CHAPTER XIII
FRUITFUL VISIT
BOBBY LEFT THE Skinner cottage—as befitted its humble condition it had neither number nor name—and went on towards Miles Bottom Farm. He had to pass not far from the Threepence parish church, and near it he noticed a monstrous barracks of a building that he guessed was probably the vicarage. It struck him that this might be a good time to find the vicar at home and that he might be able to provide some helpful information. Bobby turned aside, therefore, taking a convenient path that led direct to vicarage and church. The church was comparatively modern, having been largely rebuilt towards the end of the eighteenth century after a disastrous fire. The vicarage was older, dating probably from the beginning of the same century, when parsonic families always ran to double figures, when accommodation was required for tithes paid in kind, when servants cost little more than their keep, and their keep cost almost nothing. But now we have changed all that, and it is no longer by any means the same. Bobby, as he drew near, surveyed it with something like awe, and told himself that with a living listed in Crockford at under £200 a year, it was no wonder Mr Pyne had tried to find ways and means of increasing his income—even apart from providing for three nephews at Eton. Most of the windows on the upper floor were boarded up, he noticed, and he thought he saw the curtains of the window of a room on the right of the front door move slightly, as though some one there were watching his approach.
When he knocked, a not too tidy, middle-aged woman—presumably a daily help—came to the door. She said Mr Pyne was in, and took Bobby into a small room at the back, evidently the study, very plainly furnished. Indeed, there was hardly anything in the room that did not look as though long since it had won the right to an old-age pension. Bobby surveyed it with renewed awe. Wonderful to think that this rickety writing-table, this old kitchen chair with one leg recently repaired, produced the wherewithal for the education of three boys at the most expensive school in England, probably in the world. And sure enough there on the mantelpiece was a photograph of three boys. Bobby picked it up to look at it more closely. He noticed at the same time that though the writing-table was covered with books and papers, all of them seemed to deal with the ordinary business of a country parish. Nothing to show the nature of the vicar’s remunerative literary work. It struck him, too, that there was something missing he would have expected to find prominent in the room of any working journalist or author. He heard the door open. He replaced the photograph on the mantelpiece and turned. A middle-aged, prim-looking lady was there, simply dressed in black, and appearing embarrassed and nervous. The widowed sister, Bobby supposed, who had recently come to live with Mr Pyne and who was the mother of the three boys in the photograph.
“I am so sorry,” she said, “Mr Pyne is not at home. I mean he has been sent for—at least, I mean he had to go out unexpectedly.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Bobby said, a little surprised. “I understood he was in.”
“Yes, he was, but he had to go out unexpectedly,” the new-comer repeated in the same nervous and embarrassed manner. “He was so sorry—I mean he will be. I’m Mrs Billings—Mr Pyne’s sister. Is there any message? It happens quite often—I mean it often happens that Mr Pyne is wanted in a great hurry. Like a doctor. In the middle of the night even, or quite late.”
“I’m sure,” agreed Bobby politely, “a country clergyman is kept very much on the go—at the beck and call of the whole parish.”
Mrs Billings agreed. Not a moment to himself. Never sure from one moment to another where he would be wanted next. Bobby said he must call again, and Mrs Billings looked both relieved and disturbed, and opened the door very wide. Bobby lingered to apologize for his intrusion and for having looked at the photograph of the three boys.
“Three fine lads,” he said. “Your own, I think. At Eton, aren’t they?”
Mrs Billings looked surprised and a trifle vexed. Not Eton, she said. Such a silly story. She named another school, not one of the magic nine. Probably, indeed, its name had never penetrated the sacred Eton precincts, but nevertheless a school of good standing, and one where the fees and expenses would not be small. Bobby apologized for the mistake, and Mrs Billings said crossly she had told Sergeant Young before her boys were not at Eton, but he seemed unable to grasp that fact. He seemed to think that the only schools in the country were the village school, the Midwych High school, and Eton. Then she opened the study door more widely still, and Bobby, still murmuring apologies, passed into the hall. As he neared the front door he saw through an open door on his left into another small room, where was a table laid for tea—two cups, two plates, on each plate pieces of half-eaten toast. The call for Mr Pyne’s services had evidently been so sudden and so urgent that he had not had time to finish what was on his plate.
