Brought to Light: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  “Caravan tour?” McKie repeated. “I didn’t know about that. It doesn’t sound like our Eddy. Rolls-Royce tour is more in his line. What’s it all about?”

  “Did you warn Mr Pyle of Item’s character?” Bobby asked, without answering the other’s question.

  “I did,” McKie answered. “I told him Item would be fully equal to knocking him on the head and clearing off with all the loose change available. That’s not what’s happened, is it?” he asked hopefully; and, when Bobby shook his head, McKie said: “A pity. What a story it would have made! Eddy can generally look after himself, though; I will say that for the little blighter. He said there was no risk of Item playing tricks if it was made worth his while not to. Sound philosophy. What have they been doing? Take a tip from a pal and, whatever it is, watch out when you are handling Eddy. He can’t sack you and he hasn’t the Home Secretary in his pocket, even if he thinks he has. But he can do a devil of a lot. More things are wrought by Eddy Pyles than this world dreams of. Tennyson again.”

  “The power of the Press?” Bobby asked. “You know, I think newspaper men are a bit apt to exaggerate that. More and more every day are caring less and less about what the papers say. Not Tennyson. Just me—plagiarized and adapted.”

  “Don’t say that,” McKie urged earnestly. “Or you will see what none has ever yet beheld—a Fleet Street man in tears. Anyway, what’s making you so interested in Eddy? He’s not such a bad bloke at bottom—a slight tendency to confuse himself with Almighty God, that’s all.”

  “Not quite all,” Bobby said. “Why Item? What possible reason can a man like Mr Pyle have for wanting to take a man like Item caravaning with him?”

  “Not knowing, can’t say,” McKie retorted. “Couldn’t care less, for that matter. I warned Item, too, by the way. I told him to mind his step. I think he would. You haven’t told me yet what it’s all about. Or is that one of your Yard top secrets?”

  “Not exactly,” Bobby answered. “Did you know Mr Pyle was writing a biography of Stephen Asprey?”

  “Couldn’t help knowing,” McKie declared. “He tells you every time he sees you. Morning Daily has a par. every week or so about the progress of the great work and the passionate interest the literary world is taking in it, and how Hollywood is already negotiating for the film rights, and all the rest of the guff publicity agents put out for the public to lap up—as they do and ask for more, bless ’em. But Eddy’s trying his hand at biography and digging up a poor defenceless dead poet isn’t criminal, is it? Though very likely it ought to be. Why so interested?”

  “Why did you say digging up?” Bobby asked, a little startled by an expression he had thought for the moment might have been used intentionally.

  “Well, isn’t that what it amounts to?” McKie demanded. “I thought Asprey was dead beyond all hope of resurrection. But I don’t know. Wait and see what our Eddy can do—power of the Press, my boy.”

  “What’s worrying me,” Bobby said, “is what he wants a man like Item Sims for, if it’s only a purely literary project he has in mind.”

  “I don’t know,” McKie repeated; and for the first time he began to look uneasy, for the first time to let his attention wander from the excellent lunch provided. He went on, but still uneasily. “The thing is Eddy’s not satisfied with being chairman of the Morning Daily group, and cabinet ministers shaking in their shoes at his approach—at least, that’s what he thinks. What Morning Daily says in the morning, all England thinks by afternoon. That’s Eddy’s credo. What he really wants is to be as big a pot in highbrow literary circles as he is in journalism. The Stephen Asprey biography is to bring him in at the top of the tree. His claim to immortality. Journalism for to-day, the book for future ages. He’s quite serious about it, and if he heard there was anyone else trying to get in ahead on the Stephen Asprey story, my guess would be that he wanted Item to beat the other bloke up.”

  “As a matter of fact, there is someone,” Bobby told him. “A young man, a Mr Chrines—Samuel Chrines. He lets people know in confidence that he’s a son of Stephen Asprey and Janet Merton.”

  “Oh, him!” McKie exclaimed. “I know. He called at the office once and tried to wangle an extra long notice for some piffle he had written by telling that yarn. We went into it rather thoroughly. The Asprey and Janet Merton affair isn’t quite forgotten even yet, and there was some idea that it might be worked up into a good story—the world’s greatest love-tale. Grand headline. We dropped it. We aren’t stuffy about it, but we do like some sort of foundation for a story. Chrines hadn’t a thing to show except one or two letters Asprey might have written to any woman he was chasing—plenty of them, apparently.”

