He felt inclined to lean across and say something reassuring and paternal, only he thought Bobby might notice—Bobby generally did notice, he knew—and then Duke Dell came into the room, very pale still but all the same much recovered.
Bobby said:
“I don’t know what you’ve heard or if you’ve heard anything at all. There has been a bad accident. Flight Lieutenant Denis Kayes—I think you all know him—was going down Quarry Hill on his motor cycle. I expect you know Quarry Hill, too. There have been several fatal accidents there before. Mr. Kayes seems, somehow, to have lost control of his machine. Going too fast probably, and then he’s a stranger here and very likely had no idea what a tricky, dangerous hill it is. There are danger signs but he may not have noticed. All we can say for certain is that he went clean through the fence bordering the road and over the quarry edge. That meant a forty foot fall or thereabouts and about ten foot of water waiting at the bottom. The quarry has been flooded. The cycle went right into it. Please,” he added, lifting a hand to check comment, “let me continue. You know Mr. Spencer, in charge of the Oldfordham police, is laid up because of the attack made on him, and so I’ve had to take over the investigation into the murder of Alfred Brown. In some very curious and complicated way I don’t fully understand yet, this accident at Quarry Hill is tied up with that murder. It rather seems as if it might be a direct consequence. And I can’t help being afraid that there may be other consequences if I don’t take action, even though I’m not yet quite ready, not yet quite sure of my ground. Now I’m a bit inclined to think that some of you could make useful suggestions. Till now you may not have wanted to say anything about suspicions you felt were only suspicions and you didn’t want to bring accusations you had no solid grounds for holding. That was all right, quite reasonable. Vague suspicions aren’t much good to police. We are always full of vague suspicions ourselves. It’s our job to suspect everyone. As we do. But I think the time for that is over now, in view of what happened to Flight Lieutenant Kayes this afternoon. I want to remind you, too, that things have got so far that if I make an arrest, even if I arrest the wrong person, you will probably all be called as witnesses—and witnesses have to talk. But I would much rather, it would be a much greater help, if any of you who doesn’t feel quite comfortable about what he knows or suspects will tell me right out, before you all, so that you may all know what you each think, and without my having to ask questions. Questions so often miss the real point. Of course, you understand that you needn’t say anything if you don’t wish to, or if you feel you really have nothing to say. So there may be no mistake or dispute afterwards, I am going to ask one of my men to take everything down in shorthand. Afterwards his note will be typed out and you will be asked to read it and sign it as correct if you are satisfied. And I do most earnestly ask you to be entirely frank. At present I am still much in the dark and a life may be at stake, as has been shown during these last few hours on Quarry Hill.”
There was a silence when Bobby stopped. From the window came a hushed and trembling, long drawn ‘Oh’, as Theresa let her needlework fall and looked all about her questioningly, from one to the other, in shocked bewilderment. The inspector felt very sorry for her. He felt slightly indignant that the other girl present, Miss Jebb, should be sitting so far away, at the other side of the room, aloof, in a shadowy corner, with shadows all around her. The two girls, he considered, ought to be sitting together, to give each other mutual support, mutual comfort. He felt he wanted to comfort Theresa himself and he wished his wife were here—and then on second thoughts, he didn’t. And Bobby wondered how many of them knew, or imagined for one moment, that all this was but the climax and the period of a deadly duel between himself and the child busy with her needle-work by the window. He went to the door and called in one of the newly arrived police, Constable Davies, whom he knew to be a highly competent shorthand writer. He established Davies at a side table with note-book and pencil, and Duke Dell, sitting upright and stiff on a chair that looked much too fragile for his weight, began to speak, holding his hands stiffly clasped before him, his usually booming voice both less steady and much weaker than usual. He said:
“I had meant to be silent, for we should put our trust in guidance from above, not in our own works. Nor is it for us to talk of punishment. Let him that is without sin mete out punishment to others. Sin is its own penalty. That is the teaching of the Vision. Yet human life must not be cut short or opportunities may be lost. I don’t know anything about Mr. Kayes’s accident. I don’t see why there should be any connection. I don’t think there is. I didn’t know there was any danger to anyone. Except myself. But that didn’t matter. I am prepared. Others may not be. That is why life may not be cut short before the ordained time. There are things I know and others I believe. But only believe, for of them the Vision has not spoken. Our brother, who has gone before us, told me two or three weeks ago how angered was the man Alexander Childs, called reverend though none are or can be, by the rebukes publicly administered to his Roman practices and how he had attacked him and they had wrestled together, though then with little hurt to either. He told, too, how the man Childs, called reverend though none are reverend, knew of a store of gold in sovereigns he had by him, and how he feared that there might be an intention to seize it and use it for the very purpose of those Roman and Popish practices our brother had so righteously denounced. On the night when our brother left this world by the way of a sudden and unhallowed violence, I went again to his house where he lived, for when we had parted he had been bitter against me, complaining of an accidental blow I had dealt him, and I wished to bring him to a better and more reasonable frame of mind. But when I drew near where he lived I heard music, not godly music but unhallowed as I thought, for I know little of music, but enough to tell that which is only worldly. And I knew that when our brother listened to music there was little use in speaking to him for he would not heed or hear. He said to me that the Vision come to him in music then he would have known it was true, but it did not and that was why he doubted in blasphemy. For the Vision comes as and when it wills. Therefore guidance came to me to wait till he had ceased listening to what to him was as a drug or strong drink. I waited and as I waited I saw the man, Alexander Childs, falsely called reverend though none are, come up the hill, and I saw him stand waiting at the door of the cottage. But I did not look longer, for I knew it was useless to speak to our brother while there was music, and I went back to the roadside where I had been sitting, and there I think I fell asleep. When I woke the music was still being played and I thought that surely now there had been enough and I thought I would go in and turn it off so that I might be heard. But when I opened the door he was not there, but only his body he had left behind, and left because it had been violently beaten about the head. So I prayed for guidance; and it seemed to me that the thing had been permitted that no longer might it be possible for our brother to deny what he had seen, deny the Vision that had been granted him. Therefore I held my peace and I went away in silence, though greatly troubled. It may be I was wrong, and that I understood wrongly the guidance I received, if it is true that in consequence another life has been cut short too soon, before its full time. That is all.”
