“I can understand that,” Bobby remarked as he rose to go. “Needs very good judgment, though—knowledge as well. Brains. I’m afraid I should soon find myself in Queer Street.”
“Oh, well,” Mr Wynne said; and was that aloof, impassive man susceptible, if to little else, at least to the very common, almost universal weakness of vanity? It seemed so, for surely that was a touch of gratification, of pleasure, which flickered and passed across his usually unmoved countenance. “Well, you see,” he went on, “before I retired I was a buying agent in the City,” and once again that strange, almost imperceptible smile hovered for a moment as a shadow on his lips and was gone. “So I got plenty of experience. Buy or sell for anyone, anywhere, any time, anything. Always on commission. I took no risks. Studied the market, too. Very important. Some city folk still remember me, and it’s known I pay cash down, so when people want to realize in a hurry they often come to me. Money on the table, that’s my ace of trumps.”
“A very nice ace of trumps, too,” Bobby said smilingly. “One we in the police can’t play, unfortunately. But I mustn’t forget what brought me here. You mentioned once that Miss Wynne saw lights in the copse late at night, shortly before the murder took place. Do you think it possible it might have been Maxton?”
“Maxton?” Wynne repeated. “Why Maxton specially? No, I don’t see what he could be doing there at that time. It was Stuart I thought of at once. I knew his mania about trespassers and then all those old stories of church plate and so on buried by the old monks. Yes, definitely. I remember very well thinking it would be Stuart busy chasing probably entirely imaginary trespassers away. Of course, a mere passing fancy. I never gave it a second thought.”
“We should very much like to know who it was and what he was after,” Bobby remarked. “One thing more. You remember the loganberry bush where the murder took place? Dug up now. Mr Kimms made a thorough job of it. Sir Charles was very angry, I believe, as his permission hadn’t been asked. I must say he seems an extremely touchy gentleman, very strong on his property rights. Have you any idea whether that bush was an offshoot from your garden or if it’s the other way round and they are its progeny?”
“I’m afraid I can’t say; no idea,” Wynne answered; and this time his smile was broad, as if he thought it a very wild sort of question. “I don’t even know when I noticed it first. Probably planted there as a kind of rallying point. Perhaps lovers wanting somewhere definite to meet. Or it might be for children planning a raid on Stuart’s precious blackberries—anything.”
“Yes, I daresay,” Bobby agreed. “Something like that, anyhow. Not that it matters much,” and soon after he took his leave.
CHAPTER XV
CHARACTER SKETCHES
IT WAS IN a thoughtful and troubled mood that Bobby walked back to the village. Links there must be, he was convinced, between these three breakings in and the murder, and yet it was difficult to imagine what possible ‘tie-up’ there could be. Rogers had seemed the obvious intruder both at the Old Dower House and at Hidden Cottage, but not at Oxton Court. There the object had clearly been to remove every clue to the identity of the occupant or her background, and that did not seem likely to interest Rogers so greatly as to make him ready to run the risk of interruption and arrest in such suspicious circumstances.
“Someone who knew a bit, though,” Bobby told himself. “Novices aren’t generally up to dealing with Yale locks. I wonder if Maxton is? Journalists pick up odd bits of knowledge sometimes,” and with this reflection he went on at a brisker pace to the Over All Arms, where he had left his car and where Mr Kimms had established temporary headquarters. Kimms had not yet returned, and Sergeant Jenkins, left in charge, appeared to have been keeping a somewhat anxious look-out for Bobby.
“The Super told me he had dropped you off at the Old Dower House,” he told Bobby. “I tried to ring you, but I couldn’t get through.”
“Anything fresh turned up?” Bobby asked.
“Well, sir, it’s just that Sir Charles has been on the line. Very impatient gentleman. He was wanting Mr Kimms to go to the Abbey immediate. I had to say he couldn’t, being in conference, so then he said you would do, if you’ll excuse me repeating it, sir, and to come immediate.”
“Me?” exclaimed Bobby, surprised. “Why? How does he know I’m here?”
