Brought to Light: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  “Well, then,” said McKie and waited.

  “I was looking forward to carpet slippers and a quiet evening at home,” Bobby said resignedly. “Now I suppose I shall have to go chasing off to the other end of England, all in the pursuit of the incredible.”

  “Give you a lift if you like,” offered McKie. “I’ve got my little Sports Super outside.”

  “You know very well,” Bobby said severely, “that it would be as much as my life is worth to be seen in a car with you. The whole collective knife of all the rest of the British Press would be in my back up to the hilt for evermore. Talk not of jealousy till thou hast seen a bunch of newspaper scallywags all chasing after the same exclusive. All the same, due credit will be given as and when and where deserved.”

  McKie grinned, accepted this as proof that his services were properly appreciated, and departed in a haste that convinced Bobby he would be in Blegborough as soon as a sports car capable of a hundred miles an hour, and a generous disregard of speed limits, could get him there. Bobby himself had various arrangements to make, colleagues to warn of his proposed journey and so on, so that it was late before he could make a start, and much later still before he arrived at Blegborough Castle.

  There was no glimmer of light to be seen, no sign anywhere of waking life. His knocks remained unanswered. It was nearly eleven, and very possible, he supposed, that duke, butler, and housekeeper—the entire household, as he knew—were all sound asleep. He gave it up and drove back to the little town itself, where, in the one small hotel the place boasted, he found McKie sitting alone in the smoking-room, melancholy before bread, pickles, and processed cheese.

  “All you’ll get here,” McKie told him. “Service with a scowl. All respectable people should be in bed by eleven. And nothing whatever to drink except—water,” and this last word he brought out with difficulty, as if not quite sure that such a thing really existed.

  “Too bad, too bad,” Bobby said, and added smugly: “I got my wife to put me up sandwiches—ham and beef. And a thermos flask. All now consumed,” he added, as he saw McKie was about to speak.

  “Trust you for that,” McKie grunted. “Been to the Castle?”

  “No answer,” Bobby said. “All in bed and sound asleep—presumably. And you?”

  “Told His Grace was not at home by the stiffest old mummy outside the British Museum,” McKie answered. “He might be back to-morrow, and then again he mightn’t. It would be advisable, in the mummy’s opinion, to write and ask for an appointment, and when I started to let him see I had a ten-bob note in my hand, the mummy didn’t seem to know what it was. It ought to have been shekels, I suppose, or whatever mummies used when alive.”

  “A healthy corrective to journalistic cynicism,” Bobby told him; and retired to bed, leaving McKie indignantly protesting that there was no trace of cynicism in his innocent and childlike mind.

  Next morning Bobby drove again to the Castle. He had no better luck. The aged butler, so unfairly described as a ‘mummy’, a little tottery perhaps, more than a little deaf, but dignified, bland, and alert as ever, repeated that unhappily His Grace was not at home. Nor had His Grace said when he was likely to return. Nor had he, the butler, received any instructions to answer questions about His Grace’s probable movements. When, however, Bobby showed his official card and asked if he could be permitted to leave a note for His Grace’s perusal on his return, no objection was raised, and Bobby was shown into a plainly furnished sitting-room. There he wrote a note, wording it with some care, to the general effect that he was engaged on an inquiry into the recent murder near Penton of Mr Edward Pyle, of The Morning Daily, and that there were some matters of detail on which it was thought His Grace might be able to give useful information. Could therefore Major Rowley, head of the West Mercian police force, be informed as soon as possible when it would be convenient for His Grace to allow himself to be seen? Bobby added that of course the most complete confidence was felt in the willingness of the Duke to co-operate, and Bobby flattered himself that in these last sentences he had made it sufficiently, though politely, clear that if complete co-operation was not received, complete compulsion would take its place. In all this, too, Bobby was very careful to make no reference to Sims. Sims could come later.

