The Attending Truth: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  “Been worth while, sir?” he inquired.

  “I think so,” Bobby replied. “Oh, yes, I think so. At any rate I’ve been told who climbed a tree and why. You remember? When the copse was examined after the murder, signs were found that a tree had been climbed.”

  “Yes, sir, I know,” Stubbs answered. “Very puzzling, but it didn’t seem as if it could have anything to do with the murder. Didn’t seem to make sense.”

  “No, it didn’t, did it?” Bobby agreed. “I’ve told Walker to go to Felstead. I’m asking them there if they’ll keep an eye on him, find him odd jobs to keep him out of mischief, and give him twelve and six a day to live on for the present. I don’t want to lose sight of him.”

  “You aren’t thinking of putting him in the witness-box, are you, sir?” Stubbs asked with some dismay. “No jury would ever pay any attention to what a Weary Willie like him said, especial not at twelve and six a day.”

  “Yes, I know,” Bobby admitted. “Defending Counsel would try to make a lot of his record, and of the twelve and six in especial. There would have to be corrobation. Plenty of it, for that matter. Anyhow, I don’t want to lose sight of him just yet. In the States they can hold an essential witness. A step ahead of us again, or is it a step backward?”

  Leaving this doubtful point unanswered, Bobby picked up the ’phone and explained to the Felstead police that Walker was on his way to them and what he wanted done. When the twelve and six a day was mentioned he had to explain also that he was quite unable to agree that this sum could be charged to the Yard. Such an idea had simply never entered his head. Never. However, that could be fought out later—to the bitter end, no doubt, though, he added, he did hope bloodshed would be avoided, if possible.

  With that he switched his call to Castle Manor, and was informed by one of the maids that Miss Livia was still asleep and that orders she was not to be disturbed were still in force, that Mrs Holcombe had not yet returned, and that Mr Harry had been to the house but had left again without saying where he was going. He was expected back for dinner, as he had said nothing to the contrary, but so far had not arrived.

  “None of the Holcombe family available,” Bobby told the sergeant. “Looks as if I shall have to wait till morning to get hold of any of the three of them.”

  There was still some paper work to be done, especially in connection with an obviously bogus confession made in another county. There seldom is, of course, any murder without one or two half-wits confessing to it, and all such confessions have to be investigated and considered, however clearly nonsensical they may be. Indeed, it does sometimes happen that useful information is secured in this way. But that is rare. At last, however, everything was tidied up as far as possible, and Bobby was able to return to the ‘Black Bull’, where his friend the barmaid said how sorry she was he hadn’t been able to be there for dinner. There had been boiled beef and suet dumplings she had made herself, and Bobby, though shuddering inwardly at the thought of what those suet dumplings had probably been like, said how sorry he was, too; but in police work one had no time to think of enjoying one’s meals. One simply had to take what one could get; and when it was home-made bread and home-produced butter and cheese as good as those he got at the ‘Black Bull’, there was nothing to complain of. Not that he would have much time to enjoy it, as he had to go out again almost immediately.

  He had intended no more than a quiet stroll and an opportunity to put his thoughts and plans in order without any risk of interruption. But now Sergeant Stubbs was on the ’phone, informing him that Mrs Holcombe had been in, that she seemed in a rare taking, and that she had left a message that she wished to see Mr Owen at the earliest possible moment.

  “Going in off the deep end proper,” Stubbs reported, and Bobby thought he could detect in the sergeant’s voice a distinct note of satisfaction that it was not he who would have to face the lady in her wrath.

  The message had been in terms not too far removed from those in which Mrs Holcombe was accustomed to summon to her presence those of her employees with whose work she did not feel excessively pleased. Not that Bobby minded that, and indeed it was his experience that the most bumptious of those who tried to lord it over him were generally those who were the most easily and the most quickly deflated.

