Music Tells All: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  Bell had brought the car to a halt while Bobby talked and now abruptly there came a burst of music from the cottage, roaring out through the open window in great waves of passionate, angry sound. The two men listened. Indeed the music was so clamorous in its demand on their attention they had no other thought. It changed from its loud anger and thunderous menace into what seemed like an equally passionate protest, an appeal for a mercy and for a help there was no hope would be granted, a wild and anguished cry as it seemed against the cruelty of destiny, an appeal against a doom felt nevertheless to be inevitable. It changed again. Now it was not lament, not protest, but merely a faint unhappy crying in the dark, as of a lost child, or of one knowing himself abandoned for ever. It died away, and yet even the silence that followed seemed vibrant with a feeble, protestant despair.

  “Ended with a whimper, not with a bang,” Bobby said, half jestingly, trying to shake off an impression he did not fully understand.

  “Kind of shook you up, didn’t it?” Bell said. “Gripped you in a way. What was it, do you think?”

  “No idea,” Bobby answered. “I expect she would say she was only talking to herself. That’s what she told us once.”

  “Talking to herself?” Bell repeated. “I saw a woman at the window just before it started.” He paused. “Perhaps not to herself but to us.”

  “If she was, what was she saying?” Bobby asked.

  But that was a question to which there was no answer.

  CHAPTER X

  MURDER BEGUN

  Miss Cann proved to be an elderly woman with a thin, intelligent, slightly discontented face; a woman, Bobby guessed, who felt that circumstances had deprived her of opportunities of which she believed, had they come to her, she would have been able to make good use. To the questions her two visitors put to her she replied warily, evidently suspicious of where her answers might lead her, but it soon became plain that she had in fact little information to give. She had paid no special attention to her customer of the previous day. He had asked for tea, he had been served, he had paid and departed. Her nephew was out. He had had his breakfast and then had gone out without saying where or when he would be back. Looking for a job, she hoped, since he had lost the one with Mr. Fielding he had been fool enough to throw up. She added that she had sat up late talking to her nephew the previous night. They had not gone to bed till after twelve.

  “And one o’clock before he got there,” she added, “the way he was fiddling about.”

  The remark puzzled both Bobby and his companion. It sounded like an attempt to establish an alibi, and yet there seemed no reason why an alibi should be needed for that time of night. It was, however, easy to see that Miss Cann’s attitude towards her nephew was strongly protective as against the rest of the world and equally strongly disapproving as regarded himself. His sudden arrival and announcement that he had lost his new job had not been welcome, but Bell’s suggestion that perhaps he owed Biggs a grudge for having supplanted him, brought a sharp retort.

  “Why should he?” she demanded, “seeing he left on his own? Mr. Biggs had nothing to do with it and if you’ve been hearing anything about them having a fight, it’s a lie. It wasn’t Alf at all, it was that young Rogers at the bungalow near the church, and serve him right if he got the worst of it, and so I told that sister of his. Them as call themselves gentlemen have no call to go round fighting and such, like the riff-raff of a Saturday night.”

  Evidently Miss Cann’s sense of the social proprieties had been outraged by the idea of a ‘gentleman’ engaging in fisticuffs with a chauffeur. Bobby was inclined to guess that she upheld the social conventions and barriers the more strongly because in her youth they had been so much stronger and she had been unable to break through them. No reason therefore why others should escape or ignore what had hampered her own development so grievously.

  Bell said:

  “What was the fight about?”

  Miss Cann said she wasn’t one to gossip. Bobby intervened to remark that both he and his friend had noticed that at once, indeed Constable Taylor had told them as much. He had also told them that Miss Cann let nothing escape her but never said a word. This mendacious statement produced a considerable improvement in the social atmosphere. Presently it came out that the cause of the quarrel was that young Rogers was sweet on Miss Bellamy and had discovered that Biggs visited her late at night.

