“Couldn’t she get a better job?” Bobby asked. “Plenty going, you would think, for a capable, educated girl.”
“I reckon,” explained the sergeant, “she doesn’t feel she can leave the old people for long. It’s only two minutes from Mrs Bloom’s by the back, and any time things is slack she can pop in on them. Old Mrs Skinner is getting a bit tottery, and the old gentleman tied fast to his chair, though you wouldn’t think it, to look at him, and not the sort of gent to take liberties with, either.”
“Doesn’t the doctor think he’ll get better?” Bobby asked carelessly.
Sergeant Young looked a bit puzzled.
“I don’t think he has a doctor, sir,” he said finally. “Says he don’t believe in them and they’ve never done him any good from the start.”
“I see,” said Bobby. “What about this talk of putting a bullet into Ned? Has he a gun of any sort? I don’t remember any Skinner in the firearms register.”
“Well, sir, I took it that was just talk.”
“Very likely,” agreed Bobby; “only a pity it was talk to a man who has since disappeared. Have they been here long?”
“No, sir. They came just after the war began. Been living in France, but got out in time.”
“Where do they live now?” Bobby asked, and added that perhaps he would try to have a chat with Mr Skinner before he went back to Midwych. He went on to ask what Young knew of Mrs Bloom. Not much, apparently; though that seemed to be chiefly because there was not much to know, and perhaps also because she was not a person it was easy to know. “She puts the wind up you without you knowing why,” declared Young. She had lived in Threepence ten years or so, arriving there as the new proprietor of the Pleezeu Tea Garden, then in anything but a flourishing condition. She had turned it into a very successful little concern, and she had also built up a very good business in cakes. Her cakes, it seemed, were famous, and probably this line could have been much further developed had she been willing to employ more labour. But apparently she preferred to do everything herself with the sole aid of Miss Bates, Ned, and a waitress or two—four, in actual fact, before the war; but now only two—Kitty Skinner and the Liza child. She lived an entirely secluded, hard-working life, so seldom stirring beyond the confines of her own domain that many of her neighbours did not even know her by sight. Young seemed to think it wasn’t a bad idea for her to stay so much in the background. Apparently he considered that people might have relished her cakes less had they seen her more.
“Makes you think,” said Sergeant Young, “that that’s the way Lazarus looked when he came out of the tomb.”
Bobby listened to all this in silence; merely encouraging Young to chatter on by the occasional gift of a cigarette, accepted by Young without gratitude and solely to oblige a senior officer, since he himself was firmly of opinion that only a pipe, an old pipe and very foul, made tobacco worth while. Still, as all sergeants know, inspectors have to be humoured.
Probably Bobby would have been inclined to dismiss most of what he was told as imaginative nonsense had he not himself retained so strong a memory of the strange impression she had made on him, as of one who stood apart from all the common hopes and friendliness of everyday life. Now that he had seen and talked to her, that comparison Sergeant Young had made with one risen from the dead did not seem so fanciful, or so far-fetched, as it might otherwise have done.
“Did Ned get on well with his mother?” Bobby asked.
“Well, sir, there was some said,” Young answered hesitatingly, “that when the beer was in at the ‘Green Dragon’, which he used pretty regular like, he often got very sorry for himself. Blamed his mother for that foot of his, and why had she let him live? Why hadn’t she smothered him in his cradle? Hadn’t she ever heard of mercy killings?”
Bobby said it was all very worrying, and especially worrying to think there might be no reason to worry. Was there any one else likely to be able to give any information—any one with whom Ned might still be in communication? Or any one with whom he had been specially friendly—or on specially bad terms, for that matter? There was a Captain Dunstan, for instance, staying in the neighbourhood, and Bobby had heard there had been a quarrel between him and Ned. Did Sergeant Young know anything about that?
