Everybody Always Tells: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  “Do you think Mr Acton can be in love with her? You said he was dancing attendance on her?”

  “As a personal opinion,” Bobby declared, “and though there’s no accounting for tastes, I can’t imagine any one being in love with her. I suppose she may show a different side to her father, who does seem fond of her. But she gives me the idea of being a cold-blooded bully, the sort who would make the ideal Fascist or Communist—‘Think as I do or take what’s coming to you.’ That sort of thing.”

  “Well, she can’t seem like that to Mr Acton,” Olive said. “I’m sure there’s something in Mrs Brett’s story.”

  “What the daily help doesn’t know, isn’t knowledge,” suggested Bobby. He went on: “There’s been an odd hint of blackmail once or twice in this business. Is it cropping up again?”

  “You can’t possibly think she could blackmail two men, one after the other, into marrying her?” Olive asked incredulously, and Bobby agreed it didn’t seem likely, but that didn’t go for much in such an entirely unlikely world as this, and he thought he would try to find time to pay a visit to Abels End, the village where the Actons lived. It might be possible to learn something there.

  “It’s on the way to the place near Aylesbury where Mrs Jacks was married,” Bobby remarked. “I think I would like to have a go myself at seeing if there isn’t a chance of picking up something there the local people may have overlooked. You can never give any one else a complete view, background and all, and often it’s the background that matters. Something that happened years ago working itself out to-day. It’s like that sometimes. I could get off to-morrow perhaps or next day.”

  But next day there was a message from Lord Newdagonby requesting an early call, rather in the manner of a managing director requiring the prompt presence of a somewhat unsatisfactory junior clerk. Bobby, however, since he had more important things to think about, ignored the tone of the message, and answered that he would come immediately. Hanging up, he said to Simons, with whom he had been discussing the case and recent developments or rather lack of them:

  “Sounds to me as if his lordship was getting a bit rattled. If I can manage to rattle him a bit more, there may be a chance to get somewhere.”

  He departed accordingly, and in the Dagonby House library found Lord Newdagonby prowling up and down, looking with his long, thin, bent form, his small piercing eyes, his enormous nose, more than ever like some hovering vulture. Kitty Grange had brought Bobby into the room, and Lord Newdagonby wasted no time in preliminaries, but snapped out:

  “It’s begun again, and it’s got to be stopped.” He paused to glare at Bobby. “Unbearable. I’ve rung up the Home Office—pack of idiots.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that, really I wouldn’t,” Bobby protested mildly, and a trifle smugly, for once or twice certain Home Office officials had seemed inclined to suggest much the same of the whole of the police force. So now he felt he was ladling out coals of fire in defending them. “What’s begun again?” he asked.

  “I told you, didn’t I?” the other snapped. “Those ’phone messages. I’ve had one myself—first thing this morning. And Kitty had two yesterday—Miss Grange, I mean.”

  “What were they about?” Bobby asked.

  “Good Heavens, man, what do you suppose?” demanded Lord Newdagonby even more angrily than before.

  “I never suppose when facts are available,” Bobby retorted, and, somewhat hastily, Kitty intervened.

  “They were just like the others,” she said. “They said it was to warn us Mrs Findlay was going to be murdered. It”—she was a little pale now—“it’s upsetting, I mean after . . . after . . .”

  She left the sentence unfinished. That she was indeed ‘upset’ was sufficiently plain. So was Lord Newdagonby for that matter. But while Kitty was nervous and excited, Lord Newdagonby was angry and—Bobby felt sure—frightened. He threw himself into a chair, glared at Bobby afresh, and demanded:

  “What have you done so far? My son-in-law murdered in my own house and nothing done, nothing at all.”

  “No effort is being spared to bring to justice those responsible,” Bobby answered in his most official tone, and when Lord Newdagonby twisted his features into that sneer for which nature seemed specially to have designed them, he added still more formally: “Certain clues are being followed up.”

  “What are they?”

