Night's Cloak: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  “Did the young lady take you off, Hargreaves?” Bobby could not help asking.

  “Most amusing in a way, sir,” Hargreaves admitted, “but it was generally agreed by the staff, sir, if I may say so, that though certainly laughable, there was not the least resemblance. I can assure you, sir, much as I was entertained, I had not the least knowledge who the young lady was supposed to be taking off.”

  “Do you think Mr Weston took seriously Mr Wilkie’s threats?”

  “It was generally considered by the staff, I believe, that the late master was to some extent disturbed by Mr Wilkie’s observations. It was thought probable that that accounted for the suggestion that Mr Wilkie should not come north of the Thames if he desired to continue to receive a small remuneration sent to him at regular intervals. But the late master was of a somewhat nervous disposition. As you are probably aware, sir, he resigned his position as chief warden. It was generally understood by the staff, sir, if I may say so, that no opposition was offered to the acceptance of his resignation, as it had not been found easy to get in touch with him pending the cessation of the first air raid in our vicinity. You are probably better aware of the facts, however, than I am, as I always consider it my duty to discourage most severely any tendency to gossip among the staff.”

  “Very wise of you,” approved Bobby, and Hargreaves looked gratified. “Er—if you should chance to remember anything else the staff understood, you won’t forget to tell me?”

  “Certainly, sir, I will be most punctilious in doing so,” Hargreaves assured him, and, as Bobby said he thought that was all, he moved towards the door. With one hand on the door-knob, he paused and said: “I fancy, sir, I have observed that you have occasionally directed your attention towards my hair?”

  “Well,” Bobby admitted, “on our job one does get to notice things almost automatically, even when it’s no concern of ours. I did think it looked a bit different somehow.”

  “I have regrettably omitted, sir,” Hargreaves confessed, “owing to the general disturbance caused by recent events, to give it my accustomed attention. Ladies, sir, frequently display a preference for white hair in those holding a position as butler. It seems to be a general belief among ladies that a sense of responsibility and discretion is thus indicated. So it has been my habit, sir, to rub in each morning a certain—er—bleaching preparation, so to say, of my own invention. In my profession, sir, if I may say so, it is often necessary to play up to the gentry’s most fatheaded ideas.”

  “I expect it is,” agreed Bobby, quite fascinated by this glimpse into the technical secrets of a profession of which outsiders know so little. “Oh, by the way,” he went on, “there’s something else I wanted to ask. When I was leaving here last night a young lady stopped me in the drive. I couldn’t see her very well, it was dark under the trees, so I can’t describe her. She took me for Mr Martin Wynne, and when she found I wasn’t, she faded away. Have you any idea who she could be? Probably some one living near here, as it was fairly late.”

  “I couldn’t say, sir,” Hargreaves answered cautiously, “but it is generally understood by the staff, sir, if I may say so, that Mr Martin Wynne has displayed marked signs of being attracted by Miss Olga Severn.”

  “The young lady who is a good mimic?” Bobby asked. “Who is she? Does she live near here?”

  “She lives with her aunt, Miss Florence Severn, at Mayside, the house two or three hundred yards down the road from the entrance to our grounds. Miss Olga occupies the position of welfare officer at the Weston West Mills.”

  “I just wanted to ask her,” Bobby explained, for he had no wish to have the staff “understanding” too much, “if she happened to notice any one else about here last night. Is she a friend or relative of the family, or how did she happen to get the welfare job?”

  “It is generally understood among the staff,” Hargreaves explained, “that Miss Florence wangled—begging your pardon, sir, the expression slipped out—I mean—”

  “That’s all right,” Bobby interposed, “I get the idea. Is it generally understood among the staff how Miss Florence managed to wangle it?”

  “Well, sir, if there’s one thing I set my face against like—like flint,” said Hargreaves, a little pleased to have hit on so admirable a metaphor. “Like flint,” he repeated firmly, “it’s gossip among the staff. But it does seem to be the general impression that Miss Florence was trying to get her hook into the old boy, and thought she had, too, but then he wriggled free, using the incident already referred to as an excuse. Great on dodges like that was the late master, sir.”

