“Throwbacks to ancient ways of thinking are possible,” Bobby answered. “Traditions do survive in some old families. Queer things have been done in the name of honour, strange sacrifices offered up on that altar.”
He spoke heavily and with reluctance, but he felt the possibility was one that had to be kept in mind.
“Lady Wych is an old lady with plenty of courage and determination. Capable of anything she put her mind to,” the colonel agreed.
Then he went on reading:—
‘A further possible motive in Lady Wych’s case is jealousy.’
At that he banged the memorandum down and fairly shouted:—
“At her age? at her age? at his age? Nonsense, Owen, nonsense.”
“Yes, sir,” said Bobby meekly, “but a woman is always a woman, and a wife is always a wife, no matter at what age. You remember, sir, the suggestion has been made that Earl Wych might have been carrying on an intrigue with Miss Longden. Probably only spiteful gossip, but all the same a possibility to be kept in mind, I think.”
“Oh, all right, all right,” snapped the colonel irritably. “Absurd, but there it is.” He relaxed into a grim smile. “Plenty of stories about the old man in his younger days. If they were all true, he would have as many bastards scattered about the country as Henri Quatre himself. Luckily all stories never are true. I suppose,” he added hesitatingly, “this Bertram claimant fellow can’t be an illegitimate son the old man wanted to succeed him? He may have had the idea that he would like his own son, even a bastard, to follow him. Would Lady Wych have stood for that? Is that another possible motive in her case?” The colonel looked very unhappy. “Getting worse and worse, more and more muddled,” he muttered. “She may have been insisting on his giving it up, refusing to consent to it, threatening to tell the truth, the earl may have been giving way, and the Bertram fellow known it and thought murder the only way to make himself safe. Anything in that?”
“Well, sir,” Bobby admitted, “there are stories going about like that. About Bertram being an illegitimate son, I mean, and that explains the late earl’s acceptance of him. But it’s pure guess-work, merely a theory to explain what seems inexplicable. No evidence whatever.”
“Sometimes guesses hit the truth,” muttered the colonel uncomfortably. “It would fit in with Lady Wych’s character and her talk about saving the family honour. I don’t like the idea, but then the more you think of it, the more inconceivable the whole thing seems.”
Once more he picked up the memorandum, now beginning to show some signs of wear, and went on reading aloud:—
‘E2. Sophy Longden.’
“Obstinate little baggage,” snorted the colonel in parenthesis. “I could believe anything of her.”
He continued:—
‘She may be in love with Ralph Hoyle’—(Here the colonel snorted again)—‘and may have committed the murder to help him and assure his position. If so, it may have been in a sense a disinterested crime, committed without Ralph’s knowledge and out of sympathy with him.’
“Bah!” said the colonel indignantly. “Girls are queer, God knows, damn queer, but not so queer as that. Or are they?”
Bobby did not answer because he did not know, and again the colonel continued:—
‘E3. Anne Hoyle
The earl’s death would assure the succession of the claimant, Bertram, whom she intends to marry—or why has she broken off her engagement to Ralph? Was there any reason to fear Earl Wych would withdraw his recognition of Bertram?’
Once more the colonel hurled the unlucky memorandum down on the table before him.
“Why on earth,” he shouted, “should Anne want to marry Bertram? He’s not so attractive as all that, is he? Why, she’s been engaged to Ralph since—since she was born pretty well.”
“Possibly she thinks that’s an engagement a little too long,” suggested Bobby, “and if she believes Bertram to be the true heir—well, he becomes eligible and Ralph merely a poor relation. And then there’s their chins.”
“Chins?” repeated the colonel, puzzled.
“Three interesting chins, sir,” Bobby asserted. “Miss Hoyle’s sticks out like a dictator’s. So does Ralph’s, only more so. Not only their chins, I mean, but everything about the two of them suggests a lot of what is called character, meaning pig-headedness as often as not, or at any rate a tendency to believe your own way is the best way and you are jolly well going to have it. Bertram hasn’t any chin at all, and gives me the idea he has neither a will nor a way of his own, beyond wondering where the next drink is coming from. Married to Ralph, Miss Hoyle would be Countess Wych. Married to Bertram, she would be countess and earl as well, both together. I think that’s a prospect that might tempt her.”
“Even to murder?” asked the colonel doubtfully.
“To a dominating and ambitious woman, I think there might be a temptation,” Bobby answered gravely. “I don’t say that it’s more than another possibility to be kept in mind.”
“Well, that’s enough for the three women,” the colonel said. “What about the three men relatives?”
Once more he began to read:—
‘E4. Ralph Hoyle
Bitterly resented the recognition of Bertram and the putting of Bertram in the place Ralph believed to be rightfully his own. Only an hour before the murder he is known to have quarrelled violently with his great-uncle. Said to be subject to violent fits of temper.’
“I know, I know,” commented the colonel. “I hate to say it, but on the face of it, he’s our man. Every motive, every opportunity, every characteristic. Obvious.”
“The obvious isn’t always the truth,” Bobby remarked.
“No, but it is as a rule,” said the colonel and went on to the next name.
