The Attending Truth: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

“Tramps don’t read papers,” Bobby remarked, “and besides, I don’t want any publicity at present. If this fellow can be found, it’s just possible he may be able to tell us something useful. He’ll probably talk all right if he’s promised a shilling or two. Just a long shot, but sometimes long shots score bull’s eyes.”

  The plain-clothes man thereupon departed, not at all displeased with the prospect of a quiet afternoon’s drive to town and back. Bobby then consulted the map of the district he had been given and set off at a brisk pace—five miles an hour or thereabouts. It brought him in thirty minutes or so to the bungalow, known with more or less sweet simplicity as ‘It’, occupied by Colonel Yeo-Young, M.C., D.S.O. On the garden gate the word ‘It’ was painted, and on a brightly polished brass plate on the front door were the words ‘This is “It”’. Which seemed to Bobby to suggest a kind of sixth-form immaturity deep rooted in the colonel’s character. The garden itself was beautifully kept, though for some tastes a little too formal, as though the colonel had wished to impose upon his flowers and shrubs a discipline as strict as that he had exercised on his battalion.

  Beyond the garden was a small orchard, sloping down towards a stream, a tributary of a tributary of the Thames, and the sufficient reason why Colonel Yeo-Young had settled down here and been willing to spend on its purchase the whole of his small capital, besides borrowing from the bank what was necessary to make up the required amount. For the price demanded had been high, even for these days, even very high. But the property carried with it the right of fishing in the stream where it ran by the orchard; and as the fishing both above and below this comparatively small stretch of water was strictly preserved by wealthy landowners, and as fish know nothing of riparian rights, the owner of the bungalow was always certain of good sport. As the colonel loved to tell, he could almost always go out in the early morning and bring back a couple of trout for breakfast.

  Bobby’s knock went unanswered, but he could see through the trees of the orchard a tall man in plus fours standing by the side of the stream. He was amusing himself by throwing a walking-stick into the water and watching an Alsatian dog fetch it out again. The game absorbed so much of the attention both of man and dog that neither of them seemed to have noticed Bobby’s arrival, loud as his knocking had been. He began to walk towards them, and at once the dog became aware of him. It barked angrily and came charging towards him, showing its teeth, the bark becoming a menacing snarl as it drew near. A formidable animal, but Bobby took no notice. He knew few dogs—few animals, indeed—will attack when no fear or hesitation is shown, though he held himself in readiness to deal with it should this one decide to do so. He had an idea that the plus-fours man was well aware of his dog’s threat, and that it amused him if people showed fear. No doubt he was fully confident of his ability to call off the animal before anything serious happened. All the same, Bobby was not pleased. It seemed to him a kind of bullying of which he disapproved.

  He walked on. The dog, a little puzzled possibly at being thus ignored or else waiting for a directive from its master, followed, still snarling, still showing its teeth. The plus-fours man, seeing that nothing amusing was going to develop, turned round and called to the animal to lie down. It obeyed instantly, though still emitting an occasional growl to show it was all ready for action when called on. Bobby said:

  “Colonel Yeo-Young, I believe?”

  “Yes,” the other answered. “Arc you the Scotland Yard Johnny the whole place is talking about? I was rather wondering if I would be honoured with a visit.”

  Bobby produced his official card, at which, however, the other hardly looked, waving it away carelessly.

  “I have been asked to assist the local force by making a few inquiries,” Bobby said. “I believe Mr Lawson has taken a statement?”

  “Not much I could tell him,” the colonel said. “No alibi, though.”

  He laughed as he said this, though not without a touch of challenge, even of defiance, in his voice. He had a long, thin, tanned face, an upright, athletic figure. Evidently a man who took pains to keep himself in good condition. His features were strongly marked, his small, clear, light-blue eyes flickered unceasingly up and down Bobby from head to foot, missing no detail. Beneath his high, thin nose bristled aggressively a thick, reddish-brown moustache. A hard, masterful man, Bobby thought, and he could well believe the story Lawson had told him that the colonel had been retired, in spite of an excellent war record, his notion of discipline having been of such a nature as to reduce his battalion to a state of incipient mutiny.

