The Attending Truth: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  “Few people think so,” Bobby said, uneasy and puzzled by the turn their talk seemed to be taking.

  “Its importance is often much exaggerated,” Mr Duggan replied. “Mr Jones—the man who keeps the grocer’s shop here—said as much to me only the other day. A most intelligent man. He often says things that show he has thought deeply. Not of course that either he or I mean that what has happened here isn’t important. No exaggeration possible there. I don’t suppose either Jones or I myself have thought of much else recently. Though,” he added, and now he was speaking more as if in reverie than directly to Bobby, “it is easy to imagine that there may be times when killing is better than letting worse happen.”

  “That is dangerous doctrine,” Bobby said, and he spoke very sternly indeed.

  “Life is always dangerous,” the Vicar told him. “Don’t you agree? The terms on which it has to be lived.” He seemed still to be speaking as much to himself as to Bobby, and then he said more briskly, more loudly: “The law itself allows killing in self-defence, doesn’t it? Are you asking all this about my wrench because you think it may have been used?”

  “It is a possibility that has to be considered,” Bobby answered, though surprised by the sudden question, and the Vicar nodded and sank into a silence from which Bobby made no attempt to rouse him.

  CHAPTER XXI

  “WHAT ABOUT MY GIRL?”

  AT THE cost of Mrs Holcombe, the churchyard was kept in excellent order with flowers, flowering-shrubs, well-trimmed grass. Several benches had been installed, and on one of these Bobby seated himself, making notes of an interview that had greatly disturbed him. He felt it was one he had not fully understood, any more than he fully understood Mr Duggan’s curiously complicated, contradictory yet essentially simple character. He felt also that the implications that could be read into it seemed to lead in a direction wholly other than the one he had been endeavouring to follow. It had not taken Mr Duggan long to see the drift of Bobby’s questions about the wrench, but did this mean he realized that suspicion could now be directed towards himself, or did he think that such suspicion attached only to Harry Holcombe? And in either case what action, if any, was he likely to take?

  The sound of footsteps interrupted Bobby’s thoughts. He put away his note-book and looked up. Mars was coming slowly, even reluctantly, towards him along one of the neatly kept gravel paths. Behind, hands in pockets, glancing uneasily to right and left, but seldom straight forward, came his son, Alf—as odd a contrast as can well be imagined to his sister. The two of them were presumably on their way home to dinner, or else on their way back to work. Bobby nodded a greeting as they reached him and made room for them on the bench. It was a gesture of invitation neither of them showed any inclination to accept. Mars demanded abruptly:

  “What about my girl?”

  “Miss Mars?” Bobby asked, surprised. “Why?”

  “She told the missis you were wanting her,” Mars said. “Why she didn’t go to work this morning as’ll mean she won’t get her pay. And now she hasn’t come in for her dinner, and so there wasn’t none, the missis not being there and none left ready. Have you took her?”

  “Dear me, no,” Bobby said. “I do know she was at Castle Manor earlier this morning. She may have stayed there.”

  “Well, if it’s that,” Mars said, and looked relieved, but still sulky. “What’s it all about? What for did she say you wanted her?”

  “Hasn’t she told you?” Bobby asked.

  “She never tells you nothing,” young Alf Mars muttered from behind, scraping at the gravel path with the toe of his boot. “Sits there and never says nothing, like a graven image.”

  “Shut your mouth!” snarled his father. “Nobody ain’t ever likely to complain as you don’t talk.” He turned back to Bobby: “Leave her alone, can’t you? You didn’t have no right to go upsetting her.”

  “I am afraid I may have to question her again,” Bobby answered. “I must question everybody who may by any possibility have any information to give me. I don’t know if you’ve heard that Miss Holcombe lost a mallet she uses in her work. I found it in a ditch, where I have reason to believe Miss Mars put it the minute before.”

  “Not her; she never did,” Mars declared, and now his tone was truculent. “Maybe she took a look to see if that’s where it was all the time, her knowing Miss Holcombe and knowing she don’t know what she’s doing half the time, with her head that full of them there things she does what’s like nothing that ever was.”

  “Is that what Miss Mars told you to say?” Bobby asked.

