The Dark Garden: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  “Mr Anderson is connected with Castles’, and you are accusing them of having embezzled your wife’s money?” Bobby asked.

  “That’s right. That’s what I want you to detect. See? Embezzled. That’s the word I wanted only I couldn’t rightly lay my tongue to it. Get on with the job, eh? Police matter all right, eh?”

  “What proof have you,” Bobby asked, “that this money has been in fact improperly dealt with?”

  “Proof?” Mr Ford repeated with great scorn. “If a field’s bare, do I want proof it’s never been seeded? If the money’s not there, do I want proof it’s gone?”

  “You have seen Mr Anderson? What does he say?” Bobby asked.

  Seldom had Bobby seen a man look more darkly angry than did Osman Ford then. It seemed almost as if he glowed with an inner flame of rage. He spoke slowly, each word heavy with his wrath. He said:

  “He had the impudence to up and say it wasn’t my money but my wife’s, and he wouldn’t discuss it with me, or with her, neither, if I was there, but only if she was all alone, no matter what writing of hers I had, though I showed it him all writ down clear. And he told me to get out. So then I came straight here.”

  “I see,” said Bobby, beginning rather to approve of Mr Anderson, though with an approval slightly checked when Ford added:

  “The old rip. There’s things I know and maybe I’ll tell some day. Him and his lady clerks.”

  He would have gone on perhaps to say more had not Bobby stopped him.

  “That’ll do, Mr Ford, please,” Bobby interrupted in his most official tone. “I don’t want to hear anything like that. Apparently you believe your wife’s money has been embezzled. What is said here is confidential and won’t be repeated, but I should advise you to be careful what you say anywhere else. There are such things as actions for slander and sometimes the results are serious. The only advice I can give you is to consult another firm of lawyers. It is not a police matter.”

  Mr Ford stared at him—glared would be a better word.

  “Meaning,” he said with the slow, hidden anger that seemed as it were to be the core of his character, “meaning to say, you won’t do anything?”

  “Nothing,” Bobby answered firmly, “beyond repeating that if you aren’t satisfied, you must consult a lawyer. Not a police matter at all. Good morning.”

  He picked up his pen again as he spoke and drew some papers towards him, but even that broad hint was not enough to dislodge his visitor.

  “You been hearing tales about Youngman?” he asked, more heavily, more darkly even than before.

  “I don’t know anything about any young man,” retorted Bobby, impatiently, and this time pressed the bell on the table.

  Promptly there appeared Sergeant Wright, a brisk young man whose recent promotion was partly due to a favourable report made by Bobby.

  “Oh, sergeant,” Bobby said as he entered, “you might show this gentleman the way out, will you? I’m afraid I’m too busy to go to the door with him myself. Good morning, Mr Ford. Sorry not to have been more helpful.”

  Sergeant Wright was quite sufficiently alert to guess what all that meant. It was not the first time that importunate and troublesome visitors had had to be got rid of.

  “This way, sir, if you please,” he said, with considerable emphasis on the ‘if’.

  Osman Ford sat on, taking no notice of Wright, bending on Bobby a glance of fury and of menace, so fierce a glance indeed that Wright, a little startled, took a hasty step towards him. There was a moment of tension. Then Ford apparently realized that he had either to go voluntarily or offer a physical resistance that would be as foolish as useless. For Bobby, too, was on his feet now, and powerfully built as was Osman Ford, he was certainly no match for the two of them. Neither Bobby nor Sergeant Wright had much the air of men to be trifled with.

  “Aye, I’ll go,” Ford said and rose heavily from his chair.

  In his slow, ponderous way he moved towards the door Wright was now holding invitingly open. In the doorway Ford paused and turned and said with immense scorn:

  “Call yourself a detective and won’t even try.”

  He moved a step onwards and paused once more. Over his shoulder he said with scorn greater even than before:

  “Detect—you couldn’t detect a cow in a turnip field. Take legal advice, that’s what you would say.”

  “That’s enough of that,” Wright said sharply and laid a hand on his arm.