He sat back in his chair and Mr. Childs got slowly to his feet.
“I must be permitted to say one thing,” he began, his voice not too steady in spite of all his efforts to control it, for indeed his indignation and his anger were extreme. “Our friend has spoken most ignorantly, most presumptuously, of the title ‘reverend,’ which belongs of course, as you all know, not to the man but to the office and—”
“Please, please,” interrupted Bobby, “we mustn’t discuss that. It is murder, not words, I am here to deal with. Mr. Dell has told us—”
“Surely—” Mr. Childs interrupted in his turn, “considering that besides the utterly mistaken and very, very foolish remarks I was referring to, a kind of accusation of being concerned in a murder is made, I may at least say, w
hether I or my office is reverend, and on that point—”
“No,” Bobby interposed, as firmly as before, for it seemed clear Mr. Childs was a good deal more concerned and indignant about that than he was over the murder accusation, “no, this is not the place or time for any argument of that sort.”
“If I am not to be allowed to speak,” declared Mr. Childs with dignity, “though I did indeed believe—erroneously it now seems—that the meanest criminal was allowed to defend himself, I will wait for a more favourable opportunity. I shall probably take the matter as subject for a discourse I trust our sadly mistaken friend here will attend for his instruction. Oh,” he added, remembering something he apparently considered of much less importance, “I could add that Mr. Owen already knows all about what Mr. Dell has been telling you. We have talked it over. I could add, if necessary, that Mr. Dell’s own story shows he was near the scene of the murder that night, that he had returned there in secret as the result of a quarrel, that he had apparently already once that day nearly killed Brown.” Mr. Childs paused and looked very bewildered and surprised, as if only now he had realized the full effect and implication of what he was saying. He said slowly, half to himself: “It does almost look as if Dell were the murderer himself—perhaps he believed, as people do sometimes persuade themselves, that he was ‘guided’ as he calls it.”
CHAPTER XXX
MR. GOODMAN TALKS
Without rising, almost indifferently, Duke Dell said: “Had I been so guided, as I call it but others do not for they lack understanding, so I should have acted. But there was no such guidance, none, and therefore no such action by me.”
“The thought came to me,” Mr. Childs said, looking very troubled. “I would accuse no man.”
Mr. Goodman got to his feet. Now he was wide awake and alert. All trace of his earlier odd drowsiness had entirely vanished.
“I think,” he said, “these two gentlemen are on the wrong track. I think Mr. Owen is on the right track. I’m told he often is. This terrible accident on Quarry Hill—if it was an accident, I’ll come to that later—seems to clear up a good deal that has been greatly troubling me. I may be open to blame for not having spoken before of some things I became aware of and some doubts they gave rise to. Professional training and instinct, I expect. The first thing a lawyer learns is caution, and I’m still a lawyer, even if I’ve retired from practice. A lawyer does see so many cases where a hasty word, often expressing a merely unformulated passing suspicion or doubt, has done incalculable mischief. That’s my excuse. I argued that the case was in the very capable hands of our deputy chief constable. I think now I took a mistaken view but I do want to explain why I shirked action till now, till this new dreadful tragedy. A sort of catalysis. It changes, it clears up, one begins to understand. When Miss Foote—”
“Me?” said Theresa, looking up from her busy needlework, astonished, as her whole manner proclaimed, that her name should be mentioned. “Me?”
“When Miss Foote,” repeated Mr. Goodman firmly, “called to see me on the pretext—I am sure now it was a pretext—that she had heard I wanted a secretary, I realize very fully that I should have questioned her more closely. But at the moment I could only think how lucky I was to have a smart, competent girl applying for the job when I had long since given up hope. I knew very well there was hardly an office in Midwych wouldn’t have jumped at her. I didn’t ask a single question, I didn’t take up her references. And when she dropped a hint about being willing to help in the housekeeping—well, that settled it if it had needed settling. Not that it did.”
“I love housework,” Theresa interposed, still all sweet innocence. “Of course I wanted to help. And Mrs. Fuller’s so nice.”