  “No, it isn’t, not it. She never tells nothing unless she wants to, not even to her old daddy,” Mars complained. “It’s just the way you can tell it must have been, you knowing them both and how they behave.”

  “Bravo!” Bobby approved. “Sound reasoning. You would have done well at my job, Mr Mars, if you had taken to it early enough. That’s exactly what I am trying to do—trying to get to know people well enough to have an idea of how they are likely to behave. You see, there aren’t any of what you might call material clues. No footprints, for instance, no button we might have a chance of tracing to a coat that could be traced to its owner. Nothing like that—nothing to work on. We do know a heavy, blunt instrument was used. There are several of them I’ve had to consider for one reason or another, and all of them showing signs of having been carefully cleaned. One of them is Miss Holcombe’s mallet. I don’t accept your suggestion that it was there in the ditch all the time. Miss Mars didn’t say anything like that. She just refused to say anything at all. That probably means she is trying to protect some one—you or Harry Holcombe, or even herself. A serious offence if it’s some one else. Well, is it you she got the mallet from?”

  “No, she didn’t,” Mars said angrily. “That’s a lie, if any one says so.”

  “Dad never had no mallet,” Alf confirmed from behind. “Not him.”

  “Shut your silly mouth,” ordered his ungrateful parent. He turned back to Bobby. “You can’t prove nothing,” he said, thus confirming Bobby’s belief that it was, in fact, from him Annie had secured the mallet. “So you lay off my girl? See? She’s straight, she is. Straight all through, and a hell of a job living up to her,” he added with resignation.

  “It ain’t natural,” Alf muttered. “You don’t feel comfortable like with her around. If you says what she don’t like, she looks so as if you had hit her a smack in the face.”

  “I’ll hit you a smack in the face and a bit over if you don’t mind,” Mars said. “You shut up.”

  “It’s what they say, all of ’em, don’t they?” Alf protested. “Giving herself airs, that’s what they say. It’s bad enough with Vicar always on the pounce, but it’s his job, and not hers.”

  “Shut up,” his father told him once again, and this time made a menacing movement towards the boy, who promptly removed himself to a safer distance.

  “Now, now,” said Bobby amiably, “you mustn’t talk like that before a policeman. Wait till my back’s turned, Mr Mars, if you feel you must. Tell me, if it isn’t you Miss Mars is protecting, could it be young Holcombe?”

  “Wants his head bashed in, same as the other bloke,” interposed Alf, still, however, keeping well beyond the range of his parent’s corrective arm. “What dad’s said often enough.”

  “Annie would protect any one any time anywhere,” Mars answered Bobby. “Just give her the chance. It’s a wonder she isn’t at the butchers on slaughter day, protecting the sheep and the oxen.”

  “Let me put a case,” Bobby said. “Imaginary case.” He paused and looked meditatively at Alf. “I don’t know about that young man of yours, though. Do you think he has learnt yet how to hold his tongue? I don’t want any more gossip started by my wholly imaginary case being repeated as if it were fact.”

  Mars turned on his offspring, brandishing a formidable-looking fist.

  “Get,” he said, “and quick about it, or you’ll get a clump on the head you won’t forge
t in a hurry.”

  Alf retreated with some haste, and then, from a safe distance, he shouted:

  “You wait, and maybe it’s you’ll be getting a clump on the head you won’t forget.”

  “There’s a son for you,” mourned Mars, turning to Bobby for sympathy. “A boy what threatens his old dad with assault and battery with intent, and a girl what makes you mind what you’re doing when it ought to be her that’s minding you. Topsy turvy, if you see what I mean.”

  “Ever been charged with assault and battery with intent, Mr Mars?” Bobby asked.

  “How do you know?” demanded Mars, looking very disturbed. “Is it them there finger-prints? It’s years ago, and it ain’t fair to go raking it up now. How could I help it if the bloke up and corpsed hisself? Sent me up for three years, they did, though the doctor swore himself as the bloke had a skull so remarkable thin it might have been paper, and if his head hadn’t gone against the kerb, like, nothing wouldn’t have happened. Who told you?”

