“Yes, there’s that, isn’t there?” Bobby said.
“Well, if it’s that way,” McKie asked, “what’s Mrs Sims going to do? Perfectly reckless, if you ask me.”
“Or me,” Bobby said.
“The devoted wife?” McKie said. “Is that it? What’s it mean? Love? Between him and her? What a word to use when it’s two like them!”
“Do you know a better?” Bobby asked.
“Give it up,” McKie said. “It beats me.” He said this as one who could hardly believe that such a thing was possible. “All the same,” he said abruptly. “I’ve a hunch there’s something funny going on.”
“So have I,” said Bobby.
“What are you going to do about it?” demanded McKie.
“Nothing we can do,” Bobby answered, “except what we’ve done already—send out a warning that we believe there’s trouble brewing at Blegborough Castle and wouldn’t it be as well to give instructions for it to be watched? I don’t think it’s being taken very seriously. Probably a feeling that round a duke there’s still left a bit of the divinity that once did hedge a king about.”
“Well, of course, a duke is still news,” admitted McKie.
“The modern way of saying the same thing,” Bobby suggested.
“I’ll go down there to-night,” McKie decided; and when Bobby nodded approval; “What about you?” he asked.
But Bobby shook his head.
“I can’t interfere,” he said. “Nothing substantial to go on. Also I’ve got certain last-minute arrangements to see to. I’m returning to Penton to-morrow. I think I’ll go to Blegborough on the way—out of the way rather. There really are a few points I should like to ask about—good enough to serve for an excuse, anyhow.”
“I’ll go down there to-night,” McKie decided. He made for the door and then paused. “I don’t really suppose for one minute,” he announced, “that anything has happened to the Duke, and I’m sure I hope not, but if it has—what a story, eh? What a story! Exclusive, too. Watch the Morning Daily, my boy, just watch it.”
CHAPTER XXXIII
McKIE’S MISADVENTURE
BOBBY WAS anxious to make as early a start as possible next morning, and was in fact on the point of driving away when a constable appeared with a message just received by ’phone. It came from Blegborough, and was to the effect that a suspicious character had been seen in the grounds of Blegborough Castle, had made use of offensive and insulting language, had refused to give any account of himself, and would be charged with being found on enclosed premises for a presumed unlawful purpose. The suspect claimed, however, that he could be identified by Deputy Commander Bobby Owen of the Metropolitan Police.
“Well, I could certainly identify plenty of crooks,” Bobby remarked, puzzled, “but it’s not often any of them want me to do it,” and then a faint glimmer of a wild surmise crept into his mind. “It just couldn’t be,” he said aloud. Then to the constable who had brought the message he said: “Tell them I’m on my way to Penton in connection with the Edward Pyle murder, and I’ll branch off to call on them and have a look at their suspect.”
“Very good, sir,” said the constable, saluted and departed; and Bobby drove off.
He would have to cover nearly another hundred miles to take in Blegborough on his way to Penton, but that could not be helped. Fortunately there was comparatively little traffic on the road he was following, and not too many built-up areas, so he was able to keep up an average speed of not far short of a mile a minute.
At Blegborough he was expected, and when he drew up before the police station, the Inspector in charge—Inspector Brown—came out to greet him.
“Glad to see you, Mr Owen, sir,” he said. “The suspect is creating all the time. Most obstreperous. I’m not sure he oughtn’t to be medically examined.”
“Can I see him?” Bobby asked. “He’s here still, is he? Not been brought into court yet?”
“No,” answered the Inspector. “In view of his repeated asseverations that he could be identified by you, I thought it would be advisable to wait your arrival.”
“Very sensible, very sensible indeed,” Bobby approved—with relief.
He followed Inspector Brown into the building and into the Inspector’s office, where the suspect and a large and, at the moment, rather flushed-looking constable were waiting. The suspect and Bobby looked at each other. Bobby said nothing, just gasped. The suspect said nothing, just scowled. The constable said:
“The language used as per previous reports has remained continuously offensive and insulting.”
