Six Were Present: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  Bobby looked entirely unconvinced.

  “Surely he could easily have got to know all that by entirely normal means,” he said. “But didn’t you tell me you had never opened the thing? So you can’t be sure he’s right about that, can you?”

  “I never opened it and I never shall,” Outers repeated and was silent for a moment or two, then resumed: “I promised. But I was told by the man I got it from. A dead man’s hand. The hand of a man who had been buried alive. A sacrifice.”

  “Good God!” Bobby muttered below his breath. “What an idea,” and in his mind buzzed confused memories of the Hand of Glory, that ancient, widely-spread, rather horrible superstition.

  “Ludo is rather keen on opening it,” Outers continued. “He’ll never get the chance, not while I live. I think Rosamund would agree. Perhaps Myra, too. Ludo would like to go out there. Rosamund would, too. Not Myra. There’s the uranium. Teddy knew about that as well.”

  “Uranium?” Bobby exclaimed, startled. “Do you mean there’s uranium in this thing of yours?”

  “Not uranium itself,” Outers answered. “A map. A big field, it may be the biggest, richest in the world. The natives know, but the witch-doctors have warned them never to tell the white man, and if they do all their lands will be taken from them. It’s in a native reservation. A white man did find it two or three years ago, so they poisoned him, but not before he had drawn a map. They didn’t dare destroy that. They thought it was big medicine, so they put it in the bag I’ve got. That’s what made the first medicine go bad, so now there are two strong medicines, both bad, each making the other worse. That’s what they thought. You understand?”

  “What are you going to do about it?” Bobby asked.

  “Nothing. Why should I?” Outers asked in return. “Some day it will be found. Then the poor devils will lose their lands. Progress. You understand.”

  “There would be ample compensation,” Bobby said, though with some hesitation.

  “Oh, ample,” Outers agreed, tugging fiercely at his big black beard. “Only thing, they would die of it. To a native, to lose his land is to lose his life. Ludo would like to get hold of the map. He won’t. Not while I’m alive. Perhaps that’s why he wants Rosamund. He has plans. Full of them. Shall we see if we can find the ladies? I expect Teddy is still waiting.”

  CHAPTER IV

  THE DEATH WISH

  HOWEVER, IN THE hall there was no sign of Teddy Peel. Mr Outers muttered something about his having probably been picked up by Myra or someone, and he and Bobby went out to the front, where already Folly Tower was throwing its long dark shadow over flower beds and shrubs. Bobby made some complimentary remark, for indeed they made a pleasant sight, though of no great extent.

  “Myra and Rosamund look after it between them,” Outers explained. “Dewey James helps with the heavier work, the digging and rolling and so on. They oughtn’t to let him. Rosamund says they try not to, but he won’t take any notice. He has enough of his own work to attend to. There they are now,” and this was said with a kind of undertow of strong resentment.

  Bobby had already noticed them standing near Freres Lodge, talking and laughing together. Mrs James came round the corner of the building, swinging along with astonishing agility on her crutch. When she saw them, she paused, swung round equally nimbly and disappeared as swiftly as she had come. It was rather like a vanishing trick and one that did not seem to please Outers, who was tugging at his beard in a way he had when he was troubled or annoyed. Bobby, looking up at the tower, said:

  “When we were kids, Myra and I used to have races to see who could get to the top first. Myra won as often as not. You get a fine view up there.”

  “It’s where we meet,” Outers said. “Teddy’s idea. He said it helped being so high up. Myra and Rosamund. Mrs James. According to Teddy, her presence is necessary. She’s not a medium herself, but she is a reserve of power. That’s what he says.”

  “Can she manage the climb?” Bobby asked.

  “As well as anyone—better,” Outers answered. “You would be surprised. Then there’s generally Bryan Baynham—B.B. he gets called. He’s Chairman of the B.B. Agricultural Implement Manufacturing Company—the people Mrs James was working for when she lost her leg. But he’s a sceptic. All humbug. That’s what he says.”