Bobby went away thoughtfully, telling himself his visit had been a success. Another important item of information gained, though what it all signified he had not at present so much as the ghost of a glimmer of an idea.
The sight of the plates and cups had, however, served to remind him that he wanted his own tea, and it also struck him that if he went to the Pleezeu Tea Garden he would probably have as good a chance of finding Captain Dunstan as at Miles Bottom Farm. Thither therefore he decided to go now, and on the way he met Mr Roman Wright, who greeted him with smiling recognition.
“I had no idea,” he said, “when we were having our little chat together, that I was talking to the famous Inspector Bobby Owen.”
Bobby, suspecting that this was sarcasm, looked closely at the speaker, Mr Roman Wright continued to smile.
“Excusable, I think,” he said. “Somehow one doesn’t associate our admirable police force with being so knowledgeable about matters of art. ‘A brother of the brush and palette,’ I told my niece, I remember. Down at the ‘Green Dragon’ they say it’s about young Ned Bloom you’ve come. Any news?”
Bobby said none at all, either one way or the other.
“Well, I hope nothing has happened to the young man,” said Mr Wright. “Gone off on his own affairs, probably. Any girl missing as well, by any chance?” He paused to chuckle and went on: “At the ‘Green Dragon’ the most lurid theories are in favour. Suicide, some of them think. The boy never struck me as the suicide type—much too full of his own importance. Though he did sometimes talk a bit wildly, too, when he had had an extra pint.”
“In what way?” Bobby asked.
“Oh, a lot of nonsense about why hadn’t he been put out of the way when he was born? What was the use of letting a crippled baby live? Hitler had more sense, and he had told his mother so. Mercy killings they called it in Germany. Not that he meant one word. All that extra pint.”
“What did Mrs Bloom think of it, I wonder?”
“No idea. Probably told him to go to bed and not be so silly. I’ve never seen the woman myself—keeps very much to her kitchen, I’m told. At the ‘Green Dragon’ they all seem rather afraid of her. I could never make out why; they didn’t seem to know themselves. I’m afraid Ned will be more missed than regretted.” With an apologetic smile, Mr Wright added, “I hear all the local gossip, playing darts at the ‘Green Dragon’.”
“I’ve gathered already Ned Bloom wasn’t popular,” Bobby remarked.
“Too fond of trying to find out things about you. No idea of minding his own business. I remember he asked me some rather cheeky questions. After all, there are limits. A queer lad. He would boast sometimes about how much he knew and how if he sent letters round to some people about here, just saying ‘All is known. Fly,’ half of them would. I told him I hoped he wasn’t going to send me one. I should hate to have to move in such a hurry.”
“Did he try it on with anyone?” Bobby asked.
Mr Wright laughed and shook his head.
“I don’t suppose so,” he said. “Showing off, that’s all. Anyhow, he didn’t favour me.”
He laughed again, nodded, and went his way, and Bobby continued to the Pleezeu Tea Garden, which was
as busy as ever. In spite of the press of customers, Kitty came to his table almost at once. But looking very angry and indignant.
“Why have you been bothering father?” she demanded.
“Well, you know,” Bobby answered mildly, “I told him. I’ve heard he once threatened to shoot Ned Bloom.”
Kitty became transformed from a merely normally indignant young woman into a veritable goddess of scorn.
“You don’t mean to say—?” she began, and then she asked, and how she asked it: “Are you really silly enough to suppose my father . . . ?”
When she left the sentence unfinished, Bobby answered:
“Oh, well, in the police we often get silly ideas—and sometimes some not so silly.”
Kitty gave him a long look and walked away. Bobby watched her go with some disquiet, a trifle afraid he was not going to be allowed to have any tea. But she soon came back, now the calm, efficient waitress with no thought in her mind beyond serving the needs of her customers.