“Oh, well, sir,” Jenkins explained, “in a manner of speaking, everyone knows. Saw you come, and now they’re all telling each other you’re here. Very keyed up, sir, they are, murders being uncommon rare in our neighbourhood and something to talk about. Vicar says there hasn’t been such a thing in Twice Over for more’n three hundred years, which is a tidy bit, and if you ask me, sir, I could do with it if there hadn’t been one for another hundred and more, all of us being run clean off our feet.”
“Yes, I know,” Bobby said sympathetically. “Murderers never stop to think of all the work they give other people. Very kind of Sir Charles to say I would do, but he’ll have to do without instead. It’s in Mr Kimms’s hands, and very capable hands, too. Not for us at the Yard—unless asked,” he added, keeping his voice under strict control, lest it might be thought he was asking to be asked.
“Well, sir, as far as that goes,” Jenkins went on, “when I rang the Super about Sir Charles being on the line, he said to say if you could spare the time he would be much obliged, murder being a thing we haven’t much experience of, and Sir Charles very touchy and impatient and best to keep in with when same can be.”
“Oh, of course, if Mr Kimms says so,” Bobby answered this plea, trying as he did so to make his voice sound more reluctant than reluctance itself. “We are certainly interested at the Yard—what with identification established, and the chance of recovering some of the stolen P.O. van pound-notes. One of the gang murdered immediately afterwards too. We would like to clear that up, if possible. All very intriguing, if only we could make even a guess at the connecting link. There must be one. Don’t you think so, Jenkins?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” promptly agreed Jenkins, who in fact had never thought about it at all, since in his opinion thinking was for the ‘high-ups’, who were paid accordingly, and not for sergeants and constables, who weren’t.
“That’s all right, then,” decided Bobby, now trying to pretend to himself that he had been in some doubt whether to fall in with Mr Kimms’s suggestion. “The Abbey’s not much out of my way, and I’ll let you people know if Sir Charles has anything interesting to say. When your Super gets back, tell him Mr Wynne says he found an intruder in his house, but nothing was taken. He tried to ring you, but couldn’t get through either. Looks as if the ’phone wire had been cut—and looks as if Maxton’s visitor had paid a visit as well to the Old Dower House. I’ll send a full report as soon as I get back to the Yard. A difficult man to understand—Wynne, I mean. Well liked here, though, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know as I would say liked exactly, sir,” Jenkins replied with some hesitation. “Respected more, if you see what I mean. Comes in here for a drink of an evening and sits and watches, never speaking unless spoke to, just sitting and watching. Mr Harris—he’s the landlord—says it’s like a cat watching mice at play, but too well fed to want to pounce, only you know he may. Now, that young lady of his—a treat for sore eyes, she is, always a smile and a happy sort of look to her, as if nothing ever could be wrong anywhere.”
“He seems very fond of her,” Bobby remarked.
“That’s right, sir,” Jenkins agreed. “The apple of his eye, if you see what I mean.” He paused, reflected, and then, a little pleased with the phrase, repeated it: “The apple of his eye, and nothing he wouldn’t do for her.”
“Miss Wynne was on her way to Maxton’s cottage when we met her,” Bobby went on. “Apparently she had heard he was there again, and wanted to be sure. Is there supposed to be anything between them, do you know?”
“Nothing official like,” Jenkins answered. “More like walking out together only for being gentry as don’t; but sweet on ea
ch other, as all can see. But young they are, especially her, and Mr Wynne has money, and Mr Maxton—very nice young gentleman. Every one’s a good word for him—but no proper job. Only writing and such like, and not even proper books—guides to places, same as they send you free from the seaside. So you can’t wonder if Mr Wynne doesn’t like it too well, if you see what I mean. But she’ll get him all right if she wants him, same as she would have the moon, if wanted and he could get it for her.”
“Yes, I know,” Bobby said. “No sign of Dowie turning up here, I suppose? We’ve got a photo of Maxton now, and at the Over All Arms they gave you a good description of Dowie, didn’t they? Tall, pale, shambling sort of walk and squeaky voice and big nose? One of the best we’ve had. I don’t want to use it yet, though, or the Maxton photo either. Too much publicity too soon might drive them both further underground. What about Sir Charles Stuart? What can you tell me about him? Popular, isn’t he?”