  The Alsatian was still growling menacingly at intervals. Bobby’s displeasure increased, for he felt its master could have stopped this at any moment, but that to see his visitors uncomfortably on guard, uneasy if not actually in fear, amused him and perhaps gratified his urge to exercise power—to bully?—he had put to such ill use in his army days. Somewhat sharply then, Bobby said:

  “No doubt you have your dog under control, but are you not taking rather a risk? It’s a formidable animal, and you can’t always be watching it.”

  The dog evidently caught and understood the touch of anger or protest in Bobby’s tone. Words were beyond it, but it knew what tone, inflection, meant. It emitted a fresh and louder snarl; the hairs began to bristle; it bared its teeth.

  “Quiet, Pompey, quiet!” the colonel ordered. The dog collapsed at once. The colonel went on: “Nothing to be afraid of. He’s all right; aren’t you, Pompey, old boy?” The dog thumped its tail affirmatively. “Besides,” Yeo-Young added, “every dog is entitled to one bite.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Bobby answered. “Very specially not, if its master has been warned. Just to make sure, in case it hasn’t been done before, I warn you now that I consider the animal dangerous. I shall see that the constable stationed in the village puts that on record.”

  The blood rushed to the colonel’s face, and then left it suddenly pale beneath its tan. For a moment Bobby thought there was going to be a violent reaction. He treated the colonel to a direct stare. The colonel seemed to think better of it.

  “Lie down, Pompey,” he said, and gave it a pat on the head. “Now if you’ll do the same,” he added to Bobby, “he’ll know it’s all right.”

  It was clearly meant as a challenge, a ‘dare’, as schoolboys say. Bobby had no intention of accepting it. He had already established a certain ascendancy in their talk, and he did not mean to compromise it by allowing Yeo-Young to take the initiative in any way whatever. He felt that the colonel was so fond of browbeating and bullying others that to experience a little of the same himself would be likely to make him more amenable.

  “I haven’t come here to make friends with dogs,” he said shortly, and the colonel gave a sort of surprised scowl, but evidently also recognized a defeat.

  “Oh, all right,” he said. “Pompey, kennel, kennel.” Again the dog understood, either the tone, the word, or its master’s pointing finger. It slunk away, clearly feeling itself in disgrace. In a more friendly tone, Yeo-Young said: “We’ll go up to the house, shall we? Might have a drink.”

  “Thank you,” Bobby said, responding to this overture. “Of course, a magnificent animal and wonderfully trained. Alsatians aren’t generally much of water-dogs, are they? This one seemed to be enjoying diving in after your stick. What they call a Penang Lawyer, isn’t it?”

  “I got it in Penang,” Yeo-Young said. “Stationed there once. Not so many of them about now, and not many people would know what it was.”

  “I’ve seen one before, some one I met once had one,” Bobby explained.

  “They used to say out there that there was a lot of law in the business end of a Penang Lawyer,” Yeo-Young observed conversationally. “I carried this fellow all through the war. Useful at close quarters. It doesn’t miss or jam—and you can’t cut your own fingers with it either.”

  He laughed at this, as if he thought the remark a good joke, and Bobby smiled politely, though he was not sure what at, and said he could well
believe it, very useful indeed at close quarters. They had reached the bungalow by now, and Bobby accepted the drink offered, though protesting that really he was on duty, and on duty constables were not supposed to drink, so seniors had to set an example. In reality he was feeling that now he had Yeo-Young comparatively tamed, it was worth an effort to establish good relations with him, or as good relations as possible. It was also in his mind, though this thought he had not yet formulated clearly, that throwing the stick into water, and getting the Alsatian to fetch it out again, would be one way of getting rid of any—if any—compromising marks it might show.

  “A heavy, blunt instrument,” said the colonel suddenly, watching Bobby closely from those bright, keen, hard eyes of his—eyes as hard and clear as burnished steel. “Did Lawson tell you? I saw him looking at it when he was here. I expect he’s told you all he knows. Not much, unfortunately. Good fellow, Lawson, and popular with the ladies, but not awfully intelligent.”

  “Oh, policemen seldom are,” Bobby answered brightly. “We just plod along. There’s one thing, though. The truth is always there. Waiting. The attending truth. So we go on looking. As for heavy, blunt instruments, the case seems thick with them.”

