Music Tells All: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  “Why was the smash and grab raid inquiry led here?

  “What does Miss Bellamy’s music tell?

  “Why has Biggs disappeared?”

  “You’ve forgotten the most important of all,” Olive reminded him. “Why was poor Mr. Myerson killed? Why was it necessary, you said just now.”

  “Oh, I think that is only by the way, so to speak. It grew out of what happened. No part, I think, of the original intention. What we have to resolve is first of all what I’ve called the tangle of human relationships you seem to glimpse behind all this. I don’t take what’s happened here to be any ordinary crime of violence or passion or greed, there is something strange and purposed and complicated behind it all; and until we dig that something up, we shall go on scrambling about in the dark.” He paused and looked again at his notes. “I do wish,” he said, “I could read them.” He selected one sheet of paper, the last he had used. “Can you make that part out at the top?” he asked Olive anxiously.

  “Good gracious, no, no one could,” Olive answered, and when she saw how disappointed he looked she relented a little and said: “I’ll try in the morning, but come to bed now.”

  “All right,” said Bobby. “I think it is writing,” he added, “or was I only doodling?”

  Leaving this question, too, unanswered, they went upstairs. Olive opened the window. She said:

  “Miss Bellamy is playing again. Listen.”

  “It’s nearly one,” Bobby said, glancing at his watch. “What can have started her off again at this time of night? What is it she’s playing?”

  “I don’t know,” Olive said. “I think it is a lament for someone about to die.” She shivered slightly. “Don’t let’s listen any more,” she said.

  Bobby said:

  “There is someone coming, hurrying up the road—a woman.”

  “It’s not Miss Bellamy,” Olive said. “That’s her still playing.”

  “I must go out,” Bobby said. “I must see who it is and why.”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  NOCTURNAL TRYST

  The night was clear and very quiet, its stillness only disturbed by those faint undertones of sound which tell at such times how the small creatures of field and wood, those who need the protection of the kindly night, are out and about their business.

  Hurry as he might, by the time Bobby had changed his slippers for outdoor shoes, opened the locked and bolted front door, hurried down the garden path to the open lane, there was no sign or trace of the figure, he thought a woman’s, he had seen pass by so silently, so swiftly, as though upon some errand in which delay would be disastrous.

  He followed in the same direction. At the entrance to Middles he stopped. The drive gate was shut. Nothing to show that anyone had entered there, nor had he heard any sound of the heavy five-barred gate being opened or closed. To avoid making any such sound himself, he vaulted over it, and walked a little way up the drive. The house was in darkness. Nothing to show that any stirred within and no dog barked. He went back and down the lane once more. There was a pasture field between Fern Cottage and the trees that here formed the boundary of the Middles domain. Across the field ran a path joining farther on another path where that entered the spinney or small wood in which Bobby, on the day of the escape of the motor cyclist, had lost sight of him.

  As Bobby knew, this first path, following rising ground and skirting the Middles gardens, gave a clear view of the rear of the house. He wondered if the woman he had seen had gone this way. He followed the path some distance, about half way to the small wood farther on, and assured himself that there was no more sign of life or movement at the back than there had been in the front. But what then had become of that strange figure he had seen flitting so swiftly, so silently by, and what the errand?

  His first idea that a nocturnal visit was being paid to Mr. Fielding seemed mistaken, unless indeed most careful precautions were being taken. And that did not seem likely. But if the woman’s destination had not been Middles, what had it been? There was no other house that way for a mile or two. A secret midnight tryst, perhaps?

  Bobby retraced his steps till he came to the fence that, beneath the trees, divided the pasture field from the Middles domain. As he had half expected, he found a gap that showed signs of occasional use. Possibly it was used by Mr. Fielding if he wished to visit Miss Bellamy unobserved, or by others of his household wishing to reach the spinney and the path that connected Steep Lane with that other lane where the escaping motor cyclist had abandoned his machine—since claimed, by the way, by the aggrieved owner from whom it had been seized when he left it a moment unattended.

  Through this gap Bobby penetrated. He was not sure, for he had no great skill in woodcraft, but he thought he could detect in a freshly broken twig, in disturbed foliage and trodden grass, signs that someone had recently passed that way. He walked on softly, picking his steps with care. Now he was between the house and the orchard, the one as still and dark and silent as the other. As quietly as possible he made his way through the trees of the orchard; and as he came nearer to the site of the air raid shelter, now nearly demolished, he was aware, most strongly aware, of the presence of one who listened, who waited in a very extremity of expectation, waited dreadfully, in such a tension as was near to the limit of endurance.

  How he knew, felt, this with such poignant certainty, he could not tell. It was as though the still calm night was vibrant with an emotion so strong it set up actual physical waves in the air. Perhaps that was in fact the case, such invisible impalpable waves as we know the air is full of but that are insensible to us till we provide an instrument to translate them into speech or music. The feeling came to him that he must end this strain of expectation, terror, whatever it was, before it became so intolerable it could be borne no longer, and worse happen. He moved forward quickly, taking no care now to move with precaution. He called out:

  “Who is there?”