“Oh, yes, easy to get on with unless rubbed the wrong way, as happens. You know where you are with him, and if there’s more nieces in his family than Vicar thinks ought to be—well, nothing he can do about it. Vicar says when he’s at outs with both gentlemen—with Mr Wynne for never showing at church and with Sir Charles because of his nieces, though such may happen to any man and no fault of his, as Sir Charles would do and be done with it and Mr Wynne wouldn’t either, but only remember. I don’t know what he means, in a manner of speaking.”
“A bit complicated,” Bobby agreed. “Mr Wynne is certainly an unusual sort of man. Difficult to know what to make of him. He gives me the idea, when I’m speaking to him, of having a sort of secret joke he wants to smile over but won’t, for fear of having to explain. Puzzling. I expect there’s a lot of talk and gossip going on?”
“Talking their heads off, all of ’em,” Jenkins agreed, “as you can’t be surprised at with them two gents finding the corpse hand in hand in a manner of speaking. But Mr Kimms says to take no notice—gossip it is, and as such to be treated.”
“Gossip,” Bobby told him, “is often important. I’ve sometimes thought it could be called the intuition of the common man.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jenkins, looking slightly dazed at this pronouncement.
“Which means,” Bobby added, “never neglect it.”
“Oh, no, sir, never,” agreed Jenkins, still a little bewildered, and then in a gallant effort to hold his own, “Not as you get much chance, with all of ’em running to tell you the latest as you’ve heard fifty times before.”
“Well, I’ll get along to the Abbey,” Bobby said. “A waste of time, probably, but you never know. Many thanks, though, for the very interesting character sketches you’ve given me.”
“Yes, sir; certainly, sir,” said Jenkins, pleased; but once again more than a little baffled, for he did not know he had done anything of the kind.
“Know your man,” Bobby went on, but speaking as much to himself as to Jenkins, “his character, his disposition, how he is likely to behave, and you’re half-way there. Worth more than all the cigar ash and magnifying glasses put together.”
“Yes, sir,” repeated Jenkins, not so much dazed now as worried, for he thought Bobby’s eye was fixed on him with a severe and challenging gaze, “which is same as often said by me to the missus. Cigar ash, if any, as isn’t here, is what you want, I tell her.”
“Well, I’ll be off,” Bobby repeated; and this time really went, much to the relief of Jenkins, who later on confided to his ‘missus’ that the London man talked funny like, but did talking funny ever bring in your man? And Mrs Jenkins told him to hurry up and eat his supper and get to bed, before being called out again, as was more than likely.
It was still fairly early when Bobby drove up to the Abbey to be at once conducted to what Sir Charles called his ‘den’ known also as ‘study’, though no studying was ever done there, or as library, though there no book was ever opened. It was a big, badly lighted room, crowded with heavy mahogany furniture of the mid-Victorian period. Most of it had been pushed aside, apparently, as if to get it out of the way. An incongruous roll-top desk, introduced by Sir Charles himself, was probably the only addition since first furnishing. In one corner a footstool was lying on its side, very much as if it had been kicked there in a moment of impatience. A commonplace room, Bobby thought, untidy, not well cared for—a carpet that needed sweeping and chairs and tables that had known no polish for years. There was a faint smell of alcohol in the air, but all in all little or nothing to give much idea of the personality of the occupier. On the walls were paintings, cosy, friendly productions. Bobby eyed them with appreciation. He knew that now these were slowly creeping back into auction-room favour from that nadir of contempt to which informed criticism of the day has been so busy condemning them. And on the shelves round the walls were long, serried rows of books that again for many years had known no other touch than the flick of the domestic duster or a whisk of a passing feather brush.
Though so different in every way from the room at the Old Dower House, yet there remained one point of resemblance. The rather prim tidiness of that, the rather conventional bachelor neglect of this, both served to prevent anything emerging in any way likely to give a clue to the occupant’s real personality. True, at the Old Dower House there was to be felt the impress of a powerful, yet secret and withdrawn personality, while here there was only a suggestion of a commonplace temperament unable to impress itself on its surroundings, accepting them, with no impulse to do otherwise.
