Bobby showed no sign of any special interest on hearing this unflattering description of Mr Pyle’s caravan attendant. It is of course a matter of police discipline—almost a point of honour, one might say—to allow no hint of any knowledge a police officer may have of a man’s past to escape him when he hears of a former criminal apparently endeavouring to earn an honest living. Enlightened self-interest, perhaps. ‘One headache off our hands,’ an Inspector of reputedly Irish descent was accustomed to say when he heard of such cases.
A thoroughly sensible comment, Bobby thought it. Nevertheless this time he could not help feeling a little uneasy. He had at once recognized Mr Day-Bell’s description as that of a man named Item Sims, his father having had so many children he had grown tired of finding fresh names for them all and had decided to consider this newest arrival as just another family item. Item had not turned out well, possibly handicapped by a name that seemed to deny him a personal importance he had known no other way of emphasizing than by taking to crime. At any rate, that would probably be the fashionable psycho-analytic explanation. In underworld circles he was known as ‘Sticker’ Sims, from his preference for the use of knife instead of gun. ‘Knives don’t miss,’ he was accustomed to say. ‘Knives don’t jam; they can’t fit in a knife the way they can a bullet to a gun. Give me a knife every time.’ But this, Bobby knew, was what is now called a ‘rationalization’. A fortune-teller of wide repute in the underworld had warned Item that one day not too far off he would die from a pistol shot he would fire himself. Thereon he had sworn never again to touch a gun—revolver or automatic—or ever to be near one if he could possibly help it.
Item had served one long sentence, one or two shorter sentences for rather specially brutal assaults, and altogether was an extremely unpleasant item in the current police records, though at the moment there was nothing against him—except apparently being rude to Mr Day-Bell, which was most regrettable, but not a criminal offence.
But of all this Bobby gave no sign. It didn’t seem likely there could be two men answering to the description given. But it was a possibility; and Bobby decided he would pay an early visit to the caravan, partly to make sure it really was Item, and partly, if it were him, to let him know that the police were aware of his presence. That might be a useful deterrent—or ‘disincentive’, Bobby supposed he ought to say, if he wanted, as he always did, to be up to date—should any ‘unlawful occasion’ be under consideration. If it was the real Item Sims Mr Pyle had with him, then it certainly seemed he had made a very odd choice of a travelling companion—very odd indeed. And oddities are always interesting, or so Bobby thought.
One of the club servants appeared—a trim little maid in a natty uniform designed by the wife of the chairman of the club, a lady who was also the owner of a ‘select fashion salon’ in the Penton High Street. The maid said:
“Gentleman to see you, sir—Mr Pyle.”
CHAPTER III
ODDITIES ARE INTERESTING
MR PYLE was a stout, heavily built man, wearing his clothes with that kind of shabby carelessness only the really rich and important can afford. His whole manner, his rather loud, dictatorial voice, proclaimed the assurance that comes from the same sense of a safe and secure position in the world. His most noticeable features were his jaw—square, projecting, thrusting—and his large, light blue eyes, set unusually far apart; though, as he wore heavy horn-rimmed spectacles, they could not be seen very plainly. A curious trick he had was that of blowing his nose at frequent intervals, and when he did so it was like the blast of a trumpet. At first he seemed inclined to ignore Bobby, on whom he bestowed a brief glance and nod, as if wondering for a passing moment who he was and what he was doing there, and then deciding that anyhow it didn’t matter much. It was Mr Day-Bell he addressed—the appropriate word—before that gentleman had been able to do more than make a few vaguely polite introductory remarks. In a loud, harsh, authoritative voice, a voice that seemed to proclaim it knew it had to be listened to with respect, he began by saying he had been pleased to receive Mr Day-Bell’s note, as he hoped he could take it this meant that Day-Bell was willing to consider afresh his former position.