  “You mean poor little Livia Holcombe’s mallet?”

  “Just one among others,” Bobby said. “I’m told you visit at Castle Manor occasionally, and that when you do you often use the path through the copse?”

  “I’ve no car, and that’s the nearest way. The night of the murder I went to call there. I wanted to see Mrs Holcombe. There’s a bit of a clash between her and Mr Duggan, the vicar, you know. Nothing much, really. I had a cup of tea and I left quite early. No alibi, though. Nothing to show I came straight back here or that if I did I stayed. As I did. I live alone. Do everything for myself—cook, clean, everything, except for the woman who comes in once a week to scrub the floor and collect my laundry. Am I still under suspicion?”

  “Every one is and no one is,” Bobby answered. “Every one using the path through the copse, every one to whom Winterspoon spoke. The crux of the whole thing is to find out why he came here when he seems to have been a complete stranger to the place and every one in it.”

  “I’ve thought that one out for myself,” Yeo-Young said. “He only spoke to one or two people in the village, didn’t he?”

  “Two, as far as is known,” Bobby said. “To the barmaid at the ‘Black Bull’ and to the man who runs the Good Grocery Stores here. You’ll know him?”

  “Jones, you mean? Can’t Jones tell you anything?”

  “Apparently not,” Bobby answered. “According to him, Winterspoon talked more or less at random, chiefly about the grocery business, and then went off. He asked the ‘Black Bull’ barmaid about a bed, and she gave him the address of a man named Mars, but it seems he never went there. The next thing we know is the discovery of the body in the copse by Mrs Holcombe.”

  “Yes. Nasty business,” the colonel said. “Gave her a bad shock.”

  “In using the path,” Bobby asked, “have you ever noticed anything? I’m told it has a bad reputation in the village.”

  “Been talking to Duggan?” the colonel asked in his turn. “Excellent fellow, but a whole hive of bees in his bonnet. Has an idea the copse is a den of iniquity and a source of general corruption. If it is, it’s largely his doing. He’s talked about it so much some of the village youngsters think they are perfect dare-devils if they go near the place. Nothing to it, as far as I know, except a little kissing and hugging. Duggan’s not making himself very popular, the way he’s talking. I’ve had a row with him myself, for that matter.”

  “How was that?” Bobby asked.

  “Oh, well, nothing really; but it made me angry at the time. He did apologize, though. I had been dining at Castle Manor, and Mrs Holcombe said she would walk part of the way home with me. It was a lovely night, and there were one or two things she wanted to ask me about—a bit private. And in the copse Duggan came rampaging up. Apparently he took us for what he once called in the pulpit ‘erring couples’. I’m afraid I did rather lose my temper.”

  “Well naturally,” Bobby agreed, but wondered all the same if Mr Duggan’s account of the incident would wholly coincide with that Yeo-Young had given. “You’ve never seen anything else to matter?”

  “Oh, well, I’ve seen plenty of Duggan’s ‘erring couples’ dodging about behind the trees—or not dodging, just there. Why not? Nothing to it. Of course, babies do come along sometimes when they oughtn’t, but no more in Pending Dale than anywhere else. It’s a way they have, and then it’s quite accepted that there’s no hurry about going to church till there’s a baby in sight. I do remember seeing that man Mars you mentioned, and rather wondering what he was up to. Not my affair; but youngsters are one thing, married men another.”

  “Or Mr Jones?” Bobby asked. “Ever see him? In the copse I mean?”

  “Oh, Lord, no,” the colonel answered, laughing. “He’s a most respectable person. Duggan thinks the world of him. Personally I rather wonder if business hasn’t a good deal to do with it. For a man who has been a zealous churchgoer all his life, he seems a bit off the line at times. Anyhow, I don’t think he would ever dare stray far from the straight and narrow. Seen that wife of his? She strikes me as quite up to attending to any erring-couple business. A bit sleepy, but wakes up fast enough when she wants to.”

  “He’s a new-comer to the village, isn’t he?” Bobby asked.

  “Been here about a year. I was the latest before his arrival, and I’ve been here since the war, so we don’t change much, do we? Of course, I was never looked on as a stranger exactly. Old family connection with West Westshire.”