  “What’s he go for, then?” Bobby asked.

  “Rosamund,” Outers explained. “They quarrel about it. He tells her it’s nonsense and she tells him it’s no business of his. They’re on speaking terms at present, but that’s about all. If you would like to join us to-morrow, your wife too if she cared to—sometimes things do happen.”

  “I’m afraid we could hardly fit it in,” Bobby answered somewhat hurriedly, beginning to suspect that to secure his attendance had been the chief cause and object of Myra’s somewhat obscure but certainly appealing letter.

  Well, if that had been the idea it wasn’t going to come off. Of that Bobby was more than ever determined. He found himself wondering if it was because the same sort of gentle, indirect pressure was being put on Olive that she and Myra had remained so long invisible. Meanwhile, Rosamund and Dewey James were still laughing and talking together and Bobby, watching them, said:

  “Does Mr Dewey James come with his mother?”

  “No,” answered Outers. “He doesn’t approve. He tried to get his mother to stop away and he tells Rosamund she ought to give it up. He is the only one she’ll listen to. B.B. she shuts up at once, but Dewey can say what he likes. She’s sorry for him. You understand?”

  Bobby said he did. Outers looked as if he didn’t. From behind the house a man now appeared. He was young, sturdily built, handsome in a dark moody way with hair and eyes almost as black as Rosamund’s that were like night itself. He walked with a light, swift step and then stood still suddenly, rather like a dog scenting game. Apparently he had not noticed Outers and Bobby, standing near the house, a little to one side. Instead he was staring hard at Rosamund and Dewey, and, though Bobby was not near enough to see his features plainly, he had the feeling that it was no friendly stare thus concentrated on those two standing and laughing in the sunshine by the old lodge. It was almost, Bobby thought, like a jealous lover watching a rival making unexpected progress in the favour of his mistress. But surely that could not be. This confident, well-dressed, prosperous-looking young man did not seem one likely to be jealous of a hunchback, an almost dwarf, a market gardener or smallholder not making much of a success of his job.

  “It’s Ludo Manners,” Mr Outers was saying. “About tomorrow I expect.”

  By this time Ludo had become aware of their presence. He came towards them, but still with more than half his attention given to Rosamund and Dewey. Now Rosamund laughed again and ran off, turning as she went to wave a gay farewell. Dewey did not acknowledge that parting gesture, but there was something in his attitude as he stood motionless that made Bobby think of an acolyte watching disappear the vision of his goddess that had been vouchsafed to him. At Bobby’s side Outers was saying as much to himself as to Bobby.

  “You don’t often hear her laugh like that.”

  Ludo had joined them now. He looked frowning and disturbed and his eyes were full of anger as they rested on the motionless Dewey still watching the disappearing figure of Rosamund. Even in his voice there was a kind of rumble of suppressed resentment as he exchanged greetings with Outers—whom he addressed as ‘Val’—and expressed his pleasure at meeting Bobby, of whom, he said, he had heard so much from ‘Val and Myra’. A young man very much at ease in the world, Bobby thought, and evidently a devotee of the new fashion of addressing all and sundry by their Christian names. A little inclined, too, to be rather patronizing towards others who he felt would never reach the heights he himself was so sure of attaining.

  “Myra’s hoping you will be joining us to-morrow,” he was saying now. “I can promise you things do happen—things I own up I can’t account for.”

  “I’ve been hearing about that,” Bobby
said. “A solid financial result?”