  “Keep your hands to yourself,” Ford snarled at him with such sudden cold ferocity that Wright was startled again.

  He did not loosen his clasp for that, and for a moment there was again tension in the air as once again Bobby was on his feet prepared for any eventuality. But now Ford moved away, down the passage towards the street, and yet as he went managed to preserve still that same air of anger and of threat, so that his slow retreat had about it something strangely ominous. Wright followed him, wishing silently and intently for an overt act on the other’s part that would justify him in action. Bobby called after them:

  “Sergeant, I want to see you for a moment, please, after you’ve seen Mr Ford out.”

  “Very good, sir,” Wright answered and was soon back. “Went off quiet enough, sir,” he said, “though looking fit to murder every one near. I did think we were in for a bit of a rough house,” he added regretfully, for the other’s manner had annoyed him so much he was very disappointed at not having been given an opportunity to show his disapproval by appropriate action.

  “A nasty customer,” Bobby said. “Do you know him?”

  “Oh, yes, sir,” Wright answered. “He’s well known. He farms in a big way. Got on wonderful, his old dad was cowman on the same place where he’s master to-day.”

  “Well, that’s to his credit, I suppose,” Bobby said, and Wright looked as if he did not think anything could possibly be to Osman Ford’s credit. Bobby went on: “He seemed worried about some money belonging to his wife. I told him it wasn’t a police matter, he must take legal advice if he wasn’t satisfied. He said something about a young man he seemed to think I had heard about. Have you any idea what he meant?”

  “I expect he meant the Youngman affair,” Wright answered, “not a young man, it’s a name, Youngman. He used to come courting Miss Vigors that’s Mrs Osman Ford now. Old Mr Vigors farmed Roman Ends and Osman Ford worked up to be his bailiff. He did good work by all accounts, pulling the farm together. He’s a born farmer, as tender to the land as he’s hard to all else. Old Mr Vigors had been letting it go downhill, losing his grip he was, with illness and age. In the end Osman Ford had it all in his own hands so he got to look on himself as master. Mr Vigors had only the one child, a pretty lass they say in those days, and there was this young fellow—Youngman by name—a Midwych chap, something in the cotton trade—used to visit there so often every one thought it would be a match between him and the girl, most like with Osman Ford staying on as bailiff, as every one thought would be good enough for him with his old dad having been a cowman on the place. But then Mr Youngman was found dead in the canal near Ends Bridge and how he got there there’s no saying, but plenty of gossip all the same. Mr Vigors died soon after and Miss Vigors married Osman Ford, so he is boss now, not bailiff.”

  Bobby had listened thoughtfully and now he rubbed the end of his nose still more thoughtfully.

  “Quite a story,” he commented. “Was there any real ground for suspicion against Ford?”

  “Well, sir, it was before my time, I couldn’t hardly say,” Wright answered. “Anyway, there was lots of talk and gossip but not an atom of proof that ever I heard of. It was a week or so before Youngman’s body was found. It was winter and a cold night with thick mist. There’s been more than one walked into the canal thereabouts. The verdict was found drowned and as far as I ever heard Ford was never even questioned. But the gossip still goes on, and there’s a way he has, as you saw yourself, sir, just now, of looking as though he would as soon murder you as not, if you crossed him.�
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  “He certainly looked murderous enough,” Bobby agreed. “Was this money he talks about left by old Mr Vigors too? “

  “No, that came from the mother’s side—an uncle who had done well in Australia. Maybe he had heard stories about Osman Ford. He left it tied up with Castles’, the lawyers, as trustees, and she can’t touch a penny without their consent.”

  “Have they a good reputation?” Bobby asked.

  “Oh, yes. There was a time, in old Mr Castles’s day, when they were counted the leading firm in Midwych. There was Black-lock’s, of course, but their dealings were chiefly with the county folk. Agents for Earl Wych and such like, they are, and most of the Midwych people went to Castles’. It’s not like that now, but they are still very well thought of.”

  There was a touch of hesitation in the sergeant’s voice as he said this and Bobby remembered one remark Osman Ford had made.

