Brought to Light: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  Nor could these pecuniary difficulties have been in any way pressing or immediate, since in Mr Thorne’s desk in his study was found a sum of fifty pounds in Treasury notes, just repaid to him by John Hagen in part settlement of a loan.

  “Mr Thorne,” Hagen had explained in a statement duly recorded and signed, “had been good enough to lend me a hundred pounds for the purchase of books I badly needed for my studies. He was always very interested, and I owe a great deal to the encouragement and help he gave me. I saved up till I had enough money to pay him back, but he would only take half, and that without interest. He said I was to go on saving till I had put by a full hundred pounds again, and then I could repay him the rest of my debt. Now it must wait till he returns, as no doubt he will one day, and then the money will be waiting for him. A very generous gentleman, and he was always very kind in taking such an interest in my studies.”

  It appeared also that Hagen had been very active in searching the moor, and Bobby remembered that Hagen had told him that it was generally believed Mr Thorne had lost his way on it during the night or met with an accident. Even a comparatively trivial mishap might have resulted in that lost and desolate country, as lonely as any in the land, in death from hunger and exhaustion.

  The only other names mentioned, with which Bobby was acquainted, were those of Duncan Day-Bell and his father, and every reference to them Bobby read with special care. It did seem there had been a certain amount of ill feeling between the two clergymen over the proposed amalgamation of the Hillings parish with the one in Penton in which lay the piece of ground, once a pasture bequeathed to Hillings in the Middle Ages for the benefit of the Hillings poor, but now built over and producing a very satisfactory revenue. An unfortunate public reference by the elder Day-Bell to a ‘comfortable sinecure providing a very good living without any duties’ had been bitterly resented by Mr Thorne, and produced counter allegations about underhand intrigues intended to secure possession of these revenues for the benefit of a parish to which it was well known Mr Day-Bell was to succeed very shortly, since the present incumbent was over eighty, wished to retire, and the advowson was in the gift of a member of the Day-Bell family. An added sting was an insinuation that the money was needed for the benefit of a ne’er-do-well son who had ‘already seen the inside of a London gaol’. All very unseemly, and high ecclesiastical authority had had to be invoked to bring the controversy to an end. However, on Mr. Thorne’s unexplained and disconcerting disappearance, the Day-Bell family influence had been enough to ensure Mr Day-Bell’s appointment to the charge of Hillings parish.

  Much of this was hinted at in the file rather than explicitly stated; but feelings had evidently run high, and apparently Duncan Day-Bell had exchanged blows with a young relative of Mr Thorne’s, though this had been smoothed over by expressions of regret from both the young man and a final handshake.

  From this intense concentration on the record of events more than two years old, Bobby turned to the recent statements taken from Duncan Day-Bell and from Samuel Chrines by the West Mercian sergeant who had interviewed them. Bobby found them of little interest; they being merely factual statements of what had happened, of the discovery of the murder by Chrines and of the resulting action taken by Duncan. So Bobby turned his attention to breakfast; and, that agreeable interlude over, had a long talk with Major Rowley, with whom he settled various details of the day’s projected activities.

  For his own part, Bobby explained, he would like to have a further talk with some of those whose statements he had just read.

  “Oh, yes,” he said in answer to a rather hesitating question from Major Rowley, “I’m working on a theory, but I would rather not say anything about it yet awhile. Doesn’t do to risk putting chaps working with you on a wrong line when they may have a better one of their own to follow up, and so far I haven’t got hold of a single bit of concrete evidence.”

  “Had you any idea of finding it in that old Thorne file I’m told you’ve been studying ever since some ungodly hour this morning?” and in Major Rowley’s voice as he asked this there was the faintest possible touch of a discreet amusement that changed, however, to less discretion and more amusement when Bobby nodded an assent.

  “I thought there might be something to show if I was really on the right track,” he said. “One thing is quite clear, anyhow,” he went on. “Several people disliked very much, and for very good though varying reasons, Pyle’s plan to open the Janet Merton grave. The motive for the crime may have been there.”

