by Q. Patrick
“O-ho,” said Buss. “What makes you think that, ma’am?”
“Because,” said Mrs. Greene with superb logic, “I recognized Miss Vivien, but I didn’t recognize the man.” She paused and stared at Buss with a compelling eye. “Dark as it was,” she went on, “I think I’d have known if it’d been anyone from round here. I was just out for a stroll, you know, my house being so near Podd’s Corner anyway, and there she was and there he was, and they were talking together, and she said, ‘Hist, someone’s coming,’ and they stepped back into a little by-path and I never properly saw him. But if you care to put two and two together, Constable, you are free to do so.” With this generous offer Mrs. Greene reached again for her paper, and Buss scratched his head in silence.
“Mebbe so, mebbe no,” he said at length. “And now the big question is; where to find him.”
“That,” said Mrs. Greene with another impulse of generosity, “I leave to you. And you can judge of a Mother’s feelings, Constable, with a Fiend at work in the village and no woman’s life safe from one hour to the next. But we trust in you, we trust in you, and if you fail us we shall have only the Lord to trust in.”
A gratified but puzzled Constable stood again in the village street and looked thoughtfully about him in every direction. Then, with a puckered brow and a slow step, he ambled off towards his own cottage. It would be a good thing, he thought, to equip himself with his bicycle. There was always the chance that the mysterious stranger might drive past in a cloud of dust, refuse to stop for a righteous whistle, and in that case … Buss breathed a little hard during an imaginary race which covered at least half of Somersetshire, and bumped suddenly into Will Cockett, who was walking backward out of a cottage gate, dragging a large plank for a fence which he was repairing.
“Look where you’re going,” said Buss cheerfully.
“Look where you’re going,” said Cockett. “ I can’t.” He dropped the plank and turned a white face and a pair of searching dark eyes on the village constable.
“Found anything yet?” he muttered. “You know what I mean.”
Buss looked wise. “Ah,” he said. Then an idea struck him.
“Look here, Will, they say you were at Lady’s Bower on Sunday evening. That’s so, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I was. What of that?”
“Did you notice anyone else hanging about? Any stranger?”
“Yes, there was a man kind of looking at Lady’s Bower as I came up. I think he had a car. I think I’d passed it just down the road—a Sunbeam, very old model, as I remember. I’ve seen it once since, going in the direction of Edith’s Ford.”
“To Edith’s Ford!” A sudden memory that Miss Coke had mentioned the same place flooded the constable’s mind.
“Good-bye, Will. I can’t waste any more time talking.”
“Where are you going in such a hurry?” asked Cockett, stooping to pick up his plank again.
“To confer my suspicions,” shouted Buss as he strode away in search of his bicycle.
The small market town of Edith’s Ford lay quietly dozing in a warm, noonday sun as P. C. Buss pedalled vigorously up its main street, dismounted under the sign of the Winged Dolphin, and removed the trouser clips from his trousers. Once inside the Dolphin’s friendly doors, and seated before a generous mug of beer and a large slab of bread and cheese, Buss allowed himself to do a little strutting.
‘Out on an important job!” he announced to the barmaid as he wiped his streaming forehead. The ride had been hot and the constable had not spared himself.
“Are you?” said the girl, polite but laconic.
“Yuss. Murder. Have you heard of the Crosby-Stourton murders?”
“Old Farmer Feathers had three sheep killed by a dog last night,” said the girl, trying hard to follow her guests’s conversational lead. Buss sighed and buried his face in his mug. Edith’s Ford, he reflected, was a thoroughly self-centered place, no doubt more to be pitied than blamed.
