“A pity you didn’t, then and there,” Bobby said. “Why didn’t you?”
“I was afraid,” she answered. “Besides, he said he was sorry.” She paused, thinking, remembering perhaps. She said slowly, half to herself: “Somehow it’s hard to leave your man.” She went on: “I couldn’t find out what had become of it, and when the sale began I watched and watched and waited, but it never came up. Afterwards we heard about a dealer having bought up a job lot of odds and ends left over, and how he said there was an old picture on wood might be the one a young gent had been asking about, and he could have it for a fiver if he still wanted it. So I put on my boy’s clothes and went to ask. The dealer said he had it, and I thought it might be the same. But he wanted the money on the spot, and I hadn’t brought enough with me, and I said £5 was too much. Always—he—used to say the more badly you wanted a thing, the more careful you must be not to show it, and never be too ready to pay the first price asked. So I wasn’t.”
“One of the better known tricks of the trade,” commented Clavering. “I mean, of course, the first principle of all successful buying.”
Taking no notice of this comment, she continued:
“I asked him to let me see it, but he wouldn’t, he said it was put away, and it was near closing time, and he would like to see my money first. When I got home and told—him—he was most awfully angry. He gave me such a push I fell down, and he kicked me. He said why couldn’t I have pawned something to make up the money even if I had been too big a fool to take enough with me, and I got angry, too, and he hit me again. It was too late to do anything then, and he said I must be there first thing in the morning, but in the night there was an air raid, and when I got there, there had been a bomb, and there was nothing left of the shop or anything, and the dealer had been killed, too. He—was angrier than ever, and he said it was all my fault, and I had lost a great fortune. He got drunk that night, and he knocked me about so I was in bed nearly a week, and I made up my mind again to leave him, only I didn’t know how, and I knew he wouldn’t let me if he could help it, and I had no money. I thought I would make sure the picture had really been destroyed, and I went to look. There wasn’t anything left at all, because there had been a fire as well as the bomb, and there was nothing, only ashes. But I talked to some of the neighbours, and some of them were saying had the dealer left any relatives, because no one had ever heard of any, and he had money in the savings bank, so they didn’t know who would get it. And one of them said there was some of the stuff he bought at Nonpareil still there, but another woman said it was only junk, and most likely not worth the trouble of fetching, especially now when it was so difficult to get about. That made me think there might be just a chance that the real reason why he wouldn’t let me see the picture when I asked was that he had left it at Nonpareil, only he hadn’t wanted to say so. I didn’t say anything at home, but I waited till—he—was away for a few days; and I got an order to view, and I went to Nonpareil, and I found it there, put away in the cellar with the rest of the odds and ends the dealer man had bought up. I still didn’t say anything, but I took it and hid it again where I had put it before in the picture gallery, and I never said a word, but I liked to think of it there when he wanted it so much and thrashed me for what he called being such a fool and losing the chance of getting it. But it was there all the time, and I could tell him any time I wanted to, only I never did. But it was nice to feel I knew and—he—didn’t. Then I began to think I would take it away and sell it myself, and get the money, and then I could leave him, go right away somewhere, where he wouldn’t know, and couldn’t find me. A nice private hotel where they were all classy people and no one would ever think of looking for me, and no work to do either, just sit about all day. Once when we were both in London, I went into Mr. Tails’s place in Mayfair because I knew they wouldn’t ask too many questions, or want to know too much. I knew they were that sort when there was the chance of a good bargain. I didn’t think they would know who I was—I was being Frank, of course—but they did. I don’t think they much believed me, they thought it was most likely only a try on, but they were excited all the same.”
“I know,” Clavering interposed, “they didn’t believe enough to keep it to themselves, but they did believe enough to start them talking.”
