This would mean, however, that the shops would be closed by the time he got to Felstead and all hope of tea gone. He decided to keep to the road for a time in the hope of finding some place serving teas. He was not disappointed, for where the comparatively quiet by-road he had been following joined the high road, there was a pleasant-looking little tea-garden, announcing itself on a large placard as ‘Happy Return—Teas, High, Low, Afternoon or otherwise as required, and all justifying our name’.
Bobby turned in there accordingly, and ordered the high variety. It included ham—though not, alas! that of York, the unlucky youth of to-day know not of—and he had hardly given his order when Mr Duggan walked in, returning from a visit to a sick member of his congregation. Unexpected luck, this, Bobby thought, and hurried to greet him; to usher him, rather surprised, vaguely resistant, finally yielding, to the table in the shade Bobby had already chosen; to wave off the approaching waitress with the simple order pubs hear more often than tea-gardens ‘Same again’; and to explain to the now slightly breathless Mr Duggan that he had just been having a chat with Colonel Yeo-Young.
“A nice little place he has,” Bobby remarked. “I quite envied it. A new-comer in the district, isn’t he?”
“Except for Mr Jones, the latest arrival, I think,” the Vicar answered. “But then hardly new to the district. Old West Westshire family. Several old family tombs in the church. So he was accepted at once. So was Jones, for that matter. He had come for business, and that was all right. Other new arrivals—well, we want to know why they’ve come and what they’re up to.”
“I suppose it’s often like that in villages,” Bobby said. “The colonel takes a share in local activities, perhaps?”
“Oh, yes, indeed,” Mr Duggan said. “One can always depend on him. Sets an excellent example in the regularity of his attendance at church. A little too much inclined at times to forget that we are not soldiers on parade, a little too fond of his own way; but that is a fault I am continually meeting with.” Mr Duggan paused to shake his head regretfully. “A worse fault than is often understood,” he added, and went on: “But still one of the most valued members of my flock.”
Bobby was not quite sure that this description of Yeo-Young as one of a flock fitted in altogether with his own recollections. Nothing very sheep-like about Yeo-Young. However, he made no comment, and now Mr Duggan was making deprecatory signs as a waitress appeared with laden tray—fresh country bread and butter, home-made scones and cakes, a fresh-from-the-garden salad to accompany the cold ham. Mr Duggan’s protests were over-ruled, Bobby explaining that both teas would go down on his expense-sheet—optimistic, no doubt; but, then, optimism is the base of all expense-sheets.
So Mr Duggan yielded, probably to the universal human conviction that what is paid for by everybody—i.e., the taxpayer—is paid for by nobody. Anyhow, it was an excellent tea, and Bobby, chatting casually about one thing and another, had time to reflect on the strange fact that in England one could always depend on really excellent, first-class food so long as it hadn’t to be cooked. Not until they had nearly finished did Bobby bring their rather casual talk to a point.
“I’ve been considering very carefully,” he began, “what you told me about the possibility of some sort of blackmail being at the root of what’s happened. Colonel Yeo-Young seems to use the path through the copse as much as any one. I asked him if he had ever seen anything there to complain of.”
“An unfortunate way to put it,” Mr Duggan declared firmly. “I have the highest possible opinion of the colonel, but he is a soldier, and I have more than once noticed a certain laxity in his views—a soldier’s views. Tolerance, yes; laxity, no. As a padre, I had occasion to notice how often men developed what I can only call an unhappy war-time morality of their own. I did my best to restrain it. I fear that only too often my words were taken to be like War Office regulations—all very right and proper, but not to be regarded too seriously.”
Bobby nodded. He knew that attitude of mind only too well, and knew that now and then, fortunately, only rarely, what Mr Duggan called ‘war-time morality’ had been carried into civil life. He said:
“The colonel did mention that he had noticed Mr Mars there and rather wondered at the time what he was up to. I had a word or two with Mars when I called at his house. He seemed inclined to be surly.”