  “Surely no one would go to such extremes simply for that?” Rowley protested. “Simply to prevent a few poems and letters being recovered. They may not even be there at all. No one knows for certain what was in the casket Asprey is said to have put in the coffin.”

  “No,” Bobby answered. “No, no one knows for certain what secrets Janet Merton’s grave may not hide,” and Major Rowley looked uneasy, for there was a note in Bobby’s voice that he did not understand and that troubled him vaguely.

  “You don’t mean,” he asked, “you are taking seriously this nonsense about Asprey’s letters saying that the Duke poisoned his wife? How could there be any real evidence in them—anything you could take seriously? Gossip and servants’ tittle tattle, perhaps, but that’s all it’s likely to amount to. Besides, look at the Duke himself—well, not that kind. A bit of a sap, I should say. Look how he caved in at the first hint of blackmail. All in a twitter at once, instead of standing up to it.”

  “I don’t feel myself,” Bobby remarked, “that he’s a man it would be altogether wise to forget. Or to under-estimate. That apologetic manner of his I should take to be merely his way of trying to adjust himself to a world that’s turned upside down since he was a child. People in his position have often had what is called to-day a guilt complex about their privileges. Formerly they could work it off by giving a lot of their time and money to public service, but now—well, many of them are the lost, bewildered children of present-day conditions. And lost, bewildered children are sometimes capable of very unexpected behaviour.”

  Major Rowley looked both very puzzled and entirely unconvinced. He told himself that this sort of social theory had nothing at all to do with the practical task on hand—that of bringing to justice Mr Pyle’s murderer. Nor did he realize that Bobby had been deliberately turning the talk away from any consideration of possible suspicion attaching to the Duke because that was not a subject he wished brought up just yet. Fortunately, neither did Major Rowley wish to pursue it. He felt that now full responsibility for the direction of the inquiry rested with Bobby, with whom, for his part, when that responsibility had to do with people like dukes, he was perfectly willing to leave it. If the Joint Committee started asking questions, he had his reply ready—the Yard had been asked to help, and that was one form their help had taken.

  “There’s another point to be cleared up,” Bobby went on. “I’ve come across references to revolvers several times, but they seem a bit difficult to check up on. Hagen told me he had seen Item Sims cleaning one and I must ask our people in London to ascertain if Mr Pyle had any gun and if so if he is known to have had it with him.”

  “That’s important,” Rowley said, looking almost excited. “Hagen ought to have let us know at once. Suggests Sims may possibly have got hold of it or got one himself in preparation. Premeditated? It does seem to indicate very strongly that Sims—” He paused, hesitated, looked worried. “Only there’s that alibi. Got to break that. Anyhow, he will have to be found.”

  “Priority number one,” Bobby agreed. “But he’s an old hand at the disappearing game. We were looking for him for over a year once, and then found he had been lodging opposite a police station all the time.”

  He went on to say that his own plans for the day included a further chat both with young Mr Chrines and with the Day-Bells, father and son.

  “You can sometimes get more out of people in a friendly sort of chat than by taking formal statements,” he remarked. “Trifles
that come out casually may put you on the right track, and you do get an idea of what’s in their minds. Note-books are apt to inhibit, don’t you think?”

  Major Rowley looked doubtful. He suggested, on the other hand, that people were apt to be more careful in what they said when they knew it was being taken down in writing, and Bobby said that that was what he wanted to avoid. He liked those he was questioning to be off their guard, to let it all come out, not only what they thought and believed, but also the background of such thoughts and beliefs.

  “Especially gossip,” he said. “A trump card, gossip, if you know when to play it.”