  “Did Miss Severn seem resentful or disappointed?” Bobby asked.

  “Well, sir,” Hargreaves answered, “I have no knowledge myself, and I make a great point of discouraging gossip, but I did hear that it was generally understood among the staff that she took it bitter hard—having made sure. Very hard indeed, sir, she took it. Yes, sir, very hard, and you may have heard it said, sir, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”

  Bobby put a hand to a puckered forehead.

  “Yes, now you mention it,” he said, “I believe I have heard that before. I can’t think where.”

  “It’s a quotation, sir,” Hargreaves assured him. “From poetry, sir, and very true, too.”

  CHAPTER XI

  REMINISCENCES

  BOBBY WAS still sitting staring at the ceiling, asking himself what he had so far learned and what importance it had, and whether it, or rather some of it, was as significant and illuminating as it seemed, when one of his constables appeared to say that Mr Dan Edwardes had arrived and was asking if he could see the officer in charge.

  So Bobby said certainly, he would be very pleased indeed to see Mr Edwardes, and thereon Mr Edwardes was shown in—a red-faced, bullet-headed, comfortable-looking man of about sixty or more, of benevolent appearance, dressed with a certain untidiness, wearing gold-rimmed spectacles with thick round lenses behind which two pale blue eyes blinked amiably. He reminded Bobby of a country clergyman whom no doubts ever troubled, who had no money troubles, who spent most of his time in the open air, probably tending roses in the vicarage garden.

  “A terrible affair, inspector,” he said as he came in. “Most distressing. Have you been able to throw any light on it?”

  “There is very little we know as yet,” Bobby answered.

  “A burglar?” Mr Edwardes suggested.

  “There is nothing to suggest that at present,” Bobby told him; and was going on to ask one or two routine questions when the other interrupted him by saying:—

  “Your name is Owen, isn’t it? Inspector Bobby Owen? I’ve heard of you.”

  “Oh, indeed,” said Bobby, slightly surprised, for though there were quarters in which he knew his name was familiar—and unpopular—he had not thought such knowledge likely to have spread into circles frequented by Greek scholars or by gourmets whose appearance in a London restaurant set the staff upon its mettle.

  “Yes,” said Mr Edwardes. “Yes. Of somewhat extreme socialistic views, I believe?”

  Bobby fairly bounded in his chair.

  “Good God,” he spluttered, almost incoherent in his surprise and indignation. “Who told you that?”

  “Bill Weston,” answered Mr Edwardes, blinking behind his thick glasses.

  “Well, I’m not,” declared Bobby belligerently. “Nothing of the sort. I’m a police officer. A policeman has no politics.”

  “Don’t you vote?” asked Mr Edwardes, blinking more mildly than ever.

  “Of course I do. Why not?” snapped Bobby. “I suppose I’ve got a right to my private opinions. No police officer can take any open part in politics, and I haven’t been to a political meeting since—since I was a uniform man and sent to one to keep fascists and communists from fighting each other. Though why fools and knaves shouldn’t knock each other’s heads off, I never knew. I can’t imagine,” said Bobby crossly “what put such a silly idea into Mr Weston’s head.”

  “Possibly,�
� observed Mr Edwardes, so mildly he might have been talking to a small and shy child, “it wasn’t that so much as putting it into other people’s heads.”

  “What on earth—?” began Bobby, bewildered now. “Well, why should he?” he asked.

  “I’ve no idea,” answered Mr Edwardes. “But I expect he had. An idea, I mean. A scheme. I don’t think he ever felt quite comfortable unless he had a scheme to work out.”

  “But how in the name of all that’s ridiculous,” demanded Bobby, growing wrathful again, “could I come into any scheme he might have on hand, and what have my political opinions got to do with it? If I had any, which I haven’t.”