“Mars,” declared Mr Duggan severely, “is not a credit to the village. I have never, I think, seen him in church. He drinks, and he is inclined to be quarrelsome when he does. At one time his behaviour to his wife was notorious, but latterly it has improved—in that respect, at least.”
“He made some vaguely threatening remarks while I was talking to him,” Bobby said. “After what has already happened, I felt a little uneasy. I don’t know what it was all about—nothing, very likely.”
“A man of violence,” Mr Duggan said. “I know of nothing to connect him in any way with the murder. Yet apparently the murderer must be one of us in the village. A distressing thought. It is always with me. A relief in a way to talk about it.”
“If we only had the smallest clue to the reason for Winterspoon’s presence, anything to link him with anything or any one in the village, there would be a starting point,” Bobby said slowly. “A complete stranger arrives, and is murdered within a few hours at a place which is a kind of focus of village scandal; and how could a stranger know that and why did he go there? And nothing in his past life that we know of to suggest anything in any way criminal. A hard-working, not very successful, humdrum sort of life. His employers had no great opinion of him, but trusted him completely. They did not find him sufficiently go-ahead, but that’s all. Why an end like this?”
Mr Duggan looked at his wrist-watch and said he must be going. The ’bus was almost due. Was Bobby also waiting for it? Bobby explained that he was intending to walk on to Felstead, and Mr Duggan said, rather doubtfully, that it was all of seven miles. Bobby said a policeman had to keep in training, and walking was a good way. He repeated:
“The truth lies in what took Winterspoon to the copse. If we knew that we should know why he was killed—and by whom.”
“Sometimes,” Mr Duggan said, “worldly reputation is so deeply valued that any action seems justified in order to preserve it. Or in rare cases there might be an almost selfless desire to avoid scandal, or even to secure time for repentance. Especially if threats of a certain nature were used.”
He had spoken in a queer, abstracted voice, and Bobby found himself wondering what these words meant and if they had any direct application.
“Have you anything particular in your mind?” he asked, but Mr Duggan only looked startled and then shook his head.
“No,” he said, “no, no. Nothing like that. One keeps imagining all sorts of possibilities. You don’t perhaps realize what it means to a priest to feel that one of the souls entrusted to his care has upon it so awful a stain.”
“The only person Winterspoon spoke to,” Bobby said, “is the man who keeps the village shop—Mr Jones. He tells me he has no idea why Winterspoon called, or what he wanted. He had never seen him before, and they only talked about business matters. Mr Jones said at first he thought Winterspoon might be thinking of buying a business in the neighbourhood. Or looking for one for a client. Or perhaps of getting a new job in the district.”
“Mr Jones has said the same to me,” Mr Duggan answered. “I allowed myself to question him closely. I requested him to repeat as nearly as possible the exact words used. There seemed no suggestion of any hidden motive, and certainly the copse was never mentioned. He was most emphatic about that, and I am sure we can trust him. A parish priest soon gets to know his parishioners, especially the regular members of his congregation. A simple, even ignorant man outside his business, but entirely honest, straightforward, self-effacing. I have noticed,” Mr Duggan added—a faint smile crossing his thin, ascetic features, “that when Mr Jones takes up the collection there is an unusually high proportion of half-crowns. H
alf-crowns are rarities with us, but much less so when he collects.”
“Well, that’s certainly something,” Bobby agreed. “When I called at the Mars’s home, there was a very pretty girl there.”
“The daughter, no doubt,” Mr Duggan said, and his voice was perceptibly colder. “The ’bus is late again,” he added, rather with the effect of wishing to avoid an unpleasant topic.
“I don’t know whether you would care to answer,” Bobby went on, “and perhaps I ought to speak to Mrs Holcombe, though it’s a little awkward. But some of the gossip I’ve picked up while trying to get my background straight is that Mrs Holcombe is afraid some flirtation—serious even—might develop between her son Mr Harry Holcombe, and this girl, and that there have been efforts to get her to take work in town.”
