It Might Lead Anywhere

by E. R. Punshon

  “Ideas aren’t evidence,” Bobby answered, somewhat ruefully. “You can’t sell a judge and jury ideas. Perfect Gradgrinds for facts, all of them. The whole thing cluttered up with alibis, too. Mr. Childs says you and Miss Foote were both here when he left. If that’s so, neither of you could have got to Oldfordham in time. Mr. Langley Long—”

  “Who is he?” asked Goodman quickly, as if the name were new to him.

  “Don’t you know him?” Bobby asked, surprised. “I think he’s here. I was talking to him in the drive.”

  “Oh, the fellow Miss Foote talked about,” Goodman said. “She said something about his being here to lunch and did I mind? Someone she’s met before. What about him?”

  “I checked up on him,” Bobby explained. “On general principles. Because he was a stranger who had just arrived in the place. He has an alibi if I had been really suspicious. He was playing cards at his hotel till quite late. An alibi is a perfect defence—if it’s perfect itself with no flaw in it.”

  “Has Childs an alibi?”

  “No. Your car got him there just in nice time. But you would want a good case against a clergyman of Mr. Childs’s standing.”

  “What about this Duke Dell fellow? What’s he hanging about for? Remember what happened at Chipping Up? Has he an alibi?”

  “Not a good one anyhow. Nor has Mr. Denis Kayes. No proof one way or the other. Alibis don’t mean much and lack of one means just nothing at all.”

  The door opened and Miss Foote appeared again. She had a dainty little lace apron tied round her waist now and looked as meek and demure as the heroine of a mid-Victorian novel come to life. She said shyly:

  “Oh, please, Mrs. Fuller says lunch is ready and she’s as cross as two sticks because she didn’t know there was going to be anyone else, and there’s Mr. Dell and Mr. Long, too, so she says there’s not enough to go round with everything so short, but she’s done her best, only it’s rather lucky, isn’t it, that Mr. Owen isn’t stopping?”

  “Oh, I am,” Bobby declared promptly, accepting this strong hint to go as a warning that it might be as well for him to stay.

  “You never told me you had asked Mr. Owen,” Theresa said, opening surprised eyes to their widest and turning them in an innocently bewildered way on Mr. Goodman.

  “I didn’t, he asked himself,” answered Goodman, and had very much the air of leaving Bobby and Theresa to fight it out together—with the odds on Theresa.

  “We should be most awfully delighted any other time,” she was telling Bobby now, “but there just simply isn’t enough to go round. I know it sounds dreadful and Mrs. Fuller’s simply terribly upset, but if there isn’t enough, well, there isn’t, is there?”

  “No, indeed,” agreed Bobby, “but don’t you worry about me. Not the first time I’ve found the path of duty leading to lost lunches. I’ll come along and watch you others feed.”

  “It would be most awkward, most embarrassing,” Theresa asserted, shaking a grave and troubled head. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Owen, but I’m sure you understand it would make us all most uncomfortable. We really can’t ask you to stay.”

  “Me as the uninvited, unwanted guest,” Bobby murmured. “Too bad, but there it is, or rather here I am.”

  Theresa was to all appearance as meek, gentle, and demure, as she had been all through this brief talk, but Bobby sensed now, though how and why he hardly knew, that there was rising in her that kind of fierce and utterly reckless heat of passion which was at once so strangely inconsistent with her general appearance and which also made her so strangely formidable—an untamed, elemental force from dark and hidden depths that here somehow seized possession of and became incarnate in a human form in manner and appearance, incredibly remote and different.

  “You’ll be going then,” she said, and her voice was low and soft as before and yet now with an undertone like the snarl of a hidden panther.

  Bobby, and he did not take his eyes from her as he spoke, answered:

  “No, I’ll stay.”

  “You’ve no right,” she said, but this time with that note of a fierce and angry undertone less marked, as though before opposition it tended to die away, possessing full force only when unchecked. “This isn’t your house. Police have no right to force themselves into private houses. Please go away.”