  No answer came; but when he flashed his torch he had not used till now, he saw a huddled figure crouched beneath a nearby tree, close to where lay the half-demolished walls and mass of rubble that once had been the air raid shelter. He spoke again; but still there was no answer though it seemed to him that the huddled figure beneath the trees was slowly, very slowly, relaxing into a more natural position. He said:

  “I think it is Miss Rogers, isn’t it? Why are you here?”

  She was still silent. A long shuddering sigh escaped her and then another. Carefully, with difficulty, she seemed to lift herself. She got to her feet, supporting herself against the trunk of the tree under which she had been crouched. She said in a low, unsteady, indeed unnatural voice:

  “It’s you … I thought … at least I think I thought …”

  “What?” he asked when she paused. “What was your thought that made you so afraid when you heard me coming?”

  “Was I?” she said, as if surprised. “Was I afraid? I think I was too terrified to be afraid.” She said abruptly: “Well, it’s you.” She moved away from the tree and sat down heavily on an overturned wheelbarrow that had been used during the pulling down of the air raid shelter. “How cold it is, cold,” she said, and Bobby could hear her teeth chattering and could see how she was shivering.

  He always carried in his pocket a small flask of brandy. He poured out a little and told her to drink. Obediently she did so. It set her coughing but it did her good. Her voice was steadier and more natural as she thanked him.

  “Why are you here at this time of night?” he asked once more.

  “I could not sleep,” she answered. “How did you know?”

  “I saw you pass our house,” he told her. “Are you here to meet anyone?”

  “Oh, no,” she answered. “No.”

  “If not, why were you afraid? I think you expected someone, waited for someone? Who? Why were you frightened?”

  “I expected no one, I wasn’t waiting for anyone,” she answered in low tones. “But I think I thought there might be someone. …�
� She paused. “It was only you,” she said. He noticed that she was looking not at him but at the air raid shelter where Myerson’s dead body had lain. “I could not sleep,” she said once more. “I couldn’t sleep or rest. I felt I must get up, go out.”

  “Where is your brother?”

  “George? Asleep in bed, I suppose. He didn’t come with me if that’s what you mean. I don’t suppose he heard me.”

  “Was it Miss Bellamy you wanted to see?”

  “No. Why should I? She was up, though. I expect she couldn’t sleep either. She began to play as I passed her cottage. She may have heard me. There was no light. It was strange to hear her begin to play so suddenly, to hear all that music coming out of her cottage just as I was there. It was all so dark and silent before. She must have been playing in the dark. How could she without seeing the keys? But she must have been. She must have been waiting there. Did she know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Know that I was coming. She must have been sitting there all ready. As soon as I came to her garden gate, she began to play. It was as if she were telling me what I must do and then I knew I had to.”

  “Knew what? How do you mean, you knew?”

  “It was in what she was playing.”

  “In what way?”

  “It was just there,” she answered vaguely. “That’s all.”

  “You mean what she was playing made you feel you had to come here? Well, why? How could it?”

  The only answer she made to this was to shake her head. Abruptly and surprisingly, she said:

  “Have you ever seen a dead man?”

  “I saw one here yesterday,” he reminded her.

  “I have seen two,” she said. “Two dead men and I killed them both,” and there was that in her voice as she spoke which moved him strangely. She said: “I always knew they would catch up some day.”

  “It is permitted to kill in self-defence,” Bobby said gently. “Sometimes it is very meet right and proper to kill in the defence of others.”

  “It is still killing,” she answered. “Blood calls … always. That is the law.”

  “I am an officer of the law,” Bobby said, speaking slowly and very gravely, “and I tell you again—the law permits it for a cause and for a cause it, too, may kill.”

  “I don’t mean your law,” she told him. “Your law is only what old men put down in books. Redemption is by blood. That’s a law older than your law. I think I must go now.” She made an effort to rise but it seemed too much for her and she sat down again. “Oh, well, now then,” she said as if surprised.

  “Were you afraid when you heard me coming,” he asked, “because you thought it might be Biggs and you thought it was he who murdered Myerson?”

  “Oh, no, no, I never thought that,” she protested. “He would never have done that. Never. He had seen enough of killing.” Then she said, almost inaudibly: “I did think at first he might be coming back to me.”

  “Tell me what you know of him?”

  “We loved each other,” she answered and was silent.

  “What was his real name?”

  “He never told me and I never asked. When they sent me back to England he told me I was to come here and wait. He said there was something he had to do before we could be married, but I think I always knew we never would be. When you are a woman, you must give life, not fake it. If you take life, then you won’t be allowed to give it. I think that may be the law—not your law. The Law.”

  “You are letting yourself think too much about past things, about what is over and done with,” Bobby told her, as gently as before.

  “It is not past,” she answered, “it is not and it never will be.”

  “Tell me this, then,” Bobby asked. “If you did not think he might be the murderer, what did you think?”

  “I thought perhaps he had been murdered, too,” she answered.

  “But a moment ago you said you thought when you heard me that he might be coming back to you?”