“I remember thinking it was almost too good to be true,” Mr. Goodman went on. “That’s just what it was. I ought to have known. I admit that. At the time I thought of it as almost like winning a first prize in a sweepstake you didn’t know you had a ticket for.”
“Me?” said Theresa, gently puzzled, appealingly puzzled; and Mr. Childs had an air of wishing to comfort and reassure her; and Duke Dell edged his chair a little nearer still; and Bobby sent his inspector a warning glance that was acknowledged by a faint bend of the inspectorial head but that the inspectorial mind dismissed as superfluous and unnecessary. Mr. Goodman, speaking with obvious care in choosing his words, continued:
“Such doubts as did persist in my mind, I would not listen to. I had a secretary, a very efficient secretary, a secretary who not only helped Mrs. Fuller but was on excellent terms with her, and I considered that I was exceedingly fortunate. Then I became aware that there was a young man occasionally visible in the vicinity. I thought that explained Miss Foote’s presence. I suspected that the young man was the attraction. Very natural. All I hoped was that the young man wouldn’t carry her off too soon. It did just occur to me as strange that the young man seemed also to be a newcomer here. But I hardly gave it a second thought. Any number of possible explanations. Then one day Miss Foote told me that a Mr. Brown had called while I was out and wanted his will made. I was surprised because I told her when I engaged her that I was retired from practice and yet she had apparently told this Mr. Brown that she would ask me for an appointment. I reminded her I wasn’t in practice and forgot all about it. Even when she said she would call on Mr. Brown and explain next time she was in Oldfordham, I didn’t pay attention. Brown is an exceedingly common name and it never once occurred to me that he was the Brown who had been my managing clerk. Indeed, in the light of later events I am inclined to believe the whole tale was an invention and that Brown never called at all.”
“Oh, he did,” exclaimed Theresa, quite shocked evidently by such a doubt; and Mr. Childs looked more sympathetic than ever; and Duke Dell edged his chair yet another inch or two nearer; and the inspector felt so sorry for the poor young lady, he never even noticed another warning glance that Bobby gave him. Mr. Goodman, disregarding the interruption, continued: “Why should Brown have suddenly wanted to see me when apparently he had been living in Oldfordham for years and all that time had kept very carefully out of my way? But it seems to me probable in view of recent developments that Miss Foote knew well who he was, knew he had been in my employ, and knew also that in addition to embezzlements committed in my office, he had managed to get hold of a large part of the estate left by one of my clients, a Mr. Kayes, an uncle of Denis Kayes, of whose death we have just heard. How did Miss Foote become possessed of this knowledge? I think from the third of the Kayes brothers. These were the eldest, my client; the second brother, the father of the unfortunate Denis Kayes; and the younger brother, the father of—of Mr. Langley Long, whose real name I think is Kayes.”
“Nonsense,” said Mr. Langley Long from where he sat, a little in the background. “It’s Langley Long. I don’t know what in thunder you think you’re talking about. I’ve my identity card here and you can look up my birth certificate if you want to. All rot.”
“Well, I never,” said Theresa; and if a lost little girl ever looked like a lost little girl, she did.
“There is a distinct likeness,” Mr. Goodman said. “It may be accidental. I don’t know. I merely remark on it. I do not think our very capable deputy chief constable is likely to have overlooked it. I think it almost certain there was knowledge—it may have been only strong belief—that the portion of my late client’s estate Brown had managed to lay hands on was in gold, and I suggest as a probability that this knowledge was arrived at through some hint or communication of some sort from my client during his life to his two brothers. Put in a rather vague form perhaps, but enough to rouse interest and speculation. More particularly when on my client’s death, I, as executor, reported an estate almost negligible. It consisted only of a small sum in the bank and personal belongings. Not that I was very surprised. I knew that, contrary to my urgent advice, old Mr. Kayes had been speculating on the Stock Exchange. A bottomless well. My managing clerk, Mr. Brown, had been doing the same thing. The
reason for his downfall. I hadn’t the least suspicion of that at the time. I had no reason whatever to distrust Brown. As I was under great pressure of other work I allowed Brown to carry out the routine work of winding up the Kayes estate. He had, of course, no authority to dispose of any portion of the estate and it all seemed duly accounted for. Everything in perfect order. Nor was there any reason to suppose that the small apparent estate presented any unusual feature or any special temptation or opportunity for dishonest practices. But Brown evidently discovered in the deceased’s papers or elsewhere, indications that though there had been speculation and heavy losses, there was also a large sum in gold Mr. Kayes had accumulated and kept concealed in his house, or nearby. I imagine as a precaution against the possibilities of invasion, of inflation, even of revolution, of all the other dangers of our unsettled times. I have known similar cases, in which securities have been sold and the proceeds used to purchase gold, sovereigns if possible, if not, then wedding rings, or any other gold object. Sometimes other things. Postage stamps, for example. Pictures, too. Anything tangible, as opposed to paper money that may depreciate or to shares in concerns that might be confiscated. Gold is always gold, and there will always be a market for postage stamps. Very interesting things, postage stamps. Take up very little room. I know all this is largely theory. I’m just trying to put things together to help Mr. Owen.”
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