  “Oh, well, if it comes to that,” Bobby said, “every policeman has a right to ask to see identity cards. I think I had better ask to see all your cards in turn and then I’ll have to copy out full details. A long job because I’m such a slow worker—slow and sure, you know. But the job will give me a ‘locus standi.’ Is that the right phrase?” he asked Goodman.

  “Better let him alone,” Goodman said to Theresa.

  “Police. They’ve always got something up their sleeve.”

  “Needs a good big sleeve, too,” Bobby said cheerfully, “to hold it all.”

  “I’m getting my lunch, anyhow,” Godman said and walked out of the room.

  Theresa gave Bobby one of her sweetest, most girlish smiles.

  “I do think it’s such a shame,” she said. “It’s horrid to have people when there’s practically nothing to give them. So awkward, so embarrassing. Mrs. Fuller will be giving Mr. Goodman notice most likely unless I can manage to smooth her over.”

  “Such a lot of things need smoothing over, don’t they?” Bobby remarked, as he followed her across the passage to the dining-room; and as he did so he heard Mr. Goodman say querulously:

  “My soup’s cold. I didn’t know it had been put out, I didn’t know you had started.”

  And Bobby was aware, but again without knowing how it was he knew, for her back was to him as he followed her, that Theresa was smiling to herself with a quiet and horrid triumph, as though in some way this meant that in something she had attempted she had succeeded.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  BOWL OF SOUP

  It was with anxiety, for there was a fear in his mind of what might soon be happening, that Bobby looked about him to see if he could tell what had called that dark smile of triumph to Theresa’s eyes. The luncheon table seemed well supplied, he thought, a better table indeed than was often to be seen in war-time homes. At one end there was fish with some sort of white sauce. At the other end was a veal and ham pie. No doubt a veal and ham pie that pre-war veal and ham pies would have scorned to acknowledge, even as a poor relation. But eatable and giving a rich appearance of plenty to the board. The soup had been served in small bowls and Langley Long was saying in answer to their host’s complaint:

  “So awfully sorry. I thought we weren’t to wait, I thought Mrs. Fuller said so. Jolly good soup,” he added with appreciation.

  On the other side of the table, opposite him, his back to Bobby at the door, Duke Dell was sitting. There was something rigid in his attitude, as if he were making an effort to hold himself upright. When Bobby moved so as to see his face clearly, he thought it looked more unnaturally pale even than before. Dell seemed in pain, too, for his hands he held before him were being pressed against his body. Bobby said to him:

  “Why, Mr. Dell, I thought you never lunched.”

  “I did to-day,” Dell answered. “To-day I did.”

  “You don’t look well,” Bobby said. “Are you all right?”

  “Oh dear, is anything the matter?” said Theresa, all anxiety. “It isn’t the soup, is it?”

  “Did you serve it?” Bobby asked.

  “Oh yes, but I didn’t make it, if that’s what you mean,” Theresa answered brightly. “And I’m not such a frightfully bad cook as all that,” she added, pouting.

  “Did it taste all right?” Bobby asked Dell.

  He took a step towards Dell as he spoke, meaning to take possession of the empty soup bowl. Quickly Dell took a piece of bread and began solicitously to mop up what few drops still remained, till he had the bowl so clean and polished one could hardly tell it had been used.

  “Why are you doing that?” Bobby asked.

  “I’ll go an
d rest a while,” Duke Dell said. He got to his feet, not too steadily. He looked much worse now as he moved towards the door. “It is nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all. I shall be all right again in a moment.”

  “Oh dear, I am sorry,” Theresa exclaimed. “I’ll get you—oh, I’m sorry,” she repeated, but this time speaking to Bobby, in whose way she managed to be as he hurried towards the door, after Dell. “Don’t trouble,” she said as she still hovered before him, “I’ll call Mrs. Fuller and we’ll—”

  But Bobby had got by now and was out of the room and running up the stairs. He was just in time to see Duke Dell enter the bathroom. Bobby would have followed but Dell turned the key. Sounds from within told what was happening and Bobby heard them with some relief. He stood there waiting. Theresa was coming up the stairs. He said to her:

  “I take it this is why you didn’t want me to stay to lunch. You know, I think it helps.”

