annie Haynes

Table of Contents Table of Contents The Man with the Dark Beard The Man with the Dark Beard Table of Contents Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Chapter XIII Chapter XIV Chapter XV Chapter XVI Chapter XVII Chapter XVIII Chapter XIX Chapter XX Chapter XXI Chapter XXII Chapter XXIII Chapter XXIV Who Killed Charmian Karslake? Who Killed Charmian Karslake? Table of Contents Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Chapter XIII Chapter XIV Chapter XV Chapter XVI Chapter XVII Chapter XVIII Chapter XIX Chapter XX Chapter XXI Chapter XXII Chapter XXIII Chapter XXIV Chapter XXV Chapter XXVI The Crime at Tattenham Corner Annie Haynes The Crystal Beads Murder Annie Haynes

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Chapter XXIII

Chapter XXIV

Table of Contents

"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.