Helen Passes By: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  “Where is he?” Bobby asked.

  “Who? Mauley? I don’t know. Why? In bed, most likely.”

  But Bobby looked doubtfully across the river at the opposite bank the darkness veiled. He said:

  “Was it Mauley told you something was going on here and asked you to come and see?”

  “No, it wasn’t. I told you,” Prescott answered angrily. “I saw the lights here. They show up. I wondered what they were for. We use water transport a lot. If anything was wrong, I wanted to know.”

  Bobby climbed into the launch and disappeared. Soper followed, taking tools with him. A noise of hammering and knocking was soon heard. Bobby reappeared. He climbed down to the bank again. He had a gun in his hands.

  “We found it under the cabin floor,” he said. “I think it must be Lord Adour’s gun, the one used to kill Itter Bain. It will have to be identified.” Prescott began to move towards the spot where he had left his cycle. Bobby said sharply: “Please stay here, Mr. Bain.”

  “What for?” demanded Prescott. “It’s nothing to do with me.” His voice had grown high and shrill. “I didn’t know the gun was there. How could I?”

  “I remember once,” Bobby said, “you told me exactly where Lord Adour put down his gun by the oak the day your cousin was shot and I wondered then how you knew.”

  “I didn’t,” Prescott cried. “I mean … what’s it matter, anyhow? I’ve an alibi. You know that. I was with the Coastal Bank men all the time. You know I was. You’ve asked them. They’ve told you.”

  “Yes, I know,” Bobby agreed. “You’ve a perfect alibi. The perfect alibi.” He turned to Gregson. “Sergeant,” he said. “Mr. Bain is to stay here. See that he does. If necessary, arrest him on a charge of obstruction. He is to be held at all costs. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Sergeant Gregson and moved silently to Prescott’s side.

  CHAPTER XXXI

  HASTE! HASTE!

  With both great anger and an obvious terror, Prescott Bain attempted to protest, at times with loud vehemence, at times with threats of legal action. Gregson listened stolidly—and watchfully. Bobby did not listen at all. He was giving other instructions, making other arrangements, all with speed and efficiency, for it was in his mind that there might be need for haste. On the highroad that here, in a great arc, came within a few hundred yards of the river, they saw the headlights of a car coming at speed. They heard it stop.

  “Spotted the lights and want to know what it’s all about, and so they’re coming to see,” Soper remarked.

  “It’s the searchlight,” the Harbour-master’s assistant said. “It shows up.”

  The newcomers were making their way across the fields that lay between road and river. They were using electric torches. One of them as they came nearer shouted out something. Bobby could not catch the words, but he thought he recognized the voice. He called back:

  “Is that Commander Seers?”

  “What’s all this? What’s all this?” came the reply. The speaker, running now, broke through the hedge that divided field from towing path. The searchlight showed him as Commander Seers. He said: “Is that you, Mr. Owen?” His voice did not sound very cordial, very pleased. He went on: “Is this some fresh development? I don’t think we had been notified, had we?” That was true. Bobby had gone on the useful and undeniable principle that those who don’t know, can’t tell. He was not without experience of the mischief that can be done to careful plans by even one incautious word—by, in fact, that “careless talk” of which we heard so much during the Second World War. He was prepared with his answer though. He said quickly:

  “I tried to get in touch with you, but I was told you were out mine-chasing again. Any luck?”

  The question was a useful diversion. Every man within earshot stopped what he was doing to listen for the reply. The tension of their eagerness could almost be felt, for it was the safety of their homes that was in question. The Commander felt the pressure of their anxiety, of their attention. He said:

  “There oughtn’t to be any danger. She was just where the tide and the Westways current meet, caught between them, so she ought to drift off again when the tide turns. Then we’ll explode her as soon as she is out of range. We’ve made a light fast, so we shall be able to tell if she starts to drift inshore again.”

  Sounds of relief came from the listeners. Bobby said: “Good. Good work.” Prescott Bain came up, Gregson at his heels. Prescott said loudly:

  “I protest against this outrage. I warn you all, all of you, I shall hold you all responsible. I shall consult my solicitors.”