  “Ford was trying to hint at some sort of scandal connected with a Mr Anderson,” he remarked. “I shut him up. Mr Anderson seemed to be the partner Ford had been dealing with. He is a partner, I suppose?”

  “Yes, sir, the senior partner. He took it on when old Mr Castles died. I have heard he is a little inclined to choose his lady clerks for their looks as much as for their typing, and I do happen to know one girl left because she thought Mr Anderson was a bit too friendly. But then some said she left because he wasn’t friendly enough.”

  “Are there other partners?” Bobby asked.

  “Mr Blythe is the junior partner. Very well thought of gentleman, and gives up a lot of time to Hopewell House.”

  “Hopewell House?” Bobby repeated. “Isn’t that a hostel for boys?”

  “Yes,” agreed Wright with a touch of enthusiasm. “Fine place. Some of our own lads have been through it. It’s for boys with no home of their own; boys who would otherwise be at a bit of a loose end and likely to drift into mischief if not looked after. Hopewell House gives them a real home they pretty well run themselves. Mr Blythe sort of supervises, gives a lot of time and money, too. He’s there every night. The boys pay as much as they can, and there are subscribers, but they do say Mr Blythe finds half the expenses out of his own pocket.”

  “Sounds jolly good idea,” said Bobby approvingly. “I think I’ve heard about the place. Must come pretty heavy on Mr Blythe, though, if he stands much of the cost himself.”

  “Oh, he has a good subscription list, too,” Wright answered. “He got £5,000 from an anonymous giver not so long ago for a new swimming bath and engineering shop. Mr Blythe’s handy with tools himself and keen on all the lads knowing how to use them.”

  “Very sensible, too,” Bobby approved once more. “Any Castles in the firm now?”

  “Well, yes, in a manner of speaking,” Wright answered, again with a certain hesitation. “Only not a partner. Managing clerk. I don’t know the rights and wrongs of it, but some say Mr Anderson that’s boss now did him out of his rights and that he ought to be boss himself and head partner instead of only managing clerk. Others say Mr Anderson did everything for him when he was left an orphan, gave him his articles free, provided his education, everything, and that he has to thank Mr Anderson for being what he is with a good screw instead of a two pound a week clerk. I daresay it’s worth a bit to the firm to have a Castles in it, even if only as managing clerk. The name’s remembered still in Midwych.”

  “I expect,” Bobby said thoughtfully, “Ford will make trouble if he can. He’s that sort. Most likely Castles are acting within their rights and duties as trustees, though,” and with that he dismissed the matter from his mind till a few days later there came to see him Miss Anne Earle, describing herself as from Messrs Castles, the lawyers.

  CHAPTER II

  THE FARM

  IT WAS ON some quite unimportant detail of a fund in aid of the Red Cross for which Colonel Glynne, still absent on sick leave, had undertaken to act as treasurer, that Miss Earle had come to ask Bobby’s advice. Bobby indeed, overwhelmed as he still was with the task of carrying out the instructions that since the outbreak of war had descended upon the police authorities in a daily avalanche, would have felt considerably annoyed at being bothered with such small details, had he not somehow guessed immediately that some other purpose lay behind this visit.

  Remembering Sergeant Wright’s tale of gossip to the effect that the feminine members of the staff of Messrs Castles were occasionally chosen more for looks than for efficiency, he soon found himself reflecting that Miss Earle seemed to qualify on both grounds. In the execution of her errand she showed herself brisk, business-like and well informed, and there was no denying the strange beauty that was hers, though its dark and sombre appeal would not have been thought attractive by all. There was indeed more than a hint of a latent and hidden power about the girl; and her voice was one to be remembered, deep, soft and low, and yet with a ringing note in it that seemed to lend a weight of meaning to every syllable she uttered. He noticed, too, how, beneath brows so heavy and so strongly marked as to be something of a blemish, her eyes could change from a dull, indeterminate hue to an intense violet. Eyes that could, Bobby felt, blaze with depths of passion and emotion. The odd idea came to him that she was one who moved in an almost perpetual disguise, a disguise only rarely laid aside, so that only in rare moments did her real self appear. A little frightening, Bobby thought, this manner of concealment that hinted at such unknown depths beneath, that suggested that in some queer way she stood upon one side of a gulf and all the rest of the world upon the other. An aloof and solitary spirit, he told himself, and then he reflected that very likely he was merely being fanciful, that behind the veil she seemed to wear there was probably very little, nothing perhaps. All the same he was conscious of a certain relief when she rose to go, of relief as from an overpowering and unknown presence. Then at the door she turned and paused, and in that deep, soft voice of hers, that seemed so curiously to combine in itself the purr of the contented cat with the back tones of the crouching tigress, she said:

