It Might Lead Anywhere

by E. R. Punshon

  “You surely haven’t begun to think it’s Miss Foote who did it?”

  “Killed Brown? No. Good alibi and not even suspiciously good. I’ve been on the phone to Mr. Childs and one of the Oldfordham men knows the Four Oaks cook, Mrs. Fuller—he’s some sort of cousin or something. Mrs. Fuller says Miss Foote had a bad cold coming on that night and went to bed early, and that she—Mrs. Fuller—took her up some sort of private, patent concoction of her own just as Childs was going; gave Miss Foote the stuff and tucked her up in bed; remembers distinctly hearing the car go off with Mr. Childs, and then went to bed herself; and in the morning the cold had vanished without trace. Mr. Childs confirms. Miss Foote was sniffling at dinner; she went to bed early; he remembers seeing Mrs. Fuller taking her concoction up to her as he was waiting in the hall for the car to come round, and he remembers hearing them talking upstairs. Mrs. Fuller may be lying. The Foote girl may have slipped out instead of going to bed and got to Oldfordham somehow—perhaps she hung on to the back of the car that took Childs there. But it would take rather a lot to persuade counsel to put any theory like that before a jury. No, I think we must count Theresa clearly out—out—out.” He repeated the last word three times, staring blankly in front of him. “All the same, there’s an idea there,” he said.

  “Where?” asked Olive. “All that’s just fantastic.”

  “Yes, I know,” agreed Bobby, but he was looking intent and even excited. “What was Childs’ story?—accepting him as a witness of truth. He says Goodman’s small car was out of action, so Goodman told the chauffeur, who said he couldn’t make out what was wrong, to bring the big Rolls Royce round—and never mind the petrol. Goodman gets his ration, of course, like every other country dweller, for shopping and so on, but not for sending visitors home, not even when the visitor happens to be an elderly parson, nervous about cycling in the dark. There could have been a prosecution and a fine. When the chauffeur brought the car round, Goodman helped to put Childs’s cycle in the back seat and then there was a phone call and Goodman ran back into the house. He closed the door with a bang, and the night was dark, so it couldn’t possibly have been opened again to let Miss Foote out. The light from the hall would have shown. Nor, even if you let your imagination run wild, could she have been lurking outside, since Childs says he heard her and Mrs. Fuller talking as he was waiting in the hall. If the stories told by Mr. Childs and Mrs. Fuller are true, and there’s no reason to doubt them, it seems pretty conclusive, doesn’t it?”

  “Well, then,” said Olive, but she was looking puzzled, “what’s your idea?”

  “Also, though a woman could smash in a man’s head with a poker if she really put her mind to it, it’s not, so to say, what you expect.”

  “Well, then,” said Olive again.

  “Seems to wash out Theresa all right,” Bobby said. “All the same, she comes in somewhere, somehow. Only how? So does Goodman. He is in it. But where? Nothing I can put up to the public prosecutor crowd. They would probably remind me I was supposed to be investigating Brown’s death, and all of that was entirely irrelevant, so hadn’t I better stick to my job?”

  “Well,” said Olive somewhat impatiently, “if there is something going on, what’s it all about?”

  “Exactly,” said Bobby. “What is it all about? Religion? Religion comes into it somehow and so does money, and religion and money can make people do queer things.”

  “Very queer things,” agreed Olive. “Only—”

  “Excessively queer things,” confirmed Bobby, ignoring the ‘only.’ “In fact, the very queerest things people do are generally mixed up with one or other. More so even than with girls.”

  “I don’t know about that,” protested Olive, always ready to stand up for her sex. “Boys and girls are so very odd about each other. Why, look at me,” said Olive, wide-eyed with reminiscence; “look at me about you.”