“What are you grinning at?” demanded the suspect furiously.
“Who? Me?” asked Bobby. “I’m not,” he declared indignantly, for even if his face had become one vast, ever-increasing smile, a smile is not a grin. He turned to Inspector Brown, who was beginning to look a little uncomfortable. He said: “This gentleman is Mr Alexander McKie, a very important and influential journalist, a highly placed member of the staff of Morning Daily, and all its offshoots, dependencies, and subsidiaries, here and elsewhere. You’ll be lucky if Morning Daily doesn’t pillory you from one end of the country to the other. Gestapo methods.” The Inspector had turned a little pale now. “Probably get people marching up and down Whitehall, shouting ‘Brown Must Go’.” The Inspector stopped turning pale and became a sickly green instead. “Hadn’t you better shake hands and say no more about it?”
“Yes, sir; certainly, sir,” said the Inspector hurriedly. “The report said ‘Acting suspicious, re private entrance, Blegborough Castle’. Why didn’t the gentleman say who he was, instead of all the things he did?”
“Did he say things?” asked Bobby sympathetically. “I shouldn’t wonder. It’s his trade. Did you?” he asked McKie.
“Certainly not,” McKie answered. “I merely gave in studiously moderate terms an accurate analysis of the I.Q. of these ornaments of the police and a careful consideration of the means and methods by which they had escaped being where they belong—in the nearest home for the mentally deficient.”
“There you are, Mr Owen,” said Inspector Brown moodily. “I.Q. I.Q.-ing all the time. My men didn’t like it. You can’t wonder.”
“Why on earth couldn’t you tell them who you were and be done with all this nonsense?” demanded Bobby, turning suddenly on McKie.
“Oh, be your age!” McKie exclaimed impatiently. “Do you think I wanted all Fleet Street laughing its silly head off over me getting run in by country bumpkins? Never hear the last of it. And all of them spotting at once I must be on something good, and rushing down here, the whole boiling, to find out what it was. For the Lord’s sake, let’s get out of here and I’ll tell you all about it. Have you a car outside? The sooner we get there, the better.”
“Get where?” Bobby asked.
“The Castle, of course,” McKie snapped. “There’s something going on, and I want to know what, if you don’t. I’ve been trying to tell these beauties, but they wouldn’t listen.”
“Suspicious action re private entrance to Castle, that was the report,” said the Inspector plaintively.
Ignoring the Inspector, McKie took Bobby by the arm and hustled him out to the waiting car. They got in, but it was McKie who grabbed the wheel and started the car. Bobby said, rather indignantly: “Here, hold on.” McKie didn’t seem to hear. Bobby said: “What’s all this about the private entrance to the Castle?”
“I was looking through the keyhole,” McKie explained. “I couldn’t get any answer, but I was sure there was something wrong. So I took a peek through the keyhole, and then that fat oaf of a policeman grabbed me. Thought I was trying to pick the lock.”
“Well, I wouldn’t put it past you,” observed Bobby, still slightly ruffled by the way in which McKie had plumped himself down in the driving-seat. “Not if you thought there was a good news story on the other side.”
McKie said, dexterously avoiding a placidly grazing cow by the wayside:
“But I did see what
looked like a leg.”
“A leg?” repeated Bobby. “Requiring to be medically examined, the inspector thought,” he murmured. “Hi, don’t take corners like that. What on earth—a leg, did you say?”
“A leg,” repeated McKie firmly. “A man’s leg, and the man was lying on the floor. Why should anyone be lying on the floor at that time of night unless he was either drunk or dead?”
“Didn’t you tell them at Blegborough?”
“I tried. No good. They wouldn’t listen.”
“You ought to have told them who you were, and got through to me,” Bobby said, frowning. “Most likely it doesn’t mean anything—a shadow, trick of light, anything. But it may. It may. I suppose the truth is you were thinking about your blessed exclusives, as you call them.”
