“Yes, indeed,” agreed Bobby warmly; though thinking to himself that it was in ways that are dark and tricks that are vain that Finn was a real expert.
“Sammy came up here from town,” Finn continued, “over another business he took over before the war and wasn’t doing so well, and one night when he was in a pub he heard a bloke by the name of Weston telling of a half-cracked old bloke who lived all alone and made a living selling lotions and flavourings and such-like he made up himself and how one of them was pretty good—Sammy was on that in quick sticks—and how most likely the old bloke had some hold on the Rawdon family or why did they let him squat on their land and never ask any rent? Sammy asked the bloke he had put in to run the shop for him about the Rawdons, Sammy never having heard of the family or the Rawdon collection either. The bloke told him how valuable the paintings were and how the Rawdon family was hard up but couldn’t sell because of the entail. That made Sammy think. Me being an expert in pictures as he knew, he came along to get an idea what sort of a hold the old fellow could have and could it be about the pictures and the entail? Because Sammy had heard of pictures that couldn’t be sold being copied, and then the copies being hung and the originals sold instead. He reckoned if there was anything like that the old bloke knew, it might be worth while to know it, too. The idea was we might claim a reward for getting the stuff back. See?”
“Yes,” said Bobby, without comment but with meaning.
Finn looked at him and grinned.
“Not much you miss, is there?” he said. He added virtuously: “It did strike me maybe it was a spot of blackmail, from seller or from buyer —or from both—Sammy had in mind. So I told him nothing doing if it was that and he said he hadn’t ever thought of such a thing. I didn’t see there was anything we could do about it, and then just by chance I came across a book in the public library that was a sort of history of Wychwood Forest and neighbourhood and that made me remember the story of the two El Greco paintings that were supposed to be lost. I thought I would see if there was anything in it about that, so I took the book home, and sure enough there was a chapter all about the Rawdons and their history and their famous gallery of old masters, and it said how one of the family at the end of the last century had disappeared for a gipsy and what a pity it was because he was an amateur artist of great talent. Man and pictures both vanishing about the same time, I’m no blasted busy, but I can put two and two together.”
“I’m sure you can,” Bobby agreed heartily, and Finn looked very pleased; he might have blushed indeed, so pleased he was, had he but known how. He went on:
“It was no sure thing, but I thought there was a chance that’s what had become of the El Grecos. I put it to Victors, the big Bond Street dealers. I half expected them to turn it down, but they didn’t. In the picture trade you can never tell, and never any telling what happens to these old paintings that don’t look much unless you know. They promised to finance me up to twenty pounds, me to have a third share if I struck lucky. And they gave me some rather good El Greco prints to show round as specimens of what the missing stuff was like.”
“Find out anything?” Bobby asked.
“Not a thing,” Finn answered. “No one knew anything unless it was Dr Maskell, and if he did, he rumbled, and closed down tight.”
“Maskell?” repeated Bobby, once more startled but trying not to show it. “What makes you think he knew anything?”
“Not what he said,” retorted Finn, “because he didn’t. But you could see he was interested. Asked questions. Showed he didn’t fall for my yarn about me writing a book. I made up my mind I would keep an eye on him. Not so easy when it’s a doctor running round after his patients. But I soon found that he and the old hermit bloke hated each other like poison and yet he was trying to see him—and what for? Because it wasn’t because he was sick.”
“How do you know he was trying to see him?”
“Because I was myself. I never did. The old bloke was never there. But once I saw Maskell driving away, and another time I saw his car standing empty not far off.”
“Are you sure?”
“Oh, yes. I knew the number.”
“Did you see Maskell himself?”
“No,” admitted Finn. “I got lost. Sounds silly, I know. Give me London. You can tell where you are when it’s street. Streets are all different. But those blessed trees are all the same, so once you’ve turned round, you don’t know which way to head. Worse than any fog. It was nearly dark before I got to a road and back to Midwych. What I say is, what was Maskell doing there if he hadn’t the same idea as me and wasn’t trying to get in first with the El Grecos?”