  “What? What’s all this?” demanded Seers, turning to Bobby. “I take full responsibility,” Bobby said. “I think it necessary Mr. Bain should be detained for the time. I will explain later. I think we had better get on to Kindles as quickly as possible. Trespassing or not, I’m going to spend the rest of the night sitting on the Kindles doorstep.”

  “But … but …” began Seers, quite bewildered.

  “I’ll borrow your car if you don’t mind,” Bobby said.

  “Yes, but—” began Seers, trying by a gesture to stop Bobby, who was moving away. “Do I understand you’re charging Mr. Bain? His alibi …”

  “I know,” Bobby interrupted. “The perfect alibi. Come to Kindles with me. I’ll explain. There’s no time to lose … I think.”

  “But—” began Seers once more.

  “No time now,” Bobby repeated, and, ignoring Seers’s gesture of upraised restraining hand, set off at a run towards where on the high road the headlamps of the car were visible.

  “But—” Seers called after him and then followed, running, too, half-bewildered and wholly angry.

  Bobby was running fast, but with caution, for the ground was rough, and it would be easy to trip and fall. He flashed his torch to show where the ground was smoothest. Seers was running, too, trying to overtake him, but not with much success. Seers tried to shout to Bobby to stop, to wait for him, but had no breath. Behind him followed a constable who had accompanied Seers and who now was not sure what was happening or whether it would be either wise or respectful to outrun his chief. In the car, another constable was waiting, sitting at the wheel. He heard their running, and, guessing there was need for haste, was ready to start. Bobby reached the car first. He jumped in.

  “Kindles,” he said. “Wait for the Commander. He’s there.” Seers came charging up. He was elderly, not in the best physical condition, but he had made good time. Only he had no breath left.

  “But—” he panted.

  “Jump in. Hurry,” Bobby said, and almost pulled him in.

  The constable, following close behind, scrambled after. Bobby repeated “Kindles” to the driver, and added the injunction: “Quick as you can—quicker.” The car shot away. Seers said,

  “But—” and paused.

  Bobby said, “Hurt yourself?” to the constable, who, imperfectly prepared for the sudden jolt of that abrupt departure, had been sent sprawling.

  “But—” repeated Seers, and this time managed to get out with an angry gasp: “I insist—”

  “Of course,” agreed Bobby. “Naturally. I shall make a full report. That was the Seagull we got up. You remember? Mauley Bain reported her stolen. She had to be hidden. All they could think of was to sink her in the deepest river pool. I asked the harbour people to help get her up again. I couldn’t let you know as you were in hospital, and I didn’t much want to have to explain to your subordinates. I didn’t know if you would approve.”

  “But,” began Seers afresh, half-placated, it is true, yet still suspicious of this young man who was always so reasonable and so conciliatory, but who yet always went his own way first and only explained afterwards, who seemed positively to enjoy taking that full responsibility for his actions which most are only too glad and happy to push on to others.

  “But—” he repeated, and then paused, and then he said “But—” so that to Bobby the memory of that swift, brief drive in the night
is punctuated by a series of “But—” as if no other word could get itself pronounced by the huddled, puzzled figure at his side.

  To Bobby indeed the moment seemed unsuitable for explanation and chiefly to prevent the issue of more “buts,” he said:

  “Jolly good, your spotting that mine. If they turned me on mine-hunting, exploding the things, sticking lights on them, I think I should resign and go in for poultry-farming—risky, too, but not the same kind of risk.”

  “Nothing to it,” the Commander declared. “The things don’t go off—at least, not often.” They had come to the top of a rise in the ground where they had to turn to the west in order to reach the Kindles entrance. “There she is,” the commander said, pointing, as the whole stretch of coast and sea to the south came into sight. “See that light? That’s her.” He said uneasily: “She looks to me nearer in, as if the tide had got her.”

  “Hope not,” Bobby said.

  The driver leaned back, speaking over his shoulder.

  “Kindles,” he said. “The gate’s open. Do I drive through, up to the house?”

  “No, stop here,” Bobby said, and started to alight as the car slowed down.