  Satisfied with his literary efforts, Bobby departed, rang up from the first call-box he came to, as he had promised the waiting McKie he would, to report no success, and as he was returning to his car saw trudging determinedly up the road towards the Castle a tall, angular woman in a worn, ill-fitting, check tweed coat and skirt, with about her no air of the country at all, but rather a complete aroma of the back streets of Soho. He crossed over to the other side of the car so as to wait directly in her path, and as she came nearer he could tell that she had immediately recognized him, though his memory of her was less certain. Probably she had never come under his direct notice, as equally probably he had come under hers, for though Bobby knew most crooks with small exception, all crooks knew him with no exception at all. She seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then came defiantly on. When she was nearer, Bobby lifted his hat and said politely:

  “Mrs Item Sims, isn’t it?”

  “Well, suppose it is?” she said, and added truculently: “And don’t you come none of your fancy airs with me, Mr Owen. Won’t go down.”

  “No, no, of course not,” Bobby agreed. “Bit uneasy about what’s happened to Mr Sims, I hear?”

  “I ain’t looking to you for help,” she retorted.

  “Why not?” he asked. “I am making a few inquiries myself. Care to tell me anything?” She made no reply, but only stared at him with a kind of angry suspicion. He resumed: “I’ve just been trying to see the Duke. No luck, though I think it’s very likely he’s there all the time. Is that what you’ve come for, to have a chat with the Duke?”

  “Nothing to do with you if I have,” she retorted.

  “Well, you know, madam,” Bobby said, “I wouldn’t be too sure of that. Strange what a lot of things have to do with you, or you with them, when it’s murder. But if you do find Mr Sims, tell him from me there’s nothing for him to worry about if—but only if—he can make his alibi stand up. We know he got on the train for Bristol, but he may have got off again. If he shows proof he spent the night at Bristol, he’s clear. But, then, can he? If he did take a little cash with him when he left Mr Pyle’s caravan—rather in a hurry, apparently—well, it would be hard to prove, and we shan’t worry too much about it. Tell him that from me, will you? And now shall I give you a lift back to the Castle? It’s all of two long dusty miles. Not all the way up to the door, of course, or you might be taken for a friend of mine, and I’m sure you wouldn’t like that. Just up to the entrance to the drive.”

  She hesitated for a moment, and then snapped a ‘No’.

  “Don’t trust the likes of you,” she announced. “Never know with you blokes.”

  “Oh, surely,” Bobby protested, trying to look hurt.

  “It’s not so much you,” she admitted grudgingly. “It’s that tongue of yours.”

  “An unruly member,” Bobby agreed. “I never fear the Greeks so much as when they offer lifts, is that it?”

  “I ain’t having any,” she repeated, “if that’s what you mean. And I tell you straight, if there’s harm come to Sims from that there Duke, or any other ruddy lordship, I’ll have his innards out and fry ’em for supper.”

  “Dear me, what a very unpleasant meal!” commented Bobby, climbing back into his car.

  But though he had spoken lightly enough, he remained sitting there for some time, watching the tall, angular figure in its worn ill-fitting ‘tailor-made’, trudging determinedly along the road towards Blegborough Castle. Even when he drove on his way he was still looking thoughtful, still thinking he would not much care to be in the shoes of any who injured Item.

  “Loyal to him, if to nothing else,” he reflected.

  CHAPTER XXXII

  MORE TROUBLE BREWING

  FROM
BLEGBOROUGH, Bobby drove on to Penton, meaning to acquaint Major Rowley with recent developments and to inform him of future plans in which his help would be needed. Firstly, however, before listening to him, the Major had news of his own he was anxious Bobby should hear.

  “’Phone call,” he said. “I don’t know whether to take it seriously. From one of those newspaper men. Still hanging about, some of them. This is a Mr McKie. I think you mentioned him once or twice.”

  “I expect I did,” Bobby admitted. “He’s the sort of chap whose name you have to keep on mentioning. What’s he got to say this time?”

  “He’s got hold of some fantastic story about London gangsters preparing to beat up the Duke of Blegborough in his own Castle or some nonsense like that. Tipped off by his contacts, he says. Has he any contacts?”

  “Who? McKie? Plenty,” Bobby answered. “Crime reporters of national newspapers know a lot. No red tape to tie them up, and if they turn in a good story, no quibbling over expense sheets.”

  “But why on earth should London gangsters want to beat up the Duke of Blegborough?” demanded Rowley, thoroughly shocked. “Talk about democracy—” he said, and lapsed into a bewildered silence.