The sergeant shook his head. He knew there was an Army gentleman at Miles Bottom Farm, recovering from an accident. He knew also that the Army gentleman seemed much attracted by Mrs Bloom’s cakes and teas. He knew again that the Army gentleman had been seen calling at the Skinner cottage, where, however, his reception had not been cordial. Miss Skinner was an extremely attractive girl, and he wasn’t the first by any means who had tried to start a flirtation with her. But Miss Skinner wasn’t that sort—no one got any change out of her. Nor had any boy as yet been permitted to cross the threshold of the paternal cottage.
“Freezes ’em out, so she does,” explained Young, with a faint chuckle. “Scares ’em as bad as does Mrs Bloom her own self, only different like, if you see what I mean. She’ll give you a smile when she’s serving you because you’re a customer, and that’s thrown in as a makeweight, and all the same, whether you’re a boy or the oldest old lady in Threepence. Only difference: the smile for the boy is professional and he had best remember it, or be squashed same as a cream bun under a tank, while the old-lady smile would be more than meant.”
All the same, Bobby had to remember that in fact there had been a quarrel between Captain Dunstan and Ned, accompanied apparently by a threat, or at least a hint, of violence. And when a quarrel centres round an attractive girl and two young men, the cause is not difficult to guess, as Bobby told himself, and there is always the possibility that the consequences may be grave. Sex rivalry and sex excitement can produce strange results.
An interview with Captain Dunstan seemed indicated, and Bobby asked the way to Miles Bottom Farm. Young told him the best route to follow, and that it would take him past the Skinner cottage, too, so Bobby decided to call there on his way. He asked again if Young could not think of any one in the village or vicinity likely to be able to give useful information.
“I did hear young Bloom had been talking about a visit to London,” he added. “Know anything about that?”
Young shook his head. There was the parson, certainly—Mr Martin Pyne. A hard-working clergyman like Mr Pyne naturally gets to know a good deal about his parishioners, though Ned had never been a regular member of the congregation. Recently, he had attended church sometimes, but chiefly, it seemed, for the purpose of criticising Mr Pyne’s sermons, which, indeed, were of no more than average merit. Possibly he bestowed on them even too much preparation, and that made them seem a trifle laboured and aloof in tone. Both Friday and Saturday afternoons and evenings he gave so entirely to their preparation as to be invisible—‘unget-at-able’, the parish said—during those times. Besides, Mr Pyne was a much-occupied man. Since his widowed sister and her boys had come to live with him, he had undertaken a good deal of literary work. Ned, indeed, in his usual sneering way, had suggested that the afternoons and evenings ostensibly given to sermons were really devoted to this extra work. By it at any rate he appeared to earn enough to pay for the education of his sister’s three boys, since she herself had been left penniless on her husband’s death. There was, however, or so it was understood, some claim against the Government for scientific work he had been engaged in. Probably, Sergeant Young opined, a claim that would come to nothing, Government departments being notoriously unwilling to part with money. Odd that men, as officials, could be guilty of meannesses they would never consent to as private individuals.
Bobby agreed with this point of view, having experience, having more than once endeavoured to obtain for his men or their dependants payments that he was promptly informed were forbidden under section XX/365,642, clause 37, or by Regulation 27B 198. He was interested, though, by the remark about literary work.
“What sort of literary work?” he asked.
Sergeant Young had no idea. L
iterary work to him was just literary work, just as digging was digging or carpentry carpentry. Mr Pyne was a very learned gentleman. Probably that was why his sermons seemed a little—well, productive of somnolence.
“Bring him in a deal of money, though, does his writing work,” declared Young, plainly much impressed by learning that was not only rare, but remunerative. “Living’s a poor one, but with what he makes writing like, he keeps them three boys at Eton.”
Bobby was indeed impressed. Few country clergymen earn enough by literary work—especially not by ‘learned’ literary work—to keep three boys at Eton. Six or seven hundred a year at the least, he supposed. Bobby began to think that Mr Martin Pyne must be some one like Mr J. B. Priestley or the late Edgar Wallace in disguise.