‘E5. Arthur Hoyle
If Bertram Hoyle were proved an impostor and Ralph Hoyle were hanged for murder, Arthur would succeed to title and estates.’
“Good God,” gasped the colonel, “so he would. I never thought of that. It’s subtle, it’s round-about, it’s possible. If he had an idea that something like that might happen, that would be why he was snooping that night. Wanting to see what happened, wanting to get evidence. I never did like that man,” the colonel concluded thoughtfully; “an efficient, go-getting business man of the worst type.”
Again he continued reading:—
‘E6. Bertram Hoyle
The present (if his claim is genuine) Earl Wych, Baron Hoyle, baronet and various other things, including the ownership of Castle Wych and the Wych estates. Very nice things to possess, too. But if his claim is genuine, why commit the murder merely to come into actual ownership a little earlier? If an impostor, the motive would be evident and pressing, if he had any reason to suppose that the late earl might be going to repudiate him. Only why should a claim be admitted by both earl and countess only to be repudiated in a few weeks?”
“Doesn’t seem to make sense,” commented the colonel this time. “Besides, I don’t believe that that fellow would have the guts to do anything of the sort. He got cold feet at the mere idea of joining up and if he doesn’t, well—”
The colonel shrugged his shoulders, unable to conceive what would happen to an Earl Wych who showed reluctance to join the regiment an Earl Wych had founded and that subsequent earls had always commanded—with the help of competent non-commissioned officers, of course, to tell them what to do.
“Perhaps he’ll turn into a conscientious objector,” said the colonel suddenly, naming the most degrading supposition he could imagine. “Well, what have you got down about the three outsiders—vicar? lawyer? butler? What a combination!” and he went on:—
‘E7. Mr. Longden, vicar
Hints have been dropped that there was gossip about the late earl’s relations with Miss Longden, the vicar’s daughter. Could this have led to murder? Mr. Longden is a clergyman. Could he have come to regard himself as the avenging instrument of Providence?’
“No,” said the colonel loudly, and the
n “Yes,” equally loudly, after which he glared at Bobby as if he had detected him in a flagrant confusion of thought. “All the same,” he added, “I don’t much care for this father-avenging-his-daughter’s-honour idea. Too theatrical.”
“Yes, sir, I know,” agreed Bobby, “only sometimes the theatre does resemble life—and even more often life resembles the theatre. I don’t think we can rule out the possibility at present, though there’s not a shred of evidence to support it, except gossip probably started by a malicious and nasty-minded butler.”
“Well, your next is this butler fellow himself,” the colonel said, and read out:—
‘E8. Martin.’
(“Marmaduke seems to be his first name, I didn’t know that till this morning,” interposed Bobby, and the colonel snorted indignantly, for Marmaduke seemed to him a most inappropriate name for a butler, and to go a long way to confirming the worst suspicions.)
‘Martin,’ the colonel re-read. ‘In his case no known motive.
E9. Clinton Wells
Only motive apparent would be a desire to bring to a head a lawsuit certain to attract universal attention and that, if Wells conducted it successfully, or even in a way to win general approval, would probably make his name. He is certainly very ambitious. He might regard the case as his road to fame and yet feel the difficulty of bringing it to a head while the earl was alive and no question of succession had arisen. Again, success might seem impossible while the old earl was still alive, and presumably ready to go into the witness-box on Bertram’s behalf. Dead, he couldn’t testify to his belief.
Finally. E10. X. The unknown quantity.
F
EVIDENCE.’
“Ah!” interpolated the colonel. “I wondered when you were coming to that—scanty and contradictory about sums it up. Well, let’s see what you think we’ve got.”
He went on reading:—
‘Against
F1. Sophy Longden
Finger-prints.
F2. Lady Wych
Mr. Longden’s statement that he saw her outside the library window about the time of the murder.
F3. Anne Hoyle
Bertram’s evidence that she was not in her room at the relevant time. Bertram’s second statement that she was in possession of a pistol—presumably the missing automatic from the library drawer.
F4. Ralph Hoyle
His known violence of temper, his possession of a pistol of the requisite calibre and type, his quarrel with his great-uncle shortly before the murder.
F5. Arthur Hoyle
Hiding in the vicinity at the relevant time.
F6. Bertram Hoyle (soi-disant)
Presence near head of service stairs giving access to the library. He had no legitimate business there at that time—the bathroom story being evidently an invented excuse.
F7. Mr. Longden
Presence near at time of murder. Knowledge of the estate office pistol and possession of key of safe.
F8. Clinton Wells
Knowledge of the same pistol.
F9. Martin
None except presence near the scene of the murder and his denial thereof.
F10. X, the unknown quantity
No evidence even of the existence of any X.
G
GENERAL REMARKS
All the three women concerned seem to have strong and unusual characters. Not many young girls could hold out in refusing to answer questions as did Miss Longden.’
The colonel paused in his reading.
