The Attending Truth: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  At the desk Mrs Holcombe seated herself, motioning at the same time to Bobby to take an easy-chair near by. With some amusement, Bobby noticed that by this arrangement he was seated in a strong light and Mrs Holcombe in comparative shadow. He also suspected that the flowers were there not so much for their own sake, as because they might at times be so manœuvred as to give Mrs Holcombe additional shelter while she herself could, by a comparatively slight shift of position, secure a clear vision round them.

  He had met something like this before, and he did not much mind. He was inclined to regard it as a sign of weakness, and he thought perhaps that Mrs Holcombe was at bottom rather less self-assured than was suggested by her firm manner and air of authority and command. Then, too, it was always a clear warning to the other party to exercise strict control of expression, voice, movement. And such control every investigating officer, who, to be successful, must be something of an actor, was well accustomed to exercise. Mrs Holcombe was saying now, in her firm, vibrant, tonal voice:

  “You may take it for granted that I shall do everything in my power to help. I take it you know, Mr—I don’t think I know your name?”

  “It is Owen,” Bobby replied. “Officially Commander Owen, of the C.I.D., Scotland Yard.”

  “Oh, yes,” Mrs Holcombe said. “I remember now. Mr Lawson impressed on me that it was a police officer of rank who was coming.” She said this rather carelessly, as if differences of rank in the police were for her hardly worth her notice or her remembering. “I take it Mr Lawson will have told you there is a certain amount of gossip in the village? You know the man’s dead body was found by me?”

  “Mr Lawson has given me a very full account,” Bobby said. “I think the gossip you speak of is one reason why he was anxious for our help. Some of the gossip suggests, apparently, that as you are concerned through your finding the body, there might be a tendency to hush up the affair. I think you own most of the property about here and employ most of the people?”

  “Can murder be hushed up?” Mrs Holcombe asked, and something in her voice seemed to make the words echo round the walls of that great room.

  CHAPTER VIII

  “SHE IS A SCULPTOR?”

  BOBBY MADE no reply to this question. He affected to be absorbed in his note-book, in searching for a pencil. It had seemed to him that the remark might have been meant as a feeler, and he wanted to see if there would be any effort to follow it up. He found his pencil now and opened his note-book. He said:

  “You won’t mind my taking notes, will you?”

  “Very proper, very necessary,” Mrs Holcombe approved. “I take it you know all this has been gone over before? Mr Lawson has been here once or twice. He took what he called a statement.”

  “Oh, yes,” Bobby said. “He gave me a copy to study. Naturally I have all relevant papers. I am sorry if I seem to be making you go through it all over again. I am afraid it is necessary. There are always little details that need explaining if one is not to run the risk of getting a false impression. Then, of course, there was a development last night.”

  “You mean about Miss Holcombe?” her mother asked at once. “She told me she was looking for a wrist-watch she thought she might have lost in the copse, and you were there. It was very foolish of her. I told her so. It’s been found now—in the last place one would have expected. In her jewel-case, where it ought always to be kept when she’s not wearing it, and never is. No wonder she thought she had lost it.”

  “One would have expected,” Bobby remarked, “the young lady to realize the whole of the copse had been thoroughly searched. The scene of a murder always is.”

  “I don’t suppose Livia realized that,” Mrs Holcombe answered carelessly. “I hope you don’t think there’s anything suspicious about it? Girls like Livia generally lack ordinary common sense—especially when they have what they call artistic temperaments. Which means an excuse for general sloppiness. But they don’t commit murders. Not like this, anyhow.”

  “Is it true that Miss Livia had some trouble with a tramp there a short time ago and that since then if she goes that way she takes a mallet with her—the one she uses in her work? She is a sculptor?”