  Major Rowley said politely that every man had his own methods and the test lay with the results secured. He did not add that he had small faith in Bobby’s methods and still less in any useful results being secured by them. Bobby was well aware that that was what was in the other’s mind, but that was all right by him, and when he asked for the loan of a motor-cycle on which to cover the ten miles to Hillings, Major Rowley was quite willing to supply it, grateful that he would not have to supply as well one of his over-worked and scanty force to accompany Bobby as chauffeur. Also after Bobby’s departure, he would be able to turn to his own safe solid routine, which so far at least in his career had produced by no means unsatisfactory results.

  And Bobby as he sped on his way was wondering whether it would be best to tackle Chrines first or the Day-Bells, and if the last, whether separately or together. He had a vague idea that the order of approach might be important.

  CHAPTER XIX

  CANBAR FARM

  NOT INDEED till Bobby came to where a sign-post announced a turning that led to the Canbar and Skeleton farms, did he decide that there he would pay his first visits.

  So for another two or three miles or so he bumped over ruts and stones and splashed through puddles—for this he had now entered on was little more than a rough farm-track—till he came to a well-kept, prosperous-looking farm-house. He noticed that the small lawn and flower-beds before it were carefully tended and at the moment showed a rich display of blooms. Unusual, he knew, for most farmers tend to regard it as slightly unethical to give up good land for the production of anything so purely frivolous as flowers, and most farmers’ wives have neither time nor leisure for any such pursuit.

  Bobby made a little mental note of this detail. It might be useful to remember it in the future when trying to estimate character and motive. He leaned his motor-cycle against the garden gate post and was walking up the path towards the house when he heard a man shouting to tell him that if he wanted to see the ‘missis’ she was over by the old barn. Towards therefore what from its appearance he took to be the ‘old barn’ he made his way. From it there came striding to meet him a tall, vigorous-looking young woman, wearing breeches and gaiters and such substantial shoes as could certainly never have made those footprints found on the moor.

  Not perhaps a very pretty girl in the ordinary sense, with her large, irregular features and highly coloured complexion, for which one guessed the only cosmetics used had been sun, wind, and rain. But the eyes were bright and clear beyond the usual; and she was certainly a fine, handsome, upstanding lass, with about her, too, an air of authority and decision a little strange in one so young, but coming to her naturally as responsible for the working of a fair-sized farm and the employment of some seven or eight men, more at busy seasons. In a clear, strong voice tuned by use and custom to carry far in the open air she greeted him and asked:

  “Are you the police, the man from London? Mr Day-Bell told me I might have a visit.”

  “Well, we do rather want to know if you can help in any way,” Bobby answered. “I take it you are Miss Christabel Merton? Could you spare me a few minutes, do you think?”

  “I suppose so,” she answered resignedly. “You had better come up to the house. I don’t know what I can tell you, though. Anyhow, police can’t be worse than those awful inspectors nosing round and wanting to know why a cow that hasn’t calved isn’t giving any milk any more and will you please fill in a form in triplicate to explain.”

  She led the way to the house, entering by a side door, and then introducing Bobby into a fair-sized room that looked as up to date an office as any all London town could show. All the usual office appliances were there—card indexes, filing cabinets, a huge safe, typewriter, a small calculating machine, and so on. There was even a telephone, but this, Miss Christabel explained, when she saw him looking at it, was not a Post Office instrument, but for farm use.

  “It’s very useful,” she said. “The men can call me at any time from almost any field.”

  She sat down at a big desk that occupied the middle of the room, motioned Bobby to a chair, produced cigarettes, offered him one, took one herself and said:

  “I don’t see what I can do to help. I’ve only seen the poor man once. It’s a dreadful thing, and I wish I had been a little nicer to him. You know what he wanted?” She paused, and her fresh young face seemed to grow harder, older, harsher. It was as though a sudden cloud passed over it. Even her voice was different, fierce, intense, as she went on: “I told him plainly I would use every means in my power to stop him from violating my aunt’s grave. I think I told him I would rather see him in his own grave first.” She paused. “Oh, well,” she resumed, “I suppose the truth is I lost my temper altogether. I never knew I could get worked up like that. Well, that’s what happened, and you had better hear all about it from me. You would soon enough from the men. They are such gossips. It was all over everywhere that Mr Pyle had to run for his life. And now this awful thing has happened.”

