“I’m not interested in your meddling,” Bobby told him. “Only in the reason for it. Perhaps you would like to tell me.” This again brought no response. Bobby said: “The path leads to Castle Manor, doesn’t it? Short cut, I’m told. Chiefly used by the family or their visitors. Other people, too, at times, no doubt. What about our taking a stroll that way?”
“It’s getting late,” Norman muttered, and evidently Bobby’s was a most unwelcome suggestion. “I’m going the other way.”
“Not so late as all that, is it?” Bobby told him. “Is there some one waiting to hear if you’ve had any luck finding what you weren’t looking for?”
“Know it all, don’t you?” the young man snarled. “Just my infernal bad luck, meeting you.”
“Well, you see,” Bobby explained mildly, “it’s part of a detective’s job to make sure that after a murder there’s quite a lot of infernal bad luck knocking about. Part of our technique, you know. Not much in it, of course. Easy enough to see that with all the village buzzing with talk about me turning up, something might break somewhere. And where more likely than on the actual scene of the crime? Why I’m here. A clue to be destroyed, perhaps, to avoid awkward questions? Miss Livia, is it? Waiting, I mean.”
The boy fairly jumped at this, and when he spoke his voice was so shaken, so out of control, he could hardly get the words out as he stammered:
“No, it isn’t. No. Why should it be?”
“Oh, just a guess,” Bobby answered. “Boy and girl. Girl and boy. And where one is, the other may not be far away. A general principle. Useful things to keep in mind, general principles. I suppose you still don’t care to tell me all about it? I had a girl once myself. Got her in the end, or did she get me? I forget. Comes to the same thing in the end.”
“I wish you would shut up,” Norman muttered.
“Oh, well,” Bobby said, slightly hurt, for he thought he had been chatting quite amiably.
They walked on together. Norman had shown no inclination to leave him, once Bobby had made it plain he was going on towards the house. They emerged from the copse, and the house came at once into sight. There were lights in some of the windows and there was a high garden wall. They drew nearer still, and Bobby was sure he could hear sounds as of some one drawing away in the shadow cast by this wall. He called:
“Miss Livia? Is that you? Please don’t run away.”
A moment’s silence followed, and then there came slowly out of the shadow the figure of a tall girl. She did not speak, but stood very still—so still, indeed, that she gave the impression of a tension so great that even the slightest physical movement might cause it to snap. He saw her lift a hand and then let it drop again. Still she did not speak, and Norman said in a heavy, sullen voice:
“It’s the chap from London. He was waiting there. He would come along.”
“Why did you let him?” the girl said; and by the immobility of her attitude, and even by the very tones of her rather deep voice, still conveyed that impression of a restraint on the verge of breaking down.
“Oh, come now,” Bobby protested. “Do try to be reasonable, young lady. How on earth do you think he could stop me? Except of course by hitting me on the head from behind with a blunt instrument of some sort?”
It was not at random that he said this. He wanted to see if such a reference to what had happened so recently on the spot where he and Norman had met produced any reaction. It did. There came from Livia a sound that was somewhere between a sob and a cry, and that strained immobility of hers began to seem as though it might break down. Norman went quickly to her side. She tried to push him away. Ineffectually. He turned to face Bobby. He said:
“Leave us alone, can’t you?”
“No,” Bobby answered. “Because I am looking for the truth, and the truth must be found. A dead man asks it.”
“We don’t know anything,” Norman repeated in his slow, tormented voice. “It’s right I was looking for something. He spotted that, Livia. I didn’t want to tell him at first. Your wrist-watch you lost. If you did drop it in the copse and some one found it there, it might start a lot more silly talk, and there’s enough of that already, just because Mrs Holcombe was the one to find the body. Anyhow, I couldn’t see it. You’ll have to own up. Mrs Holcombe will make a fuss about your losing her coming-of-age present so soon, but it can’t be helped. Of course, it may turn up somewhere in the house.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” Bobby agreed. “You know, Mr Lawson, that was very well thought out, but I’m not satisfied, as we say in the police.”