  “That, of course, cannot be explained at present,” Bobby answered. The sneer became still more pronounced. “I could mention one perhaps. Guinea pigs—possibly dead, certainly vanished.”

  “Guinea-pigs,” repeated Lord Newdagonby in what would have been an intimidating roar had his small rather soft, low-pitched voice been capable of producing any such effect. “What in blazes have guinea pigs—dead, alive or missing—got to do with it?”

  “Now that,” said Bobby, beaming on the angry peer, “is just exactly what I want to know if only somebody would tell me.”

  “Bah,” said his lordship, comprehensively.

  “Exactly,” said Bobby, resisting an impulse to point out that it was not sheep but guinea pigs that had been mentioned. He drew up a chair to the writing-table, produced note-book and pencil, and said: “May I have details of these new threats or warnings?”

  In answer to his questions, Kitty was unable to give the exact time beyond the fact that one call had been in the morning of the previous day, and one early in the evening. She had been too ‘upset’, to use her own expression, to think of noting the exact time or the precise wording. Nor had she recognized the voice, though she did think it perhaps resembled that she had heard on the previous occasions. So did the wording used, which was to the effect that Mrs Findlay was in immediate danger of being murdered. The message received by Lord Newdagonby that morning had been slightly different, and he was certain it had been a woman speaking.

  “Undoubtedly a woman,” he repeated. “Hysterical. Mere abuse chiefly, and then there was a sort of sob or gasp and the receiver banged down. The exact words were: ‘Tell that bitch of yours she’ll get the same she did to him and not so long to wait either’.”

  “A direct accusation of murder,” Bobby said gravely. “It must be taken seriously.”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  “WELL, SIR, WAS IT YOU?”

  AT THIS, LORD Newdagonby and Kitty exchanged uneasy glances. They evidently found the remark as disturbing as unexpected. Bobby asked a few more questions. It appeared that the only other persons in the house at the times of the receipt of each of the three warnings had been Mrs Jacks and the daily help. Not that that was of much importance, one way or the other. Mrs Jacks, for instance, could easily have slipped out to the nearest public ’phone box and been back again before Kitty had, according to her own story, recovered from being ‘upset’, to use her general expression for describing her feelings at the renewal of these mysterious and ominous warnings. Moreover, queer tricks can be played with extensions. Lord Newdagonby remained positive that the voice he had heard had been a woman’s, disguised, he thought, but certainly a woman’s. Kitty was not sure. It had been an odd, high voice, probably disguised, but whether man’s or woman’s she could not say. Lord Newdagonby took the opportunity of intimating very plainly that he had a poor opinion of any detective or police organization incapable of doing anything so simple as tracing a telephone call. Bobby said he had noticed that most people had a poor opinion of most other people. He had even observed a tendency in that direction in himself, and he looked rather hard at Lord Newdagonby as he said this. He added mildly that the automatic system put certain difficulties in the way, but if Lord Newdagonby had any suggestions to offer, he, Bobby, in particular, and the police all over the world in general, would be exceedingly grateful.

  Lord Newdagonby said very angrily that it wasn’t his business, and Bobby said, that of course there was one method and a very good method too. You could ask.

  “Ask who? Ask what?” Lord Newdagonby demanded.

  “Ask all concerned if they h
ad done the ’phoning?”

  “I suppose you expect them to tell?” said Lord Newdagonby with his very best, high-powered sneer.

  “Oh, everyone always tells,” Bobby assured him. “Always. The difficulty is to know it when they do.”

  “Well, you had better try,” snapped the other, more contemptuous than ever.

  “Well, sir, was it you?”

  “Was I what?”

  “Was it you ’phoned?”

  Lord Newdagonby had been sitting half-doubled up in his chair. Now he drew himself up. His body was so long and lean, this took him quite a long time. He said in a tone again meant to be thunderous, but still only small and now even squeaky with indignation:

  “Am I to understand you are asking that seriously?”

  “Certainly. Police are always serious, very serious in a case like this.”

  “Then I refuse to answer.”