“It is absolutely essential,” declared Mr Pyle, as if daring disagreement, “that these papers, poems, the last work of a very great poet, letters that will shed such an illuminating light upon his character and his career, should be recovered, restored to the light of day.” He paused and blew his nose with that startling effect it always had upon those who heard it for the first time. “The last great poet,” he resumed before his two listeners had fully recovered from the shock of that reverberating report, “England has produced for nearly two hundred years and already half forgotten by a people always only too ready to forget their past glories. That must be put right.” He paused again—again as if daring them to challenge his pronouncements—and then went on: “Tennyson, Browning—merely singers of an idle day, both of them, as one at least knew very well. Even Hopkins cannot be mentioned in the same breath as Stephen Asprey. The poems must be given to the world to whom they belong. The letters, too—the letters of a great lover, an inspiration to all who believe, as I do, that the love of man and woman is the highest inspiration of the human spirit. Nor can a poet’s work be appreciated as it should be till instructed criticism has made itself thoroughly familiar with his inner life—the whole truth.”
A little breathless, Mr Pyle paused again, and looked severely at his two auditors, apparently to assure himself that they had been suitably impressed. Mr Day-Bell, though he had uttered no word, was a little breathless, too, overwhelmed by such a torrent of eloquence. Bobby, gravely attentive, was asking himself how much of this was genuine and how much mere professional chatter. He decided it was indeed genuine. He told himself that Mr Pyle had made for himself an idol, not with his hands but with his mind, and that he had come to consider the shrine at which he worshipped his own private property, even though subsidiary acolytes would be permitted. A dangerous worship, Bobby felt. Apparently satisfied with the tribute of their silence, Mr Pyle was about to continue his tirade when Bobby murmured, not very loudly but very distinctly:
“Difficult, don’t you think, to know the whole truth about anything?”
Mr Pyle gave him a surprised look, astonished at a comment he clearly considered out of place.
“Difficult, no doubt,” he admitted, “but less so to the trained intelligence,” and now Mr Pyle’s glance had changed from the surprised to the withering—that famous glance of his before which subordinates vanished away like that proverbial snowball so improbably finding itself in hell.
But Bobby was not easily impressed by withering glances, and to Mr Pyle’s he returned his most amiable smile, while Mr Day-Bell took advantage of the momentary pause to say:
“It was a somewhat different matter which I felt it would be desirable to mention to you, and I must explain, too, that I have in no way altered the view I take.”
“Indeed,” Mr Pyle said, coldly surprised and without showing the least curiosity or desire to know what this different matter might be. “I must confess I am equally astonished and disappointed. I entirely fail to understand what I can only call the concerted opposition I am meeting with. It is of national—international—importance that these papers should be brought to the light of day. You must be well aware that the first recognition of Stephen Asprey’s genius came when his poems during the First World War in praise of heroic France were widely quoted there. I believe originally by a Deputy in the National Assembly. Recently I have had letters from many leaders of thought, scholars, critics, from America, from France, from elsewhere, expressing the warmest appreciation of my efforts and pledging full support. I shall leave no stone unturned, no avenue unexplored, to achieve my object, and I shall I know have the support of all right thinking men and women. Yet here, where Stephen Asprey’s memory should be even more honoured than elsewhere, since here it was that his genius reached its peak in his last poems, when hu
man love reached its highest expression in the letters to Janet Merton, that I find the most obstinate opposition,” and once again he stopped to blow his nose and once again that trumpet-like challenge sounded clear and loud.
But this time his two hearers were better prepared, and Bobby took the opportunity to remark:
“I was just wondering why you rate these poems and letters so highly. No one has ever had a chance to see them, I think.”
“I judge their value,” Mr Pyle retorted, “by what I know of Asprey’s work and career—and few know more. By what Asprey himself said when, with that last fine gesture of his, he placed letters and poems in the coffin of the woman he had so greatly loved,” and Bobby’s further interjected question: “Why greatly?” was ignored, not even heard, probably, for Mr Pyle continued unchecked: “It was, no doubt, the same at Stratford-on-Avon when Shakespeare retired there to write his greatest play: The Tempest. Not a word has come down to us to indicate that one single person in the town knew what was happening. My hope is to employ the royalties and other receipts accruing from Asprey’s biography, for which I am gathering material, to found an Asprey memorial trust at Penton. Yet I find little welcome for a project which would bring to Penton some of the glory that is rightfully Asprey’s alone, but in which Penton also would share, as Stratford shares in Shakespeare’s.”