Sir Charles himself—big, burly, red-faced as ever—was standing near the window, hands thrust deep into pockets, looking impatient and out of temper.
“Oh. it’s you,” he grumbled as Bobby entered. “Where’s Kimms? You’re the London bloke, aren’t you?”
“I am,” Bobby said tartly, not much liking this greeting. “I understand you have information to give. I hope that is so. I am here at some inconvenience, and I have no time to spare. Wouldn’t it have saved time if you had simply rung up?”
CHAPTER XVI
CONTINENTAL TRIP
SIR CHARLES GREETED these remarks with a formidable scowl. For a moment, indeed, he seemed inclined to make an equally tart reply. Then apparently he changed his mind. Probably Bobby’s manner did not suggest that tart retorts would be received with any noticeable meekness. So instead Sir Charles opened a small cupboard and produced whisky and soda-water.
“What about a drink?” he said.
“Thank you, no,” Bobby answered with decision. “I never drink on duty and I never drink when I’m driving. May I hear what it is you wish to tell us?”
Sir Charles put down the bottle from which he had already begun to fill a glass. He was looking very surprised. For any one to refuse a drink—first-class pre-war whisky too—was almost outside his experience, varied though that was.
“Oh, well,” he grumbled. “There’s such a lot of talk going on, you don’t know what to believe. Is it true you want to know what’s become of that young blighter, Maxton? Because, if you do, he’s in France.”
“France?” Bobby repeated. If that was so, it was going to make things very difficult. “Are you sure?” he asked.
Sir Charles moved over to his roll-top desk. He fumbled for a moment or two and then produced a letter.
“There you are,” he said. “Read that; read the postscript. That’s what counts with women—the postscript. You can bet your last potato on that.”
Bobby took the proffered letter. It was addressed to ‘Boy-o’, from an hotel in Paris, and was signed simply ‘Joey’. The body of the letter contained the information that ‘Joey’ had had a good passage, that the hotel wasn’t too bad, but not quite what ‘Joey’ was used to, and that she was ‘moving on’ next morning. The postscript ran:
“Whoever do you think I met on the boat? Give you three guesses? But you never would. That nice young Marty Maxton. Such a charming boy. He said he was expecting to make a long trip—a travel book. All the go, he says, and
he’s cashing in. So thrilling.”
“Who is Joey?” Bobby asked when he had read this.
“A niece of mine,” Sir Charles stated, staring hard at Bobby, and clearly on the look-out for any reaction produced by this statement. Bobby’s impassive face showed none. “Calls me ‘Boy-o’. Always has. Baby talk. Did it in her cradle, and keeps it up.”
“Is she a friend of Mr Maxton’s?” Bobby asked, ignoring these touching reminiscences.
“They met when she was on a visit here. They would. Trust Joey to meet any young man anywhere near. Maxton didn’t mind. Infernal young blighter.”
Bobby was beginning to see light. He remembered hearing mention of Sir Charles’s ‘nieces’. It seemed possible that, the ‘visit’ having terminated, ‘Joey’ was trying to play Maxton as a card for a renewal thereof. Possibly again with a view to matrimony and a vision, should that prove boring, of alimony in the distance.
“Is the young lady to be trusted?” he asked doubtfully.
“Well, I don’t see why she should be lying,” Sir Charles answered equally doubtfully. “‘Charming boy’ indeed. She knows I can’t stand him. Gives himself airs, and he’s nothing but a cheap, penny-a-liner journalist. Lives in a tumble-down cottage you can hardly find—five bob a week, most likely. Look. I don’t want Joey’s name mentioned. That’s really why I didn’t ’phone. You might as well use the public crier as the ’phone in this hole.”
“Is Miss Joey likely to be long away?” Bobby asked. “It seems a bit of a coincidence that she should happen to meet Maxton like that.”
“Coincidence my foot,” retorted Sir Charles. “Got it out of him when he was meaning to cross, and took care to be on the same boat so as to be able to tell me. Get anything out of anyone, she would. She won’t be away long, I don’t expect. Gone to see her step-father and get some money out of him. He’s French. Look. All this talk going on. Can’t you do something to stop it?”
Dark is the Clue: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 12