  “Can you tell me anything about the poems Chrines published?” Bobby asked. “They had some success, hadn’t they?”

  “Well, yes,” McKie agreed. “You could say so. I daresay they’ve even brought him in a few pounds, and not many poets can say that much. The last thing he did got an awful slating from the critics—‘weak imitation of Stephen Asprey at his worst’, was what they said. The public bought a few odd copies, all the same. The funny thing is that it was a complete change of style and method. The first stuff Chrines published was in the best modern style—all the lines different lengths, no rhyming, no scansion, no capitals, no sense. You can’t understand a word of the stuff, and if you say you can’t, you’re out with the other thick-skinned philistines; and if you say you can, then you’re a brother intellectual well inside the pale. It brought him some kudos in the really swell circles. He tried again, and it was such a complete flop—even the highbrows know the limit when they see it—that he couldn’t get his next stuff looked at. So then he came out with his last. Imitation Asprey. Critics snarled, but the public bought—more or less, chiefly less.”

  “Thank you,” Bobby said. “It’s what I wanted to know, and it’s interesting.”

  “Why?” McKie asked, looking at him distrustfully. “Look; if Chrines is really trespassing on what Eddy thinks is his private domain, Chrines is heading for trouble. If he’s got hold of some fresh material for his biography that Eddy knows about and wants and Chrines won’t part—well, could that be what Item’s for?” He paused, and again he looked uneasy. “No,” he said finally, “I can’t believe Eddy would ever go in for strong-arm methods. Plenty of other ways he could get what he wanted.”

  “You know about Asprey’s last poems and his letters to her being buried with Janet Merton?” Bobby asked.

  “Is that another slant to it?” McKie asked in his turn, more uneasily still. He was silent for a time. Bobby had made no reply, and McKie did not seem to expect one. He resumed: “You mean if Eddy can’t get permission to open the grave and recover the poems and letters, he might hire Item to do it without bothering about what he calls mere red tape. Is that it?”

  “It’s where you come in,” Bobby said. “Could you drop a hint to Mr Pyle that it would be a criminal offence and a first-class scandal?”

  “It would be a first-class story—rate the biggest headline ever. But no good to us. No,” he decided. “I’m not playing. Tackling our Eddy like that wouldn’t be too healthy. Nothing doing.”

  “Asprey’s widow is living near Penton at present,” Bobby remarked. “Mr Pyle went to see her. He says she got a pistol out and wanted to shoot him.”

  “Well, why didn’t she?” interjected McKie. “Good idea, if you ask me. Top line story.”

  “It may turn out that way,” Bobby told him. “I’ve just got back from Penton, and I can’t help feeling there’s trouble brewing and that your Mr Pyle is likely to burn his fingers, or worse. The whole thing seems to be mixed up with the mysterious disappearance of the former rector. It seems he walked out of the rectory one night for an evening stroll and has never been heard of since.”

  “He wasn’t writing Asprey’s life, too, was he?” McKie inquired, rather flippantly.

  “Not that I know of,” Bobby answered. “This is in confidence as coming from me, though I e
xpect plenty of people know. There seems to have been some sort of hint of a coming attempt to blackmail the Duke of Blegborough. He is at any rate thoroughly alarmed. He was at Penton yesterday, and your Mr Pyle got hold of him. They had a long talk together.”

  McKie was all alert now. He sat up with bright shining eyes; his very hair seemed to bristle.

  “Good Lord!” he said slowly. “That means—that means—”

  A waiter came up and whispered. McKie got up.

  “Call from the office,” he said. “I’ll be back in a minute. Wait for me, will you? You know, this may turn into the biggest ever.”

  He hurried away, and was back almost at once, and Bobby could see that he was shaking with excitement. He could hardly speak. He stammered out:

  “Pyle’s been found dead on the Great Mercian Moor. Shot. They want me to go down there at once. A car’s coming to pick me up.”

  CHAPTER XIII

  INQUIRY BEGINS

  BOBBY, A LITTLE shaken by so swift, so tragic, a justification of his forebodings, a little envious of Sandy McKie, now doubtless speeding on his way to Penton, returned reluctantly to a desk that seemed more dull than ever when there was so strange a problem waiting solution.