Indeed, as far as concerned murders in Crosby-Stourton six miles away, the inhabitants of Edith’s Ford were, like the late Queen, not amused. They were not even interested. Local gossip (very local), amateur theatricals, and the energetic if puzzling procedings of the Women’s Institute absorbed their attention. Edith’s Ford was considerably larger than Crosby-Stourton, and boasted several of the more obvious signs of progress; a garage with an elaborate petrol pump, painted a tasty mauve; a track for horse-racing; two chemists’ shops in deadly rivalry; a nine-hole golf course of erratic proportions; seven pubs and two hotels. Thus it will be seen that the constable from Crosby-Stourton had undertaken no mean task when he set out to find A Strange Man somewhere in Edith’s Ford; and so it seemed to Buss himself when, weary and discouraged at five o’clock in the afternoon, he plodded up the steps into the Duchess of Somerset, the larger of Edith’s Ford’s two hotels. However, patience was at last re-warded, for Buss, standing in the hall and glancing into the dining-room at the welter of commercial travelers immersed in their tea, suddenly gave vent to a muttered exclamation and hurried away in search of mine host.
“Who,” he asked, nearly breathless with excitement, “is the gentleman that just passed me in the hall and looked into the dining-room on his way to the bar?”
“That?” said mine host with deliberation. “Don’t quite know what he is, but I know his name all right. He’s George Burwell, he is, and a credit to a gentleman’s establishment. The chambermaid do say there’s queer things in his room, and I don’t know nothing about that, but I do know he’s a literary minded gentleman and a pleasure to have in the house, and his conversation is most improving.”
Mine host glanced fondly through the half open door into the bar at the gentleman in question, who was just raising a glass to his lips with a hand that visibly shook.
“Has he,” said Buss, swallowing hard, “has he a Sunbeam?” “Has he a what?” said mine host, fixing Buss with an incredulous eye.
“You know. A motor car. A Sunbeam.”
“Oh,” said mine host, slowly revolving the question in his mind. “Yes, in a manner of speaking he has. It’s an old one, but it goes. He keeps it in the hotel garage, which I’ve provided because I’m a far-seeing man of business….” Here he stopped, aware that his audience had left him. Buss was already at the bar, ordering himself a glass of stout and staring at George Burwell, whose name and face were vaguely familiar to him. Burwell returned the stare with languid amusement. He was a stocky man of perhaps fifty, with thinning, dark hair, lugubrious eyes with curiously large pupils, and a drooping mouth.
“I,” said Buss finally, “am The Law. Who are you?”
“‘Angels and ministers of grace defend us,’” said Burwell in mock alarm as he ordered another drink.
“Yes,” said Buss anxiously, “but who else are you, and what were you doing in Crosby-Stourton yesterday and Sunday?”
“Looking for my sister,” said Burwell solemnly. “Too much of water think’st thou, my poor sister, and therefore drink I whisky and soda. You see, Constable, I have a sister in Crosby-Stourton. Can’t a brother go and look for his sister without being surrounded by a ravening pack of policemen?”
Buss glanced apologetically down at his own two knees. Then suddenly the wavering resemblance that had been haunting him formed and attached itself in his mind.
“I know who your sister is,” he announced triumphantly. “I know.”
“Friend of yours,” inquired Burwell politely.
“She’s Lady Crosby, that’s who she is, though I never knew she had a brother. Why, you’re one of the real gentry.”
Burwell waved a complacent hand and made the Constable a little bow. “I am, I’ll admit, born to the purple, though I’ve left it some way behind me. by now. However, let us be friends. One touch of nature, you know, relates the whole world to somebody else.”
“Look here,” said Buss grimly. “Gentry or no gentry, what were you doing at Lady’s Bower on Sunday afternoon?”
“The ladies?” said Burwell absently, “God bless ’em,” and emptied his glass.
“God bless most of ’em,” said Buss, rising, “but some of ’em’s dead, and it’s my belief you’d better come along and tell me about it.”
Burwell stood up elegantly if a trifle unsteadily, looked at his watch, and thought for a second of defying this great stupid lout who had suddenly appeared from nowhere. Besides, there were certain things upstairs in his room, and there was the beginning of an insistent aching need which usually assailed him at this time of day…. He glanced up, met the constable’s eye, and changed his mind.
“Very well,” he said meekly. “I wish you’d assume my virtue though you see it not, but if you can’t I’ll come along. How are we travelling, and where?”
“To Crosby-Stourton,” said Buss, “and I’ve got a bicycle.”
“Built for two?” asked Burwell. “No? That’s a pity. However, my car’s behind the hotel.”
“We’ll go in your car,” said Buss. “Please enervate at once, but keep the exhilarator within the speed limit.”