  “That’s right,” Ludo said beamingly. “Though, mind you, it took working out. I’m an insurance broker and all out of the blue Teddy said he had a message for me about a Midminster firm being headed straight for trouble. No bis. of mine, I wasn’t a shareholder or anything. Why should I be told? But what I say is, if you do get tipped off, follow it up. If it’s all hunkadory, no harm done. If it isn’t, take appropriate action. How come, you say, you having no standing. Bit of a problem, but I worked it out. I found a big Midminster man, a real V.I.P., had just put a sizeable bit of capital into the firm for developments. I managed to get an introduction to him and I talked him into letting me insure him at Lloyd’s against any loss if the developments went wrong. Lloyd’s thought the risk derisory, so was the premium, my commission the same, only more so, and then when the crash came, there was my V.I.P. sitting pretty, with a claim on Lloyd’s to cover every penny of his loss. Nothing in it for me, you say? That’s where you’re wrong,” and he smiled triumphantly at this rebuttal of an opinion that Bobby had neither formed nor expressed. “Sent my prestige away up. I don’t need to go to people now; they come to me. And my V.I.P. hasn’t forgotten I saved him thousands of pounds—thousands.”

  “Very interesting,” Bobby said, still cautious, but undeniably impressed.

  “And if you ask me how Teddy knew—well, I can’t tell you,” Ludo added. “Beats me. Flummoxed I am.” And that anything should ‘beat’ him, or that he should ever be ‘flummoxed’ seemed to astonish him more than had done the happenings themselves.

  “Do you know, I rather think I should like to climb the Folly again—there’s a magnificent view,” Bobby remarked to Mr. Outers.

  “Not for me,” declared Ludo promptly. “Too much of a fag by half. Folly—that’s right,” he added, chuckling throatily.

  “Well, why not?” Outers said. To Ludo, he said: “Wait for us here, will you?” and received the prompt assurance that that young gentleman would be around.

  “Mooch around till someone shows,” he said. “I might see if I can find Rosamund,” and for a moment a faintly complacent smile showed itself and vanished.

  He strolled away then and the other two began their climb, Bobby telling himself that he rather wished he had not eaten quite such a good luncheon, but thinking also that to run up and down those interminable stairs two or three times a day would be excellent training for anyone. He noticed that what once had been a communicating door between the Folly and the first floor of the old house was still there, though now more as a doorway than as a door, this being represented by a few boards placed crossways in position, presumably to forbid its use as an entry to the old ruin. No doubt it was in a highly dangerous condition and should have been demolished long ago.

  A little out of breath, he reached the top chamber, but it was not the view, the professed object of the climb, in which he showed most interest. He had indeed really yielded to a curious urge he had felt to visit the scene of Ludo’s experience. Then, too, there had been Ludo’s assurance that ‘things’—unspecified ‘things’—happened there. It was just possible, Bobby told himself, that he would be able to find something either to confirm or deny the doubts and suspicions he felt.

  In his boyhood this upper chamber had been entirely empty: stone walls, stone roof, stone floor, four unglazed windows, north, south, east and west, through which the four winds of heaven blew unchecked, by which with his telescope the original builder of the Folly had been able at ease to survey the surrounding country—an inactive god high above all earthly things. In one corner a small winding stair led up to the flat roof, guarded only by a low parapet, so that to venture out on it was an ordeal some would not have cared to brave.

  Now all that was changed. There were rugs on the floor, the four windows had been provided with glass, shutters, curtains: there were chairs and a table, against the wall stood an enormous gramophone. Doors had been fitted both where the steps from below ended and where those others led up to the flat roof. Before them, too, curtains hung.

  Up here, the doors closed, the windows shuttered, the curtains drawn, one would be as private from the world as remote from all earthly influences as well could be. Outers, a puffing, panting Outers, had joined him now, and stood in the doorway, tugging at his beard with both hands, a sure sign that he was feeling troubled and uneasy. As he remained silent, apparently disinclined to speak, making no reply to Bobby’s first rather banal remark about its being a long climb, Bobby added that it must have been difficult to get all these things up that steep stairway with all its twists and turns.

  “We all helped,” Outers mumbled in response, “Ludo, Dewey, B.B. too.”

  “B.B.” repeated Bobby, and then, remembering: “Oh, yes. Bryan Baynham, another Midminster man. Was he impressed, too?”

  “No. He only comes because of Rosamund. He proposed to her, but she put him off, and then they quarrelled.”

  “Over these meetings?” Bobby asked.