  “Lunacy, of course,” agreed Bobby, “but temporary lunacy only. Religion and money—permanent. And the older you are, the more they count. High explosive if you don’t handle ’em right. I’m working on the idea that what happened to Brown is a part of what’s going on now. Generally, murder is a climax and an end. This murder, if not a beginning to the play—perhaps there never is a true and real beginning, everything is always so tied up with everything else—was, at any rate the opening of a new act. Take the religious motive. Brown seemed indifferent for years and then suddenly shows an active interest. Why? Because, apparently, of Duke Dell’s preaching. That brings Duke Dell in. Dell claims to have had what he calls a Vision. Brown said he had had one, too, and then thought most likely he had only been drunk. And you are apt to see things when you are drunk. Rats and pink elephants generally, but why not a Vision instead? Brown also had a lot of gold sovereigns hidden. There’s your money motive. Why hidden? Miser instinct? Some people think it safer in these uncertain days to keep their money or valuables by them. You often hear of it. Old people with large sums they carry about with them. Some people stock up with razor-blades and postage stamps all ready for the Nazi invasion or a revolution, or any other old thing that comes along. Just as others provided themselves with poison. It may have been like that with Brown. Something solid in a changing world, and what could be more solid than gold? Can you think of any other reason?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Olive.

  “Good,” said Bobby, without asking what it was. “Next point. Why did he make a will leaving the whole lot to Goodman, his old employer? Affection and respect? Gratitude? It doesn’t seem likely. Goodman suggests embezzlement and restitution, and says he discharged Brown, because he suspected Brown’s honesty. Bit difficult to accept that a managing clerk could do down the solicitors employing him for such a large sum and the loss not be spotted for so long. But if Goodman is lying or keeping something back—well, why?”

  “It’s always ‘why’?” complained Olive. “What’s the good of ‘why’?”

  “None,” agreed Bobby, “so let’s take the bare facts and see what they add up to—if anything. About Brown we have the facts of hidden gold, revived religious emotion, general secrecy; a former employer living fairly close whom he makes his heir, though there’s no trace of any intercourse or connection between them. Any deductions?”

  “Only that it’s time to go to bed if you mean to be fit for anything in the morning.”

  “Two more things we know about Brown. He was a secret drinker, he had a passion for music, and you re-member he was listening in to New York when he was killed.”

  “Does that help?”

  “Well, does it? Go on to Duke Dell. It was Duke Dell’s preaching that seems to have stirred up Brown. Brown becomes a bit of a disciple, but shows signs of relapsing, so Dell expresses the opinion that Brown would be better dead. So did he? Dell has no alibi but he says now he is troubled in his mind and goes prowling about at night. Also he says he knows who the murderer is but he won’t tell. Can you deduce, argue from that, that he has the best possible reason both for knowing and for not telling?”

  “He’s an awfully big man,” Olive said thoughtfully. “I suppose he could smash in anyone’s head as easily as anything.”

  “Oh yes,” agreed Bobby. “Next, our young airman, Denis Kayes, coming to Oldfordham on a not very clearly explained errand. He visits Goodman to ask for details about the distribution of an uncle’s estate and a claim to some house property under that uncle’s will. Goodman tells me the claim is probably good but would be difficult and expensive to establish and, anyhow, the property is of small value. Also it is leasehold and the lease hasn’t long to run. In any case, he wouldn’t want to handle it himself as he’s retired. He advised Kayes to consult someone still in practice. If we weren’t sticking to facts and facts alone, I should be wondering if there wasn’t something behind that story —I mean the story of a claim under a will proved nine years ago. Come back to bare facts. Denis Kayes denies all knowledge of Langley Long, but it is a fact that between them there is a distinct p
ersonal resemblance I’m not very willing to put down to chance. Kayes says he didn’t know Brown or even where Brown lived, but his card was in Brown’s cottage. Another fact is that Kayes was at Chipping Up the day of the disturbance there. More mere chance? And what did he mean when he said something about something being washed out? When I asked him, he said ‘nothing’. If that’s true and it was nothing, why did he say anything? Again, when I found Spencer after the attack on him, he said something that sounded very like Kayes’s name, and another night I found Kayes prowling about Brown’s cottage. What does all that add up to?”

  “Nothing much,” said Olive. “All misty. All somethings and nothings, and whats and whys. Nothing you can take hold of.”

  “No,” agreed Bobby. “Nothing, is there? Nothing solid. Next, there’s Langley Long who backs up Denis Kayes in declaring their complete and mutual ignorance of each other, seems unaware of their odd personal resemblance, is pals with Theresa Foote, possesses a heavy walking-stick that shows traces of careful cleaning and that came from Australia—like Kayes—and who also has recently turned up in Oldfordham on some not very clearly defined errand. I’ve seen his identity card. Seems genuine and gives no help. Doesn’t all that add up to something you can take hold of?”