  “No one,” Bobby assured him, and indeed no one had told him. It had only been a lucky shot in the dark because he had noticed Mars’s use of official phrasing he was only likely to have picked up in court, and that was only likely to have made a lasting impression if it carried with it a personal reminiscence, or a sense of grievance. Bobby went on, while Mars stared and scowled and fidgeted: “I was going to put an imaginary case to you, wasn’t I? The copse on the path to Castle Manor seems to have a bad reputation. The Vicar seems worried about it. He suspects, apparently, that the courting couples who go there sometimes go rather farther than he would approve.”

  “Well, what about it?” Mars demanded, trying to be truculent again, but only succeeding in showing himself more uneasy still.

  “People use the path chiefly as a short cut both to Castle Manor and beyond and to the upper part of the village where you live,” Bobby continued. “Also they save a penny by getting down there from the Felstead ’bus. Miss Mars does, for instance. I noticed that when I saw her—or thought I saw her, if you like—leave the mallet. So it might well be that sometimes she has met Mr Harry Holcombe in the copse. He could have been waiting for her, and there does seem to be some talk—not all too good-natured—about them in the village.”

  “Why shouldn’t she and him, too,” Mars asked, “if all meant honest?”

  “Yes, indeed, why not? if all meant honest,” Bobby agreed. “But suppose a girl’s father wasn’t quite sure. Suppose he had put the girl on a pedestal as different from other people, and one side of him wanted to be sure of it, and one side of him rather hoped she wasn’t, because then she wouldn’t be so hard to live up to. And so he took to hanging about the copse himself—and now we will leave imagination and return to fact. My information is that you have been seen there. Why? You are a married man, and whatever else you are or have been, I don’t take you to be of the Peeping Tom type. What might happen, then, if you found some one trying to take snaps that might have been used for blackmail? Harry Holcombe might have been willing to pay rather than allow snaps of him, however innocent in themselves, to be shown his mother—or even shown about in his prospective constituency.”

  “I don’t know as I rightly follow you,” Mars said; “but this man who got done in—how was he to know anything about it?”

  “When it’s blackmail, an intermediary is often employed,” Bobby said.

  “I don’t know about all that,” Mars repeated, “but if you’re trying to make out I did it—well, I didn’t. That’s all. But if you mean I would bash in any man’s head if I found him messing about with our Annie, then you’re right.”

  Therewith he turned and walked away, and Bobby watched him thoughtfully till he was out of sight. The most successful interview, the most enlightening, he had had so far, Bobby was inclined to think.

  CHAPTER XXII

  “WHO WAS IT?”

  FROM THE church Bobby returned towards the village, thankfully aware that his midday meal was to be provided, not by the ‘Black Bull’, but by the wife of the village constable, who, Bobby knew, had just received from the local pig club a generous portion of fresh pork. He knew, of course, it was rather a shame for him to have any of it, but he had no intention even of making a show of protesting. After all, as he told himself, hypocrisy is worse than greediness.

  On the way he had to pass again by the Good Grocery Stores, and there was Jones himself, just returned from one of his long delivery drives. He was unloading a small, but apparently heavy packing-case, addressed, as Bobby saw, to Mrs Holcombe at Castle Manor, and bearing the label of one of the big London shops. Bobby remembered that Jones had said he sometimes collected from the railway station packages sent to Mrs Holcombe, doing so in the hope that someday she would transfer to him at any rate a portion of the patronage she now gave to London. Bobby wondered vaguely why Jones had not taken the package direct to Castle Manor, but supposed that possibly he wanted to try to emphasize in some way the trouble he had taken ‘to oblige’. Jones, hearing Bobby’s approach, turned and, seeing who it was, beamed a welcome.

  “All over everywhere,” he said, “that it’s Annie Mars you’ve run in. Rubbish, of course. The things people tell each other. Not that I ever contradict ’em. Listen and gape because they know so much—that’s me. Nice girl, Annie, even if she’s a bit hoity-toity over trifles, and somehow makes you see it without ever saying a word. Lummy, you ought to see how she fades away if there’s any bit of tasty gossip going the rounds. Some of ’em don’t like it, especial now there’s talk she’s got the Holcombe boy marked down—and he might do worse, if you ask me. But there, that’s gossip, too. And maybe you don’t like it either.”