“I suppose so,” Mrs. Hardman agreed. “It made more talk than I wanted or expected, and—he—heard, and so—he—knew it was what I said started it all. I had to pretend I had only gone to Mr. Tails’s place because I had been hearing talk, too, and I wanted to try to find out if there was anything in it. He—wanted to know who I had heard talking, and I had to say someone, so I said it was Ned Doors—the man they call Lovey. Ned and I had worked together before and Ned used to say when I was tired of—him—why shouldn’t we join up? Only Ned said that to every one, and didn’t mean it much to anyone, except for a week or two. I told him I was in a bit of a fix because of not wanting—him—to know who had really told me or he would be jealous mad. So I got Ned to pretend it was him had heard about the junk left in the Nonpareil cellar and the chance there was of the lost picture being there. Ned was ready enough to agree when I said if it was there it would be worth money, and he could claim half. What I really most wanted was for someone else to know about it in case—he—got suspecting I had known all along, because then I was afraid he would beat me up or kill me, but he couldn’t, not if there were others in it, too. But I didn’t know till afterwards that Ned had a twin brother just come back from America after being in gaol there a long time over a hold up. Ned took his brother with him when they went to Nonpareil, and—he—was more furiouser than ever I had seen him at there being two more to share. It was his job all along, he said, and he wasn’t going to have anyone else butting in, and I said he couldn’t help it, because they were in, and he said he would find a way, and it made me frightened the way he said it, but he never guessed it was all through me they were in—Ned and his brother. There was no trouble getting into Nonpareil. The caretaker left the door open sometimes when he was cleaning, so it was easy to make an impression of the lock and a key to fit. I hoped they wouldn’t find the picture. I thought they would look in the cellar, and when it wasn’t there I thought they would give up. But they found it. In the picture gallery where I had it behind the dust sheet over the river god group. At least, it was Ned’s brother found it, but Ned was in London and didn’t know. And he never did, not till I told him after I had taken it from where—he—had it hidden in our drawing-room at home. I had to have someone to help, and first of all I thought I would ask Betty Anson, because she saw it first, and would know about it and she’s a girl, too, and I thought she might be more likely to do what I wanted. But when I tried to get a word with her without anyone knowing, a man was there, and I had to run away. I thought it might be one of your policemen. After that I told Ned because I had to have someone to help, and he always said he wanted to be friends.” She paused. She stared at Bobby with much of her old, sullen, resentful manner back again. She said: “If it hadn’t been for you coming meddling—he—would never have known it was gone till Ned and I had got away. It’s all through you what’s happened now, and me being fool enough to let you out that time Ned had you fixed in the cellar, and he said you could rot there, you and one of your snoopers he knocked out when he saw him noseying around.”
“Meaning me?” asked Clavering indignantly. “I’m not.”
She went on unheedingly:
“It was only because I was afraid of all the fuss there would be, that’s why I did it. I didn’t care what happened to you, it was all the questioning I didn’t want to have to face up to. When I told—him—he said I had done right, and Lovey had been a fool to try it on, because it never made sense to mess up a cop if you could help it. But afterwards he was sorry, and so was I.”
“But not me,” said Bobby with some feeling, “not me at all.”
“That’s all I know,” she said abruptly. “I can’t tell you any more.
Leave me alone.”
CHAPTER XXXVI
DEDUCTION
Bobby did not try to persuade her to continue her story. For one thing he felt it would be useless to do so; indeed, undue pressure might even affect adversely any later tendency to talk. Probably, too, now that the effects of the brandy were wearing off, she had begun to realize that she was approaching dangerous ground. Besides, Bailey was now back, cycling up the drive from the entrance gates.
“Get through?” Bobby called to him as he dismounted. “You did? Good. Wait here now, will you? with this lady while the inspector and I get along back to the house.”
“Lady? What lady?” Bailey asked, staring round. “That’s the young gent I was telling you I seen dodging about round here.” He stared again, and looked frankly bewildered. “Here, what’s all this?” he demanded.
“Never mind that now,” Bobby said. “If you can manage it, get Mrs. Hardman to your lodge till the doctor and the ambulance get here. They shouldn’t be long. Get your wife to look after her. Mind, she is to be detained. Send one of my men to the hospital with her. Come on, Payne. You, too, Mr. Clavering. I’m not too easy about Tails, we’ve left him too long.”
“Not to mention Mr. Parkinson being locked up,” observed Payne, still a trifle uneasy about such autocratic behaviour, for of all the people in this country who have to watch their step, the police come first.