“Man,” said McKie, turning to him, “man, there’s nothing under Heaven to compare with bringing in a good genuine exclusive.”
By now they were driving up the long and stately avenue that led to what once had been a castle and was now an Agricultural Training College where girls and boys alike were taught to reap and sow and plough and be a farmer’s boy. McKie stopped the car before the door that had been the scene of his lamentable misadventure. Both men jumped out; but once again their summons remained unanswered, and that solid door unopened and firm as if past days of sudden sieges and unexpected forays had returned. A voice from behind them said:
“It ain’t no good, knocking. No answer. The postman couldn’t get one, nor the milkman neither, though it’s pay day, nor no one. Dunno what’s up; they’re generally around long afore this. Goings on, if you ask me, and a woman no one hadn’t ever seen before in these parts as was hanging around yesterday and wouldn’t say what she wanted.”
“Do you work here?” Bobby asked.
“Gardener,” the other answered. “For the Agricultural Board when it took over now all the nobs has been put down, as is only right, it being Social Justice.”
“The lock wouldn’t be any trouble,” Bobby said, considering. “But there are sure to be bolts as well.” He turned to the gardener. “Is there any other door, do you know?” he asked.
“Not to this part,” the gardener answered. “That’s where His Nibs lives—rent free. Privilege, that is. The workers have to pay rent, not like him. There’s the doors connecting with the College part, but all fastened up. And the College closed for the day on account of the Agricultural Show.”
“Isn’t there a caretaker?” Bobby asked.
“He mayn’t be there,” the gardener suggested hopefully. “Nigh dinner hour, too, so he’ll be off duty.”
“I’m afraid if he is he’ll have to come on duty again,” Bobby retorted; and the gardener looked quite shocked, and would probably have pointed out that that wasn’t social justice, only for Bobby having hurried off, McKie following, to the north side of the building, where he had noticed a signboard showing the way to the College entrance.
Fortunately the College caretaker soon appeared and proved to be rather less preoccupied with ‘social justice’ than had been his gardening colleague. He, too, was of opinion that there had been ‘goings-on’. Odd-looking strangers had been noticed, loitering about in a highly suspicious manner, unusual and indeed inexplicable noises had been heard, repeated knocking had produced no answer. But as for gaining admission from the College portion of the building to that small part reserved for the use of the Duke, that was very different. For his part, the caretaker didn’t see how it could be done. All connecting doors had been carefully sealed, some even bricked up, and it would take another squad of workmen to open them again.
“It ought to be done, though,” declared the caretaker, considering the problem. “I’m none too easy in my own mind, and wasn’t before you came. Old Mr Hopkins—him as was butler in the old days my dad’s told me about, when I asked him—when it was open house here, and the gentry coming and going, and everyone jolly and friendly, same as they aren’t now and a helping hand for all.” He paused, lost in the memory of those past glories of which his father had told him. He resumed: “Mr Hopkins—eighty if he’s a day—is always up and about first thing. It might be he’s ill. Food poisoning. Never heard of it before all this rationing came in, but now it’s everywhere.”
“Just so,” said Bobby, trying to bring him back to the point; “but about these connecting doors?”
“Well,” the caretaker answered, “there is one in the cellars that looks to me as if the workmen forgot it when they did up the rest. It’s locked, but it’s not fastened up tight like the others. Leastways, it doesn’t look it.”
“You might let us see it, will you?” Bobby asked; and then, when the man hesitated, he added: “I am a police officer. From London. I will take all responsibility.”
“Don’t do any more damage than you can help,” the caretaker said, yielding. “Very particular the College gentlemen are about damage, except when it’s them students. They can rip around all they like and nothing said.”