“I can’t help it if you aren’t,” Norman retorted with sudden violence. “We’ve had just about enough. Come on, Livia.”
He took her by the arm and they began to move away. Bobby watched them go. He made no attempt to stop them. For one thing, he felt that Livia was on the point of a breakdown, perhaps even into hysterics, and that he had no wish should occur. Nor did he think that Norman himself was very far from a possible loss of self-control that again Bobby felt was best avoided. For that matter, it was never his practice to press witnesses too hard. Experience had taught him that a period of calm and reflection often produced more useful results. The dishonest, unwilling witness might easily yield to the temptation of inventing a story that could be proved untrue. The honest, however reluctant witness might come to realize that his best, indeed his only course was to tell all he knew. In either case you got most useful testimony. The untrue story always contained within itself implications and undertones that led to the truth. And the true story was, of course, what was needed.
He contented himself, therefore, with watching them as they went, and presently he saw them pause. Next he heard a sound of scrambling, and there was Norman on the top of the wall. He leaned down to give Livia a helping hand. She was soon by his side. They lowered themselves to the ground on the other side of the wall, and Bobby strolled on to the spot where they had disappeared. As he had guessed might be the case, a brick had been displaced to give a foothold and make the scaling of the wall comparatively easy.
Bobby noted the spot, and then went thoughtfully back by the way he had come to seek his bed at the ‘Black Bull’.
CHAPTER V
“HER ROYAL HIGHNESS”
AS BOBBY returned to the inn, as he made his preparations for bed, his thoughts were busy indeed with the strange interview in which he had just taken part. Plain, certainly, that Livia Holcombe—she was always known, he had now ascertained, by her step-father’s name—had been in a highly emotional state. But to what that emotional condition was due was not so clear. To guilt? To knowledge of another’s guilt? Or merely to the shock of so terrible an event happening so close to her home and of her mother being in some way associated with it? And for what could it be that young Lawson had been searching? Certainly not Livia’s wrist-watch. That was fairly evident. Could it be for the instrument with which the unfortunate victim had been battered to death. But no one in their senses could suppose that the careful prolonged search the police had made of the vicinity could have failed to find it if it were there. Least of all could such a supposition be entertained by young Lawson, son of the Chief Constable of the district. He must have been familiar since a child with police procedure, and must be well aware how careful and how thorough such a search would be.
So, Bobby concluded, whatever it was, it must be something small and inconspicuous, and probably, at first sight, at least, quite unconnected with what had happened.
But he was ready for bed now, so he put the matter out of his mind for the time, since it was not his way to worry too much over a problem for the solving of which there was insufficient data. Or to allow such puzzles to interfere with his sleep.
He was down early, however, and enjoyed his breakfast a good deal more than he had his dinner. An old saying has it that God sends the food but the devil provides the cooks; and a breakfast consisting of new-laid eggs, home-cured bacon, country butter, home-made bread, and even—this was pro
bably a criminal offence, though Bobby was not sure and did not ask—a small jug of cream, may fairly be described as ‘cookproof’.
It was served by the barmaid he had seen the night before and who seemed to be a kind of general factotum. As she was plainly hovering around in the hope that she might hear from him something of interest she could repeat to her friends, and as to start her talking was very much what he wanted himself, he gave her an opportunity by telling her how much he had enjoyed his breakfast.
“Cream,” he said, with a kind of wondering incredulity. “I expect my wife won’t believe it when I tell her. Do you serve cream with teas, too? If you do, I should expect to see a queue of motorists half a mile long.”
The barmaid’s good-tempered-looking face clouded over.
“Her Royal Highness don’t approve,” she said.
“Her Royal Highness?” Bobby repeated, puzzled.
“Her up at Castle Manor,” the barmaid explained; and Bobby soon realized that an apparently unrelated feminine pronoun always referred to Mrs Holcombe. “We have to, if asked, because it’s in the licence, but we can’t push teas, because of her not wanting it. Don’t do to get on her wrong side. Talking of applying for a second licence already. So teas is off for all in the village, and there’s them as is awful sore about it.”