  “I gathered,” Bobby said, “from something Mr Pyle told me that young Mr Day-Bell was present part of the time?”

  “Oh, well, not really,” she answered, a slightly heightened colour now apparent. “Mr Pyle simply wouldn’t go. He started writing cheques and waving them at me. He seemed to think no one could resist a cheque, if only it was big enough. I didn’t want to call any of the men to make him go—there would only have been more talk—and I rang Mr Day-Bell. We carried the line to his place. It’s handy if we are working in together. We do sometimes, and he’s awfully good with machines when the silly things break down. He cycled over at once, and Mr Pyle went away then.”

  “I rather gathered that he used threats?”

  “Oh, no,” she protested. “All he did was to take Mr Pyle by the scruff of his neck, run him down the garden path to his car, and tell him to get going.”

  “I see,” said Bobby. “Direct action. But I meant threats by Mr Pyle?”

  “Oh, well—yes, he did. Something about how influential he was, and we might find our farms being inspected to make sure the best use was being made of them.”

  “Did either you or Mr Day-Bell take that very seriously?”

  “Well, it’s the one thing every farmer dreads. Feather bed indeed.” She snorted indignantly. “Bed of dynamite, more like. You can always find fault with other people’s work if you try, and Duncan is rather fond of experimenting, and it doesn’t always come off, and then you get told you haven’t put that field to the best use.” Abruptly she said: “It may mean ruin, and no one’s safe.”

  “It comes to this,” Bobby said, rather gravely, “Mr Pyle’s death has relieved you from anxiety in two respects—the threat to your possession of your farm and the threat to open your aunt’s grave.”

  “Well, yes, if you like to put it that way,” she admitted. “It was rather a relief when I heard. I’m sorry it happened in such a dreadful way.”

  “Yes,” Bobby said thoughtfully, uneasily even, for the talk had not gone as he had expected, and he knew enough of the power that can be wielded by a man in Mr Pyle’s position to feel that threats he made had to be taken seriously. Again, Miss Christabel had made it clear that her feeling against the opening of her aunt’s grave was both deep and passionate.

  Bobby found himself asking himself—and not liking the question—what might not have come from the u
nion of two such strong currents of emotion. There was fear of losing the farm, there was strong resentment at the proposed violation of a grave. He had uncovered, he felt, more than he had expected, more than he had wished. He said abruptly:

  “Do you think it absolutely certain these manuscripts Mr Pyle wanted were in fact buried with your aunt?”

  The question seemed to astonish her, and it was a minute or two before she answered.

  “Well, yes,” she said finally. “It’s always been understood, and my father saw the casket put in the coffin before it was fastened down. It couldn’t possibly have been taken out afterwards without people knowing. Besides, if they aren’t there, where are they? I have all her things, and this is where she lived. She left me everything.”

  “No one seems to have actually seen what was in the casket,” Bobby remarked. “We have Stephen Asprey’s word, but that’s all. I was only wondering. We get like that in the police. Want corroboration for everything. Only, as you say, if they aren’t there, where are they? Or could the grave have been opened without anyone knowing?”

  “Good gracious, no! What an idea!” she exclaimed, startled.

  “There’s some evidence to suggest,” Bobby told her, “that some such idea was in Mr Pyle’s mind. There seems to have been a spade and pick-axe in the caravan, and he had with him a man with a criminal record. He may have been chosen for that very reason—to help in opening the grave without authority. A criminal offence.”

  “You mean the man who has run away?” Christabel asked. “Isn’t he the man who did it?”

  “We think he may be able to help, and of course we are doing our utmost to find him,” Bobby answered. “Running away isn’t proof, though it is good cause for suspicion. But it does rather look as if he had an alibi we may have to accept. And there do seem to be some curious leads going back to before Item Sims came on the scene and hinting at a connection with Mr Thorne’s disappearance.”