“We feared so,” admitted Dr Reynolds. “The young man began dropping hints. Nothing plain, nothing direct, but unpleasant, disturbing. A letter came, making the same kind of obscure, disturbing references. Mr Pyne took no notice. Another letter came—two, I think—registered. Mr Pyne destroyed them both without opening them. But he began to prepare for the elimination of his McRell Pink metamorphosis. I urged that course most strongly. Then the young man left Threepence. A great relief. But you of the police began to make inquiries. We were all much disturbed. We knew that a Treasury grant was imminent, and we felt it would be indeed unfortunate if at the very moment when necessity ceased an unhappy and extremely regrettable publicity became inevitable. It seemed to us all that the most advisable course would be for Martin to depart for a brief holiday. He trusted that before any great efflux of time the whole affair would have blown over and been forgotten. Unhappily it does not now seem probable that that will be the case.”
“No, it doesn’t,” said Bobby grimly. “Not at all likely. I suppose one of the ’phone calls asking if Ned Bloom had come to see me was from Mr Pyne? I asked Mr Pyne—or Mr McRell Pink—a good many questions, but I don’t think I got very candid replies. For a clergyman he was pretty good at hiding the truth.”
“Inspector,” said Dr Reynolds, in a very disturbed, embarrassed voice, “that was a most unexpected, most distressing development. One I never anticipated. I still cannot think there was anything wrong in my acquiescence in Martin’s plan to raise the money required for the education of his three nephews. Nevertheless there was in it an element of deceit. The little foxes that break in to destroy the vine. As McRell Pink, Martin did begin to show himself careless of, even indifferent to, the higher standards. He seemed to forget those ideals to which a priest must dedicate himself. Only as McRell Pink. As himself he was as strict, as punctilious as ever. But as McRell Pink he permitted himself to—well, to diverge. It was as though he began to develop a second personality.”
Dr Reynolds lapsed into silence, evidently deeply disturbed, even distressed, and Bobby found himself thinking: “A second personality and of what kind?” Aloud he said:
“What made him take such a roundabout way to let me know where Ned Bloom was last seen?”
“I think he feared further questioning. But if the facts were communicated to you by him as McRell Pink, who then ceased to exist, he himself would not be involved, you would not be able to interrogate him further, but you would still have the information.”
“I must say,” remarked Bobby with some asperity, “that McRell Pink at any rate showed himself a very complete dodger.”
“I don’t think,” Dr Reynolds answered uncomfortably, “that Mr Pyne felt in any way compromised by any action of his alter ego. A secondary personality. A different personality altogether.”
And again Bobby wondered if Dr Reynolds understood all that might be here implicit.
CHAPTER XXXI
SAPPHIRES
THEIR TALK FINISHED, Dr Reynolds returned to the vicarage, but Bobby stayed on in the dark church porch, wondering a good deal what to make of this strange story he had just heard.
In a sense, the revelation made was without significance so far as he was concerned. No business of the police if a country vicar chose to lead a double life as clergyman and as favourite music-hall performer. What the church authorities would think if such facts came to their knowledge was another matter. Dr Reynolds had shown himself tolerant and broad-minded; but, then, he held now no official position. The bishop of the diocese might take a different view.
Certain, apparently, that Ned Bloom, with his disastrous gift for ferreting out other people’s business, had discovered Mr Pyne’s secret, and what had Mr Pyne been tempted to do about it? And what had Ned Bloom intended or threatened to do about it? Difficult, Bobby felt, to predict the actions of a man so unconventional as to double two such different rôles—parish priest and music-hall performer. True, the theatre has its roots deep in religion—from fertility rites on to mediaeval mystery plays. But since then the gap has grown deep and wide—to the harm of both. Possible, even, that McRell Pink would care little for those restraints and sanctions which would be deeply ingrained in the Rev. Martin Pyne. Was it Jekyll and Hyde in real life?
Still deep in thought and moody fears, Bobby’s meditations were interrupted by a low and cautious whistle, coming, he knew, from one of his men he had posted near by in case help was needed. He gave an answering signal, and his man approached, picking his way with care, and keeping as much as possible in the shadows. For now the moon had risen, and, though the night was not clear nor the moon at the full, there was enough light to see by.