“Instead of the concerted opposition you spoke of,” Bobby said cheerfully, and, ignoring the stony stare Mr Pyle now bestowed upon him, he continued: “I don’t quite see, though, how you are going to get over it. I’m told the grave is the freehold of the Merton family.”
“I have,” Mr Pyle retorted, “what practically amounts to an undertaking from the Home Office. I happen to be a close personal friend of the Home Secretary, and I had the privilege of giving him the whole-hearted support of the not uninfluential paper I am connected with when there seemed to be some ill-considered opposition to his appointment to his present office.” He paused, and was gratified to observe that Mr Day-Bell did look suitably impressed and that Bobby appeared thoughtful. He resumed: “Nor have I failed to find among many in high positions—political, social, financial, indeed in all ranks of life—a civilized awareness of the absolute necessity of the recovery of documents of such importance to the cultural life of the country—of the world, indeed.”
By this time his voice was trembling with excitement. He took off his spectacles and waved them challengingly in the air, and now Bobby was able to see more plainly how the pallor of those large, light blue eyes had become charged with, shone with, a kind of fanatical enthusiasm.
“I am not sure,” Bobby remarked, “that the Home Office has the power to give any such permission. Not if the freeholder objects. Not on its own, anyhow. I imagine it would take something like a private Act of Parliament. An Order in Council might be enough. I don’t know.”
“There would be no difficulty about that,” Mr Pyle asserted confidently, as one who habitually went about with Orders in Council in his pocket. “But I did promise I would first of all, before taking other steps, do all I could to secure the consent of all concerned. But I only meet with a foolish, ignorant, pig-headed opposition, a merely emotional, unreasoning resistance,” and with every epithet he used, the light in those large pale eyes of his glowed ever more strongly. As if sub-consciously aware of this, he replaced his heavy, horn-rimmed spectacles as he resumed: “Only this morning I called to see Mrs Asprey in that tumble-down, dilapidated house she seems to be occupying.”
“It was the only vacant residence in the district,” Day-Bell interposed.
“Well, she has a flat in Bristol,” Mr Pyle snapped. “She refused to see me there. I had no idea she had a place here as well, but when I heard, it did seem an opportunity to explain things to her. I felt she must have misunderstood my letters. But when she realized who I was—well, she became quite hysterical. She simply would not listen to a word. She ordered me out of the house. When I tried to pacify her she got a revolver and threatened to shoot if I wasn’t out of the house before she counted ten. She actually began to count, beating her hand up and down like a referee in a boxing match.”
“What did you do?” Bobby asked.
“I went,” Mr Pyle answered simply.
“Very wise,” approved Bobby.
“Not that I supposed for one moment that she would ever attempt to put her threat into action,” Mr Pyle explained, though now the pallor that formerly had shown in his again half-hidden eyes seemed to have transferred itself to his cheeks, so that Bobby felt that the poor man had been given a fright from which even yet he had not fully recovered.
“A formidable old lady,” he remarked, slightly uneasy at this talk of revolvers—tricky things even in the hands of those accustomed to their use, as old ladies seldom are. He decided it would be as well to mention it to Major Rowley. Aloud he said: “It sounds as if housing were as bad here as anywhere. Mrs Asprey would have done well to follow your example, Mr Pyle, and use a caravan. Much more comfortable. Mr Day-Bell was saying he paid it a visit this morning.”
Mr Day-Bell, so often reduced to silence by Mr Pyle’s unceasing, droning voice, took advantage—as Bobby had intended he should—of the opening thus offered.