  “But—” began the Commander once yet again.

  Two figures came running up, flashing torches. It was the patrol Bobby had asked should be placed on this stretch of road that ran by the low wall bordering the Kindles grounds.

  “Good men,” Bobby said. “Seen anything? Heard anything?”

  “No, sir. Quiet as the grave,” one of them answered.

  Seers and the second constable had alighted, too. Bobby flashed his torch on the ground. He saw what he had expected, feared, to see. Traces of fresh footprints on the damp earth by the side of the road where someone had stood to open the gate to the Kindles drive Bobby knew was always kept closed at night.

  “Got here first,” Bobby said and started to run.

  “But—” said Seers as he followed, and the others followed after him.

  CHAPTER XXXII

  IT HAD TO BE

  The Kindles drive was of no great length. Bobby had run but a few yards along it, and the house was already visible as a dark mass against the night, when he saw and heard a movement behind the trees and bushes that lined the avenue. He swung the ray from his torch towards whence the sound seemed to come, and now there came towards him Mauley Bain, still moving with that slow step of his which always seemed somehow to give such an impression of restrained and latent speed.

  “I thought it was you,” Mauley said. “I was expecting you. You waste your time. You have nothing to do here.”

  “Haven’t we?” Bobby asked. “What are you doing here?”

  “As to that …” Mauley said and seemed to think the answer sufficient.

  “Your shoes look wet and the ends of your trousers,” Bobby remarked. “Was that when you crossed the river so as to get here before us?”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” Mauley said vaguely. Then he said: “You can go. You have nothing to do here.”

  Commander Seers interrupted.

  “Mr. Owen has found the gun, Lord Adour’s gun,” he said. “The gun that was used in your brother’s murder. It was in the Seagull, and your cousin, Prescott, was on the spot when it was found.”

  “Prescott?” Mauley repeated, as if puzzled by the name. “Oh, yes, I told him there were lights along the river bank. I asked him to go to see what was happening.” Abruptly he added. “There was no murder.”

  “No murder?” Seers repeated, staring.

  “It was a thing that happened,” Mauley said. “That’s how it was. It happened. What does it matter through whom it happened when it had to be?”

  “What’s he mean?” Seers said bewilderedly to Bobby.

  “Let him talk,” Bobby said.

  “You’re the detective they sent from London,” Mauley said. “You are trying to do your best, I know, but your best is not enough. You don’t understand, you never could or will.”

  “Has he been drinking?” Seers asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Bobby answered. “Only thinking. That is often worse.” To Mauley he said: “What is it I don’t understand and never could or will?”

  “The thing that happens,” Mauley said. “It is so different, the thing that happens from the thing that’s done.”

  “We’ve had enough of this,” began Seers, annoyed.

  “No,” Bobby said sharply, now that hard note of dominance in his voice that sometimes came there though often he was unconscious of it. “Let him talk. Never stop a witness talking.” To Mauley he said: “What difference is there between what happens and what’s done?”

  “What is done,” Mauley answered, “need not have been, but what happens is what had to be.”

  “I don’t understand all this,” Seers protested.

  “That’s what I told you,” Mauley said, “even though it’s perfectly simple. It’s because it’s so simple it’s so hard to understand.”

  “Mr. Bain,” Bobby said, “I think I must tell you, before you say anything more, that it is my intention to charge you with the murder of your brother, Itter Bain. Anything you say may be used in evidence.”

  “But, man alive,” cried Seers in a crescendo of bewilderment, “you’ve just arrested Prescott.”

  “No. I only had him detained to prevent his saying anything to Mauley. Unnecessary precaution apparently, as it’s turned out. It must have been Mauley who was watching from the other bank, so he knew all about it. But I wasn’t sure of that at the time.”

  “Do you mean Mauley killed Itter?” Seers asked. “Oh, now then,” he muttered, “it couldn’t be, his own brother.” He said to Mauley: “Are you your brother’s murderer?”

  “No,” Mauley answered at once. “I’m quite innocent. When I saw him lying there I said to him, ‘I didn’t do that.’ He heard me. He understood. I could see that by the way he looked at me before he died.”