When the Archdeacon, having just completed his mathematical exercises, emerged from his room at about six o’clock and rammed Buss amidships, he was not altogether surprised by the encounter. He was used to the helpful vagaries of local policemen, and had indeed wondered once or twice during the day how the village bulwark had been occupying himself. He was not prepared, however, for the appearance of George Burwell, who strolled nonchalantly into the room behind his elephantine captor, looked the Archdeacon up and down with a cool scrutiny, and turned to adjust his monocle for inspecting an old print that hung against the wall. Yet, beneath this easy exterior the Archdeacon thought he glimpsed a wary, defensive expression, and where, oh, where had he seen that face and that particular expression before? He was soon enlightened. Buss, having announced the “missing link” and “percolator of crimes” proceeded to a more detailed introduction.
“This,” he said, with a flourish of his great arm, “is Mr. G. Burwell, brother of our own Lady Crosby, just now living at the Duchess of Somerset in Edith’s Ford, and inextricably present at the scene of the crime on Sunday evening as well as probably involved with Miss V. Darcy yesterday evening at Podd’s Corner.”
“Some of which is true, and some of which certainly isn’t,” said Burwell turning away from the print and dropping into a chair. “Allow me to present my card, Mr.—er—?”
“Inge,” said the Archdeacon, a little puzzled by the man’s manner, but putting it down to an admirable aristocratic sang froid.
“Mr. Inge. Not ‘Reverend Sir,’ but ‘Inspector,’ I suppose? Yes. I gathered as much from our ponderous friend on the way over. Charming drive we had! You’d hardly believe it! And I gathered that someone’s been doing a nice little job of murder over here in a place called Lady’s Bower. Never heard of it myself, though, according to Brother Buss, it belongs to that Ass Unpolicied, Cynthia’s husband. What?” “Quite,” said the Archdeacon, ignoring this signal lack of respect for the landed gentry. “But I don’t see just what connection?” He looked inquiringly at Buss.
“Mr. G. Burwell,” said Buss doggedly, “was as it were ’anging on the garden gate of Lady’s Bower on Sunday evening last at about six o’clock, and was seen by Mrs. Greene last night at ten o’clock in close contamination with Miss V. Darcy at Podd’s Corner. Ask ’im to deny it. Ask ’im.”
“Don’t bother,” said Burwell. “I don’t deny it—the first part of it. If Lady Bower’s that charming cottage down the road there” (he waved a vague hand towards the window) “just on the edge of the Crosby estate, I did stop. Who wouldn’t? It’s a gem. I was just strolling about the village anyway, and I stopped to look at the prettiest thing I saw in it. If the yokels choose to murder each other under my very nose I can’t help it, can I? As for Miss V. Darcy, goodman Buss flatters me. I know her by repute as a rich and handsome young lady, but I’ve never set eyes on her. No, last night I broke bread with mine host at the Duchess of Somerset. I then joined some fellow guests, a Colonel Matraver and his wife and their niece—(have you ever noticed, my dear fellow, how colonels run to nieces? They all have them.)—in a quiet game of auction bridge, and so to bed at eleven o’clock; and that’s the true story because Burwell is an honorable man.”
“H’m,” said the Archdeacon thoughtfully. “Strolling about the village on Sunday afternoon. I don’t want to appear impertinent, Mr. Burwell.”
“Oh, don’t mind me,” said Burwell, lighting a cigarette. “But I do want to ask you,” went on the Archdeacon, “just why you happened to be here at that particular time. Someone, you know, poisoned Amy Lubbock in Lady’s Bower at tea time on Sunday, and perhaps since you were in the neighborhood at the time you can help us find our man.”
The Archdeacon flashed a quick look at his visitor, but saw only an expression of superficial concern.
“Poor girl. A sad end. Dear me. Perhaps a case of the green-eyed monster and cherchez l’homme?”
“Perhaps,” said the Archdeacon, “and perhaps not. In the meantime I’d like to know what you were doing …”
“I was coming to that,” said Burwell with a wave of the hand. “I was just over here to see my sister. Brotherly love and all that, don’t you know.”