“Captain Dunstan just gone by, sir,” the man reported. “Heading down the road, and going quick and cautious, like he didn’t much want to be spotted.”
“Are you sure?” Bobby asked, puzzled by this new development.
The constable was quite sure. The light was enough for him to be certain, and the captain had passed close by, and so Bobby thanked him and sent him back to his post. Not likely, Bobby thought, that the Rev. Martin Pyne, alias McRell Pink, would put in an appearance now, and anyhow the question of identity had been cleared up. Unless and until further evidence could be secured, there was no great likelihood that an interview would produce fresh information. More pressing, Bobby felt, to find out what had brought Captain Dunstan hurrying by so late, so far from the farm where he was staying, away from the bed all good, easy, law-abiding citizens should by now be seeking.
So Bobby, too, took the road down the hill, treading, too, as lightly as he could, so that the echo of his footsteps might convey no warning to others, and himself straining to listen for any unusual sound.
All was quiet and calm, all was still—peaceful and still—even though here, as elsewhere, all through the sleeping land at any moment the night might burst into a tumult of roaring guns, of bombs screaming earthward. He came to cross roads and wondered which to take. Nothing to suggest which way Dunstan had gone, if indeed Dunstan it were his constable had seen. Straight on would bring him, he knew, to Mrs Bloom’s tea-garden, and already in this business Mrs Bloom had had one midnight visitor: the one who searched the shed Ned Bloom had used for his private purposes. On the right the way led up Love Lane, to where it joined the highroad near Prospect Cottage and its cycle shed. And an open road and a motor-cycle could make any journey easy—or any escape, for that matter. Going to the left Bobby knew he would presently reach old Mr Skinner’s cottage, where it stood with open fields behind and no other cottage nearer than fifty yards or so.
He stood still, hesitating, straining to hear any sound that might provide any indication of which way to take. He even thought of giving up the search and returning to the church preparatory to driving home. A searchlight darted to and fro across the sky, a probing finger, as it were, that sought to uncover the secrets of the heavens. Then it went away, and now followed a distant rumbling in the upper air to tell of the wrath of Britain passing overhead to answer those who had so wantonly provoked it.
That, too, passed, and all was still again, when abruptly he heard a pistol shot and then another. They came from his left—the direction in which lay the Skinner cottage. Bobby started to run, swiftly and quietly. He wondered who had fired, who else besides himself had heard. In normal times he would, he supposed, have seen lights appearing in windows, heard sleepy voices asking what was the matter. But now lights could not be shown, for who knew what roaring death might not be hidden, waiting in the skies? Nor did many people care to venture forth in the black-out if they could help it.
From a warden’s post some one hailed him as he ran by, but he did not answer. Fire-watchers even here, where houses were scattered and few, might be on duty; but, then, fire-watchers often sleep soundly through everything except the alert that calls to them to be up and ready. Half-way along the lane, it was little more, he saw in the pale moonlight two figures that ran at speed across a pasture field, away from the
village, towards the open country beyond. Bobby crashed through the hedge that formed the boundary of the lane and shouted to them to stop. They paid no heed. He ran diagonally to cut them off, if possible. The second of the runners seemed to be gaining on the first, but the first was close to the small wood that lay beyond the pasture. Bobby thought, however, he still had a chance of cutting them off before they reached the shelter of the trees. He burst through a hedge into the same field, but found to his dismay that here ploughing had begun. More pasture turning into grain land, no doubt. There had been some rain, the freshly turned earth was sodden and sticky, it clung to his feet in great clods, his speed diminished by a half. The other two were now at the very edge of the wood. He shouted to them to stop. Futile, of course. Those who ran like that ran no race they would abandon for a shout. The second runner was hard upon the first, the first already escaping from the moonlight to the shadows of the trees. Bobby struggled free from the sodden ploughland and began again to make good speed. It seemed an hour or a day he had run like this. In reality it was not more than a minute or two. Both the other two had now vanished among the trees within the wood. He could hear them crashing through bushes, trampling dry twigs. He plunged among the trees himself, but felt the race was lost. He wondered whether what he had seen had been pursuit or an escape in common. He ran on, for he could still hear, though sight had ceased to count here beneath the trees where the moon could hardly penetrate He was sure the two he followed could not be far ahead. He came to a space where the trees were fewer, where the undergrowth had been cleared, where he could increase his speed. He thought that perhaps now he had outdistanced the other two, hindered and held in this confusion of trees and bush, for sounds he still heard seemed to come from one side and slightly to his rear. He swerved accordingly, got at once into a closer growth of trees, saw emerge from them immediately before him the figure of a man who shouted aloud and ran at him.