  “It might,” agreed Olive, “and it might not. It could just as well add up to zero. Do you think the two of them are only pretending to be strangers and are really working in together?”

  “I’m trying to stick to facts, to what we actually know,” Bobby reminded her. “No evidence to show it’s like that and even their personal resemblance, if you tried to point it out, other people might fail to see. It depends on a basic bone structure and on one or two other small points that mightn’t carry conviction to people who had never thought much about such things. Counsel wouldn’t be very keen on putting it before a jury.”

  “Is a thing a fact if you can’t make other people see it?” Olive asked.

  “No,” said Bobby. “Go on to Mr. Childs. Two facts. Brown had been making a nuisance of himself and Childs admits to a scuffle. Take Duke Dell next, we know he talks about a Vision, feared Brown was becoming a backslider, and now he says he is much troubled in his mind. Which, for both Childs and Dell, may mean nothing or a lot.”

  “If you are really religious you don’t go about killing people,” protested Olive.

  “More people,” Bobby told her severely, “have gone about killing other people because of religion than for any other cause—more even than because of gold and that’s here, too. Finally, the two girls—Miss Jebb and Miss Foote, about whom we know practically nothing.”

  “You know a lot about Miss Foote, don’t you? For one thing, you know she is Mr. Goodman’s secretary.”

  “No, all we know is she says she is, but is she?” retorted Bobby. “We know she gives you the glad eye, but does she? Or is it something very different? We know she says she saw Miss Jebb trying to get into the cottage by the back way, but did she? I don’t even know if what I saw her holding this afternoon was really an automatic. I’m sure it was but I don’t know.”

  “Well, if you’re sure … well, you know, don’t you?” protested Olive.

  “There’s all the difference in the world between being sure and knowing—especially in the witness box. What the soldier said isn’t evidence and what you’re sure of isn’t, either.”

  “I call that silly,” said Olive with decision.

  “So do I,” agreed Bobby. “Most things are, if you notice.”

  He began to walk up and down the room, his mind in a ferment. Olive watched him. He said presently:

  “It’s all there. I’m sure of it. All of it. If only I could put it together. The whole story’s there. All that’s necessary is to pick out what matters.”

  “Do you mean enough to tell who committed the murder?”

  “Oh, I think that’s fairly plain,” Bobby answered. “One or two things we know show that all right. But it has to be put together before I can do anything. No good if there are gaps. It’s got to hang together to satisfy counsel and I don’t quite see … I don’t see … it comes and goes. I get it plain for a moment and then there’s always something else that doesn’t quite fit in as it should. And no chance of getting it through till it does. Prosecuting counsel’s one idea is to find holes, and if he does you know all about it. Why, I’ve known a poor, unlucky, harmless, innocent detective-constable at Scotland Yard, only just posted, packed off on Christmas Eve to the north of Scotland to verify some little bit of information counsel thought he might possibly want and never did.” Bobby paused and looked sadly into the depths of a melancholy past. “It was me,” he said simply.

  A sympathetic Olive said “Oh.” The phone bell rang. This time she said “Oh dear.” She always said “Oh dear,” when the phone rang, and generally with good reason. Bobby went to answer it. Presently he came back and said:

  “That was our Chipping Up man. He says Duke Dell is at Four Oaks and won’t budge. What do you make of that?”

  “How do you mean? Won’t budge?”

  “Just that. As far as I can make out, Duke Dell has planted himself there and refuses to go. Miss Foote rang up for a policeman to come and throw him out. Our man went and had a look and decided reinforcements were needed. I don’t wonder. They would be. A lot of reinforcement. I rang up Four Oaks to ask for more detail. Goodman answered himself. He said it was all right and not to bother. Dell was quite amiable and peaceful. So we left it at that, but I’ll go over first thing in the morning.”

  CHAPTER XXII

  FOUR OAKS ASSEMBLY

  Next day, accordingly, Bobby started for Four Oaks as soon as his other duties permitted. He was driving his own small Bayard Seven and as he neared his destination he saw, turning in at the Four Oaks gate, a cyclist he thought he recognized. He followed; he saw the cyclist look round to see who was coming and then hurriedly dismount, a little as if intending to seek refuge somewhere. But for that there was not much time or opportunity, nor any obvious refuge at hand, and Bobby, who now had been able to see it was Langley Long, drew up by his side.