Bobby refrained from expressing an opinion. But the suggestion that Maskell had been one of the dead man’s visitors was both interesting and disturbing.
“If you ask me,” continued Mr Finn, as one who knew his opinion was of value, “either it was Maskell did in the old bloke or it was no one. Maskell rumbled he had those El Greco paintings tucked away somewhere, had a try for them, the old man wouldn’t part, there was a scrap, the old man got the worst of it, Maskell shoved his body where you found it and went off with the paintings. Eh? What do you say?”
“Possible,” agreed Bobby, “only not much evidence, is there?”
“Get a search warrant,” advised Mr Finn, now deftly assuming the part of valued counsellor and assistant, “and have a look. I’ll lay you ten to one Maskell’s got those pictures, and if you look you’ll find them.”
Ignoring this suggestion, Bobby said:
“When you were making your inquiries, did you hear anything about its being possible the hermit was a man who had at one time been a gipsy, then been employed as a footman at Barsley Abbey and then gone back to a gipsy life? He is supposed to have been Mr Crayfoot’s grandfather according to the tale I heard.”
Finn looked blank, almost too blank, Bobby thought.
“Well, that’s a rum tale,” he said, “that’s a new one to me. This thing gets rummier and rummier all the time, don’t it?”
“Do you know a man named Coop?” Bobby asked; and when Finn shook his head and this time looked really puzzled, he went on: “He’s a frequent visitor to pubs. Spends most of his evenings in one or other.”
“I might know him if I saw him,” Finn said. “What about him?”
“There was a burglary at Mr Crayfoot’s,” Bobby explained. “I expect you’ve heard Sir Alfred Rawdon was shot. The house was ransacked. Nothing much taken so far as we know. I think Coop was the burglar. I am wondering if in default of a search warrant, he had been sent to see if the El Greco paintings were in Crayfoot’s possession.”
“If it was anyone it was Maskell,” declared Finn very emphatically. “If Coop’s been trying to fix it on me, he’s just another liar. I don’t say I’ve never seen the bloke, because I may have, but not that I know of. Never had anything to do with him. Maskell’s your man.”
“Either Maskell or another,” agreed Bobby, and so brought the interview to a close.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
DR MASKELL’S SYMPATHIES
LATE AS IT had now become, Bobby decided it was necessary, blackout or no blackout, to have immediately another talk with Dr Maskell. The story about his car having been seen near the hermit’s hut rested only on the unsupported evidence of a not too trustworthy witness, but the doctor ought to be informed promptly and offered an opportunity for any comment he might wish to make. So Bobby started off at once and was lucky enough to find Maskell at home, though not in any very amiable mood—but then Bobby knew already that with Dr Maskell amiable moods were rare—and much disposed to answer all questions with a brief and emphatic negative.
This negative was especially emphatic in reply to Mr Finn’s allegation that his car had been seen standing empty near the hermit’s hut. Finn’s story was dismissed as a stupid lie, probably told to divert suspicion from himself. Quite possibly Finn had seen Maskell driving along one of the roads in the neighbourhood. Why not? No
doubt, admitted the doctor, he could draw up from his record of professional visits a more or less accurate itinerary for the last few weeks, or years for that matter, but he had no intention of doing anything of the sort. He would, he explained, see the whole police force in general, and Inspector Bobby Owen in particular, at the bottom of the sea before wasting his time on so futile a job. The police were welcome to believe what they liked and think what they wished, assuming always that they were, in fact, capable of thought. Their beliefs and disbeliefs left him completely cold, as cold as did the fate of the murdered man. A mischievous old humbug well out of the way, in his opinion, and the only wonder was that it hadn’t happened before. Probably, the doctor suggested, whoever was guilty, if guilty was the right word, was somebody one of whose relatives had been poisoned by the old scoundrel’s filthy messes.