“I say,” put in Clavering, still very bewildered, “is all that stuff about twins O.K., or were you just making it up as you went along to catch her out?”
“I don’t try to catch people out,” retorted Bobby, stiff and offended. “It’s scientific theory, and you don’t make up scientific theory—at least,” he added, relaxing slightly, “you don’t unless you’re a swell scientist yourself.”
“Do you think all that yarn of hers was true?” Clavering asked. “It was pretty tall in parts, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, but it fitted in with what we knew already,” Bobby answered. “I think it was true all right. You notice she stopped short when she began to think she might be incriminating herself. All she told us was about a more or less innocent attempt to trace a valuable picture. That’s been the difficulty all along. Every suspicious or doubtful action could be explained as part of the rival search for the missing Vermeer. Difficult to make an arrest on a charge of murder when all your suspect need say is he was nosing round after a lost picture, and why not? Anything wrong in that? he asks, and there you are—stumped. Because you know it was certainly true of some of your suspects, and partly true about the actual murderer as well most likely. But as I see it now Mrs. Hardman gave us the key to the whole affair when she said Lovey Doors was away when the picture turned up, and only Hardman himself and Lovey’s younger brother, Shut Doors knew about it.”
“Why’s that a key?” demanded Clavering, puzzled, and even Payne looked surprised.
Bobby, forgetting, in the absorption of his thought, the still imprisoned Parkinson, the injured Tails still waiting for help, came to a standstill, and began to talk, half to himself, half to them.
“Taking that as a starting point,” he said, “and fitting it in with what we know, you can reconstruct the whole affair.”
“Not me,” said Clavering with emphasis.
“How?” asked Payne with interest.
“She told us,” Bobby said, “about Hardman’s fury and disappointment over two newcomers butting in to claim shares, and of his saying he would find a way out. As he did, for finally he got hold of the picture without anyone else knowing. What happened? The younger brother, Shut Doors, disappears with two bullets in his back. Miss Anson is induced to believe herself guilty, but there is subsidiary evidence pointing to a non-existent Frank Hardman who, however, had given proof of his existence by being thrown out of a public-house the evening of the murder. Looks as if Hardman had it all worked out, and then the shot Betty Anson fired gave him an opportunity to improvise he pounced on instantly. As I see it, he had made up his mind to get rid of Shut Doors before Shut had a chance to say anything to his brother Ned. I think it likely—or how did Betty Anson come into it?—that Hardman persuaded Shut the picture they found wasn’t the right one, and that Miss Anson had it in her possession, waiting for a chance to dispose of it. Miss Anson was to be the bait to draw Shut into the forest, where he could be disposed of and his body hidden without anyone knowing anything about it. Shut would be told he must get the girl alone to bully the truth out of her, away from help. If it wasn’t like that, how could Shut have known anything about her, when he was new to the district and had spent all his time at Nonpareil? Besides, we know from young Claymore that someone else had been hanging about the Lonesome-Barsley path at night, and Claymore had suspected who it was, and warned him to keep away or risk a thrashing. Naturally enough, when Miss Anson found a man following her again, she thought, as any girl would, that he was waylaying her for the usual reasons, not on account of a picture she had by that time forgotten all about. So when he tried to stop her she got scared, and let off her pistol shot that Hardman heard, and that gave him the inspiration for a really brilliant improvisation. At the moment he heard it he was on his way to meet Shut Doors, killing his intention, I feel certain. He happened to run across our man, Reed, and stopped to chat, because it’s always a good idea to be friendly with the police if you can. Then they are sure you are respectable. When they heard the shot Miss Anson fired, Hardman evidently saw at once that it might give him the very opportunity he needed. That’s shown by the way he at once spoke of it to Reed, to fix it in his mind, to provide an alibi. A shot had been fired, a killing was to be done, Reed was there to prove he hadn’t fired the shot it would be taken for granted was the killer’s. I think that shows a really remarkable quickness of mind on Hardman’s part. It was when I began to realize that that I began to realize, too, how necessary it would be to have a complete case before acting. Hardman took care, too, to let Reed see him go back into the house. Of course he slipped out again at once to see what had really happened. He found Shut Doors, who told him, and told him how he had dodged Betty’s shot by dropping to the ground. That would suggest to Hardman that he might be able to make Miss Anson believe her random shot had killed. If she could be got to believe that, why shouldn’t the police, too? Hence his letter, unfortunately lost. I wonder if there’s any chance of finding a rough copy at Tulips? We might with luck. And he made a mistake when he put two bullets into Shut’s back, because Betty had only fired once. Though it’s easy to take two immediately consecutive reports for one. And then I expect it’s a murderer’s instinct to make sure. Also the pistols were of different makes, though, no doubt, he had to chance that. The chief danger was that Betty might know quite well that her shot had not killed. She might have seen or spoken to Shut Doors afterwards, and seen he was all right. So Hardman provided other clues to point to the guilt of his Bunbury nephew, or else why the public-house scene earlier on?”