  “Yes,” she answered simply, and then he understood that she had indeed believed for a moment that his footsteps she had heard were in fact those of her dead lover returning to her. Then she said:

  “There is someone else coming,” and Bobby turned quickly, for he, too, had caught the sound of slow approaching footsteps.

  CHAPTER XIX

  A HANDKERCHIEF

  Slowly, doubtfully, those faint and hesitating steps drew nearer. Even Bobby, in the stillness of that quiet night, became aware that some where, lurking in the background of his mind, was the thought or belief or fear or what you will, ancestral memory perhaps, that in truth the dead do at times return, more especially those who had died by violence, unexpectedly and unprepared, while the full tide and strong impulse of life was yet unimpaired.

  He thrust the thought, the fear, aside. Born of the night, he supposed, and of what Rhoda had said and felt, what perhaps she was feeling still. Fear is catching, he knew, nothing more so, and her terror of expectation had been both strong and genuine. He began to move in the direction whence had come those sounds they had thought they heard but that now had ceased entirely. He flashed around the light from the torch he carried. A low voice said:

  “Oh, it’s you. Is there anyone here? Have you seen anyone?”

  “Miss Bellamy?” Bobby said, recognizing her voice. She came forward from behind the apple tree that had been sheltering her. He said: “Why are you here at this time of night?”

  “Have you seen anyone?” she asked, without answering his question directly. “I thought I heard someone. I wondered who it was.”

  “Why are you here?” Bobby repeated. “What brought you?”

  “I thought perhaps it was Rhoda,” she said now. She was looking past him to where Rhoda had remained, seated on the overturned wheelbarrow. “I think it is Rhoda, isn’t it?” she said. She went past Bobby and said to Rhoda, stopping in front of her: “I thought it might be you. I thought you might be here.”

  “It was because of your playing,” Rhoda said.

  “My playing?” Miss Bellamy repeated and seemed puzzled. “Oh, but why?”

  Rhoda did not answer.

  “It was late to be playing the piano,” Bobby said. “What were you playing?”

  “I was just playing,” she answered. “That’s all.”

  “Miss Rogers found a meaning in it,” Bobby said.

  “There is always a meaning in what she plays,” Rhoda said. “Some hear more in my playing than I ever knew was there,” Miss Bellamy said. “I think it was there already in their minds and all my music did was to make it plain.”

  “No,” Rhoda said. “No,” she repeated and said again and more loudly: “No.”

  “When you listened,” Miss Bellamy insisted, “it might be then you remembered what you wanted to do.”

  “And when you heard Miss Rogers go by, you remembered—what?” Bobby asked. But Miss Bellamy was silent and Bobby went on: “Miss Rogers is afraid Biggs has been murdered, too.”

  “I have thought that,” Miss Bellamy said. “But I do not know.”

  “You know what is being said in the village?” Bobby asked. “You know what it is natural to think if one man is killed and another vanishes?”

  “It isn’t true,” Rhoda said. “He didn’t do it. He knows what it is to kill and he never would again.”

  But Miss Bellamy was silent.

  Bobby said after a pause:

  “If it is the fact that he has been murdered, who killed him and why?” When neither of them spoke, Bobby went on: “I think you could both help if you would. I think you both know more than you have said. Do you want the murderer, whoever he is, to go scot-free?”

  “Murderers never do, they can’t,” Rhoda said. Then she said: “I know.”

  Miss Bellamy said:

  “If I knew I should not tell.” Then she said: “There are other ways.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Bobby asked sharply—and uneasily.

  Ign
oring his question Miss Bellamy said to Rhoda:

  “Come home with me. It’s no good staying here.”

  Rhoda got to her feet like an obedient child.

  “You won’t play any more, will you?” she asked.

  “Why are you both keeping things back?” Bobby asked. “It is a serious responsibility. Miss Bellamy, you have denied that Biggs visited you late at night, but I think it is true and that he did.”

  “Did he?” Rhoda asked. “He never told me.”

  Bobby said:

  “I warn you both. You will both be called at the inquest. You will be on oath. You will have to tell what you know.”

  “We can’t tell what we don’t know,” Miss Bellamy answered. “Come, Rhoda.”

  They went away together and Bobby watched them go. He would have liked to forbid any association between them but that he had neither the right nor the power to do. His feeling was that Miss Bellamy was much the stronger personality, that she knew more of the hidden springs of recent action than did Rhoda, and that her influence on Rhoda was likely to be in the direction of secrecy. Whatever she knew or suspected, she meant to remain hidden. No use anyhow trying to question them further. All he could do was to inform Superintendent Bell of his strange midnight interview; and let him make of it what he could. Just as well, Bobby told himself bad-temperedly, that he was not concerned officially in the investigation, for it seemed to him it was heading straight for failure. One of those cases, undecided though not unsolved, of which all police records are full. His reputation, such as it was, would have suffered if his had been the official responsibility. A mean reflection, he supposed, and just luck that not he but Superintendent Bell had to carry the baby.

  He had seated himself on the overturned wheelbarrow while these thoughts chased each other through his mind, for he had determined to stay till daylight. There might be more visitors. Now he flashed his torch among the trees and called:

  “Is that you, Mr. Fielding?”