  “She wants to be,” Mrs Holcombe answered, with a touch of contempt in her voice. “I’ve tried to get her interested in something worth while, but she likes to play about in what she calls her studio. One of the outhouses. You’ve heard about the tramp story, then? Not much you don’t hear in Pending Dale. If they all worked a little more and talked a little less, it would be an improvement. I don’t expect the man wanted anything more than a shilling or two. I told Livia it would be a good deal more sensible if she didn’t use the copse path again. It does save a few minutes, catching the ’bus at the stop on the Felstead road instead of going into the village. As she is always late and can run all the way by the copse path, she finds it convenient—and less trouble apparently than being ready in good time.”

  “When she does use it, she still takes the mallet with her?” Bobby asked once more.

  “She’s lost it now. She would,” Mrs Holcombe answered. “It’s a habit of hers, losing things. She used to take it as far as the Felstead road and then hide it under a hedge till she came back and picked it up again. A week or two ago it wasn’t there on her return. She’ll have to buy another if it doesn’t turn up. It may have been taken by some one, or it may be somewhere in the studio still. Quite likely.”

  “If it was taken, has she any idea by whom?”

  “Oh, no. Some farm labourer, probably, thinking it might be useful for odd jobs and with no idea of what it really was. Are you thinking it might have been used in the murder? Mr Lawson spoke of a heavy, blunt instrument.”

  “Well, it answers the description, and it’s missing,” Bobby said. “There seems a distinct possibility.”

  “I agree,” Mrs Holcombe said. “That would mean that the murderer is some one living in the neighbourhood.”

  “It would seem so,” answered Bobby. “I shall have to ask Miss Livia if she can give me exact dates.”

  “Livia is never exact about anything,” Mrs Holcombe declared. “I gather that being exact, punctual, precise, is unworthy of an artist.”

  “Has she taken anything with her in place of the mallet since she missed it?” Bobby asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Mrs Holcombe answered. “I told her she had better have the bread-knife or a poker, or else borrow Mr Yeo-Young’s stick. He has a heavy sort of cane he often carries—an old friend, he says. You can ask her if you like. I think she’s somewhere about. Where she fiddles with her clay and stuff.”

  She was going to pick up one of the ’phones as she spoke, but Bobby made a gesture to stop her.

  “Not just yet, please,” he said. “If I may, I would like to visit her studio before I go. But first there are still one or two points I think possibly you might be able to help me about. I’m told the copse where the murder occurred is often frequented by courting couples. There is also a suggestion that what are called Peeping Toms hang about it at times. Could you confirm that?”

  “Yes,” Mrs Holcombe answered thoughtfully. “Yes. I see your point. There have been complaints like that. It might lead to quarrelling, fighting, to murder even. But surely the man was a total stranger? Mr Lawson certainly said so. It’s hardly likely that a Peeping Tom would want to visit a completely strange place? He could do it at home if he wanted.”

  “One would think so,” Bobby agreed. “But even the most improbable ideas have to be followed up. Only when they’ve been thoroughly tested and dismissed can we concentrate on what’s more likely.”

  “Eliminate the improbable till only the probable remains,” Mrs Holcombe observed, still with approval. “Yes. Businesslike,” she pronounced, using what was very likely the most complimentary word she knew. “I take it,” she went on abruptly, “this Peeping Tom idea—I don’t think much of it myself—comes from the Vicar. He has it on the brain. The man’s a fanatic. Full of set
ideas he won’t budge from. Why, he even refused funds I offered him unless he had sole control. Says he must be supreme in all church matters. Because he holds his authority from on high. I wasn’t going to agree to that claim. Authority can be misinterpreted. In business you soon learn to give way to other people. To co-operate. I know I’m always willing to, though I do stick to my point when I know I’m right. But it all makes him very difficult to get on with.”

  “I can imagine that,” Bobby said. “People who insist on having their own way always are difficult. You would agree, though, that there is some truth in the story of the copse being used by village boys and girls when they want to do a little extra petting, as the Americans call it.”