“Well, surely she can’t stop them, can she?” Bobby asked. “Nothing wrong about serving teas.”
“Got the whole village in her pocket, and we all know it,” the barmaid told him. “Says she don’t want the village spoiled by a lot of gaping tourists. Talks about its old-world charm.” The barmaid’s snort showed her opinion of the value of ‘old-world charm’. “What harm would a few motor-coaches do? Good for trade, I say. Double our barrelage, and mostly well behaved, even if they do wear paper caps, and why not? Just a bit of homely fun. Nor she can’t hear them singing, not up where she lives.”
“Well, then,” said Bobby as the barmaid lapsed into silence.
“It’s the electricity,” the barmaid went on. “No one wants to go back to oil and such like, but it’s hers, the electricity company; she owns all the shares mostly; and it runs at a loss, because she charges low like. She could shut down any day she wanted, because of not being able to afford any longer and Government Electricity says it will be years and years before they can get up this way. There’s the communal laundry, too; that’s hers as well. Some says have a go, and she never would, but most don’t want to go against her, her having the money; and plenty on her side as don’t want to bother about teas, anyhow. Matt Mars was all for teas, and started to put up a place for teas just outside the village; only then he got a letter from her lawyer to say his lease for the bit of ground he rents wasn’t in order and it was wanted for development. So then Mars thought different. But very bitter he was about it, him thinking he had found a way to get more money without any work, Mrs Mars doing it all with Annie Mars’s help—as Annie didn’t want neither, meaning to stay on in the office.”
“Mars,” Bobby repeated thoughtfully. “Those are the people you told me about yesterday. I called there to see if they had anything more to say. They hadn’t. A very pretty girl there. She would be Annie Mars?”
“That’s right,” the barmaid agreed. “She’s a queer one, she is.”
“How is that?” Bobby asked, interested, for queerness anywhere might somehow be related to that very queer thing, murder, which had happened so recently.
“Oh, well,” the barmaid answered hesitatingly, almost with embarrassment, “I’ve nothing against her, but it ain’t natural, the way people act when she’s there. Might be in church almost, minding what they say. They aren’t their own selves. Let slip anything you didn’t ought to say, and she looks at you astonished like, as if she just couldn’t believe it and whatever did you for; only most like you didn’t mean it really, so it’s all right. And never happy if people don’t agree till she’s got ’em friends again. There’s her dad, now. When he had had a drop too much he wasn’t above knocking his missus about, but now he never; he says his Annie just gapes, sits and gapes and stares, and can’t believe it, and acts most awful sorry for him, so he can’t stand her fussing.”
“Fussing over him, do you mean, or over Mrs Mars?” Bobby asked.
“Oh, it’s him she worries over,” the prompt and rather surprised answer came. “Acts as if there must be something awful wrong with him, and most like he’s ill or something, and he can’t stand it. No one could.”
“Well, she certainly seems an unusual young woman,” Bobby agreed; but rather losing interest, since it seemed her eccentricities could have no bearing on the errand that had brought him to the village. “Did you say she worked in an office—the Holcombe office?”
“That’s right, and there’s some as say young Mr Harry Holcombe has been making eyes at her. But mostly,” the barmaid said, “she never seems interested—boys, I mean. Old or young, male or female, it always seems the same to her, and boys especial. But they do say it’s because ‘She’ wants her out of the way of meeting Mr Harry that Colonel Yeo-Young is asking Annie how she would like a job in town.”
“Is she taking it?” Bobby asked.
The barmaid didn’t know, but didn’t think so. For one thing Annie might not like the idea of leaving her family. That ended the conversation, for now the landlord, who probably thought the barmaid had talked long enough and it was time she did some work, called her away. So Bobby looked at his watch, decided it was not too early to call at Manor Castle, which was the next step he planned, and started off. But at the door he was met by the landlord, a portly personage named Ross, who seemed as ready to talk as had been the barmaid, but who possessed a much less ready tongue. Bobby, whose axiom was ‘Always encourage gossip, no matter how pointless it seems’, helped him out by asking the way to Castle Manor, though his map showed it plainly, and by asking one or two questions he hoped sounded knowledgeable about the state of the crops and country prospects generally. He was on the point of going on his way when Livia Holcombe came by, looking so hard and carefully in another direction that evidently she had seen Bobby, but wished to appear unconscious of his presence.