  With the aid of a police motor-cycle he was therefore soon at Castle Manor. There, as he was dismounting, Colonel Yeo-Young appeared from the back of the house, where apparently he had been to fetch his dog, now trotting obediently and placidly behind him. Seeing Bobby, the colonel stood still, hesitated, and then came across to him, who was at the moment occupied in propping up his motor-cycle against a convenient support. Bobby said ‘good evening’ and he rather thought it looked like rain, didn’t it? Yeo-Young took no notice of this brilliant conversational opening, but said abruptly:

  “There’s been a rascally vagabond hanging about the village, I’m told.”

  “More than one, probably,” Bobby suggested. “But you may mean a disreputable-looking sort of tramp. Name of Walker, he tells me.”

  “He’s been talking to you, hasn’t he?” demanded the colonel.

  “Shall we put it that I was talking to him?” Bobby asked. “I suppose at any rate I was the prime mover.”

  “Telling you any pack of lies he thought you might want to hear,” declared the colonel.

  “Was he?” Bobby asked. “I wonder why you think so, or why you are interested, even if he did?”

  “Well, if you want to know,” Yeo-Young said, “if it’s the fellow I think it is, I caught him the other day trying to break into my place.”

  “Did you, though?” Bobby said. “Did you charge him?”

  “It didn’t seem worth while. My dog chased him off. Eh, Pompey?” Pompey acknowledged the question with an affirmative thump of the tail. “I warned him not to let me find him near there again.”

  “Did you mention it to any one else at the time?”

  “What do you mean? Why should I? Not the first time I’ve had to pack off tramps or gypsies, that sort of riff-raff.”

  “Well,” Bobby explained mildly, “if you had done so, and could give me particulars, it would be a help. Corroboration. One of our fads in the police is to like supporting evidence, if we can get it.”

  “In other words,” said the Colonel, not at all mildly, “you are accusing me of lying?”

  “I should never dream of doing that,” Bobby assured him, still more mildly, and thereby making the colonel even less mild—if possible. “But we do like to get things confirmed. Red tape, of course, but there it is. Now, if I asked you where you were—say, two evenings ago, you could tell me perhaps; but could I get it confirmed, if I wanted to? Not that I should want, of course; but if I did?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Yeo-Young told him, “you could. I was at a meeting of our Conservative executive committee.”

  “Which would settle it, of course,” Bobby agreed. “Most satisfactory. What about the evening when the copse murder took place? An evening to remember.”

  “So that’s what you’ve been leading up to,” the colonel said slowly; and the two men exchanged a long and steady look, and the dog, aware, as it seemed, of some strange tension, lifted its head and gave a long, sad howl, as it were a precursor of evil things to come.

  “Quiet, Pompey,” the colonel ordered. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “All I say and do just now,” Bobby said quietly, “leads up to the one thing—who killed Winterspoon?”

  “Has that scoundrel of a tramp been telling you I did?” Yeo-Young demanded.

  “It is my place to ask the questions,” Bobby told him. “The right questions if I can. All my job is there—the right questions. I will ask again. Do you care to say if you are able to remember where you were and what you did on the night a man was murdered in the path through the copse leading to Castle Manor?”

  “I called to see Mrs Holcombe,” Yeo-Young answered, and now his voice was quiet and steady. “The Vic
ar was with me. There was some parish business to discuss. It took some time. The Vicar left first. I stayed chatting with Mrs Holcombe. Half an hour, perhaps. I’m not sure. It might have been longer, but I don’t think so. I walked back to my place through the village. It’s longer than through the copse, but I wanted the exercise. I try to keep fit. I don’t know if any one saw me or if they would remember if they did. Not very likely they would. After I got in I had dinner—my chief meal, I seldom have any luncheon. After that, as far as I remember, I wrote some letters, and I expect I listened to the wireless for a time. I generally do. Probably I went to bed at my usual time. I would have a drink first. Does that satisfy you?”

  “We have information,” Bobby said, “that you were seen leaving the copse that evening and that you appeared agitated?”

  “What that fellow told you, I suppose,” Yeo-Young commented. “I thought it was something like that. Getting his own back.” His eyes had become very bright, shining against the deathly pallor his countenance now showed—but not, Bobby thought, the pallor of fear, the pallor of a fierce and deadly anger rather. The knuckles of the hand with which he grasped the heavy stick he carried had become white. Once more the dog, aware in its dim way that some strange uneasiness was in the air, lifted its head and howled, long and dismally.