  “Put it like this,” Bobby said. “Item Sims stole papers from young Chrines, since badly beaten up himself. There seems to be some connection between the papers stolen from Chrines and those Stephen Asprey placed in Janet Merton’s coffin before her burial. Copies, duplicates, or what? They may revive, if they become public, an old scandal affecting the good name of the Duke’s late wife. Sims may have tried to sell them to the Duke. It appears Sims was last seen or heard of in Blegborough. If he did try to make a sale, what happened? Mrs Sims wants to know, for one. I saw her this morning on her way to the Castle and expressing an intention to possess herself of the Duke’s ‘innards’ for culinary purposes. I was on my way back from the Castle when I met her. They told me there that the Duke was away, but I don’t very much believe it. It may be true, of course.”

  “But all that is incredible, quite incredible,” protested Rowley.

  “So it is,” agreed Bobby, “but it may happen all the same, and it’s not quite clear what can be done about it. I don’t think the Duke will be co-operative. It may be he won’t dare. The initiative is always with the criminal. Most unfair, like a cricket captain who always wins the toss. Have you done anything?”

  “Thank Heaven,” Rowley said, “it’s not our direct responsibility. I’ve been on the line to Bristol. McKie had rung them before us. They weren’t much inclined to take him seriously.”

  “A mistake,” interposed Bobby. “Always take the Press seriously—a strange, unpredictable force. Roaring emptily like a bull of Bashan or hurling thunderbolts from high Olympus. You never know which. Have they done anything?”

  “They got on to the Inspector at Blegborough to ask if any suspicious characters had been seen there. He said none at all, not even any strangers, except one woman, and one woman wasn’t likely to cause trouble.”

  “Did he really say that?” Bobby asked in an awe-struck voice.

  “Well, of course, he meant in the beating-up way,” Rowley explained.

  “Even then,” Bobby said. “Even then. An innocence beyond conception. The Inspector’s, not the woman’s. Did it never occur to him that she might have friends waiting not far off? If they’ve a car—and gangsters always have—and they are in reach of a ’phone call—and they will be—they could be on the spot soon enough and the Blegborough Inspector know nothing about it. The Castle is a good distance from the town you know. And Mrs Sims doesn’t look on when it’s scrapping. In a ladylike fashion, she’s handy with a broken beer-bottle, I’m told. I really think it would be wise to put a bit of pressure on Blegborough, even if it’s only to keep their eyes wide open.”

  “The Castle is used as an agricultural college or something of the sort, isn’t it?” Rowley said. “Plenty of students and so on about. I don’t see what could happen.”

  “Oh, plenty,” Bobby assured him. “Even a duke can be beaten up—or worse—in comparative silence. There’s night, too, when I suppose the agricultural college or whatever it is sinks to slumber. I wonder if anything has happened to Sims. You know, I’ve always felt the Duke was very much of a dark horse. You can’t always trust these shy, shrinking, apologetic chaps. Break loose at times. Yes, I think Blegborough had better have a little pressure applied. I’ll see what they can do from the Yard. Straight from the Yard’s mouth, so to speak. Meanwhile I want to explain what in my idea should be our next move. I want to know how it strikes you.”

  He entered into full details of what he now proposed, and Rowley listened in silence, offered one or two suggestions of his own, undertook to give every possible support, and agreed that complete secrecy must be observed.

  “If you’re right,” Rowley said, a little doubtfully still, “it will certainly be better to let no rumour of what we suspect get about. And even yet, you know,” he added in a burst of candour, “I can hardly believe it.”

  “I may be wrong,” Bobby admitted, though he did not think so. “I know I’m taking a big risk. My name will be mud for evermore if I am.”

  Rowley said he hoped not, but inwardly was by no means sure it wouldn’t happen. During their talk he had mentioned in passing that Mrs Asprey herself was in the town, doing some shopping. In answer to a question from Bobby, he added that on these occasions she almost invariably lunched at a small café off the High Street, much favoured by other ladies visiting Penton on similar errands. Light refreshments only, Bobby was informed, but all the same, though a little sadly, for he had breakfasted early, thither he now made his way, and presently equally shocked, surprised, and delighted the little waitress who had served him by asking for a second sardine salad after somewhat swiftly disposing of the first. That also having been got rid of, he wondered whether he dared say ‘same again’, or whether that would seem too utterly devastating, when Mrs Asprey appeared. She did not notice him; and not till she had been served with an egg mayonnaise, and he with the cup of coffee he had asked for in place of the contemplated third sardine salad, did he move over to her table, where she greeted him with a blank stare of mingled surprise and disapproval.