“His dying,” declared Dr Maskell, “means others living, his death, life for others. I could give you a list of those who would be alive and well to-day if they hadn’t been bamboozled into taking his poisons. Don’t ask me to waste any sympathy on him.”
“I won’t,” Bobby promised. “Did you ever hear any gossip about his identity?”
“What do you mean, his identity?” the doctor demanded. “He was well enough known, part of the stock in trade of all quacks is to get known. Anyhow, I don’t waste my time gossiping,” he added grimly, and indeed did not give the impression of one likely to yield to that amiable if deplorable weakness.
More closely pressed, he answered snappily that he had never heard anything about the old man’s origins. Or, alternatively, as the lawyers say, if he had heard anything of the kind, it had passed entirely from his mind.
Bobby passed to another subject.
“Recently,” he said, “this man Finn came to see you. He told you his name was Smith and said he was making inquiries about two El Greco paintings.”
The doctor nodded acquiescence.
“Travelling salesman, I should think,” he remarked, “from the way he talked. I remember he showed me an engraving. Said it was like two he was trying to trace. Something about a book he said he was writing. Where does he come into the business?”
“I wish I knew,” Bobby admitted. “Were you able to tell him anything?”
“I’m not an art critic,” snorted the doctor, rather as if saying ‘I’m not scum’. “I told him I went to see patients, not their pictures.” He gave again that grim smile of his. “I did tell him if I had ever seen a nightmare like the thing he showed me, I should certainly have remembered it.”
“Did he say anything about their having a big cash value?”
“Not that I remember,” answered the doctor carelessly. “Have they any? I understood he only wanted to know their whereabouts for this book he said he was writing. Most likely, considering the interest people about here take in art, they’ve been burnt or destroyed long ago.”
“I wonder if you ever heard anyone mention the Diabolic Candelabra?” Bobby asked.
“What’s that?” the doctor asked. “Sounds interesting. I don’t mind telling you I thought Mr Finn, if that’s his name, a bit of a wrong ’un. Do you mean you suspect him of being mixed up in the murder?”
“I suspect so many,” Bobby admitted sadly, “it makes me feel dizzy merely to try to remember them all.”
Maskell laughed; at least the sound he produced was evidently meant for laughter, though unaccustomed muscles of merriment creaked rather badly when thus abruptly called into action.
“I suppose you are sure it was murder, not suicide?” he asked, more amiability in his tone now, “I haven’t seen the injuries, but I have known a man try to kill himself by banging his head against a wall. Hurt himself badly, too. I should think it would be possible to inflict very serious wounds on yourself with an axe and then throw the thing away. Quite feasible.”
“I think it must be taken as a case of murder,” Bobby answered, thinking to himself that at any rate it was hardly feasible for a dead man to tie a rope round himself and haul himself into a tree in order to deposit himself in its hollow interior.
“Only a suggestion,” Maskell said carelessly. “My sympathies are with the murderer.” He paused and gave Bobby a hard, challenging stare, as much as to ask him what he thought of that. When Bobby made no comment Maskell went on: “If you can call it murder and not a public service. What about Crayfoot? Has he turned up yet?” and when Bobby answered by a shake of the head, the doctor added: “Queer business. A murder and Crayfoot bolts. See any connection?”
“I see the possibility of a connection,” Bobby answered cautiously. “But only a possibility. I don’t know what kind of connection, and I have no proof.”
“I take it proof always is a difficulty, isn’t it?” the doctor commented with something like a sneer. “You may guess and you may suspect, but when it comes to proof—stumped, eh?”
“Sometimes,” admitted Bobby. “Sometimes the proof turns up in time. One never knows. Finn says he saw Crayfoot climbing a path that goes up by the side of an old forest quarry—Boggart’s Hole, where the monks got the stone they built Barsley Abbey with. I expect you know it. The last anyone saw of Crayfoot apparently. So the puzzle is, what was he doing there and what did he want?”
“Boggart’s Hole?” repeated Maskell. “Yes, I know it,” he said thoughtfully. “There have been accidents there. I suppose you’ve had it searched?”