  “What a horrid thing to say,” Theresa protested, all wide-eyed surprise. “How can poor Mr. Dell being ill help anything?”

  “I expect he’ll be all right,” Bobby said, listening. “I’ll smash the door in if I have to. I think it helps because I think it may help to show the connection.”

  “What connection?” she asked.

  “The one,” Bobby answered slowly, “between what happened at Oldfordham when a man was killed and what is happening here—or going to.”

  She gave him a hard stare and went away without speaking. From within the bathroom came sounds of running water. The door opened and Duke Dell came out. He looked very ill and badly shaken. Gone was his earlier manner of superb physical well-being. His voice had become a mere faint echo of its former trumpet note.

  “Been putting your finger down your throat?” Bobby asked him. “Got rid of it all, I hope. Good thing, too, but why did you wash it down the waste pipe? I meant to have it analysed.”

  “That was why,” Dell said.

  “I guessed as much,” Bobby agreed. “Just as a matter of curiosity, I wanted to know what poison was used. Probably the same you had in your tea this morning.”

  “I have nothing to say to you,” Dell answered. “I must rest.”

  “There are some questions I must ask you first,” Bobby said.

  “I’ll answer none,” declared Dell. He was holding the bathroom doorpost, as if for support. He said again: “I must rest. Let me pass or I must deal with you as I may be guided.”

  “Now, now, Mr. Dell,” Bobby said reproachfully, “you’re in no condition to talk like that. You might have been earlier on, though I can do a bit of dealing with people myself if I’m put to it. There—you see,” he added, for Dell, moving forward as if to push past, had very nearly fallen. “Steady on. Feel a bit dizzy, eh? Lean on me.”

  Dell had perforce to accept the aid offered. He nodded towards the half-open door of a room near. “In there,” he muttered. Bobby helped him to the indicated room, got him lying down on the bed, loosened his clothing, felt his pulse and his heart, and then went to the head of the stairs.

  “Hullo, Mr. Goodman, somebody,” he shouted. “A hot-water bottle, please. Quick.” Theresa came to the foot of the stairs and looked up. “A hot-water bottle, and quick, too,” Bobby repeated. He went back into the bathroom, found a glass, rinsed it carefully, drew a little water from the tap—it might come, for all he knew, from a storage tank but at least could not have been tampered with—added brandy from the flask he always carried, and returned to Dell, still lying on the bed and still looking very ill.

  “Drink this,” he said.

  Dell drank obediently, almost automatically. A little colour came back into his cheeks. He sat upright.

  “That was brandy,” he said, aghast. “You’ve given me brandy. Brandy!”

  “No, I haven’t,” Bobby told him. “It was medicine. You can’t call brandy, brandy, when it’s medicine. It’s done you good already.” He was feeling Dell’s pulse and heart. “Much stronger,” he announced.

  “I swore that I would never taste the evil stuff again,” Dell exclaimed with what seemed real distress. “You’ve made me break my oath.”

  “Don’t be childish,” Bobby snapped, losing patience. “You can plead force majeure if you want to. I take it you know you’ve been poisoned?”

  “I have nothing to say to you,” Dell repeated.

  “I have to you,” retorted Bobby. “There’s more to all this than your own safety. If you want to be poisoned, that’s O.K. by me. I don’t care. But there’s been a murder—”

  “There’s no room in all this for the clumsy and brutal methods of the law,” Dell said. “The law murders the spirit. That’s worse still. There’s another way.”

  “Isn’t there something in the Bible about the duty of obeying lawful authority?” Bobby asked.

  Dell gave Bobby a disapproving look.

  “The devil can quote Scripture for his own purposes,” Dell said. “Get thee behind me.”

  “Well.” Bobby said, drawing a deep breath and then another before he felt he could trust himself to reply. “Of all the conceited, thick-headed, self-willed fools—”

  He paused, not for lack of things he wanted to say, but because he felt he had better take another good long breath or two before continuing. Duke Dell took advantage of the respite to murmur with closed eyes: “When thou art reviled, revile not again.”