  Bobby expressed polite incredulity on both counts. Miss Bellamy was much older than Mr. Rogers and much superior in social standing to Biggs. Miss Cann retorted that Miss Bellamy wasn’t as old as all that and anyhow age had nothing to do with it, and that she herself had seen Biggs entering Miss Bellamy’s cottage at a late hour.

  “But I thought,” Bobby put in, “that most people round here believed Miss Bellamy and Mr. Fielding were likely to get engaged soon. Hasn’t he made it pretty plain that he’s in love with her?”

  “Not him, he’s afraid of her,” Miss Cann retorted.

  Bobby asked her what made her think that but she refused to say more. Evidently she felt that already she might have said too much and she began to be busy, unnecessarily re-arranging shelves behind the counter and inventing errands to take her into the back regions of the shop. But one cryptic remark she did throw over her shoulder just before the last of these disappearances.

  “If you want to know more about Miss Bellamy,” she said, “listen to her playing when she doesn’t know anyone’s there. That’ll tell you.”

  But she refused to say more or to explain herself; and, as it was plainly useless to prolong the interview, the two men returned to their waiting car. As they settled themselves in it, Bobby remarked: “Odd she should say that about Fielding being scared of Miss Bellamy. My wife said almost the same thing the first time we saw them together.”

  “Being in love and being scared out of your life are much the same,” observed Bell wisely. “What do you think she meant by that about Miss Bellamy? How in blazes can hearing her play the piano tell anyone anything?”

  “I don’t know,” Bobby answered, and would have rubbed the end of his nose in perplexity had not severe domestic criticism cured him of the habit—almost. “Somehow,” he went on slowly, “I’ve got an odd sort of feeling that in Miss Bellamy’s music is the explanation of everything.”

  “Oh, Lord,” said Bell, and had an air of being about to cry. “That about puts the lid on it. Wasn’t it all mixed up badly enough before,” he asked reproachfully, “without dragging music in?” As Bobby made no effort to reply to this question, he went on: “I think it’s pretty clear though that this man, Cann, comes into it somehow.”

  “Or else it’s just that his aunt is afraid he does,” Bobby said. “It’s certainly odd, suspicious, too, that she was so anxious to tell us he was with her till after twelve and she heard him moving about till much later. I can’t see any connection at present.”

  “She may have wanted to make us understand he didn’t go visiting the Bellamy woman late at night,” Bell suggested.

  “Might be that,” agreed Bobby. “So perhaps she knows he has at other times and there really is ill-feeling between him and Biggs because of that. Do you know anything about the Rogers brother and sister, she talked about? I’ve met the sister. She came in to see if she could help us settle down. An attractive girl—of many possibilities I should say.”

  Bell stopped the car and consulted his notebook.

  “That’s right,” he said. “Lots of possibilities. Father a vicar in the East End. Killed in one of the air raids. She was injured at the same time, but not badly, recovered, joined the A.T.S., served in the Middle East. She was given a decoration for saving important secret documents from Egyptians in German pay. She found them making off with the papers on forged authority. When she challenged them, they tried to knife her. She opened up with a tommy gun and killed two. Later on she got into trouble. She was court martialled for insubordinate conduct, including threatening a senior officer with a revolver. She had to resig
n and there seems to have been a general idea that there was something behind, or she would have got off more easily. Natural for her to be in a state of nerves after what had happened. That was the line the defence took; and it seemed rather hard to throw her out after her saving papers it would have been pretty serious for the enemy to get hold of. The general idea was that she ought to have been let off with a reprimand and six months’ leave.”

  “Rather an interesting story,” Bobby said thoughtfully. “You can understand her brooding on the killing of the two men, but if she got chasing other people round with revolvers, I suppose it did rather look as if she might be going to make a habit of it. I suppose that’s what the court martial thought. What about the brother?”

  “Pacifist. Conscientious objector,” Bell said. “Never trust conscientious objectors myself—they’re so conscientious you never know what they’ll be up to next. Cut your throat as soon as look at you if their conscience works that way.”

  “Not so much of a pacifist,” Bobby observed, “if it’s true about the Biggs fight.”