  “Thank you,” said Bobby amiably. “That in itself is an answer.” He turned to Kitty: “Was it you made these calls?”

  “Of course not,” she answered, puzzled. “How could I when I took them?”

  Bobby refrained from pointing out that for that, or even for the calls themselves, there was no evidence in the first two cases save her own word. Instead he said that in view of what had happened he would arrange to post a plain-clothes man in the house, if that would be acceptable. An ungracious assent to this suggestion was made, and Bobby also promised to take such other steps as might seem likely to be useful.

  “We will try as far as possible to keep some sort of watch on all the women whose names have been mentioned,” he said. “We shall have to do it very carefully, and it can’t be very efficient.”

  “I don’t suppose for a moment it will be,” Lord Newdagonby snapped. “But why not?”

  “Because if we made it too complete it would only defeat itself,” Bobby answered. “It’s not only a question of who is actually making these threats, but of who is meant. Last time, Mrs Findlay’s name was given, but it was Mr Findlay who died. Now it’s Mrs Findlay again apparently, but again some one else may be meant.”

  Lord Newdagonby looked thoughtful. He evidently found this suggestion also somewhat unwelcome. Kitty had become rather pale. Plainly she liked it no better. Bobby rose to go. Kitty came to see him to the front door. She said as they went:

  “It’s all most awfully upsetting. I can’t think of anything else.”

  “Information has reached us,” Bobby said, “that Mrs Findlay and Mr Acton intend to get married soon.”

  “Who told you that?” Kitty asked quickly.

  “It’s what we call ‘information received’,” Bobby explained. “We never give names, you know.”

  “It’s such nonsense,” Kitty declared angrily. But she seemed a little excited. “Sibby’s always saying things she doesn’t really mean. It’s just talk.”

  “Is talk ever just talk?” asked Bobby. “Talk is a way of acting, isn’t it? And sometimes what you say has its own kind of compelling force. Every policeman knows that. Make a threat and feel bound to carry it out. Has Mrs Findlay told you she might possibly marry Mr Acton?”

  “How can she? He’s married already.”

  “So was she, but not now,” Bobby replied, and Kitty stared at him in pale horror. “Yes, I know,” he said, answering now not her spoken words but that pale horror she showed so plainly. “But everything must be considered, especially when mysterious messages are received making direct accusations, even though we can’t be sure who is meant. A woman, of course, because of the expression used, but which woman?”

  “But what other woman could it mean?” Kitty asked. Bobby did not answer. She went on: “I don’t think you ought to pay any attention. Of course, it’s awfully upsetting, but I expect it’s only some one being spiteful. People don’t understand Sibby. It’s what she’s doing herself. Trying to understand. She’s not bad or wicked the way she pretends. It’s just that—trying to understand.”

  “Trying to understand what?”

  “Things—herself. Really at bottom, she wants to be good.”

  “Yes,” said Bobby doubtfully, in fact very doubtfully.

  “Well, she does,” Kitty insisted. “Most people never trouble about it. They just potter along. I suppose I do. But Sibby always has, always. She went into a sisterhood once. She didn’t like it. She said it was only being one of a flock of sheep. So she came out to find for herself her own way.”

  “Her own way where?”

  “To understand, she says she wants to know—to know what she is and what everything is, and so she must try everything.”

  “Another Eve to eat of the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil. Suppose she has found it easier to learn about the last?”

  “You mean you do think it was her?”

  “My dear young lady,” Bobby said, “in these cases I always have to spend half my time explaining that every one is suspect till cleared. When every one else is cleared, then the one left is guilty. Not that we can always produce legal proof. That’s different.”

  “Do you suspect me?” Kitty asked.

  “I said every one,” Bobby answered; and he watched her closely, for as yet he had had no explanation of how it was Kitty had known the exact amount of the offer for her fur coat made to a man she denied having seen or spoken to that morning.

  But he felt that the time had not yet come to question her about that. She was saying now:

  “There’s Lord Newdagonby? Do you suspect him?”