  “The village women think so, anyhow,” Mrs Holcombe told him. “They are always warning their own girls against it—or else hinting that a neighbour’s girl has been there. Mr Duggan seems fond of prowling about the place, on the look-out for what he calls erring couples. I wonder if all this psycho-analysis they talk about now-a-days wouldn’t show motives in his unconscious he would be very surprised to hear about. If he had been murdered I should have found it much easier to understand. But why a total stranger?”

  “It all seems to turn on that,” Bobby agreed. “I believe there was one time when he and some youngster came to blows, wasn’t there?”

  “You’ve got hold of that, too?” Mrs Holcombe asked, in a very surprised tone. “You’ve not been wasting your time. I thought that had been kept quiet. Not a youngster, though. A man named Mars. Mr Duggan found him in the copse, and promptly accused him of this Peeping Tom thing. There was a fight. Mars got the worst of it. How did you hear? Mars wouldn’t want it known the parson had given him a thrashing, and Mr Duggan wouldn’t say anything. The Bishop wouldn’t have approved. Mr Duggan is a boxer. He says he found it very useful when he was a padre.”

  “First he knocked his brother down and then led him to the Lord,” Bobby quoted. “But Mars—Mars? Oh, yes. Winterspoon was sent there about getting a bed for the night, but apparently didn’t go. I called to ask. I saw Mrs Mars and a very pretty girl—a daughter, I think.”

  Mrs Holcombe said nothing, but her expression showed no very friendly reaction to this last remark. She was sitting back in her chair, with the air she assumed when she thought an interview had lasted long enough and it was time for her visitor to go. The attitude was often effective. Bobby was aware of it, but he had not finished yet. He was turning over the leaves of his note-book, in which, however, he had made so far comparatively few entries, though those he had made would have surprised Mrs Holcombe a good deal if she had seen them.

  “I can’t remember,” he remarked, “anything about Mr Duggan having visited the copse that night. He seems to have done so fairly frequently. I must find out if he has been asked.”

  “Are you suspecting him now?” Mrs Holcombe asked in a somewhat amused tone. “He is hardly likely to commit murder, I think—though I don’t know but that he might kill in the name of the Lord if he thought he had to.”

  “Which if it did happen might be called murder by the Law,” Bobby remarked, smilingly, but yet with an underlying gravity in his voice. “No. Mr Duggan is no more a suspect than any one else. Every one is of course, more or less, till the guilty person is found. But the point is that if Mr Duggan was in the copse and can tell us the time, it might be a help. Unfortunately the body was moved almost immediately, and there was so much trampling and running about that a lot of possible clues must have been destroyed, Most likely, though, if Mr Duggan had been there that night, he would have discovered the body.”

  “I wish he had,” Mrs Holcombe said. “A most disturbing experience,” and for the first time she showed an emotion, even a horror, at the memory of that tragic night.

  It was a sudden and unexpected contrast to the self-control, even indifference, she had hitherto shown, and Bobby was inclined to measure the real extent of the shock she had suffered by the effort she had been forced to make to control it and that this partial breakdown had now betrayed. Indeed, for the moment he almost thought that something like hysteria was threatening. But the crisis passed, and Bobby waited till self-possession was fully restored before he said:

  “I think you say in your statement that you went out that night for a breath of fresh air. Does that happen frequently?”

  “Not frequently,” Mrs Holcombe answered. “Sometimes. I don’t often go as far as the copse, but I did this time. It was a fine, warm night. I had been working all evening at business problems. I wanted to clear my mind before going to bed.”

  “When you have been there,” Bobby asked, “have you ever seen anything of these courting couples Mr Duggan seems to think haunt the place?”

  “Never; but, then, I wasn’t looking. All that is quite recent. Mr Duggan started it all. I only remember once seeing anybody. It was that man Mars. The man Mr Duggan thrashed. I don’t know what he was doing, and I didn’t think anything about it. Mr Yeo-Young was with me. He had been dining with us, and after we had finished our bridge we went for a stroll. It was a fine night. I am inclined to suspect Mars of being responsible for the silly talk that seems to be going on. If I find that is so, I shall deal with it,” and this was said quietly and formidably, with an underlying force that suggested the implied threat would be carried out to the full.