  “Pacifists,” Bell reminded him, “are the most belligerent and quarrelsome lot going. It’s only their country they don’t want to fight for—anything else and their coats are off in a minute.”

  “Yes, I know,” Bobby agreed. “What did this chap do during the war?”

  “Oh, work of national importance—on a farm. I believe he asked for a guarantee that none of the food he helped to produce should go to the army, but he gave that idea up. Now he’s working for some examination or another. Very bitter about it all. Says his career has been set back for years. What about having a look at him? It might be as well to check up on Miss Cann’s story. She may have invented it to put us off her nephew.”

  “Good idea,” Bobby approved. “Miss Cann is on her nephew’s side first of all. After that I’m not so sure. But in any case I don’t think she’s negligible.”

  The Rogers bungalow was on their way and distant only a few minutes’ drive. They alighted there, but to Bell’s knock there was no response. Bell knocked again and waited. Bobby strolled along the gravelled path that ran by the side of the bungalow to the garden in the rear, and came back to the patiently waiting Bell.

  “He’s there all right,” Bobby said. “You can see him sitting writing. Working for his exam, most likely and doesn’t want to be interrupted.”

  “It’s always,” said Bell with melancholy sympathy, “what we don’t want that’s sure to happen. My experience anyhow.”

  He went down the path to the window Bobby had indicated and looked in. Rogers heard him and glared back. He was a short, dark, thick-set young man, with a Hitler moustache he had affected because he had hoped it would be unpopular, and with a certain nervous and strained expression that reminded Bobby of his sister. He showed no indication of taking any notice of Bell beyond his baleful glare. Bell tapped again, and then a third time and more loudly. Rogers rushed to the window and threw it open.

  “Get out,” he shouted. “Can’t you see I’m busy? Clear out or I’ll knock your head off.”

  “Police,” said Bell.

  “I don’t like police,” said Rogers.

  He tried to close the window. Bell held it open. Rogers tried again and managed to trap his finger. He used language unbecoming to a conscientious objector. Bell said, sadly acquiescent:

  “Lots of people don’t like us.”

  From behind Bobby said:

  “It’s why we are. If everyone liked us we should fade away. Services no longer required, as they say when they give you the sack.”

  Rogers transferred to Bobby that baleful glare of his.

  “I suppose you think that’s clever?” he snapped.

  “Good gracious, no,” said Bobby, shocked.

  “Well, now, you’ve ruined my morning’s work, what do you want?” demanded Rogers, just a trifle less belligerently.

  “Smash and grab raid in London,” Bell said. “Alleged participants traced to this locality. Alleged seen near here. Alleged stolen property seen. Can you give us any information?”

  “No. I can’t. I saw the stuff I suppose you mean. Fellow was showing it off in the pub. Cheap stuff, most of it, not worth tuppence. Not at all what smash and grab raiders go for I should think.”

  “Are you sure?” Bell asked.

  “I’ve got eyes in my head.”

  “One ring has been identified as valuable and as part of what was stolen.”

  Rogers shrugged his shoulders.

  “I don’t know anything about that,” he said. “In my opinion, what I saw wasn’t worth anything. That’s all I can tell you. Now will you please go away. I’ve got some work to do and it happens to be important. It’s been hampered enough already by people like you.”

  “Sorry about that,” said Bell amiably. “Most unfortunate. Quite a lot of things have been interfered with these last few years. One thing more. We have information that there was a fight between you and a man named Biggs. If that’s true, it may have some bearing on our inquiries. Will you confirm or deny?”

  “No, I won’t,” snapped Rogers and banged the window to, though this time with more regard for the exact position of his fingers.

  “Nice pleasant-spoken young gentleman,” observed Bell.

  Bobby was still looking through the window. Rogers shook a fierce and angry fist at him. Bobby turned away and remarked:

  “I think it’s true.”

  “What is?”

  “About the fight.”

  “Why?” asked Bell. “Miss Cann said he got the worst of it and his face isn’t marked.”