Indeed, they almost fell into each other’s arms, so instant was their encounter. No time to deliver blows or to avoid them. They grappled, breast to breast. Hard and close they grappled. A good grapple, strong and fierce, to test each nerve and muscle to extremity. An equal antagonist, Bobby realized, and one who knew each device and trick of what is now called ‘unarmed combat’. But Bobby knew them, too, though so close the two fought and strained and wrestled there in the pale moonlight beneath the trees, there was small scope for trick or cunning skill. Strength against strength it was, sheer strength of body in closest grip, and then Bobby felt the resistance of the other collapse. He weakened and went down heavily. Bobby stooped over him, ready for any trick. But none was meant. The prostrate man gasped out:
“My arm. It gave.” Then: “Why, it’s that damn inspector.” Next: “It wasn’t you before. What are you doing here?”
“Captain Dunstan,” Bobby said. “It’s you, is it?”
“Help me up,” Dunstan muttered. “It was my arm did me. You’ve done it in. It was getting all right before, but now you’ve messed it up again.”
To this complaint Bobby made no reply. Still wary, still on the alert, he helped Dunstan to stand up. Dunstan did not seem too steady on his feet, and there escaped him a groan he only half suppressed. Bobby said:
“What’s all this about? Who was that with you? I heard pistol shots. Did you fire them?”
“No,” Dunstan answered. “I don’t know who did. I don’t know who the other bloke was. I might have caught him if it hadn’t been for you,” he added resentfully. “Now he’s got away.”
“What is that you’ve got there?” Bobby asked.
Captain Dunstan held it up in the dim light of the moon struggling feebly through the branches above. Even in that pale light it shone, it sparkled, was dazzling.
“Blessed if I know,” he said.
“Sapphires,” Bobby said. “Great sapphires such as I have never seen. The Arlington necklace, I think. How do you come to have it?”
CHAPTER XXXII
EXPLANATIONS BEGIN
INSTEAD OF ANSWERING this question, Dunstan moved a step or two away to lean against a tree, seeking support. He slid to the ground, into a sitting position, his eyes closed.
“Sorry,” he said. “Gone dizzy a bit . . . my arm.”
Bobby was not sure whether this semi-collapse was genuine or whether it was an excuse to gain time wherein to consider how to answer, He stooped and took the necklace, a river of pale, iridescent light, from Dunstan’s grasp.
Dunstan opened his eyes.
“Here, what are you doing?” he protested.
“I was asking where you got this?” Bobby said. “Needs explanation. I heard shots. Did you fire them?”
“No,” Dunstan answered. “Bloke I was chasing. When I got after him, he potted at me. Twice. Missed. He didn’t again. Pistol jammed, perhaps. Or no more ammo. One went close, though.”
“Who was it?” Bobby asked.
“No idea,” Dunstan replied. “He could run like a good ’un.”
“Where did this come from?” Bobby repeated, holding up again the necklace, on which the moon shone with a strange and changeful glamour.
“Bloke swiped me with it,” Dunstan answered. “I was just going to grab him. My arm’s gummed up still, but nothing wrong with my legs. I had my hand on his shoulder, and he turned and flung that thing full in my face.” He paused and felt it tenderly. Bobby, producing a pocket torch for which so far he had had no use, flashed its light and saw that in fact one of Dunstan’s eyes was bleeding slightly from a recent small cut or scratch and was beginning to swell. A blow from the necklace, perhaps—or equally well a blow from, for instance, a branch or twig of one of the surrounding trees or bushes.