  “Oh, I think you have,” Mr Edwardes told him. “In fact, I’m sure you have. Every one has. Every one is born either a little conservative or else a little liberal. Isn’t that how it goes? Too narrow a classification, of course. All the same, either you think things ought to be left alone, and then you belong to the right. Or else you think they ought to be changed, and then you’re left. Or else you don’t think at all, and then you’re centre. Law of the human mind.”

  Bobby received this political analysis with a grunt and decided that he must pull himself together. He was beginning to perceive that this mild little man, blinking amiably behind those thick glasses of his, was managing somehow to lead the talk, whereas that was what Bobby himself was there to do.

  “If you don’t very much mind,” he said with icy politeness, “we won’t discuss political theory any longer. I believe you and Mr Weston were close friends and business associates?”

  “No,” answered Mr Edwardes. “Anything but. I’ve known him almost all my life. I’ve sat with him on the board of the Weston West Company for a good many years. I’ve never known a man less.”

  “How is that?”

  “We had different interests. He despised mine. I cared nothing for his. He liked managing—things and people too. Running things. He ran them very well. In his own fashion. A remarkable man. Almost a great man. These have been difficult years in business, in textiles especially. I believe it was his intention to re-enter politics once he had Weston West and its subsidiaries firmly established. When he was in Parliament before he was not a great success. Too much the boss, too little time to give to it. If he had got in again he would have been a force—on the right.”

  “Is that why he was interested in my political views?” Bobby could not help asking, even though aware that once again Mr Edwardes was directing the conversation.

  “I think perhaps it was because he had a use for you,” came the unexpected answer.

  “What?” gasped Bobby, even more utterly bewildered and also inwardly furious at the mere idea of any, one planning to make use of—him. Intolerable. “What use?” he asked feebly.

  “I do not know,” Mr Edwardes answered, “but I think if I did know I should know who killed him and why.”

  Bobby made an effort to recover himself.

  “Look here, Mr Edwardes,” he said, leaning forward and trying to speak with an impressiveness that he felt had no effect whatever on the mild little man before him. “I don’t know what you mean, but I warn you if you know anything and keep it hidden, the consequences may be extremely serious. I must remind you that murder has been committed, and I must ask you to be more explicit.”

  “Inspector Owen,” Mr Edwardes retorted, with just the faintest suspicion in his voice of an ironic reproduction of Bobby’s warning tone, “I know no more than I have told you. Which is that Bill Weston loved to plot and scheme and that he had some reason for wishing it to be believed that you had socialistic views. I believe there is a general idea that when the present Chief Constable dies or resigns, you will succeed him. If it was put into the heads of the Watch Committee that you hold extremist views—well, they may hesitate. In fact, it might then have depended on whether Mr Weston supported or pooh-poohed the idea, whether you got the appointment or not.”

  “Mr Weston wasn’t a member of the Watch Committee,” Bobby said crossly.

  “Mr Weston,” Mr Edwardes said gently, “was seldom a member of the committees or other bodies which did what he wanted done.”

  “Wasn’t he?” Bobby growled. “I’m beginning to think I had a motive for murdering him myself.”

  “Many had,” said Mr Edwardes. “Myself, for example.” He beamed on Bobby as he spoke, looking more than ever like a benevolent vicar chatting to one of his more influential parishioners. “He tried hard to secure a hold on me. He thought he had succeeded. He was wrong.”

  “What sort of hold?” Bobby asked suspiciously.