  “Good gracious!” she exclaimed. “Are you always everywhere?”

  “Oh, no,” he protested. “Not at all. Not even always welcome when I am,” he added sadly.

  “How did you know I was here?” she demanded suspiciously.

  “But you weren’t,” he pointed out. “Not when I got here. I had nearly finished lunch—an excellent salad, though perhaps leaning rather more to the dainty than to the substantial—when I saw you come in. I thought you might like to know that young Chrines has got what he deserved.”

  “What do you mean?” she demanded.

  “Oh, he’s got himself badly knocked about, that’s all. He’s in hospital now. He’ll get over it with a little good nursing, though I don’t know where he’ll get that. They won’t keep him in hospital—no beds to spare for strays. I must say he was a sight when we found him in a low-class café in London. Serve him right.”

  “Oh, indeed,” she said, visibly bristling. “Serve the poor boy right? Well, let me tell you that if everyone got what served them right—” She did not complete the sentence, but the glare with which she accompanied it made her meaning clear.

  “What he really wants is someone to look after him—a lonely sort of boy,” Bobby observed. “A wife or sister or something. Not a wife—somebody older, more experienced. Not a job anyone is likely to take on. Only an utter fool would think of it, and jolly few could tackle it, even if they wanted to. Too much sense, most people. I’m no judge myself, but I’ve been told he really has some talent.” He took from his pocket the volume of Chrines’s poems he had shown Professor Long. “Have you seen this?” he asked. When she shook her head he opened it at the page on which was printed the sonnet the professor had declared to be the work, not of Chrines, but of Ste
phen Asprey. “Will you read this?” he asked.

  She glanced at it, read it, looked up at him.

  “Stephen wrote that,” she said. “I remember it quite well. It wasn’t among his papers after his death. I never knew what had become of it.”

  “Thank you, that’s what I wanted to know,” Bobby said, getting to his feet.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, more suspiciously than ever. “What’s it got to do with you who wrote it?”

  “You’ve confirmed the last bit of evidence I needed,” he told her. “I think now I shall be able to make an immediate arrest.”

  With that he went away, leaving her sitting there, silent and troubled, and he knew that she knew that the end was near, and he knew, too, that she was afraid.

  But now, with this fresh confirmatory evidence he had obtained, he returned to London. Official wheels turn slowly, and he wanted, if possible, to get them moving more quickly. There were final arrangements to be made, too, precautions to be taken against any leakage of what was intended, as well as many other details that needed his supervision and attention.

  Then once more, towards evening, McKie made his appearance, and Bobby put aside what he was busy with to receive him, for he was more uneasy than he had admitted, even to himself, over the reported disappearance of Item Sims at Blegborough, and the subsequent arrival there of the soi-disant Mrs Sims.

  “Heard anything fresh?” Bobby asked, offering the ritual cigarette as McKie was shown into his room.

  “Not a thing,” McKie answered gloomily. “Everything shut down tight, and I don’t like it. All my contacts gone dumb. Won’t even have a drink. Unheard of. Scared stiff. That’s what it is. Scared stiff,” he repeated.

  “About Sims or about the Duke?” Bobby asked.

  “Over Mrs Sims, I think,” McKie replied. “As far as I can make out, there’s nothing really known; not even in the best-informed circles of crookdom, but the whole lot of them feel that if Mrs Sims cuts loose there’ll be the worst kind of trouble. They don’t want it, because of course they’re all for a quiet life. Before everyone went deaf and dumb, I was tipped off that she had been seen with two of the most dangerous men out of gaol—or in it, for that matter. I didn’t get names. Even then the fellow who was talking wasn’t going to say too much. But what it all seems to come to is that they think there’s been an attempt to do what they call business with the Duke and that it’s gone wrong. Well, how wrong?”