Grumbling thus—evidently the perennial feud between caretakers and students was raging here in full force—he led the way down some stone steps into the almost endless cellars that underlay this huge old rambling building. Bobby, by the light of an electric torch, examined the lock of the door the caretaker showed them. It did not look too difficult. He produced a small gadget he generally carried with him. It was not the first time Bobby had had to pick a lock, and if he was not as skilful as are professionals like Item Sims, still this was a fairly easy job. In two or three minutes he had the door open and was flashing his torch into a dark, damp emptiness, a welter of passages and cellars, where it seemed lost souls might wander for evermore and living creatures never find their way to the upper air. The deathly silence was broken only by a faint skurry of rats and mice and the rustling sound of disturbed spiders, beetles, and so forth. These faint sounds died away and Bobby said:
“There ought to be an exit somewhere on the Duke’s side.”
Orienting himself as best he could, he took the direction both he and McKie thought the most promising. They came presently to a flight of stone steps, similar to that by which they had previously descended. The door at the top was open. They went through it into another long passage that led them to the hall, where, rather to the relief both of Bobby and McKie, no corpse was to be seen.
“Your leg must have walked away,” Bobby told McKie. “Natural thing for a leg to do, I suppose,” and then at the top of his voice, he shouted: “Anyone at home?” and heard his voice go rumbling away into those vast, ancestral silences. Once more he shouted at the full force of his lungs: “Is anyone here?” and again there was no reply.
CHAPTER XXXIV
ORGY
BOBBY STOOD waiting, still hoping there might come some response to that loud shouting of his. But McKie said:
“We had better see what’s up.”
Bobby nodded in assent, gave another glance up the stairway, for he had thought for a moment he had heard something stirring there. McKie touched him on the arm.
“Look,” he said, “look at that door,” and he indicated one beneath which a tiny stream of liquid had seeped to become a small pool. McKie went across to it, stooped, dipped his finger in it, smelt, and came back to Bobby. “Brandy,” he said wonderingly. “Brandy.”
Before Bobby could reply, the door opened and there appeared, somewhat unsteadily, the Duke himself, unkempt, unwashed, bleary-eyed. Clinging to the door-post for support. He said, slurring his words a little:
“It’s polishman, jolly ole po-policeman.” He beamed upon them foolishly. “All fren’s together,” he said.
Bobby was silent. So was McKie—a thing that did not often happen. But then neither he nor Bobby could find words to utter. The Duke turned and went back into the room. Bobby and McKie followed. The Duke sat down on the nearest chair, supporting his head on his hands. His smile had vanished now. He was saying in a kind of monologue:
“My head, my head, oh, my head, my poor head
!”
The room was brightly lighted by overhead electric lamps. The windows were closely shuttered, the curtains drawn. The air was heavy with the fumes of alcohol. There were bottles and glasses on the table and on the floor. Those on the floor were mostly broken, and from them had spread that trickle of brandy which had reached the door and seeped beneath it. In a capacious arm-chair sprawled Item Sims, or rather he had been, but now was making spasmodic and ineffectual efforts to rise. On a couch Mrs Sims was lying full length. Her eyes were wide open and her face was wreathed in a seraphic smile. She said:
“Besh time ever. Good ole bloke, good ole me, good ole Ity, good ole everyone,” and then she closed her eyes, but continued to smile even more happily than before.
By this time Item—or ‘good ole Ity’—had managed to get to his feet.
“It’s all ri’, Mish Owen, sir,” he announced. “You’ve nothin’ on me. Fren’s all roun’, same as the bloke said.”
He pointed to the Duke to make it plain who was the ‘bloke’ referred to, and then fell flat on his face and was violently and noisily sick.
Mrs Sims opened her eyes and said once more; “Good ole bloke, good ole me, good ole Mish Owen, good ole everyone,” and then she crossed her hands on her breast and began to croon softly to herself.
The Duke, wagging an admonitory finger at the still silent Bobby, the still speechless McKie, said:
“I know what you’ve come for. Family papers. There aren’t any. Not now. See!”
He pointed to the grate, filled with a pile of ash. The ‘family papers’ had been burnt with great thoroughness. First soaked with brandy, Bobby thought, and then, when they had burnt out, more liquid—wine, perhaps—had been poured upon them and the whole mass stirred together.
Brought to Light: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 25