“I believe so,” Mr Duggan admitted. “Of course, I am speaking in confidence, and I really know nothing about it. I hardly feel I could have approved if I had known. A young girl’s place is with her family, and for any girl to live alone in London is most undesirable. Still, I must confess it would have been a relief. A most disturbing, unfortunate influence in the parish. Self-willed, presumptuous, setting herself up as one in authority. I discovered that she went almost as frequently to the dissenting chapels as to her parish church. She actually told me to my face that she didn’t suppose God minded much where you went.”
“Good gracious!” said Bobby non-committally, when Mr Duggan, now very red in the face, paused in a splutter of indignation.
“Forms and ceremonies indeed,” said Mr Duggan, recovering slightly. “As necessary to worship as clothing is to decency,” he declared. He went on: “I asked her whom she thought was likely to know best—an ordained priest of the Church or a young girl.” Mr Duggan’s indignation nearly overcame him again. “She had the impudence, the irreverent frivolity—I could use stronger terms—to quote the passage about out of the mouths of babes and sucklings. I could have boxed her ears, and in any case she remembered it inaccurately,” and this fact seemed to console him slightly.
But now the awaited ’bus came into sight, and Mr Duggan began to move towards it. He shook hands with Bobby, and then, as he was boarding the ’bus, turned back to say:
“A most disturbing influence, and it is a fact that she has met Harry in the copse. I have seen them there together.”
CHAPTER XIII
“CUTS A WIDE SWATHE”
WELL WITHIN the two hours he had allowed himself, Bobby arrived at Felstead. He went first to the police-station, and there learned that Mr Lawson had reported sick. Nothing very serious, he was told—a bad bilious attack, perhaps a mild case of food-poisoning. However, a ’phone call resulted in a reply that Mr Lawson, though he had had to retire to bed, would be very glad if Bobby would come to see him. He was quite up to talking, and was very anxious to know what progress had been made.
“Precious little,” Bobby confessed, and then a police car was produced to take him to the Lawson residence, a mile or so outside the town boundaries.
It was Norman Lawson who opened the door when they arrived, and Bobby noticed—no one, for that matter, could have failed to do so—the young man’s tense expression, his bloodshot eyes, the occasional twitching of his mouth. Plain that he was in a highly nervous condition, and most probably had not slept that night.
“Father’s expecting you,” he said. “He’s rather bad. It’s the crab we had for supper. I thought it was a bit off.”
“You look a bit off colour yourself,” Bobby said.
“Oh, I’m all right,” Norman said. “I didn’t eat so much.”
“Have you told him about our meeting last night?” asked Bobby.
“Yes, I have,” the young man answered defiantly. “I told him Livia lost her watch and she was sure it was in the copse and I went to help look for it. It’s turned up now.”
“Was your father satisfied?” Bobby asked. “I think I had to tell you I was not.” Norman did not answer. He was leading the way up the stairs now. Bobby said again: “I do not think you have slept very well, have you?”
“I don’t see what that’s got to do with it,” Norman muttered over his shoulder. He opened a door and said: “It’s Mr Owen.”
He stood aside, and Bobby entered a pleasant, comfortable room overlooking open country. Bobby had already noticed that the garden was well cared for and indeed provided at the moment a fine show of flowers. Mr Lawson, propped up in bed on pillows, looked ill enough to make Bobby repent of his earlier suspicion that this illness of Lawson’s was of the variety known as ‘diplomatic’. He motioned Bobby to a chair by his bedside and to Bobby’s inquiry how he felt, replied:
“Rotten—it’s worse than a bad Channel crossing.”
“Oh, that’s bad,” Bobby exclaimed sympathetically; for he, too, knew how bad a bad Channel crossing could be.
“It must be the crab we had for supper,” Lawson said. “Norman says he thought it tasted funny, so he didn’t eat much. Getting anywhere?” he asked abruptly.
“Not very far, anyhow,” Bobby answered. “There are one or two lines I might follow up, or try to, but very doubtful if they really lead anywhere. I noticed one thing that may be suggestive, but I’ll keep that to myself for the present. You’ve heard about last night?”
