The Attending Truth: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  The light but satisfactory meal provided at the tea-garden helped, however, to disperse these grim memories of a dreadful past, and soon he was on his way back to the village. There he drew up near church and vicarage, for as he drove slowly down a village street always full of straying children and wandering hens, he saw the vicarage door open and Mr Duggan appear. The Vicar waved a hand as if to indicate that he wished to talk, and came hurrying through the churchyard with that long, nervous stride of his. As he drew nearer Bobby could see that he looked pale and ill. A nervous twitch, too, had now become apparent at the corners of his mouth. Almost as soon as he was within earshot, he said:

  “I hope it isn’t true. People are saying that you were threatening to arrest Annie Mars, and that that’s why she’s gone away.”

  “I wish people wouldn’t say,” answered Bobby. “But I suppose that’s like wishing for the millennium. What is true is that I had to warn her she might be called as a witness at the adjourned inquest. I think the prospect rather alarmed her, but I can’t think it would make her run away. She must know a ‘subpoena’ would be issued and she would be brought back.”

  “If that isn’t why she’s left, what is it?” the Vicar asked.

  “Yes, what?” Bobby repeated, but made no attempt to offer any reply.

  “Her father came to see me,” the Vicar went on. “He had been drinking. He seemed to think Annie might have gone away with young Holcombe. He seemed to think I might know something about it. I told him I didn’t and I didn’t think it likely. I told him I hoped he didn’t mean what he said.”

  “What did he say?” Bobby asked.

  “Is there any hope of your discovering the truth?” the Vicar asked in his turn, ignoring Bobby’s own question. “There is a miasma of suspicion affecting the whole village. We are all looking at each other, wondering, doubting, afraid. The strain is growing unbearable.”

  “I hope,” Bobby said slowly, “whoever is guilty will soon find it so. Then he—or she—may make a false step and give me the evidence I’m looking for.”

  “You said—‘or she’,” the Vicar said. “Do you mean that? Do you think a woman...surely not?”

  “It has to be taken into account,” Bobby answered. “Have you ever seen a woman really in the grip of hysteria? I have. I’ve seen three or four policemen, big men all, having as much as they could do to handle one woman not half the size of any of them. I was one. There’s something in all of us, you know, we can all call on—if we can. Most of us could beat all running records if we had a hungry tiger after us. You haven’t told me what Mars said to you?”

  “He had been drinking,” the Vicar repeated. “Very possibly it’s true, all the same. He said—to use his own words—he said you had your eye on me just the same as on others.”

  “Dear me,” said Bobby, since the Vicar seemed to expect an answer and Bobby had no idea what else to say.

  “A miasma of suspicion,” the Vicar said once more. “Why should I hope to be exempt from it?” Again he seemed to expect an answer but this time Bobby made no attempt to reply. The Vicar went on: “Is it why you asked me about that old wrench of mine?”

  “I had to try to clear up in whose possession it had been last,” Bobby answered. “It is, of course, something that could have been used in the murder.”

  “There was worse Mars said,” the Vicar went on. “A horrifying thing. He said I went to the copse not to stop others from misbehaving, but because I wanted to be Peeping Tom myself.”

  He waited, evidently expecting a comment. Bobby made none. He waited, too, and there was silence till the Vicar said, harshly and unexpectedly:

  “Have you thought that?”

  “Well, I suppose it is awfully hard for any of us to be quite sure what we are really after,” Bobby said.

  “You mean you have thought it,” the Vicar said slowly. “Perhaps others have as well.” His lips moved, though no sound issued.

  Bobby waited in silence. He had the idea that the Vicar was trying to pray, but not finding it easy. The man was evidently in extreme anguish of soul, and it was not pleasant to watch. Bobby felt as if he were seeing what none should see of another. But he felt also that he must wait, since it was possible more might be said—even something Bobby knew he dreaded greatly, even though it might be the end of all the doubts tormenting him. Abruptly the Vicar said in that new, harsh, half strangled voice of his:

  “It is like a judgment on me. It was Mars I suspected. It was Mars I was thinking of when I spoke to you of what went on in the copse and that I was trying—or was I?—trying to put an end to. I knew he went there. I think now it was to keep watch over Annie.”