“Miss Holcombe,” the landlord explained. “If she’s wanting the Felstead ’bus she’s missed it again. She’ll have to wait for the next.”
“Does she often go?” Bobby asked.
“She’s helping with the ancient old sculpture at the museum there,” Mr Ross explained. “Cleaning it up or something. There was a bit in the Felstead Courier about her having found an old bust in the cellars she claims is Greek and very antique and worth hundreds of pounds. Some say she’s aiming to get the job when the curator retires, which won’t be so long now, seeing how old he is. She would have rooms over the museum then and be on her own, same as she wants.”
“Most young people are like that,” Bobby remarked. “What would her mother say?”
“Not likely she would mind,” Mr Ross replied. “It’s Mr Harry she thinks of all the time. You know about Miss Livia being molested by a tramp a month or two back? Mr Lawson didn’t seem to think it could have anything to do with it, but I’m not so sure.”
“What was that?” Bobby asked, not so sure either, and avid for any crumb of information that might throw even the faintest glimmer of light on a case that seemed to need it so badly.
“It was when Miss Livia was going home by the short cut through the copse,” explained Mr Ross. “Getting off the ’bus at the stop where it turns off the main Felstead road, you save a lot by taking footpaths. It’s a fare stage, too, as it didn’t ought to be, so you save twopence walking. Miss Livia was taking the short cut, same as she often does, and when she got to the copse a tramp stopped her and asked for money. She wouldn’t, and he got abusive and used threats, but she’s a big, strapping girl, as you’ve seen for yourself, and says her biceps are like a man’s, her using hammer and chisel same as she does and pulling big blocks of stone about. So she told him to try and see what he got if he
tried. All the same, she must have been a bit scared like, for now she always takes a mallet with her she uses in her work, and claims she’ll knock the head off any tramp that tries that on again. She could, too.”
“Well, she looks like it all right,” Bobby agreed smilingly. “A formidable young lady. Not that I noticed she was carrying a mallet or anything except her handbag.”
“Most like she aims to take the ’bus all the way back,” Mr Ross suggested. “She does if she has anything heavy to carry.”
CHAPTER VI
“PEEPING TOM?”
BOBBY WALKED on slowly through the village towards Castle Manor, very well aware that curious eyes followed his every movement, that behind every curtained window lurked an eager watcher, that a certain amount of disappointment was caused by the absence of handcuffs dangling from his coat pocket, and by the undeniable fact that he looked so much less formidable than those scowling, thrust-out-jawed American detectives they were accustomed to see in the cinema. Their own fat, familiar Constable Collins they had never considered a real policeman in the same category as a Yard man or a member of a New York homicide squad. Anyhow, Bobby, as a Yard man, was generally considered to be a bit of a let-down.
Bobby had rather hoped that this stroll through the village might produce from some one else an offer of some more ‘background’ information in the shape of another gossip. Nothing of the sort happened, however. He had left the village now and reached the church. At this he stopped to look, for it at once showed itself as a fine and ancient building—early English, he thought. There was also in the churchyard what he took to be an old Saxon Cross, and now from behind it came striding a tall, elderly man, tight-lipped, his features deeply lined, a thin, ascetic face, his eyes small and bright. An impressive, strong personality, Bobby thought, and one well assured of itself. Rather shabby, carelessly worn clerical attire suggested that this must be the local Vicar, but one had the feeling that not ordinary clerical wear, but instead the robes and sandals of some ascetic religious order would have suited him better. With long strides, with a curious air of urgency, as of one who knew there was very much to do and little time to do it in, he swiftly came through those many graves of so many generations of the past.
The Attending Truth: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 5