  “No,” agreed Bobby, “but I noticed there’s a pillow, not a cushion, a pillow, on his chair, and when he sat down again he did so with care and precaution. I imagine a medical examination would reveal extensive bruises, probably inflicted by a boot. Besides, if it hadn’t been true, he would have said so.”

  They went back to their car. As Bell was preparing to start, he said:

  “We had better try to get a chat with Biggs and his boss, too. I think Mr. Fielding will have to be told that a part of the stolen property has been found on his premises.”

  Bobby was inclined to think that in Bell’s place he would prefer to keep that piece of information to himself a little longer. But he was not in charge of the inquiry and the decision was not in his hands. They turned into the road that led from the village to Middles and almost at once overtook the local constable, Taylor, pedalling for dear life. When he saw who was coming he jumped down and signalled furiously. They drew up and he ran to the side of the car.

  “Just been rung up from Middles,” he said. “Dead man found.”

  CHAPTER XI

  DUD STUFF

  Both Bobby and his companion were conscious that it was some such development as this that they had been expecting—or, if expecting is too strong a word, that in a way they had been prepared for. The old saying that coming events cast their shadow before seemed now to be justified in the vague impression of approaching danger and present menace of which they had both been recently aware.

  To the excited, breathless Taylor, Bell said:

  “Try to find—” he named his two assistants he had brought with him that morning. “Tell them to drop everything else and report at once to me at Middles. Ring up H.Q. first, though, and ask for more help. Then go on duty at Middles, at the entrance to the drive. Don’t let anyone through except our own men on duty. We don’t want all the neighbours milling round. Understand?”

  A crestfallen Taylor saluted and said he did. Hard luck to be warned off like this, kept away from such an exciting, sensational affair. With only a modicum of luck he might easily have been first on the spot and perhaps have had the murderer under arrest by now. Glory and promotion missed by minutes! Just like the high-ups to keep all the chances to themselves. As it was, he didn’t even know who the dead man was—Mr. Fielding, Biggs, one of the neighbours, a stranger? Mr. Fielding he expected. In his secret heart,
he rather hoped so. Quite without malice. But if so, everything would become all the more exciting and thrilling.

  It was the same question, whether the dead man would turn out to be Mr. Fielding himself, Biggs, or someone else, that was in the minds of both men in the car. It was soon answered, though, for as they swung into the short Middles drive they saw Mr. Fielding himself hurrying towards them. He was wearing the old raincoat it was his habit to put on when gardening, or doing any odd job, in order to protect his other clothes. Bell stopped the car. Mr. Fielding ran up.

  “Thank God you’ve come, Owen,” he panted. “You’ve heard? I rang up. I’ve been looking for Biggs. I can’t find him. I wanted to send him for help. I’ve called Dr. Stevens. I can’t think what’s become of Biggs. Mrs. Hands is in hysterics. It’s awful, awful,” he repeated, mopping his brow, and indeed he looked distraught, his chubby cheeks like chalk, his mouth quivering, his big child-like eyes full of wonder and terror. He dabbed at his face with one of the nice clean handkerchiefs just returned from the laundry and thrust it back into the pocket of his deplorable old raincoat. “Awful,” he repeated. “I couldn’t believe it. I stood there staring. I thought I was going to faint.”

  “Who is it?” Bell asked.

  “I don’t know. No one I ever saw before. He’s just lying there.”

  “Could it be suicide or does it look like murder?” Bell asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ve no idea. Shot dead. I didn’t stop to look. Shot three times. To make sure, I suppose.” He laughed hysterically. “I thought I had better get help. I rang up Taylor. He said something about informing his chief. I suppose he told you, Owen,” Fielding added, speaking directly to Bobby. “Thank God you are here to look after things.”

  He was evidently taking it for granted that Bobby was the responsible officer and would conduct the case. Bobby said:

  “This is Superintendent Bell of the county police. He will be in charge. By good luck, Mr. Bell happened to be here this morning.”