  “Over both wanting their own way,” Outers told him.

  “It’s a common cause of quarrels,” Bobby commented, and thought that with Bryan Baynham proposing, Ludo Manners obviously courting, and Dewey James still more obviously worshipping, Miss Rosamund had her hands as full as any girl could reasonably desire. Yet she had in no way given him the impression that she was anything of a flirt. Secret depths in her, he thought, not easy to fathom, depths perhaps that neither she nor others should ever try to explore. When Outers offered no comment on what he had just said, but just pulled his beard harder and looked more gloomy even than before, Bobby went on: “There are plenty of ways of explaining the message Ludo got without calling in spirits.”

  “Not spirits,” Outers mumbled in an interruption Bobby hardly heard.

  “Coincidence, for instance,” he said. “Or just a lucky guess. Or thought transference. Manners may have heard some bit of gossip, paid it no attention at the moment, stowed it away in his unconscious till it worked itself into Peel’s mind and Manners got it back again.”

  “It proved true,” Outers reminded him.

  “Ideas sometimes work out their own truth,” Bobby said; and now Outers looked at him so strangely from those dark, glittering eyes of his that Bobby was quite startled. It seemed he had said something that for Outers had a significance far beyond Bobby’s knowledge or intention. He began to speak. He said: “I mean—” and then paused, for indeed he did not know what he had meant.

  “It is why Myra is afraid,” Outers said. “It may be there is a death wish loose among us and she is afraid.”

  CHAPTER V

  TRAGIC STORY

  CONSIDERABLY STARTLED, Bobby looked at his companion for a moment or two in silence. Then he said sharply, frowningly:

  “What does that mean? Whose death wish?”

  Outers it was who this time remained silent. He had suddenly begun to look very tired, as if the effort of saying what he had just said had exhausted him. When he moved from the doorway where he had been standing to sit down on one of the chairs by the table in the centre of the room, he walked like an old man. Bobby repeated his question; and this time, but mumbling so that his words could hardly be heard, Outers replied:

  “What you said yourself,” he muttered. “Just now. The witch-doctors, too. They tell you that when a thought is born, if it is strong enough, it seeks instinctively to find a mind where it can come to life in action—just as a newborn child strives by instinct to become a man to express itself in deed. The Church warns against dangerous thinking. In the West, psychologists are beginning to ask if when a deed is done, is it done by the doer or is it done through him?” and Bobby, hearing this, remembered that once he had listened to almost those very words spoken by a man who had indeed acted suddenly, swiftly, almost without intention.

  For a moment he had the impression that in this high lonely room unseen forces were at work. Angrily he tried to throw it off, but he found himself crossing to a window to as
sure himself that the sun still shone without, that the winds still blew. He came back and sat down opposite Outers, who once more had sunk into a dark silence.

  “Tell me more,” he said.

  “We had two sons,” Outers answered in the dull, flat voice that now had come to him. “They knew African beliefs. They had been born there, always lived there, they knew more than I ever did. The Africans told them things, said things before them that would never have been said before me—things the boys did not always tell again to me. There are initiation ceremonies when boys become men. You’ll know that. Everywhere, in every age, always secret, secret and sacred. No woman is ever present, no European—above all, no European. It is death to try, instant death. Our two boys thought they would find out what really happened, for none would ever tell them that, neither their playmates nor those who had been their nurses in babyhood, their teachers and friends and daily companions since their birth. One night they slipped away to try. They did not return. Months later some bones were found. In the deep bush. Boys. European.”

  “They had been murdered,” Bobby said.

  “We do not know. We hope that was all. It depends on how much they had seen or heard. It may be that when they were discovered they were taken into the bush and left to find their own way home, but not before the initiation ceremonies were over. It might be like that. We shall never know.”

  “A tragic story,” Bobby said, more moved than he cared to show.

  “Rosamund has never been the same since,” Outers said. “She used to be always laughing, but not now. She was older than the twins, but they were always together, she and they.”