  “Nothing I enjoy more,” Bobby declared. “Why, my wife says I’m as bad as fifty old women rolled into one.”

  “Ah, but with you it’s different,” Jones retorted, bestowing an elaborate wink on Bobby. “With you it’s picking up bits of information. Useful. Part of your job. And, then, some of it may be true.”

  “Such as—” Bobby asked.

  “Well,” Jones said doubtfully, “it’s true young Holcombe and her meet—have met sometimes on the path through the copse. I know that because I’ve seen them there myself. And why not?”

  “Why not, indeed?” Bobby echoed. “Does Mrs Holcombe know, do you think?”

  “Well, if you ask me,” Jones said, “I don’t rightly see how she can help. Not much old Mother Holcombe don’t know. And I don’t expect she likes it a lot, though she may have to lump it. Nice girl, as I said, but Annie’s got a family. Tough, too, in a way, if you see what I mean. Told Mrs Holcombe to her face at the Women’s Institute that the members didn’t want to be spoon-fed, wanted their own way sometimes. Said it nice like and quiet like, but said it all right. Mrs Holcombe was that took aback she hardly opened her mouth all the rest of the evening. All the same, if it comes to a show-down—well, my money’s on Mrs Holcombe. For why? Because she’s got the money. See?”

  He chuckled at this, as if he thought he had made a very wise and witty comment, and Bobby smiled politely and asked:

  “How does Mr Mars feel about it?”

  “Ah, there’s that,” agreed Jones, looking serious. “All right if it is all right, if you see what I mean. But if it isn’t, liable to turn nasty—very nasty. He’s a temper of his own, has Mars. Every one’s sort of scared of him when the beer’s in, though not so much now Annie’s got him tamed a bit. Only don’t say so to him. Chucked one man head over heels into the pond by the ‘Black Bull’ only for asking if he was still tied to his girl’s apron-strings. Quite true, but a thing only heavy-weights should say to Mars. Touchy about his girl, if you ask me, because of not knowing what to make of her.”

  Mrs Jones appeared at the shop door.

  “What are you so long about?” she demanded ill-temperedly. “I told you dinner was waiting. Oh, Mr Owen,” she added, apparently noticing Bobby for the first time, “I didn’t see it was you.”

  Jones bestowed anothe
r wink upon Bobby.

  “When it’s dinner,” he announced, “every man is tied to his wife’s apron-strings. Done much business?” he asked Mrs Jones.

  “Hardly a soul been in,” she answered. “Annie Mars is calling back for her rations. I’ve made them up all ready. She didn’t want to take them with her, and she said she’ll be back before closing time.”

  “Was she going to work?” Jones asked. “Bit late if she was.”

  “She didn’t say, and I didn’t ask,” Mrs Jones told him. “I never ask the tight-lipped sort anything. If they don’t want to talk, I don’t mind. Plenty to do with you always out delivering, and not much good it’s doing, as far as I can see.”

  “Sowing the good seed,” Jones explained. “Harvest coming.”

  “Time it did,” his wife retorted. “Young Mr Holcombe had his car just down the street. I did wonder if he had seen her and was waiting.”

  “Going to elope, perhaps,” Jones said, grinning. “That was the story at one time. Died down now.” To his wife, he added: “Forgetting your manners, missis. Why don’t you ask Mr Owen if he’ll take a bite with us? I don’t reckon he gets much fit to eat at the ‘Black Bull’.”

  Mrs Jones looked both sour and doubtful, as, in these days of rationing, housewives are a little apt to do when confronted with the prospect of an unexpected guest. Bobby, rather surprised by the offer, explained that his dinner was already arranged for, and he would have to hurry or risk getting into trouble for spoiling it.

  “But it’s very kind of you to think of it,” he added.

  “I know the ‘Black Bull’ cooking,” Jones explained, chuckling again in his hearty, friendly manner. “Beer’s O.K., but the cooking! Well, so long. Lummy, I wouldn’t like to be the bloke you’re hunting down. He must be wondering all the time how much you know and when the balloon’s going up. Same as you said the other day. Do you ever feel maybe the strain will be too much and he’ll try to do you in just to stop it?”