  “I think so, too—at any rate in the first place,” Bobby said, glad to turn the talk away from Mr Duggan’s own personal motives. “He was worried about Mr Harry Holcombe. I think he was afraid of his daughter. I think he felt she expected too much, that she was a kind of constant check upon him—keeping him up to scratch. And he was at the same time frightened she mightn’t be all she seemed, because if she wasn’t—well, he knew he would go back to drinking and ill-treating his wife and doing things he was ashamed of. And at the same time he rather hoped she wasn’t, because then he wouldn’t have to bother about what she thought. I suppose every one is liable to want things that contradict each other.”

  “What I would not, that I do; and what I would, I do not,” the Vicar quoted. “I knew I was making myself disliked, but never till now did I doubt its being my duty. I suspected Mars might have gone beyond merely prying. I know that happens. I thought if he had been caught in some impropriety and threatened with exposure he might have used violence. He has that reputation. It seems he thought the same of me. He knew well that I, too, had used violence when a man I rebuked, threatened me with a thrashing. I know it pleased me to show the thrashing might not be all on one side. I suppose all this has occurred to you?”

  “Well, of course,” Bobby admitted, “every possibility has to be considered, hasn’t it? One can take nothing for granted. The first thing every investigator has rubbed into him. The most unlikely person. We always tell each other that. He’s the likeliest. But likely isn’t certain. Not by a long way.”

  “Thank you,” the Vicar said, after a pause. There had been a sympathy, a touch of understanding, in Bobby’s voice that he had felt and was grateful for, though in no very clear way. He gave a sort of wry smile, a troubled smile, but one that Bobby was glad to see. “Judging others and being judged oneself,” he said. “Not at all a pleasant experience. I must try to think things out. It is a bitter thing to be unjustly suspected. I hope and trust you will soon find the truth, whatever it is. Whatever it is,” he repeated.

  Therewith he went away, and Bobby sat for a time, watching him as he returned towards the vicarage, his head bent, his step now much slower, deep in self-communing, self-questioning. And as he sat and watched, there ran through Bobby’s mind a memory of how Colonel Yeo-Young had once said to him: ‘The man’s a fanatic’, and who can set a limit to what the fanatic may or may not think it his duty to do?

  “It could be,” Bobby said aloud, as he drove on. “But is it?” he asked himself and stopped again as he came to Jones’s shop.

  It was early closing day. The shop was closed, but Jones was standing by the door admitting to the private portions of the house. He had discarded his familiar apron for bowler hat and umbrella, and as the door behind him was open, he seemed to be waiting for some one—his wife, probably. No doubt they were taking advantage of the half-day closing to go off together somewhere. He seemed in good spirits, for his smile was more beaming, his wave of the hand more gladly welcoming, his general air of peace and contentment even more marked than usual, as he hurried forward on seeing Bobby. Evidently there was something he wanted to say.

  CHAPTER XXX

  “IN A DREAM, LIKE”

  AS JONES was hurrying across the road to where Bobby had halted his car, Mrs Jones appeared behind him in the doorway. She s
tood there with her habitual air of disapproval, watching her husband as if wondering what piece of stupidity he was now committing, while she carefully and slowly buttoned her black kid gloves. As usual, she was wearing a black coat and skirt, the skirt much longer than is now customary, and to Bobby’s mind she presented a perfect picture of the lower middle-class respectability of thirty or forty years ago. She might, indeed, almost have stepped out of a page from the Punch of that period. It seemed as if these last thirty years or so of constant change had passed by her without bringing to her any alteration in mood, or in manner, in outlook or in dress. To Bobby, Jones was saying:

  “I just wanted to ask you. You’re sure to have heard the talk that’s going on about Annie Mars? I would like to be able to say there’s not a word of truth in it, and I know, because that’s what you have told me yourself.”