  But into Bobby’s mind there came a memory of that growled warning Mars had uttered about yet another murder that might be on the way.

  CHAPTER IX

  “TO SEE MYSELF IN”

  BOBBY MADE a few rather vague remarks about how grateful he was for what she had told him and how useful he was sure this information would prove in the investigation it was his duty to undertake. Mrs Holcombe listened in silence, managing to give the impression, however, that she understood these were purely official observations, made as a matter of form. Bobby’s own feeling, as he closed his note-book, was that she had told him exactly what she thought fit, just that and nothing more.

  The question he had now to consider was why she had told what she had done and why she had kept silent about so much she could also have told had she so wished. For that she had kept a great deal back he was certain. And he was certain, too, that what she had held back she had held back for reasons that seemed to her vital. Literally so perhaps. She was far too clever a woman not to have understood precisely what and why she was doing and saying. He himself knew, of course, from long experience that witnesses often keep back highly important information without in the least realizing it. But not Mrs Holcombe.

  He reflected also, a trifle ruefully, that he was by no means certain that he had had the best of the kind of verbal duel he now felt had taken place between them. Still, there were interesting and possibly significant points that had emerged. The recurrence of the name ‘Mars’, for instance, and the momentarily threatened loss of self-control, largely caused, or at any rate brought to the surface, by a passing reference to Annie Mars. Some strong feeling there, he thought. Then there was the rather pointed reference she had made to her own visit to the copse in the company of the Colonel Yeo-Young, whose name also seemed to crop up fairly frequently, and whom Bobby was beginning to think it would be interesting to meet. And was the reference to the heavy cane that gentleman usually carried meant as a hint of possible guilt, or intended to make the search for the murder implement a little ridiculous by suggesting there were many such possibilities, and so reducing any suspicions that might attach to the disappearance of her daughter’s mallet? At any rate, Bobby was well convinced that she was under a very great emotional strain that she wished intensely none should know of.

  Though Bobby had closed his note-book, he remained sitting there, silent, without moving. Mrs Holcombe watched him closely, warily, perhaps even with fear of what he might say or do next. Yet he did not think she was a woman apt to be afraid. A hard, strong woman, he felt, one accustomed to fight for what she wanted and to get it. She had, too, an almost angry directness of appr
oach, very different from what is supposed to be the characteristic feminine approach of hint and manœuvre. He had noticed her frequent use of the phrase ‘I take it’, and he thought that this might well be an unconscious indication of her general attitude to life—that from it she did not ask, but took. He got to his feet and said:

  “Would it be possible for me to have a talk with Miss Holcombe now? I believe she uses that name, doesn’t she? I understand, though, she is your daughter by a previous marriage, so it is not her real name?”

  “It is the one I prefer her to use,” Mrs Holcombe said briefly. “So did Mr Holcombe. She is probably in her studio, as she calls it—sounds professional, no doubt. If you will come with me, we can see if she’s there.”

  Accordingly she led him into the garden and then along a gravel path that wound round the side of the house towards a cluster of outbuildings, once no doubt in more frequent use than now, when staff are more difficult to obtain. The gardens seemed well and carefully kept up, however. As they went, Bobby said:

  “Miss Livia goes in to Felstead to help in the Museum there, doesn’t she? I think I was told she was helping to re-arrange the sculpture gallery?”

  “Something of the sort,” Mrs Holcombe answered indifferently. “I take it they are agreeable, so long as they haven’t got to pay her. The curator has been telling people she has great talent. So I’m told, anyhow. All very well, but where does it lead? Now-a-days a girl isn’t expected to spend her time playing the piano, doing the flowers in the drawing-room, or any of those sort of drawing-room tricks—water-colours and sketching and clay models of cocks and hens.”