CHAPTER XII
IDENTITY CARDS
THE SKINNER COTTAGE stood alone, a small and humble dwelling in a small and humble garden, a garden devoted more to flowers, it seemed, than were most of those nearby, where cabbages and carrots seemed your only wear. When Bobby knocked there came to the door a fraillooking old lady, dressed as simply as any cottager, but showing plainly in every gesture, in her manner and in her speech, to what good use she had put the privileges that ease of circumstance can confer.
Bobby offered his apologies for troubling her and asked if he could see Mr Skinner. He explained who he was and said he was making inquiries about Mr Bloom. Mr Bloom had disappeared from his usual surroundings, and it had been suggested that possibly Mr Skinner might be able to suggest an explanation.
“My daughter told us Mrs Bloom was feeling very worried,” the old lady said in her gentle voice. “But I don’t think my husband can help in any way. Will you come in?”
She drew back to admit him. The door opened directly into the kitchen, the cottage being of that type known as ‘two up and two down’, kitchen and scullery on the ground floor, two bedrooms above, this being considered ample accommodation for even the largest family—if, that is, of the labouring class. The kitchen was dark, looked damp, and yet had a pleasant and comfortable appearance. It showed at once both great poverty and a cultured appreciation of what the use of line and colour can do, with the simplest means, to make a pleasing whole. In an invalid chair sat an elderly man, his legs covered by a thick rug. He had large, well-shaped features and in his youth must have been a handsome and striking personality. Now his hair was white, his skin too pale, about his mouth lines of pain and suffering. But his gaze was still strong and direct, and there was still something grim and daunting in that strong gaze of his, in his whole expression, indeed. One had the impression of a ruin, perhaps, but of a ruin which yet held fierce hidden fires. Bobby noticed specially his hands—large, well-shaped, firm. There was about him, too, an air as of one more used to command than to obey. As ill suited he seemed to his present surroundings as was his daughter to her present rôle of tea-room waitress.
“What’s all this?” he demanded when Bobby entered, in his strong voice that note of authority which went so well with his personality, if not with his humble environment. “Police inspector, are you? You’ve got your warrant card, then?”
Bobby produced it. Mr Skinner examined it and handed it back.
“Well, what is it you want?” he said then, with a tone and manner that made Bobby feel less like a responsible officer of police conducting a serious inquiry than like a subordinate presenting a report he had little reason to suppose higher authority would receive with any great favour.
“I’m making inquiries about Mr Ned Bloom,” Bobby explained again. “He came to see me the other day, and since then nothing seems to have been heard of him. Naturally his mother is anxious. So am I, for that matter.”
“Came to see you, did he?” growled the old man, and once again Bobby thought he detected the note of uneasiness, even of alarm, that reference to the young man’s visit was so apt to produce. “What about?”
“That, of course, I am not prepared to say,” Bobby answered.
“Oh, you aren’t, aren’t you?” thundered Mr Skinner—‘thundered’ is hardly an exaggeration, it sounded like thunder in that small kitchen. “Why not?”
“Oh, well,” said Bobby smilingly.
Mr Skinner glared more formidably than ever. Bobby remained unaffected. Mr Skinner rested two great gnarled hands on the arms of his invalid chair and seemed as if, had he had the power to move, he would have launched himself upon Bobby. Old, helpless in his chair, surrounded by every sign of great poverty, he managed still to give the impression of a seated Jove, preparing to launch his thunderbolts upon all who opposed his will. Mrs Skinner said in her mild old voice: “Now, Jerry”. He turned at that the full force of his whole fierce, dominating personality upon her. She said again, more mildly than ever: “Now, Jerry, dear”. The seated Jove collapsed. In quite a chastened voice he said to Bobby:
“Well, why come to me?”
“Because,” explained Bobby, “it has been reported to me that you have used threats towards him.”
“Who told you that?” demanded Mr Skinner.
“There you see, Jerry,” said Mrs Skinner, so exactly in the voice of a nurse rebuking a naughty small boy that Bobby had to smile.
“What sort of threats?” asked Mr Skinner next, and Bobby noted that Mr Skinner seemed a good deal more accustomed to asking questions than to answering them.