  “I know I oughtn’t to have bothered you with all that. It wasn’t so very important. Only, you see, I am afraid.”

  Bobby looked hard at her. She returned his glance as steadily, as searchingly. He saw, as it were, a small and distant fire begin to glow in the depths of those strange eyes of hers, whereof the hue changed, as he watched, to deep violet. Instinctively he felt that if this woman were afraid, it was not without good reason. He said:

  “Why are you afraid?”

  “Not for myself,” she answered with a slight, backward movement of her small head, as if to say that for herself she would not soon or easily be frightened.

  Something oddly impressive about her. Something, he thought, belonging much more to some heroine of old tragedy than to a twentieth-century office worker.

  He felt he could well imagine her as one of the Valkyria, riding the storm above the battle to choose those about to die. She for her part was still looking at him steadily, but also a little doubtfully, as if not sure of the wisdom of her appeal, as indeed she might always be doubtful of the wisdom of making any appeal to anyone instead of trusting only to herself.

  “You had better tell me about it,” Bobby said and went back to his chair.

  She remained standing in an attitude that gave an odd illusion of height greater than that she actually possessed, as though an inner force of the spirit had made her taller for the time. Lifting one hand, she said:

  “There is a man named Osman Ford and he has been making threats against Mr Anderson.”

  “Mr Anderson is the head of the firm you work for, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” she answered, and now her face was like a mask and she withdrew the fire in her eyes, sinking back, so to say, into her normal, everyday self, and all that so plainly that Bobby said to himself:

  “Why, she’s in love with him.”

  That, he supposed, explained the gossip of which he had heard recently. Still, it was not his affair. He said aloud:


  “What sort of threats and why?”

  “Mr Anderson won’t let him have his wife’s money. He wants it to spend on his farm. Mr Anderson thinks that under the terms of the trust deed, the money ought to remain invested in trustee or similar securities. Mr Anderson doesn’t think a farm gives that sort of security. He has complete discretion.”

  “I see,” Bobby said, remembering that Osman Ford had made a direct accusation of fraud. “Obviously, if Mr Ford is not satisfied with Mr Anderson’s handling of the trust money, he should consult another solicitor. Has he done that, do you know?”

  “No, of course not, what would be the good?” Miss Earle answered contemptuously. “Mr Anderson is acting in the interests of his client, following his instructions. Osman Ford knows that. So he has been making threats. I heard him. At the office. He said he would wring Mr Anderson’s neck and Mr Anderson told me to be ready to ring for the police. Once before, a long time ago, Osman Ford got rid of a man who was in his way. Pushed him in the canal. It could never be proved. Now he’s been saying in a public house that there’s always room in a canal for more. It’s not only that. I saw the way he looked when he was with Mr Anderson. He looked like murder. I told Mr Anderson. He only laughed. He won’t take care of himself. I made up my mind to tell you. You must see he’s safe.”

  A note of anxiety had come into her voice, a note Bobby felt no peril for herself would ever have put there. Not now was she a Valkyr, chooser of the slain, but simply a woman afraid for her lover.

  Bobby said:

  “I want to remind you of one thing first. What is said to us here is confidential and will not be repeated. But please be very careful what you say anywhere else. It might lead to very serious trouble, very serious trouble indeed.”

  “There’s that now,” she answered moodily. “Serious trouble, I mean. At least I think it’s not far off.”