  “You mean about her being under arrest?” Bobby asked. “All because I was talking to her last night. You can certainly contradict that.”

  “I’m so glad,” beamed Mr Jones. “I am indeed. I didn’t believe it for a moment, but all the same—well, you know how it is. A sort of feeling that perhaps, after all, there might be something in it. There’s another story going about, too.”

  “What’s that?” Bobby asked.

  “All nonsense of course,” Jones answered, “and so I’ve told ’em. I mean about Annie’s eloping with young Mr Holcombe. Not the sort of thing a girl like Annie Mars would do. Always kept herself respectable, she has. And if she had been meaning to do a thing like that—well, she wouldn’t have stopped at my place to get her rations, would she? and then never come back for them, same as she said she would. Would she?”

  “It doesn’t seem likely,” Bobby agreed. “But her people are worried. She didn’t come home last night, apparently, and hasn’t sent any message or anything. I feel a little worried myself, for that matter.”

  “We shall miss the ’bus if you stand talking there,” interposed Mrs Jones’s cold, thin voice from behind.

  “I don’t suppose there’s anything to worry about,” Jones said, unheeding this. “Level-headed girl, Annie Mars. Reliable, if you see what I mean. I did wonder if she might have gone off because of being scared of having to say something that mightn’t do her dad any good. I’ve my own ideas about who it is, and I don’t mean Mars either—not him. But it doesn’t do you any good, not in a thing like this, being talked about. Ruin me, pretty near, it would, if there was any gossip about me, I know. Business wouldn’t stand it. No one would believe it, so to say, but they would all start stopping away and look funny like when they came for their rations. It wouldn’t do Mars any good either, especial if it was his own daughter. All I can say is, it’ll be a big relief when we know the truth, if you can get it. The sooner the better, with every one looking sideways at every one else and thinking maybe it’s him all the time.”

  “Mr Jones,” said his wife from the doorstep, “if we miss this ’bus we may as well stay at home.”

  “Coming, missis, coming,” Jones called back. “Gone on the pictures, all right,” he added to Bobby, lowering his voice so that she could not hear. “She goes all different when she’s at them, if you see what I mean. Real they are to her, and the shop just like a dream. Lives ’em, she does.”

  “Well, I can’t say most of the pictures I’ve seen struck me as being very real,” Bobby remarked. “Depends on the way you look at them, perhaps. You haven’t told me yet what’s your own idea?”

  “Who it was, you mean?” Jones asked. “I don’t know that I ought. Not that I’m the only one—not by a long way. It’s what plenty think, and you might say that it does hang together, taking one thing with another. So there you are, and most hope it isn’t true, because of his old man’s being very well respected—very well respected indeed.”

  “You mean young Lawson?” Bobby asked, and Jones looked very surprised.

  “Well, now,” he said, recovering a little, “I never meant to name no one. There’s been enough of that. I do hope that doesn’t mean you’ve got him in your mind? If it’s that way, you can trust me all right. No one will get a hint of it from me, not even the missis, and it’s worrying her a lot. I’ve noticed her being a bit particular like over keeping the bacon knife out of customer’s reach.”

  “Is she?” Bobby asked smilingly. “Just as well to be careful. What makes people suspect young Lawson? He seems a decent enough young fellow.”

  “Oh, well, it’s been all over the village,” Jones explained, “about him and Miss Livia meeting, and some think him and her are married already on the quiet but daren’t say so, being afraid of old Ma Holcombe, and if she has it in for any one—well, you soon know. Keep on the right side of her, is my motto, and so I was told before I took over here. I did think sometimes as it might be her had sent Winterspoon and it was for her he was trying to fish out if I was willing to sell and my price if I was. Only an idea, but I did feel at times I was about the only one hereabouts not altogether under her thumb, and she didn’t like it. Very nice, fair-dealing lady, only for being so bossy you feel she thinks you ought to have a licence from her to live at all. And if it was like that and Winterspoon, poor devil, spotted ’em and let on he was working for the old girl, then young Lawson might have lost his head, and I wouldn’t blame him either, only for going too far. Beat him up as much as you like, but not killing—no, no, nothing justifies that, does it?”