Dunstan was beginning to get to his feet again. He went on:
“Slammed the thing flat at me. I tried to dodge, tripped on something, and went over. Then I saw you. I thought you were the bloke I had been chasing. I suppose you weren’t.”
“No,” said Bobby briefly. “You are sure you have no idea who it was?”
“Not an earthly. Smallish bloke. Half your size. My arm let me down, or I would have put up a better show.”
“You put up a good enough show to let the other man get away,” Bobby said drily. “Please tell me exactly what happened.”
“I was over there, by those houses, down the road,” Dunstan said. “I heard shots. I thought I had better see what was up, so I went along. There was a bloke running, so I ran after him. That’s all.”
“Captain Dunstan,” Bobby said sternly, “a moment ago you said the shots were fired at you. Now you say you heard them and went to see what had happened.”
“Oh, yes. Yes,” Dunstan admitted. “Hang it all, when a bloke’s been swotted in the eye with a sapphire necklace that hurts like hell and then been laid out by a damn police inspector with a grip like a bear, you can’t expect him to be too clear in the head. I’ll take you on again, though, any time you like, once my arm’s all right.”
“Never mind that,” Bobby snapped. “I want your story, please. It doesn’t seem too easy to get it. Why? What are you trying to hide?”
“Nothing,” Dunstan retorted sulkily. “I’m trying to get it clear, only I’m a bit rocky still. I was down the lane there. I saw a bloke in the garden of one of the cottages. I don’t know which. I thought he was pinching cabbages or tomatoes or something. I asked him what he was up to. That was when he took his pot shots at me. He said: ‘Mind your own business, it’s my own garden’, and I said: ‘Is it? We’ll see if it is.’ I pushed open the garden gate, and he fired—one shot came damn close. So I went for him. He didn’t fire again. Good thing, too. I don’t know why. Perhaps he only wanted to scare me, and when I didn’t scare he didn’t try again. He ran like a good ’un. I told you the rest. I was going to grab him when he chucked that thing in my face. It may be worth a lot, but it’s jolly hard as well. Stings. Then we had our little scrap.”
“Which,” Bobby commented once more, “gave the other man hi
s chance to get away. And you haven’t told me yet what you were doing here at this time of night when most people are in bed—especially people supposed to be convalescing from a wounded arm.”
“If a bloke can’t sleep at night and chooses to go out for a breath of fresh air, why shouldn’t he? Anything wrong about it?”
“When the breath of fresh air gets mixed up with sapphire necklaces, pistol shots, and mysterious pursuits, at any rate it wants explaining,” retorted Bobby. “Perhaps you won’t mind coming with me as far as the houses you mentioned? Those cottages at the foot of the lane, I take it?”
“Yes, but you can carry on by yourself,” Dunstan said. “My arm’s hurting like hell and my eye is pretty well closed up, too. See you another time if you like.”
“I think I would prefer it if you would be good enough to come with me now,” Bobby said quietly. “I should like you to point out the exact spot where this happened. I hope you won’t mind. I am afraid I must insist,” he added, as Dunstan still showed signs of hesitation.
“Is this an arrest?” he grumbled.
“I should prefer not to call it so,” Bobby answered.
“The velvet glove, eh?” Dunstan growled. “I suppose it means you think it all highly suspicious?”
“Yes,” Bobby agreed.
“Don’t believe a word I say, is that it?” Dunstan asked truculently.
“In police work,” Bobby replied, “you soon learn you must accept no statement without getting it confirmed. No difficulty about that when people are telling the truth.”
“Oh, well, now then,” Dunstan muttered, but made no other comment.
“In police work,” Bobby replied, “you soon learn you must accept no statement without getting it confirmed. No difficulty about that when people are telling the truth.”
“Oh, well, now then,” Dunstan muttered, but made no other comment.
They continued on their way across the pasture towards the road, and as they went Bobby asked:
Secrets Can't be Kept: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 19