  Nor could he help wondering if there was not a chance that he might be called in to help. Major Rowley was a highly efficient officer of police, but without experience in handling serious crime, Penton was a quiet little town, not much troubled by anything worse than occasional rowdiness or petty thieving. Highly probable that he was feeling a trifle bewildered, even a little nervous, at the prospect of becoming, as he certainly would, a centre of public attention and a target of universal criticism. What more natural, Bobby thought—hoped—than that he should turn for help to one who had so much experience in such cases, and in addition knew already something of the background involved?

  This vague hope—an unfair word—knowledge rather of the possibility that duty might presently support desire, soon translated itself into fact. Major Rowley was already on the ’phone, wondering, rather timidly, if Mr Owen could be spared, and by evening, Bobby, a somewhat grudging consent given, was back in Penton, talking to a worried and apologetic Major Rowley, who was explaining that he had not been able to secure Bobby a room in any of the Penton hotels.

  “Every journalist in the country is here,” the Major said sadly. “I found a chap who said his name was Sandy McKie sitting in my office. He said he knew you, and you had mentioned me to him. It doesn’t pay to be rude to journalists, or I would have thrown him out pronto. I had to leave him there while I talked to my men in the canteen.”

  “Too bad,” Bobby sympathized. “No, never be tough with journalists—kind, but firm. That’s the idea. Did McKie say that I also knew him? Only too well. If I mentioned you at all, it was only as Chief Constable here. I’m not sorry not to go to an hotel, though. It would be full of crime correspondents, and if I said ‘good evening’ to one of them his paper’s next issue would feature an ‘Exclusive interview with officer in charge’. ‘Exclusive’ is a word the papers love the further side of idolatry. Isn’t there one of your men could put me up?”

  “Sergeant Wiggins might have a spare room,” Major Rowley answered. “I could ask him, and I’m sure Mrs Wiggins would look after you all right.”

  “If you would fix that up for me, I should be grateful,” Bobby said. “All I really want is to be able to hold the Press sleuths at bay. Now could you tell me what you know so far?”

  “Just about nothing,” Major Rowley answered, more sadly still, “except the bare fact that Mr Pyle has been murdered, and as he was someone very important in the newspaper world, every paper in the country is fizzing with excitement. First thing this morning Duncan Day-Bell came tearing up on his motor-cycle to say young Chrines was telling people there was a dead man on the moor in a burnt-out caravan and he thought it was Mr Pyle. I didn’t believe it at first. I thought Chrines must have been drunk or dreaming or someone had been playing a practical joke on him, but of course it had to be seen to. I got hold of Chrines first, drove straight there. His story is that he saw the light of a fire on the moor. He said he had been on the moor last night for a walk before starting writing—it seems he likes to get on with his poetry at night. Thinks the quiet and dark help him. He was near the caravan. There was a light in it, and he saw someone moving close by. He didn’t go any nearer or attempt to speak, and he saw no one else except Mr Day-Bell—Duncan’s father—who was going towards the caravan. Chrines returned home and started on his poetry. About midnight he saw the glow of what seemed a big fire on the moor. He watched for a time because, of course, moor fires are sometimes serious if there’s been much dry weather. As it happens, there’s been plenty of rain lately.”

  “So there has,” murmured Bobby, sadly reminiscent of that race with the rain in which he had been so signally defeated.

  “Anyhow, the glow soon died out,” Rowley continued, “and Chrines went to bed. But he woke early, and decided out of curiosity to see what had been burning and if any damage had been done. He soon found a burnt-out caravan. When he looked inside he saw a dead body. Apparently he was then very sick, and he scuttled away home as fast as he could. He says his first idea was that the dead man was Mr Day-Bell, but then he saw it wasn’t. When he got home he went to bed—after first being sick again. But he did tell the woman who keeps the Hillings Post Office what he had seen. She sent a message to her husband, who is cowman to Duncan Day-Bell, and who told Duncan, and Duncan came full speed to us. There’s no ’phone in Hillings—Post Office won’t put any in. Those are the bare facts, and I needn’t go into the background because you know it already. That’s why I thought your help would be so useful.”