  “Nothing,” said Bobby.

  “You’ll know yourself,” Jones went on, “whether that isn’t why you’ve come to sort things out. It’s what some say. No one couldn’t expect Mr Lawson to work up a case against his own boy.”

  “Any one else in the village being talked about?” Bobby asked.

  “Pretty nigh every one,” Jones assured him. “Nothing to go on, so it’s a free-for-all guessing competition—all except Vicar. But everyone knows I wouldn’t stand for that, so it may be it’s only said when I’m not there. I wouldn’t like to be sure nobody’s ever said, anything about me, but I don’t know. Wouldn’t be likely to say it to my face, though. Wouldn’t say it again if they did, I’ll guarantee that!”

  “Thinking of the bacon-knife?” Bobby asked pleasantly, and Jones laughed heartily.

  “No, no,” he protested; “not my line at all—rations I was thinking of, and refusing to serve them any more.”

  “The ’bus is coming,” Mrs Jones said. “It won’t wait, and we can’t get to the stopping place in time.”

  “Now I’m for it,” Jones exclaimed in a dismayed voice as he turned to make sure the ’bus was really in sight. “Hell! I’ll get it all right, she’ll be that disappointed.”

  “Jump in,” Bobby said, opening the door of the car. “Come along, Mrs Jones. No time to lose if we’re to get there before the ’bus is in.”

  The two of them scrambled into the car. It was rather a near thing. Bobby had to come to a complete standstill once when a three-year-old staggered across the road in pursuit of a squawking hen. However, he managed to get his passengers there in time, and the last he saw of them was Jones on the platform still shouting voluble thanks.

  The police-station was not far away, and when Bobby got there Sergeant Stubbs came out to meet him.

  “Young Mr Holcombe been in,” he said. “Seems in a rare taking.”

  “About Annie Mars?” Bobby asked.

  “That’s right,” answered Stubbs. “Couldn’t hardly make him believe we didn’t know anything about her. Says he’s got to see you, in case it’s you done it, sir, and it’s only we don’t know. I had to promise I would inform you and ring up if you could spare time to see him.”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” Bobby said. “Always spare time for a chat with any one who may have anything to say. Ring him up, by all means. I’m a bit worried about the girl myself.”

  “It does look like she’s done a bunk,” the sergeant agreed. “Got the wind up. She may know something she doesn’t want to say.”

  “Possibly,
” Bobby agreed. “Anyhow, I should feel happier if I knew where she was. Young Holcombe may know something. There seems to be some sort of idea that they have got married on the quiet. Ever hear that?”

  Stubbs shook his head.

  “No, sir,” he said decidedly. “Never heard anything like that. Shouldn’t think there’s anything in it, either. Mrs Holcombe would never stand for it.”

  “Well, let the young man come along as soon as he likes,” Bobby told him. “He may have something to say worth hearing. I’ve had one or two very interesting talks already to-day. Every scrap of information helps to make the picture, and if I can once get it complete—well, then we shall know where we are. I could wish there weren’t quite so many blunt instruments lying about, though. Do Mr and Mrs Jones generally visit Felstead on early closing day?”

  “Oh, yes, regular thing,” Stubbs assured him. “Gone on the pictures they are; but especial his missis. Seems to wake her up some way; half asleep she seems in a manner of speaking. In a dream, like. Till it’s pictures, and then she wakes up proper.”

  “Dangerous to live too much in a world of illusion,” Bobby remarked.

  “Too much of anything’s dangerous, if you ask me,” Stubbs said, and Bobby agreed.

  “From beer to dreams,” he said, “and all the way between. Do they generally stay long in Felstead? Get something to eat, I mean? Or anything like that, and then go to the last house and get home late? The Felstead ’buses run late, don’t they?”