Bobby assured him it had been searched thoroughly, and therewith took his leave, not dissatisfied.
CHAPTER XXXIX
SUSPECTS
BY NOW IT was too late for any further action that day, so Bobby drove back home; told Olive he would be sitting up late to try to reach some conclusion on the facts as he knew them; overbore her prompt and passionate protest by advancing the odious platitude that duty is duty; accepted her offer, put forward with bitterness, of a jug of black coffee strong enough to keep Morpheus himself awake for a week; accepted also, and again with gratitude, her further offer to sit up and listen to his various theories.
“I won’t criticize,” she promised earnestly. “I’ll just listen.”
“Grand,” said Bobby with hearty approval.
“Of course,” said Olive humbly, “now and then I may just have to ask you to explain.”
“We will not,” said Bobby coldly, “split hairs about where explanations end and criticism begins. But I don’t like that humble tone of yours.”
“Oh, why?” asked Olive surprised.
“Because,” explained Bobby, “the wife’s humility goes before the husband’s fall.”
“Marriage maxim No. 1,” Olive remarked thoughtfully, “Marriage maxim No. 2 being ‘Serves him right’.”
Not dissatisfied with this retort to which Bobby was unable to produce an adequate reply, Olive retired to the kitchen to brew that Morpheus-defeating beverage she had promised. She returned with it of the strength of an R.A.F. bomb and of a blackness to satisfy even an Air Raid Warden on his nightly prowl.
“Now then,” she said, settling herself.
“Take alibis to begin with,” Bobby began. “Alibis are always important—the senior Mr Weller was quite right about that. If you can show you were somewhere else when it happened, obviously it wasn’t you.”
“Delayed action,” interjected Olive.
“A hatchet applied to the head isn’t delayed action,” Bobby pointed out. “The thing is, there’s nothing to show the exact time of the murder. Before we saw Lindley Finn on Sunday, but how long before? The blood on the hatchet was dry enough for him to pick at it with his thumb. But how dry? Then it had apparently been lying in the grass. That would delay drying. What happened may have been only an hour or two before, or it may have been much longer.”
Olive took a piece of paper and wrote:
“Alibis out.”
Then she said:
“Not much help.”
“Then there’s motive,” Bobby said. “Who benefits? is a sound question. But here there’
s a complex of possible motives. The new flavouring.”
“You can’t think a new flavour for chocolates could lead to murder,” Olive declared.
“Anything can lead to murder,” Bobby answered. “When Wain-wright was asked why he poisoned his sister-in-law, he said it was because her ankles were so thick.”
“Good gracious,” said Olive, giving a hurried glance at her own and a trifle relieved to observe that they were as slim as ankles should be.
“A new flavour might mean money,” Bobby continued. “I rang up one of the big confectionery people this morning and they said they might give quite a fair sum for one, if it was really good.”
“This was,” said Olive with conviction. “Like going to heaven in a band box.”
“Then there are those El Greco paintings and the candelabra,” Bobby went on. “A small fortune there and not so small either. Or a quarrel. Or the question of the old man’s identity. Or revenge.”
Slowly Olive wrote down: “Flavouring, Pictures. Identity. Quarrel. Revenge.” Then she shook her head:
“They need sorting out,” she said. “Identity. I don’t see why it mattered so much who he was.”
“If he was actually the Rawdon who left home to turn gipsy and didn’t die anywhere in France, it would matter a good deal,” Bobby retorted. “Make all sorts of complications. Or he may have been Crayfoot’s grandfather, the ex-footman. Or neither perhaps.”
“How are you going to find out?” Olive asked.
“I don’t know,” answered Bobby, relieved to be able to give a plain answer to a plain question. “Let’s go over the whole list of suspects one by one and see what we get.”
“How many suspects as you call them, are there?” Olive asked.
Bobby began to give the list, checking them off on his fingers.
“First,” he said, “there’s the present baronet, if baronet he is, Sir Alfred Rawdon.”
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