  “I take it,” Bobby said, “that Mr Pyle’s body has been identified?”

  “Oh, yes, there’s no doubt about that. It was terribly burnt. Pyle had been shot three times, once in the head and twice in the body. The murderer meant to make sure. Death must have been instantaneous. Mr Pyle had a chauffeur or attendant to look after the caravan. A man named Sims. He has disappeared.”

  “Well, then,” Bobby said.

  “Quite so,” said Major Rowley. “First thing everyone noticed. Only if Chrines saw the fire about midnight, it is reasonable to suppose that that would be about the time of the murder. But Hagen, the Hillings sexton, states that Sims, about eight on Thursday evening, or a little later, borrowed his bicycle to go into Penton. Sims said he had been sacked, called Pyle a few names, said he wasn’t going to do Pyle’s dirty work for him and be left holding the bag, and that some things Mr Pyle wouldn’t like told, but told they might be. Hagen asked what he meant, but Sims didn’t explain. Hagen says his impression was that Sims had been drinking, and he didn’t pay much attention. Sims paid a three pounds deposit, and Hagen, who didn’t trust him overmuch, gave him a note to collect the amount of the deposit, less five shillings payment for the hire of the machine, from the landlord of the ‘Bull and Bell’. Hagen is a cousin of the landlord’s. Sims called accordingly, left the bicycle, was paid the deposit less the amount of the hire, had a drink and went off. We’ve traced him to the railway station. He got there just before the last train for Bristol—the nine fifty-five. He bought two third-class tickets for Bristol, singles, and was seen on the platform just before the Bristol train drew in. No one seems to have noticed if he had a companion and no one can swear that he boarded the train, but he was not seen after it left. He is not remembered at Bristol, and there’s nothing to suggest that he left the train on the way. It would have been possible, no doubt, for him to have done so without being noticed or, for that matter, never to have boarded the train at all, but to have slipped away from the Penton station without being noticed. If so, it would be possible, if he got hold of another bicycle, or even if he ran most of the way, to get back to the moor in time to murder Pyle, set fire to the caravan and make off. But nothing to show he did anything of the kind, and as it stands it all seems to give him a very
fairly complete alibi.”

  “Looks like it,” Bobby agreed. “Curious about his taking two tickets.”

  “Probably had a pal waiting for him he didn’t want to be seen with,” the Major suggested. “So he gave him one ticket, and they boarded the train separately.”

  “It could be that way,” Bobby agreed thoughtfully. “You’ll see if you can pick him up?”

  “Oh, yes,” the Major answered. “He’ll have to be questioned, of course.”

  “I don’t expect it’ll be too easy to find him,” remarked Bobby. “Not the first time he’s gone underground, as they say now, and he knows all the tricks. I’ve heard that the Hillings villagers don’t like caravans parking on the moor. Suspicious of interference with their private proceedings—lawful or not—and that sometimes they emphasize their objection by lighting a fire underneath the caravan as a hint that welcome has been outstayed. Do you think that is possible in this case? It would make the time of the murder more doubtful. It’s just possible the murder had been already committed and that the fire-raising was subsequent but not consequent. No connection, in fact.”

  “Well, there’s that,” Major Rowley admitted, annoyed he had not thought before of such a possibility. “Rather upsets Sims’s alibi.”

  “The last time I saw Pyle was when he left Hillings on Wednesday afternoon,” Bobby went on. “He drove away with the Duke of Blegborough in the Duke’s car, the Duke driving. Do you know anything of his movements that evening?”

  “On the Wednesday evening,” Rowley answered, consulting some papers on his desk, “he and the Duke dined together at the Grand Hotel. They seemed to be talking rather excitedly and not to want to be overheard. They always stopped when a waiter was near. One of the waiters thinks the Duke was objecting to something Mr Pyle was suggesting. That may be an afterthought. They left separately. The Duke drove away in his own car—a Rolls-Royce. Mr Pyle left in a car he had hired. It is still there, untouched, near the caravan. His own car had broken down on the Hillings road earlier, and he had left it there. The garage people were to collect it and carry out repairs. An odd thing is that according to them, though the damage was only slight and easily repaired, they can’t think what caused it. They say it looked as if some one had taken a hammer to it.”