  “When I was young,” Mr Edwardes said, and sighed. “A long time ago. It is pleasant to be young. At least, one thinks it is when one is old. A delusion, no doubt, but there it is. I was at Oxford. I became one of a somewhat—er—rowdy set.” He sat upright, looked prim and yet regretful, too. “A very rowdy set,” he said firmly. “On one occasion some of us became involved in an argument in a public-house, during which it appears a man was killed. Stabbed. My own recollections were and are extremely confused. Extremely so. I trust and believe the incident referred to occurred after I and my friend—or at any rate myself—had left. Efforts were made to trace us. They failed. Appeals were made to us to come forward. They were not answered. There was an inquest and an open verdict. The matter dropped, the more easily perhaps as the unfortunate man was of an extremely violent disposition and such evidence as there was showed that he had himself been using threats. He had been convicted of assault two or three times, he was known to have expressed a willingness to ‘swing for a copper’, and I imagine the police were not sorry to be rid of him. Bill Weston ferreted it all out and tried to use it to bring pressure on me. I pointed out that if at the time it had been impossible to trace any connection with me, it would be even more impossible after all these years. I reminded him of the laws of libel and scandal. The incident did not improve our relations. If you like, you will find full reports in the local paper of the time, together with some severe remarks on the conduct of young men believed to be Oxford undergraduates and present at the killing. I hope that is not true. I hope we had all left first. I don’t know, none of us were at all clear next day about what had really happened. Myself least of all. It seems certain, though, that the knife with which the stabbing was done was one I had been using to cut bread and cheese for myself.”

  Bobby wondered what to make of this story and why it had been told. He said:—

  “What use did Mr Weston want to make of it?”

  “Well, you see, we had a serious difference of opinion. Mr Weston tried to use it as a threat to make me agree to his wishes. There was a deadlock. Solved now by his death. It seems almost providential.”

  “What was the difference of opinion about?”

  “Business. The future of the Weston West Mills.”

  “But I understood you interfered very little in the business?”

  “Hardly at all,” agreed Mr Edwardes. “My interests were quite different. The study of Greek, for instance.”

  “I heard you have written a treatise on the use of the preterite, is it?” Bobby asked.

  Mr Edwardes smiled with mingled tolerance and pleasure.

  “Martin told you that, I expect,” he said. “Martin, I fear, does not appreciate the interest, or indeed the importance, of my studies. The use of the preterite tense is of course extremely interesting, but it is the employment of the particle—but I shall only bore you if I talk about that. Martin thinks it important that men should fly ten or twenty miles above the earth. A singularly pointless proceeding, it seems to me. But Martin would give all he has—and all you have, for that matter, if he could get hold of it—to be able to do that. Now, the Greek use of the preterite, the employment of the particle, have their significance in grasping Greek thought, that is to say on all thought, for all thought comes from the Greeks, and thought is all that really counts in life—not flying a few miles higher or lower.”

  “Was Mr
Weston interested?” Bobby asked.

  “He thought us both fools. That made him angrier still when differences of opinion arose and when it seemed that Martin had the deciding voice.”

  “What caused this difference of opinion?” Bobby asked. “You had been on the board for a good long time, hadn’t you?”

  “Ever since my father’s death,” Mr Edwardes answered. “I had more than once wanted to resign. Bill Weston persuaded me to stay on. I was useful. I always agreed to everything, let him have his own way. Until recently. My father was one of the founders of the Japanese textile industry. I was born in Japan. My father used to call himself the Frankenstein of the textile trade. When the Japanese got rid of him when they thought they had learned all he had to teach, he came home. He had made a good deal of money. He brought back with him a good many curios of one sort or another. The attics at home are full of them. Including Japanese swords and knives.”

  Bobby looked at him thoughtfully and doubtfully.

  “I suppose you know,” he said, “that Mr Weston was killed with a Japanese knife?”

  “It is why,” Mr Edwardes answered tranquilly, “I thought it best to tell you.”

  CHAPTER XII

  MISSING KNIFE

  FOR A moment or two they remained thus, Bobby and Mr Edwardes, looking at each other across the table, watching each other, Bobby puzzled and uneasy, Mr Edwardes blinking benevolently as ever behind those gold-rimmed glasses of his with the thick round lenses, and yet still with that faint underlying hint of an ironic detached amusement.

  Bobby said presently:—

  “Is one of these knives missing?”

  “I don’t know,” Mr Edwardes answered. “After my father’s death I cleared out a good many of his Japanese souvenirs. Then, a few years back, when the Japanese began to make themselves unpleasant, I had the rest packed away. In boxes in the attics.”