“You mean Norman and Miss Holcombe? I’ve told Norman.” He paused without specifying what he had told him, and with nervous fingers he began plucking at the bed-clothes. “He’s a good boy,” he said. “A clean, straightforward lad. He says you said you weren’t satisfied?”
“Would you have been in my place?” Bobby asked gently; and Mr Lawson did not answer, but his nervous plucking at the bedclothes continued, and there was fear in his eyes.
To Bobby the thought came that it was not the crab that was making Mr Lawson ill; but that, though unconsciously, he had sought refuge in illness from possibilities his consciousness did not dare to face. Perhaps even both of them, father and son, really knew this, but would not admit it, and that was why they were so anxious, both of them, to emphasize that the crab was responsible. When at last Lawson spoke it was in a voice different indeed from the loud, self-assured tones usual with him. Now it was so low Bobby could hardly hear the murmured words:
“We’ve all got to do our duty.”
“Yes,” Bobby said and repeated: “Yes. There’s always that. That comes first.”
“Norman ought to have known better,” Lawson said, a little more loudly this time. “What’s a wrist-watch matter? It’s turned up now. Norman says Livia was so sure she must have lost it in the copse. A coming-of-age present from her mother.”
“I’m afraid I may have to press it,” Bobby said. “I don’t know yet, of course.”
“I know; I told Norman so,” answered Lawson. “He only looked stupid.” This last word was evidently used in its non-dictionary sense of ‘obstinate’. “It may ruin his career. I mean, if anything comes out. You can’t make a career in the law if you start with that sort of mark against you. I should have to resign. They might take away my pension. He thinks more of the girl than he does of his father, of his career, of anything.”
“You are like that sometimes when you are young and in love. Stronger than you or anything,” Bobby said, and to himself he thought: ‘No wonder the poor chap’s gone sick; no wonder he wanted to hand over the job to me. No fun playing the Roman father.’ Aloud he went on: “There’s no need to look on the worst side of things. There may be a perfectly good explanation. If there is, I promise you it won’t be for want of trying if I don’t find it.” He said this with so much force and sympathy that Mr Lawson began to look happier. Bobby continued: “One thing I’m sure of is that there is something between Livia Holcombe and her mother. I went to Castle Manor to question her about the mallet she says she lost. It could very well be the instrument used, and it is missing. Mrs Holcombe was there, and it developed into—well, I hardly know what to call it. A kind of mutual challenge. I think for the moment they had complete
ly forgotten I was there. It looked as if there was going to be a complete breakdown, and then it all seemed to pass over. It seemed like mother and daughter each wanting to ask the other what she had done, and each of them equally afraid both of putting the question into words and of what the answer might be. All over in a moment, but it was a moment. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen anything like it. But what did it mean?”
“They can’t either of them be guilty,” Mr Lawson protested, but a little as if he hoped Bobby would contradict. “If you had seen that poor devil’s head, you would know it was no woman’s work.”
“No, there’s that,” Bobby agreed.
“Of course, a woman in a fit of hysteria . . .” Mr Lawson said, and left the sentence unfinished.
“There’s that, too,” Bobby said.
They were both silent for a few moments, and then Lawson continued:
“Besides, why should they? either of them. Or was there a man with one of them?”
“You know the Vicar, Mr Duggan?” Bobby asked “I had a talk with him. Almost as soon as I got here. It was rather disturbing. More what he hinted than what he actually said. Said he was afraid of accusing the innocent. Prejudicing me. It was all about the copse on the path to Castle Manor where the body was found.”
“It’s a mania with him,” Lawson said. “Of course, what’s happened has made it worse. Can’t keep off it. He tried once to get me to station a constable there. Absurd, of course. Not a police matter. It’s very seldom we even have to serve a maintenance order. They almost always get to church in time. Close thing very often, but they get there.”
“Mr Duggan talked a lot about Peeping Toms, as they are called,” Bobby went on. “Have you had any trouble like that?”
“Once or twice,” Lawson admitted. “When a fight starts. We had to interfere once when they were ducking some fellow they had caught at it. They might have drowned him. It’s all the way the Vicar talks has started it up again.”
The Attending Truth: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 10