  “Quiet, Pompey,” Yeo-Young said again. To Bobby he said: “You attach importance to the lies told by a scoundrelly vagabond like that fellow?”

  “Every statement made has to be investigated,” Bobby repeated formally. “Corroboration is required, and the reliability of the witness has to be taken into account. Until that has been done, impossible to say what importance, if any, can be attached to it.”

  The door of the house opened, and Mrs Holcombe appeared. She had changed into a dinner dress. She came slowly towards them.

  “Well?” she said, and then again: “Well?”

  CHAPTER XXV

  “A MOST RESPECTABLE MAN”

  NEITHER OF the two men answered her. Yeo-Young was staring gloomily at the ground. Bobby waited. Mrs Holcombe again said ‘Well’, but this time less impatiently, less authoritatively. Yeo-Young said:

  “Mr Owen has been talking to some vagabond or another. He seems to have been impressed. When he says anything definite, I shall know how to answer him. He’ll probably be wanting to talk to you now. Perhaps he’ll tell you what it’s all about. He won’t me. That’s all right. I’ll wait till he comes into the open.”

  With that he marched away—marched is the only word—erect as ever, his great dog following close behind. Mrs Holcombe said:

  “I don’t understand this. Come in, please.”

  Bobby followed her into the house and to the large room, half office, half sitting-room, he already knew. Mrs Holcombe had never looked to make sure that he was in fact following, she was apparently taking that for granted in her usual lordly way of assuming that anything she said was an order instantly obeyed. She walked across the room to the big desk at which she usually sat, waved a hand carelessly towards a chair near, and before she had time to speak Bobby said:

  “I understand you wish to make a statement.”

  “Me? A statement?” she exclaimed, very much taken aback. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “A misunderstanding, perhaps,” Bobby said, seating himself. “I was informed you had rung up.”

  “I did. I wished to see you. That’s all,” she retorted. “What’s all this about Colonel Yeo-Young?”

  “Well, you can hardly expect me to go into that, can you?” Bobby said smilingly. “You can ask him, of course, if you wish.”

  “He said he didn’t know,” she reminded him, and Bobby let that remark pass unanswered.

  “If there is anything you care to say,” he went on instead. “I am, of course, very willing to hear it. I ought to tell you—” but here she interrupted him in an evident effort to keep control of the conversation.

  “What I want to know,” she said, tapping impatiently on the desk the while, “is what you have been saying to my daughter. I come back after being away all day to find her in a state of collapse. The doctor tells me she must have had a severe nervous shock and that rest and quiet are absolutely necessary. I insist upon knowing what it’s all about.”

  “Murder,” Bobby said. “Didn’t you know?”

  It was a moment or two before she spoke again. It was as if that grim word Bobby had uttered recalled her to a sense of the realities of the position. Speaking more quietly, she said:

  “I think I am entitled to know what you have been saying to my daughter.”

  “Miss Livia is of age, isn’t she?” Bobby asked. Mrs. Holcombe nodded assent. Bobby went on: “That means, of course, that she alone is responsible for her own actions. She is not under tutelage. Naturally we fully admit a mother has a right to be kept informed as far as possible and in accordance with the daughter’s wishes. The mallet Miss Livia uses in her work, and that she reported lost, has come into our possession. It was necessary to raise the matter with her. The mallet is such an instrument as could have been used, and it had evidently been very carefully and recently cleaned. Possibly to remove dabs—finger-prints, that is. Unfortunately she was in no condition to be questioned. She had been up all night apparently, and she had been drinking rather freely. She described herself as a ‘little drunk girl’. The doctor was certainly right in saying she had received a severe nervous shock. That was plain enough even to a layman. Can you give me any idea of the nature of that shock?”

  “Well, you know what’s happened near here,” Mrs Holcombe said. She had been listening to all this in gloomy silence, and she had entirely lost her air of the natural boss accustomed to issue directions automatically obeyed. “You took the trouble to remind me just now. Most unnecessarily. Surely that is enough to upset any young girl?”