Bobby gave his order, and while he was waiting saw a youngish woman go to one of the more distant tables, and seat herself. He thought he recognized her, and when Liza—not Kitty—brought him his tea, he said to her:
“Isn’t that Miss Jane Wright over there? Mr Roman Wright’s niece.”
“That’s right,” agreed Liza. “Gomes every afternoon now, and like as not goes away without bite or sup of what she’s ordered.”
CHAPTER XIV
S.I.W.
BOBBY LINGERED OVER his tea. It was pleasant there in the garden, and he watched with some interest Miss Roman Wright sitting apart and silent at her solitary table. When she got up abruptly and went away, he strolled across. She had poured herself out a cup of tea, but did not seem to have tasted it. The scone on her plate had been crumbled, but little, if any, appeared to have been eaten. Whatever had brought Miss Roman Wright here, it could hardly have been a desire for refreshment. Thoughtfully Bobby went back to his own table, and as he did so saw that Captain Dunstan had arrived and was sitting not far away.
So Bobby went across to him, too. Captain Dunstan greeted him with that stare of outraged indignation reserved by the true Britisher for any intrusion on that privacy wherewith he tries to hedge himself about, even in such public places as restaurants or railway trains. Bobby said:
“Captain Dunstan, isn’t it?”
Captain Dunstan said “Well?” and said it in a tone calculated to freeze an iceberg. Bobby once more produced his official card and explained he had been on his way to call on Captain Dunstan. Possibly the captain could spare time for a few minutes’ chat now. It would save time later on. Suspiciously and ungraciously, Captain Dunstan said “All right” and what was it all about?
Bobby seated himself. Kitty came up and regarded Bobby with disfavour.
“The inspector has been asking father and mother questions,” she said to Dunstan. “He thinks perhaps father shot Ned—and buried him in the front garden.”
“What’s that?” asked Dunstan, staring.
“Miss Skinner,” explained Bobby gravely, “wants you to know I am a policeman. To warn you against being trapped by the cunning, disguised detective.”
“I never,” said Kitty, very red and angry.
“Are you quite sure?” asked Bobby mildly.
Kitty turned him a shoulder that only respect for the language saves from being described as ‘literally’ bristling. It certainly got as near ‘bristling’ as a shoulder well can.
“What can I get you?” she asked Dunstan in her most ultra-waitressy voice.
“What on earth is it all about?” demanded Dunstan, looking thoroughly bewildered.
“I am making inquiries about Mr Ned Bloom,” Bobby explained.
“Well, why come to me?” demanded Dunstan. “I don’t know anything about the little bounder, and don’t want to. Gone off on his own, I suppose.”
“It’s all a lot of nonsense,” declared Kitty.
“Does Mrs Bloom think so?” Bobby asked.
Kitty looked at him and walked away.
“There,” Bobby said to Dunstan, “you’ve never given any order. Now you won’t get any tea.”
“Look,” said Dunstan, “what’s the idea? I don’t know anything about Bloom. Why should I? I haven’t spoken to the young bounder more than half a dozen times.”
“But I understand,” Bobby retorted, “that on one of those half-dozen occasions you threatened to knock his head off.”
“Well, suppose I did?” growled Dunstan. “Besides, I didn’t. All I said was that was what he wanted, only he knew he was safe, or he would be more careful what he said. You can’t give a cripple a thrashing, even if he asks for it.”
“Do you mind telling me what the trouble was about?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I am afraid I must press you.”
“Press away.”
“Perhaps not necessary,” observed Bobby thoughtfully. “A very attractive young lady and two young men. A familiar situation, of course.”
Captain Dunstan first looked very amused, then very surprised, and finally very angry.
“Rot,” he said briefly, and added the curt order: “Leave Miss Skinner’s name out of it.”
“Can’t be done,” said Bobby. “She’s in it.”
“Look,” began Dunstan, “you can’t seriously suppose that a little—little . . .” Dunstan searched for a word adequately expressing his opinion of Ned Bloom, and found none. Giving up the quest, he continued: “For that matter, I don’t think he ever tried to bother Miss Skinner. A nasty little mischief-making tale-bearer, and wanted to be tarred and feathered. But that’s all.”