  “The same thing applies. Do you?”

  “Do I what?”

  “Suspect that perhaps he himself may be the murderer?”

  “Of course I don’t!” she cried with angry resentment. “You’ve no right to suggest such a thing.”

  “Why not? Why shouldn’t you suspect him?”

  “Why should I? Why should you or anyone? It’s silly. Why should he murder Ivor?”

  “I think he is very fond of his daughter. Her life was threatened. He may have thought he knew where the threat came from, he may have believed it was a true warning the ’phone gave. And so have taken his own way to end it.”

  “I think you’re being horrible, I think it’s horrible to say such things,” she protested, and now she was trembling a little.

  “Something very horrible has happened,” Bobby answered gravely. “Isn’t that what you ought to say—and remember?”

  “What did you mean just now,” she asked, “when you said that about not knowing who the ’phone message meant?”

  “Well, there was no name, was there?”

  “You think perhaps it was me was meant?” she asked in a low voice.

  “There’s no reason to think so,” Bobby answered. “Every possible precaution will be taken.”

  He went away then, a good deal disturbed by this new development. At the Yard he wrote out a report to be added to the growing dossier of the case. To Inspector Simons, coming to consult him on the following up of some of the different lines of the investigation, he said:

  “We’ve got to take this ’phone business seriously. Very possibly it’s mere malice or some of those semi-imbeciles who are always turning up when any sensational case gets into the papers. But I don’t at all like this story of Mrs Findlay and Acton intending to get married.”

  “Sounds crazy to me,” grumbled Simons. “Asking for it, in a way. Telling every one she had a motive. But then she sounds crazy anyhow. What’s she mean? Understand herself? What for? I don’t reckon she knows. What’s next?”

  “Routine,” Bobby answered. “Keep on watching and trying to dig up what we can. I’ve an idea this thing started years ago. To-morrow I think I’ll take a trip to Abels End, where the Actons live. Acton went out of his way to claim to be happily married, and I should like to know if that’s the general impression. It’s a small village, and they ought to know—they generally do. Not much they don’t know about each other in these small places.”

  “You can’t
always tell,” Simons said wisely. “Darby and Joan outside, and cat and dog indoors.”

  “I’ll put my trust in village gossip,” Bobby answered. “And I’ll try to find the time to go on to where Mrs Jacks lived after her marriage before they came to London. There are those peepholes to remember, though of course they may have nothing to do with her—or the murder. Clear, too, she could be doing this queer ’phoning business, though again there’s nothing to show. I can’t help feeling she’s in it somehow.”

  CHAPTER XIX

  “THAT’S HER”

  ABELS END IS a small and picturesque village in what, before the days of cars, motor buses, cycles, was a lonely and not easily accessible district. Now motor buses roar through it every hour on their way between two neighbouring towns, the nearer of which is on the main line to London. Less than two hours comfortable travel from cottage door to Piccadilly Circus. But this has in no way affected the lovely view across the village green with the old Elizabethan cottages and in the distance the ancient church. A drawing of it had once appeared in a London Sunday paper—to the immeasurable pride of the villagers, even though most of them had had that view before their eyes all their lives and never given it a second glance. The drawing had been reproduced on a post card and was much in evidence at the two or three small village shops.

  So when a day or two later, as soon as his other work permitted, Bobby arrived in the village he had an excuse to start a chat in the small general shop and post office where these postcards were most prominently displayed. He bought one or two, chatted about them and the beauties of the village, and presently learned that it was Mr Acton, ‘an inventor gentleman’, who lived in the house on the hill above the church. He also learned that the Actons were well liked and respected in the village and always ready to take part and help in any of the village activities. Unfortunately, as they were Roman Catholics, they could not share in those more strictly associated with the church.

  “Disappointing for Vicar,” explained the post-mistress, “and him so hard put to it to keep the congregation up and Sunday school and all seeing Mrs Acton going off so regular to the Roman Catholics every Sunday, and weekdays as well very often.”