  “How did Lord Adour’s gun come to be in the Seagull, where it was found?” Seers asked.

  “I put it there,” Mauley answered. “To keep it out of his way.” He nodded at Bobby as he spoke. “Has he nosed it out? Police.” Again he looked at Bobby, frowning and thoughtful. “Police,” he repeated. “I dare say he’s a good policeman. Much better than you, Seers, much better. But police have no part or lot in this.” In a loud voice and now speaking directly to Bobby, he said: “You’ve found the gun that killed my brother. Well, then, do you think the gun is the murderer?”

  “No, but who pulled the trigger?”

  “It was done through him,” Mauley agreed, “it was done by him. So also it was done through the gun, by the gun. But neither did it.”

  “Who did, then?” Seers asked.

  “It was the thing itself that got itself done,” Mauley repeated. “But that is just what you will never understand. How could you? Not to be expected. But Itter understood. I told you. I could see it as he looked at me when I was holding his hand before he died.”

  “You … you held his hand?” Seers gasped.

  “Then I kissed him as mother used to make us do when we were little after we had said our prayers,” Mauley went on, “and I took the gun away and put it where I thought it was safe. Because I knew that finding it would only make it all so much more difficult to understand. So it will now it’s been found,” and he paused to look rebukingly at Bobby.

  Seers threw up his hands in a gesture of complete bewilderment.

  “He is certainly mad,” he said in a baffled voice.

  “I think no one who kills is ever wholly sane,” Bobby said, “but I think Mauley is sane in his own way, if not in ours.”

  “You mean you believe he did kill his brother?” Seers asked.

  “He must be charged,” Bobby said. “That’s clear, anyhow,” but there was still a faint touch of hesitation in his voice as he turned to stare in a troubled way at the great mass of Kindles, looming darkly in the distance in the dark night.

  “I
’ve told you already I am innocent,” Mauley said angrily. “Even you police, you don’t call the gun a murderer, do you?”

  “No, only the means,” Bobby said.

  “That’s it,” Mauley agreed. “You begin to see … don’t try to pretend I murdered Itter when we are brothers, and I never could or wanted to. A means,” he repeated. “A way. No more.”

  “A means to what need never have been, but for the will behind,” Bobby said. Then he said: “Whose was the will?”

  “The whole question is there,” Mauley said. “That is the one intelligent thing you have said so far. I had no will to kill.”

  “This is all beyond me,” Seers said. “It’s too deep for me.”

  “I think at any rate,” Bobby said, “it is going deeper than we need to follow.” There was a grimness in his voice as he said: “We are policemen and all we have to think of is our duty. The rest is for others.” To Mauley, he said: “You have told us a great deal. Will you tell us now exactly what happened—the bare facts, and never mind how they came to be?”

  “Even though how they came to be is all that counts?” Mauley asked with pity for such simplicity, yet half-amused by it. “The way those two men from the bank talked and talked, they and Prescott never stopping, that’s how it began when I knew all that mattered was that Itter was waiting there and that she did not know. Because he had told me he had arranged everything with her father, and he would send her where Itter would be waiting and then it would be all right because, Itter said, she could never stand out against him and all the force and passion in him. But I knew it must never be, and I told him so and he laughed. It was a pity he laughed, foolish. Because then I knew. It wasn’t that I wanted her for myself. I had hardly even spoken to her, only watched her as she went by, and the strangeness and the beauty that went with her, and what would have become of that if she had merely been a woman like another? When I thought of that, I seemed to see her there among the trees and Itter … well, then I knew what had to be. I passed a note to Prescott to say I was bored with all the talk and I wanted to get on with what was waiting for me. That was true, but not in the way he thought I meant. I said in my note that if the bank people wanted me told anything or to be sure I agreed, then Prescott could pretend to ring me on the house ’phone and make up any reply he liked. That gave him a free hand, which was always what he wanted. Later on, when he heard about Itter, he asked a lot of questions, and he went into a panic because of being scared of what might happen to the business and his money in it.”