  “I think there may be something else,” Bobby said. “When I was here before, and you took me to her studio, I remember how you and she faced each other. I think you both understood, but I did not.”

  “Nonsense,” Mrs Holcombe said, and she had become very pale—the pallor this time, Bobby thought, not of anger, but of fear.

  “I must tell you plainly,” Bobby said, his voice slow and grave, “that I think there was something between you that went very deep. I feel I must know, because it may explain what up till now we have not been able even to guess at—what Winterspoon was doing here, why he came, why he went to the copse. I put it to you, does Miss Livia think you may know, but that you do not wish to tell?”

  “Are you hinting,” she demanded, without answering his question directly, “that you believe my daughter suspects her mother of murder?”

  Bobby did not speak. He was watching her closely. She did not seem to expect any answer. She was struggling, he thought, to preserve her self-control. Slowly she opened a bottom drawer of the big desk she was sitting at and she took out a small flask. When she unscrewed the top there was a smell of brandy. She drank, then put the flask away. She sat back in her chair with closed eyes. Without opening them, she said:

  “I think that is a monstrous suggestion.”

  “I think so, too,” Bobby said. “But it has to be made. There is something behind all this. I feel that you know it, but do not wish to say what it is. Is there any other explanation of why you and she stood and faced each other in the studio and forgot for the moment, I think, that I was there?”

  “It needs no explanation,” she insisted, her voice much steadier now. “It is simply that you have chosen to put an imaginary, a fantastic interpretation on a young girl’s distress over finding us both involved in such an awful affair.”

  “Mrs Holcombe,” Bobby said in a gentler tone, “believe me, I have some experience in these things. It is always better to be frank. Truth is bound to come out. Some of it, if it is not strictly relevant, need not always be made known publicly. But, to decide that, we must know. We must know all to judge. I wish I could persuade you to help us.”
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br />   “If you mean,” Mrs Holcombe answered slowly, choosing her words with care, “that either I or Livia had anything to do with what happened in the copse that night, you are mistaken, and I cannot conceive on what grounds you choose to think so.” She spoke with a quick, eager, indeed angry and yet controlled intensity that to Bobby, at least, conveyed an impression of sincerity. “Nor do I know who the man was or what he was doing there. There is nothing more to be said, and I shall object strongly to your making any attempt to question my daughter any further.”

  “I am afraid that will have to be,” Bobby told her.

  “Dr Simons—” she began, but Bobby interrupted her.

  “If a doctor gives a certificate that she is unfit,” he said, “and if that is confirmed by the district police surgeon, questioning will have to be postponed. But only postponed. There is still something else you can help us in, perhaps. In the search of the copse after the murder”—he noticed that she winced at this word, so often does the word seem worse than the deed—“a piece of paper was found with a reference to a text in Luke—Luke VII, 15.”

  “What is it?” she asked when he paused.

  “Would you look?” he suggested. “The context might help, suggest something,” and as he spoke he rose and went towards one of the shelves on which he had noticed there was a bible among other books.

  But as he was in the act of picking it up to hand to her, she went quickly by him, and she had left the room before he could speak. He felt he should have been prepared for this manœuvre, which he was sure was to prevent him from seeing any emotion the reading of the text might cause. She was back almost immediately, holding a small new Testament in her hand. She looked very puzzled, but that was all. She said:

  “Is there supposed to be any connection? If there is, I must be too stupid to recognize it. The poor man didn’t return to life, did he? And isn’t likely to?”

  “No,” Bobby agreed. “That certainly won’t happen.”

  “Well, then,” she said, and it was evident she felt that this time the advantage was hers. “Am I right in thinking all this is because I found the body? Is it a police rule to suspect the person who reports what’s happened of being the criminal? I take it you’ve been listening to village gossip. I know, of course, there’s been a lot of malicious talk in the village. I may have to take notice of it. I have done a great deal for the village. I had the idea of making it a model village. The result is I find myself an object of ill-will, a target for all the malicious, idle, spiteful gossip in the place. Well, why?”