  “Good day,” he said cheerfully. “Nice bright morning, isn’t it?”

  Langley Long did not respond with equal amiability. He looked indeed sulky and resentful as he muttered: “Oh, it’s you. What do you want now?”

  “Well, really, Mr. Long,” Bobby protested, “it wasn’t you, you know, I expected to find here. I’m just making a friendly call on Mr. Goodman.”

  “Fat lot of friendly calls you make,” retorted Long angrily.

  “Friendly to all law-abiding folk,” Bobby answered. “Are you calling on Mr. Goodman, too? Quite a coincidence, isn’t it? Shall we go on together? Oh, by the way, did you know Mr. Duke Dell has turned up here?”

  “What about it if I did? What’s it to do with you?”

  “Now, now,” Bobby rebuked him gently. “I’m a policeman—Police Constable X, so to speak, and Constable X has a certain right to ask questions and even to expect answers. If an answer is refused, he often finds that quite useful, too. But others haven’t got quite the same right to ask questions, though they can draw their own conclusions in the same way, if they don’t get any answer.”

  “You’ve been asking questions enough about me,” Langley Long grumbled and looked now not so much sulky as vicious. “Mason told me.”

  “Not about you, about that rather unusual walking-stick of yours,” Bobby corrected him. “Talkative gentleman, Mr. Mason. Australian wood, wasn’t it—with native carving? Quite took my fancy.”

  But if this was an attempt to smooth over Langley Long’s doubts and fears, it was not a success.

  “If you want to know,” he said, “I tripped over the thing last night and it broke in half.” He paused, staring at Bobby as if challenging him to make the most of that he could. “They are short of wood for making fires at the hotel, so I gave them the bits to use up like that.”

  “Now, isn’t that just too bad?” Bobb
y asked sympathetically. A proof of a guilty conscience, he felt, a proof that the one or two remarks he had made had had an effect they certainly would not have had upon anyone entirely innocent. A stupid thing to have done on Langley Long’s part, for the stick had been far too carefully cleaned to have been of any value as evidence. But the action showed very clearly an uneasiness for which there was probably good cause. No more reason now, though, for not making clear suspicions Langley Long evidently anticipated. Bobby said: “Did you get it in Australia? Ever been there?”

  “I bought it in London years ago. What about it?”

  “Oh, nothing. I was only wondering what you would use next time you want to knock anyone out. Because, it’s pretty clear, isn’t it, that it was you who attacked Mr. Spencer?”

  “I didn’t. Nonsense. Nothing of the sort. That’s what you’ve been getting at all this time, is it? Well, I didn’t and you can’t prove I did.”

  “If I could,” Bobby agreed, “I should have had you under arrest by this time. Plain enough, though. What were you doing there at that time of night?”

  “I wasn’t. I told you so before. Anyhow, there’s nothing wrong in looking round an empty cottage.”

  “Something wrong, though, in violently assaulting other people,” Bobby suggested. “Mr. Spencer isn’t out of danger yet. If he dies—rather serious, don’t you think?”

  “Nothing to do with me,” growled Langley Long. “All the same, if some fool makes a sudden rush at you in the dark without saying a word, you can’t expect a fellow not to hit out, can you?”

  “A good line of defence,” Bobby approved. “It might get a murder charge reduced to manslaughter. Another thing a judge would take into consideration would be what help the accused had given or whether he tried to bluff it out to the end. Mr. Long, we both know it was you who attacked Mr. Spencer. I can’t prove it at the moment but very likely Mr. Spencer may be able to tell us something when he is fit to talk. Don’t you think you would be wise to reconsider your position? My job at present is to get the murderer of Alfred Brown. I’ve tested your alibi. It seems all right, so that clears you of the actual murder—unless there’s a flaw in the alibi. Alibis are always a bit tricky. I’ve known some funny ones. In any case, it doesn’t prove you weren’t an accessory before the fact, and that’s pretty nearly as serious. Because it’s plain you are mixed up somehow in what’s going on.”