“I’ve a good mind—” he began, glaring at the door, as if intending to send again for Sophy then and there. He did not do so, and he did not explain what he had “a good mind to”. (It was in fact a “good mind” to make Sophy speak and a total inability to see how.) “Oh, well,” he said crossly and went on with his reading:—
‘As for Anne Hoyle, she seems of an extraordinarily ambitious and domineering type. She resents bitterly the old world conventions that on account of her sex deprive her of what she considers to be her rights. One feels she would be likely to go a long way if she saw any chance of asserting them. That is not possible under the present law. But as the wife of a man of weaker type than her own, she would probably be able to get her own way in everything. As Ralph’s wife, she would certainly find he had his own ideas about things. Then there’s Lady Wych, a remarkable old lady, certainly a good deal taken up with what they call the family honour. Family honour undoubtedly comes into the picture somehow. Ambition, love, family honour, three strong motives for which strange things have been done in the past and will be again in the future.
The three men of the family are also interesting and contrasting types. There’s Ralph, desperate, it may be, at the thought of losing all he believes rightfully his; Bertram, possibly afraid the old earl may be going to change his mind, balanced between getting kicked out or established as heir, and resorting perhaps to murder to make one scale tip the balance; Arthur, known to be a bit of a gambler, perhaps seeing a chance, if he plays his cards well, of securing so great an inheritance. Finally, the three outsiders, vicar, lawyer, butler, hovering at present, so to say, on the outer verge of suspicion, but each one of the three liable to become the central figure at any moment.’
That ended Bobby’s memorandum, and the colonel laid it down on the table and shook his head doubtfully.
“All very interesting,” he said, “and they all seem to have a motive of sorts. It’s all tied up with this question of whether Bertram is a fraud or the genuine article. And yet that’s a point we are not supposed to be concerned with, and can’t investigate directly. Making things difficult,” grunted the colonel indignantly. “Reminds you of little Jack Horner. Put in your thumb and you pull out a— murderer. Only which?”
The telephone bell rang. Bobby went to answer it. Presumably it was of importance or the outer office would not have put the call through. Bobby took the message and then turned to the colonel.
“Mr. Clinton Wells,” he said. “He wants to know if we have arrested Ralph. He says if we have, we should have warned him so that he could take immediate steps. He seems very indignant, and wants to lodge a protest.”
“About something we haven’t done?” growled the colonel. “Tell him not to be an ass. Why should he think we have arrested Ralph—or any one else for that matter? I only wish we knew enough.”
Bobby was at the telephone again. He turned round presently, looking puzzled.
“He says that’s the story going about. He says no one has seen Ralph this morning. He says Ralph slept at home, but got up early, went out without stopping for his breakfast and no one has seen him since.”
“Bolted?” said the colonel slowly. “Bolted? I suppose that’s conclusive.”
CHAPTER XVI
THE CHARLES THE SECOND OAK
None the less, though Colonel Glynne spoke with such emphasis, though Bobby expressed no disagreement, neither of them was quite convinced that this flight— if flight it were, this disappearance—to use a word that went at least no farther than the actual fact proved—carried with it the obvious significance of confession of guilt.
“Panic? Ralph’s not the sort to panic, and where there’s been one murder there may be another,” Bobby heard the colonel mutter, half to himself, and later on was called upon to confirm this utterance that, later on still, the colonel, who had been intensely interested by some of Mr. J.B. Priestley’s ‘time’ plays, was inclined to regard as a proof of how events to come impinge upon the conscious present.
Then as they were preparing to leave to investigate upon the spot the circumstances of this new and startling development, there came in a report of another disappearance.
“Man of the name of Brown, Bertram Brown,” explained the inspector on duty, to whom the report had come in the first place. “Booked a room at the Chambers Temperance Hotel, in Carlyle Street, two days ago. Went out and hasn’t been seen since. His luggage is still in his room. Not a great deal apparently, one bag with conte
nts the hotel people don’t seem to think much of or likely to cover their bill if it runs on any longer. They say he had had a bit too much to drink—the Chambers is one of those temperance hotels which are run rather on bottle-party lines, you can have as much as you like if you send out for it—and they were afraid he might have met with an accident. It seems he landed in Glasgow from America, spent the night there at the Northern Lights Hotel—that’s the label on his bag at least—and then came on to Midwych.”
Colonel Glynne gave the necessary routine instructions for looking into the matter, and Bobby noted, without thinking much of it, the trifling coincidence that here was another Bertram, though Bertram is not one of the more common Christian names. Then they started off and were soon at Ralph’s home, the house he occupied, or had occupied, as Wych Estate Agent.
All their questioning produced no further information. Ralph seemed perfectly normal on retiring to bed the previous night. He had risen early this morning, gone out without waiting for his breakfast, and had not been seen or heard of since. The house was on a road that lay between the village and the castle. If he had turned east he must have passed through the village, where, even at that early hour, many would be astir and he would almost certainly have been seen. So presumably he had gone west, past the castle, where they were not such early risers, and so he might have escaped notice, and on possibly towards Midwych itself. Or he might have turned off across the fields and so made his way towards the thickets and groves and wide open spaces of Wychwood Forest. Traversing these he could emerge anywhere west or north of Midwych; or indeed in the safe concealment of that great expanse of solitary and deserted country, it would be possible for a young and healthy man, used to country life, to maintain a kind of Robinson Crusoe existence almost indefinitely.
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