“Bunbury nephew?” interposed Payne, not catching the allusion.
“Oscar Wilde,” explained Clavering. “Yes? Well?” he said to Bobby whose reconstruction of events he found fascinating.
“Hardman’s next step was to go back to Nonpareil where he expected to find Lovey Doors. It was probably because he knew Lovey was coming back that night that Hardman had felt he must act before the two brothers got together. Hardman may even have feared that unless he got in first, they might get rid of him. I expect he told Lovey that his brother had been fooling with a girl in Wychwood, and that he was afraid there had been trouble, as he had heard pistol shots. They went to look, and Hardman would take care Shut was found. A slight hitch there. Shut was dying, not yet dead. That is shown by the fresh blood on the floor in the Nonpareil room. If Shut had been dead his wound wouldn’t have bled, and probably they wouldn’t have taken him there at all. He must have died almost at once, though. The medical evidence is that he couldn’t have survived long. Then more complications. Jones and Parkinson came on th
e scene. We have to consider Jones’s actions in the light of his real mission having been to see if he could find out anything about the rumoured Vermeer. He must have realized something queer was going on at Nonpareil, and he would naturally associate it with the Vermeer story. There was the patch of blood he and Parkinson had seen, and that Lovey and Hardman took such pains to get rid of. There was what happened in the picture gallery when Parkinson thought he saw the statues move—no doubt one or other of the Hardman-Doors combination trying to hide. Jones pooh poohed Parkinson’s fears. Like Hardman, he did not intend there to be any more claimants than necessary for the Vermeer, with all it meant in cash and kudos. So he went back alone the next night, deliberately leaving Parkinson out, and hoping to get in touch with what he probably imagined was a rival Vermeer search party. Violence is so alien to the ideas of the respectable middle-class that he probably never even thought of personal danger. He must have interrupted Hardman and Lovey in the midst of their preparations for disposing of the dead body of Shut Doors. If he saw them with it, they would feel he had to be silenced. There can be no other reason for what they did. And we knew Hardman was there that night, since there is the evidence of Bailey to show that someone, speaking like an educated man, returned the key he had previously given Jones. That can only have been Hardman. The key was returned to delay the search for Jones and the discovery of the body as long as possible. Hardman could not remove the picture till Lovey was out of the way. I daresay he got rid of him finally by egging him on against Miss Anson. However that may be, he certainly went back to Nonpareil next day, and when we arrived and he saw he was likely to be found he toppled over one of the busts from the picture gallery on our heads, more, I expect, to give himself an opportunity of escaping unseen than with any intention of killing—though I don’t suppose he would have minded that result very much. Shut Doors’s body must have been already removed. No doubt they hoped to get rid of it somewhere where it would never be found, and no one would know what had happened—except themselves. A man like Shut Doors can disappear without anyone wanting to ask why. Too many possible reasons. But it is difficult to conceal a dead body, and in the end they panicked, and simply dumped it in the canal. They would hope it would never be identified or connected with the death of Dr. Jones. And a pretty problem they left us with its double entwined thread of murder and lost painting that now Mrs. Hardman’s story clears up.”
There's a Reason for Everything: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 25