  “Look here,” Bobby said, but with something like despair, “someone is trying to kill you. Isn’t that because you know something, saw something the night the man you called your friend was killed?”

  “You understand nothing,” Dell told him. “Leave me in peace. Because you understand nothing, know nothing, you would do well to meddle no more. There is no room here for clumsy and brutal police methods. The law is very evil and full of deceit and how can it be otherwise, when it comes from the heart of man that is most desperately wicked?”

  Bobby nearly gave up then. He felt quite baffled. Then he thought of another argument.

  “Do you mean then,” he said, “that it is right to stand by and let a human soul take on itself the guilt of murder?”

  “If murder is intended,” Dell answered, “then the guilt is already there. Guilt is in intention, act or no act.”

  To Bobby’s mind, constrained to some extent by his official and legal position, the exact contrary was the case. So far as he was concerned, anyone might wish murder, plan murder, contemplate murder day and night; but until there was some kind of overt act, there was no offense.

  “Well, you can argue that way if you like,” he said, “argue about it till the cows come home for that matter. But I think there may be more than your life to consider. I think there may be danger to others. I think even that in your case, possibly murder wasn’t intended. It may be all that was wanted was to get you out of the way for the time, while someone else was got out of the way for good.”

  Dell opened his eyes now and looked very surprised.

  “You’ve found that out?” he said. “I thought you were much too stupid. Plain enough, of course, but I never expected you to understand it.”

  “Oh, didn’t you?” snorted Bobby. “Well, never mind that. The thing is, will you help me to save the life that’s threatened?”

  “We have nothing to say to each other,” Dell repeated once again. “You think only of the body, of safety for it, of hurting it by what you call punishment, of its well-being or ill-being. I am concerned only with the spirit. Trouble me no more. Those to whom the Vision has come are free of those who know it not.”

  The door opened and Theresa bustled in, all gushing sympathy and eager helpfulness.

  “I’m here at last,” she said. “The first hot-water bottle leaked and we had to find another and do it all over again. Oh, and I’ve brought a cup of tea, too.”

  Bobby was in a vile temper—a state of extreme frustration is the current phrase, and very nice, too, because it so clearly and firmly puts the blame on the frustrator and not on you. He
took the hot-water bottle without a word of thanks. He took the cup of tea and threw the contents out of the window. Not that he supposed for a moment there was poison in it this time, but he wanted to relieve his feelings and he felt there was no reason now for any pulling of the punches between himself and Theresa. On her side though, she put on an air of great surprise and said in her most innocent tones:

  “Well, I never.”

  “Get out,” Bobby said and meant it.

  She gave a little girlish squeal and scuttled away. She shut the door behind her and then opened it again and peeped in.

  “You great rude horrid man,” she said, and was gone, and well Bobby knew that once again she mocked him.

  Duke Dell had tried to get to his feet to interfere, but had collapsed on a chair. Bobby helped him back to bed again.

  “You had better keep still,” Bobby told him. “You’re only doing yourself harm. Keep quiet and I expect you’ll be all right soon.”

  “I thank you,” Dell said feebly. “You mean well, I know, though so blind and dull of spirit.”

  “Blind and dull all right,” Bobby said bitterly, for that was how he felt. “Mr. Dell, you refuse me your help, though I think you could give me much. You must answer for that—perhaps to your Vision you talk about. Tell me, does this Vision you say you have, ever tell you anything about the possibility of demoniacal possession?”

  “It is told of in Scripture,” Dell reminded him. “You can read about it there. Why do you ask? Have you seen any signs of it?”

  “I’m beginning to wonder,” Bobby said.

  “No need,” Dell told him. “It is plain for those with eyes to see. You are less blind than I had thought. Then you must be beginning to see that the work to be done here is mine, not yours. For these are matters you do not understand, deep and very strange and dreadful. Let them be and go your way. Leave me to mine. And be not over-concerned for her safety. She is threatened but she is under protection.”

  “Who do you mean by she?” Bobby asked.