“Had he been trying to make mischief between you and Miss Skinner?” Bobby persisted.
Captain Dunstan tried to control himself. He did not succeed very well. Speaking slowly and with care, as if afraid he might let slip words better not spoken, he said:
“I consider your questions insolent.”
“You know, captain,” observed Bobby, meditatively contemplating the horizon, “I shouldn’t wonder if some of your men didn’t consider some of your questions insolent when you want to know why they overstayed their leave or something like that.”
“That’s entirely different,” pronounced Dunstan. “You are not my superior officer, and I have not overstayed leave.”
“Perhaps the question is more serious than an overstayed leave,” Bobby pointed out gravely. “Nothing has been heard of Mr Ned Bloom for some days. There are disturbing features. It is necessary to be sure. A responsible officer of police making such inquiries has a right to expect, to demand, the help of every citizen. And a soldier is still a citizen. You know a policeman has been defined as a man who is paid for doing what it is the duty of every citizen to do without pay.”
Captain Dunstan looked sulkier than ever.
“It’s all such nonsense,” he complained. “Why should you suppose anything of the sort? What disturbing features, anyhow?”
“Well, for one thing, one person—Mr Skinner—is reported to have threatened to shoot him. Another—yourself—is also said to have used threats. There’s a story that he talked of sending letters to people, saying ‘All is known. Fly.’ I know he sent two registered letters recently to a man who denies knowing anything about them. All in all, I’m getting quite a lot of disturbing information. And I’m also meeting with a good deal of reluctance to answering my questions. People tend to be called away when they see me coming. Unfortunate. Do you still refuse to tell me what was wrong between you and him?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Dunstan said. “I suppose it doesn’t matter really.” He indicated his injured arm in its sling. “The young blighter was putting it about that I did it myself to dodge going abroad with the battalion. We’ve been told we may be going soon, though of course we’ve no idea where. Might even be only to the coast. They don’t tell us much. I was pretty mad,” he ended abruptly.
“Well, yes, I can understand that,”
agreed Bobby. “Enough to annoy any one. How did you hear, and what made you think Ned was responsible?”
“Mrs Veale told me. She heard a story was going about that it was an S. I. W. She didn’t know what it meant, and she asked me. I didn’t get it at first. ‘S. I. W.’ is an old expression from the last war. ‘Self-inflicted wound.’ Men did sometimes, they got so fed up in the trenches. Mrs Veale’s where I’m staying. Miles Bottom Farm. She’s my old nurse. She said she thought young Ned Bloom started the talk. She said he was like that. So I asked him. The young fool wanted to fight. That’s all.”
“I see,” said Bobby thoughtfully. “Thank you for telling me. I can understand a story like that would annoy any one. All the same, wasn’t it a bit too silly to be taken seriously?”
“It’s easy to throw mud, and mud sticks,” Dunstan answered. “No one would believe it. But there might remain a sort of vague notion that I wasn’t so awfully keen, and that might be enough to turn the scale over an appointment I’ve applied for. What happened was this. You know live ammo. is used a lot in training. Some ass of an airman muddled his targets and put a burst of machine-gun bullets into a post I was holding against a tank advance. He says he was told the post was only held in dummy and he was to make a token attack to indicate the post was wiped out and the tanks could advance. Luckily for us it was only token, or we should have been wiped out good and proper. Several of my chaps were hit—two or three seriously. My share was a bullet or two through my forearm and wrist. Messed them up a bit. Now I’m on leave. The hospital said I must be careful for a time till the sinews knit up, or something. That’s why I have to keep it like this, in a sling.” He added, half defiantly: “You can check up on that, too, if you want to.”
“Oh, we shall,” Bobby assured him. “Routine. Of course, I accept it really, and I’m glad you’ve told me. May save me from going off on a wrong trail. An investigation can be badly fogged like that, just as minor false information can mess up military operations, I suppose.”
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