“In connection,” he said, “with a certain recent incident. It is why I suggested our meeting. An incident I found disturbing, not so much in itself as because of other circumstances. My sexton, John Hagen, tells me that last night he was wakened by sounds coming from the churchyard. He got up and went out. It was about midnight. He saw two men—he thinks two, but it was dark and possibly there was only one. They were standing near the Janet Merton grave. As soon as he approached they made off. He called to them to stop, but they took no notice and disappeared in the darkness. When it was light he found footprints. He informed me and we traced them to the moor and towards your caravan. It seemed possible you might have seen or heard something; but unfortunately you were not there when I called, and I must say that the man who claimed you had left him in charge was most uncivil.”
“That would be Sims,” Mr Pyle said. “I expect he thought you were questioning the right of my caravan to be there. A rough sort of fellow, but useful, though you have to let him see you don’t intend to stand any nonsense. I hope you made that plain,” and Mr Day-Bell did not quite know how to answer this turning of the tables, this subtle suggestion that if there had been any insolence, then he was to blame for putting up with it. Mr Pyle resumed: “Your sexton—I didn’t catch his name—saw these intruders about twelve. At twelve I was sound asleep in my tent. I am a great believer in fresh air, I often sleep out of doors, and I find my little tent very snug and warm once it is made secure against draughts. Sims sleeps in the caravan, and by that time would be asleep, too. If he had heard anything he would certainly have told me. So I am afraid neither of us can help. Does this sexton of yours go to bed early?”
“Well, really, I hardly know,” Day-Bell answered, rather taken aback by so unexpected a question. “We are generally early folk in Hillings. Why do you ask?”
“Because,” explained Mr Pyle, “I was in the churchyard about eleven, and it is possible he heard me. I was taking a stroll before bed, as I often do. It is an opportunity for thinking over the problems always arising for one in my position to deal with. On this occasion my thoughts were busy with the great work I have in hand—the biography of Stephen Asprey—and the thought came to me to seek inspiration by the grave of the woman he had loved with a passionate devotion that had raised his genius to such heights as even it had never known before. Perhaps both you and others will understand that better when my publishers give to the world the result of my labours. How long I stood there, wrapped in meditation, I am not sure, but I am sure that I was back in my tent Sims had prepared for me long before twelve. I am inclined to suspect that your sexton saw me, but has mistaken the time, as he might very easily do on wakening from sleep. Perhaps he has embroidered a little as well—discretion is often more in evidence
than valour, especially at night. Certainly there was no call to me to stop, no attempt at following me. I could not have failed to hear anything of the sort. The night was quiet and I walked slowly, still musing. Of course, there may have been someone else after I left, but it hardly seems likely.”
“Very unlikely indeed,” agreed Day-Bell, secretly relieved at so simple a solution of at least one disturbing incident. “I must tell Hagen. Most satisfactory.”
“I hope you will commend his vigilance,” Pyle said. “A small gratuity would not be out of place. I must remember. Every precaution must be taken against any possible violation of the grave without due authority.”
“May I ask,” Bobby interposed, “if Sims was recommended to you by Sandy McKie?”
Mr Pyle swung round on Bobby and stared at him blankly, evidently considerably startled by the question.
“Do you know McKie?” he demanded.
“I know him,” Bobby explained, “as, in my opinion, the best crime reporter in Fleet Street. Morning Daily is lucky to have him. He is your music critic as well, isn’t he? Equally good, I hope, but I’m no judge there.”
“You seem well informed,” Pyle said suspiciously. “Are you a journalist?”
“Oh dear, no,” Bobby assured him. “Are journalists well informed? They always strike me as knowing everything—wrong. No, I’m merely a policeman, merely anxious to stop trouble developing. It does almost seem as if something were brewing, goodness knows what.”
“I will make it my business,” said Mr Pyle, with just a hint of warning in his voice, “to inform your Chief Constable, to whom I was introduced to-day, that I have met you and of your apprehensions as well as of your interest in my caravan. Are you sergeant, inspector, or what?”
Brought to Light: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 4