“Lady Crosby is to be found at the Hall,” said the Archdeacon sharply, “and not in the village of Crosby-Stourton. Also, she was in London on Sunday.”
A faint flush crept into George Burwell’s sallow cheeks. “She would have been,” he muttered. “She always did put me in the wrong. Well, if you will have it, here it is. You’re a man of the world, Inspector, and you’ll understand that it’s hard on a luxury-loving gentleman like myself to have a very rich sister who goes thrifty-thrifty instead of fifty-fifty. Yet so it is. A hard case, but mine own, and at the moment a loan would come in very handy, if you can call it a loan when the money should have come to me in the first place anyway. If my father’d been alive I’m sure he’d never have allowed my mother to leave it all to Cynthia. And Cynthia, though not a bad egg as sisters go, hasn’t quite that understanding of the Bacchanalian point of view…. So I’ve just come along on the chance. But I haven’t seen Cynthia yet. It takes careful handling. You see, sometimes she’s not so glad to see me as—at other times. And Sir Howard, I may say, never expresses cordiality. So, not knowing Cynthia was in London, it just occurred to me that I might run across her somewhere about the village, observe her, and find out how the land lay. But so far I’ve not been successful, though I was here again yesterday morning on the same errand. A family idyll, what?”
The Archdeacon nodded and lit a cigarette. He had no reason to disbelieve this story, nor was it, indeed, one which sounded as if anyone would have cared to invent it. However, his eyes narrowed as he observed Burwell closely, for his wide experience had enabled him to detect almost at once the characteristic nervous symptoms of the drug addict.
“And Monday?” he went on tenaciously. “On Monday at tea time Isabel Lubbock, sister of Amy, was also poisoned. Could you account to us for Monday afternoon and evening, or throw any light that might help us?”
Burwell laughed. “Got you there, too,” he said. “On Monday I played golf with the Colonel—eighteen holes of golf from five o’clock to seven, over a murderous course, and tea beforehand at the Duchess of Somerset. Haven’t played such atrocious golf since my salad days, when I was green in judgment, young in putts….”
“Don’t you believe him, sir,” said Buss in a stage whisper. “For all he’s so glib and so friendly like, I’ll lay he’s not telling you the truth. He’s a bad ’un, I tell you.”
Burwell turned on Buss disdainfully. “‘Never mind the character,’” he said, “‘but stick to the alleby, Samivel, my boy.’”
The Archdeacon was silent, still watching Burwell through half-closed lids. No use frightening him, he decided. Better just let him go his way, and check up later on his alibis, which sounded reasonable enough.
Aloud, he said:
“Well, Mr. Burwell, I shan’t detain you any longer. Thank you very much for your information. May I take it that you will stay in this part of the world for the next few days?” The tone of his voice implied a command rather than a request.
A covetous look came into George Burwell’s eyes as he rose to go.
“Yes, I’ll stay till I’ve seen Cynthia,” he said, “if I have to follow her to the gates of hell. Good-by, Inspector. Good luck with your rustic murderer. Good-bye, friend Dogberry. No, you needen’t return with me. I am quite old enough now to be out alone after six o’clock.”
With a light, faintly hesitant step and a resolutely jaunty expression George Burwell walked out of the Crosby Arms. At almost the same moment the Archdeacon was called to the telephone, and found Norris on the other end, speaking from London:
“That you, Archdeacon? Hullo, are you there? Yes? It’s abaowt Myra Braown. Listen to this: Myra Braown was Isabel Lubbock herself! Yes, just managed to tryce it through the post office, where Isabel Lubbock ’as recently deposited £480 in notes, under the nyme of Myra Braown. What? Yes, we’re trying to have the notes tryced. Let you know if we succeed. That’s all for the moment. Looks like blackmyle, I should think. What? What? Oh, good-bye.”
The Archdeacon hung up and thoughtfully rubbed his hands together. Blackmail, Lubbocks, rich people involved, better keep a close watch on them all…. He strolled back to the front door of the Crosby Arms for a glimpse of the evening sky. Buss lingered large and disconsolate in the doorway, preparing to take his leave. As the Archdeacon came up the Constable cast a mournful glance in the direction of Edith’s Ford.