  Bobby said so he had heard, and then, as he rose to go, he added:

  “I asked Mrs Mars about Winterspoon. She stuck to it that neither she nor any of her neighbours had seen anything of him. I think we must accept that. There was a very pretty girl there, a daughter.”

  “Annie Mars,” the colonel said. “The village belle, but a very stand-offish one. The village boys hardly dare speak to her.”

  “Some of the gossip I’ve picked up,” Bobby remarked, “is that you’ve offered to find her work in London?”

  “Is this another version of the ‘erring couple’ theme?” the colonel asked, chuckling with what seemed genuine amusement. “I did offer to get her a job in town. Easy enough. Competent girls are in demand. In short supply, but demand steady. I’ve a brother likes to shock his wife by telling her he dreams of girls all night. He would jump at Annie Mars. Pays a good wage, too.”

  “But why Miss Mars in particular?”

  “First, she really is rather a superior type—if you like her type, which I don’t. And her home-life can’t be very satisfactory with a family like hers. Secondly, Duggan wants her out of the parish. Says she is a disturbing influence. Told him to his face once he thought too much of form and ceremony. Infernal cheek on her part, a girl like her. Thirdly, Mrs Holcombe thinks she has an eye on Harry Holcombe, and that’s why the village lads get the glassy eye.”

  “Is she likely to accept?”

  “She didn’t say anything. A trick she has.” The colonel frowned. It was clearly a ‘trick’ he greatly disliked. “Just listens and—oh, well.” He broke off, but again looking oddly annoyed. “Makes you feel the less she says the more she means.”

  CHAPTER XII

  “WHY AN END LIKE THIS?”

  THAT ENDED the interview, and again Bobby had much to think over as he walked away from the oddly named ‘It’ bungalow. He had the feeling that this time, too, he had been engaged in a kind of verbal duel in which all his probing questions had been neatly parried. For all Yeo-Young’s apparent frankness, Bobby was aware of a strong conviction that he had again been told just as much as, and no more than, had been settled beforehand. But with whom or why this had been arranged he was much less sure.

  Fairly certain, though, he told himself, that Mr Duggan’s hints that an attempt at blackmail m
ight be behind what had happened had reference to Mrs Holcombe and Colonel Yeo-Young. But Bobby mistrusted Mr Duggan’s only too apparent readiness to put the worst construction on any display of friendship between man and woman, and, besides, was it probable that two people in their position would indulge in such irresponsible behaviour as to render them open to threats of blackmail? If they wanted to misbehave they could do so to their full content in town. No reason why they, like Mr Duggan’s ‘erring couples’, should seek the extremely uncomfortable facilities offered by the copse. No reason, indeed, as far as Bobby could tell, why they should not marry.

  On the other hand, there was the fact that Colonel Yeo-Young was precisely the sort of person to react with violence to any such attempt. Also, from the nature of his upbringing, he would certainly consider it a duty to go even to extremes to protect any woman against threats of blackmail.

  Any woman? Was there an answer to be found there? Was the woman concerned—if there were one—not Mrs Holcombe, but some other? And was it not so much crude blackmail as the still cruder ‘Peeping Tom’ business Mr Duggan kept talking about? One could easily imagine Colonel Yeo-Young, finding a ‘Peeping Tom’ watching, attempting to administer such a thrashing as, if resistance were offered, might have gone too far. For violence grows by what it feeds upon. Was it just possible, for instance, that in Colonel Yeo-Young’s account of the incident in the copse with Mr Duggan, the colonel had substituted the name of Mrs. Holcombe for that of Annie Mars? Her name and personality seemed to have an odd way of turning up every now and then, and there had evidently been some kind of attempt to get her out of the village.

  Weighing all this in his mind, finding each theory more unsatisfactory than the rest, keenly aware how difficult it was to fit into any of them the personality of the victim, Bobby as nearly as possible walked past the sign-post he was on the look-out for. It was marked ‘Felstead—10 miles’, and Bobby calculated he could do that in two hours, especially as his map showed one or two field-paths that would lessen the distance considerably and also make it much more pleasant, now that the high roads have entered into the possession of rushing, roaring motor traffic.