“I’m told the actual expression used,” Bobby answered, “was that you would put a bullet in him.”
Mrs Skinner remained silent, but she might just as well have said out loud: “There, you see, Jerry, and serves you right, too”; so plainly did her whole attitude express it.
Mr Skinner, still pursuing his role of questioner rather than questioned, said:
“Suppose I did, does that mean you think he is missing because I shot him?”
“That would be rather jumping to conclusions, wouldn’t it?” observed Bobby mildly. “I gather you agree it’s what you did say?”
“I caught him sneaking about the garden, trying to peep and eavesdrop. He made off when he saw me. I couldn’t follow. You can’t chase any one when you’re laid up in dry dock like this. I shouted after him. That’s all. It would have served the little—” Here a warning cough came from Mrs Skinner—“the young fool right if I had, and I hope I scared him. And,” he added, “I told my girl to warn him I meant it.”
“Our daughter is engaged at Mrs Bloom’s tea-garden,” explained Mrs Skinner gently. “She is a waitress there.”
“I think I had the pleasure of seeing her the other day,” Bobby said. “May I ask you a rather personal question? Miss Skinner is an extremely attractive young lady. Is it possible Ned Bloom was trying to pay her attentions that possibly neither you nor the young lady much appreciated?”
Mrs Skinner smiled faintly, very faintly, very tolerantly. Evidently such a suggestion did not strike her as one to be taken seriously. Mr Skinner looked at first utterly bewildered, seemed to be gathering all his wrath for one stupendous outbreak, and then unexpectedly collapsed into a chuckle.
“Bless my soul,” he said, “Kitty and that little twerp . . . .”
“Now, dear,” said Mrs Skinner, inclined to be severe again, “you mustn’t forget the poor boy’s misfortune.”
“Poor boy indeed,” snorted Mr Skinner. “Upon my word, Nell, I believe you would make excuses for the devil himself.”
“Well, you know, I’ve often thought,” mused Mrs Skinner, “he must be dreadfully unhappy.”
“Pah,” said her husband, looking very disgusted. He turned to Bobby. “Kitty is quite able to deal with that sort of thing,” he said. “Anyhow, why should that make him come prowling about my garden late at night peeping and listening?”
“You don’t know that was what he was doing,” said Mrs Skinner.
“Looked like it,” said Mr Skinner.
“That is when you threatened to shoot him?” Bobby asked.
“Being unable to give him what he wanted, a good kick on his beh
ind.”
“Jerry,” said Mrs Skinner, shocked.
“Well, that’s where it would have done most good,” said Mr Skinner, unabashed.
“I see,” said Bobby thoughtfully. “By the way, have you firearms in your possession?”
For once Mr Skinner was thoroughly taken aback. Finally he said:
“I think I’ve answered enough questions. I’ve told you what I said and why. I wanted to give him a fright. That’s all. I don’t think you need take it seriously. If you choose to, you must. I don’t think it necessary to continue this conversation, and I decline to answer any more questions.”
“You are, of course, within your rights,” agreed Bobby pleasantly. “Every one has a right to refuse to answer questions, but it is a right it is not always wise to exercise. I am afraid there is one thing more. May I see your identity card? I am sure you know a police officer has a right to ask that.”
Mr Skinner did not answer, though he gave the impression of wishing to say much. He glanced at his wife. She went upstairs and came back with them.
“Miss Skinner has hers with her,” she said.
“Quite right,” agreed Bobby. He looked at them. They seemed in order. He read out the names: “‘Harold Maurice Skinner, Agnes Alice Skinner.’ Thank you. They were issued when you returned from France, weren’t they?”
“After the outbreak of the war,” Mr Skinner answered. “We had been living in France till then.” He added moodily: “I hope you are satisfied?”
“I shall not be able to call myself satisfied,” Bobby answered gravely, “till I know what has become of Mr Ned Bloom.” After a pause he added, still more gravely: “Perhaps not then.”
Secrets Can't be Kept: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 7