It was only after a minute or two of silence that Bobby went on:
“Was the bear at Peter’s hut you told us about, there before the man or afterwards? Or did they come together?”
But Loo did not answer and looked so afraid and startled, so much on the point of vanishing into the hidden safety of the forest, that Bobby was more than ever convinced that there was something she had seen, something of importance if only he could win her confidence and persuade her to tell him what it was. But this, he felt, was not the moment, and leaving the theme of the bear for the time and returning to that of the chocolates, he said:
“Well, if the man wanted to ask Mary about her chocolates, why didn’t he come and talk to Mary instead of to Peter?”
“It wasn’t about chocolates, Peter said,” explained Loo gravely. “Peter said he wanted to find out where Peter lived when he didn’t live where he was. So Peter told me again I was never to tell.”
Bobby gave no sign that now he had succeeded in obtaining confirmation of what he had so long suspected—that somewhere in the forest, near or far, the old man had a second habitation, a secret and a hidden refuge he had allowed none other to know of. Except this child on whom he had so strongly impressed it that she must never tell her knowledge.
“Is this other home of his where Peter is now?” he asked, trying to make his voice sound careless and indifferent.
Loo shook her head and as she did so gave a quick upward glance towards the huge, wide-spreading, overhanging branches above. It was a look that again brought confirmation—this time of an idea that had been forming itself in his mind ever since he had noticed how birds apparently intending to settle on the oak so swiftly and so abruptly turned away, as though overcome by sudden fear.
“Peter is up there, isn’t he?” he asked.
“Right deep down in a great hole in the tree,” she answered, “and he won’t speak to me or answer when I call and he never moves either. Why doesn’t he?”
“I think,” Bobby replied, “he doesn’t answer because he doesn’t hear. I think he never moves because he can’t.”
“Is that what it means being dead?” Loo asked.
CHAPTER XXXIII
QUESTION OF IDENTITY
IT WAS NOT until late in the afternoon that Bobby was able to get away from what may be called the routine work always consequent on such a discovery. Once that, however, was well in train he drove to Coop’s Cottage, and was not greatly surprised to find Dick Rawdon there before him.
“I was hoping I might run across you,” he told Dick. “I rang up the factory and they told me you had left early.”
“I wanted to ask if Loo had turned up all right,” Dick explained somewhat hastily; and Bobby thought that was very likely true, but probably not all, or even the greater part, of the truth.
“Loo came back this morning,” Mary said. “She told us about Peter. I got her to go to bed. She has been asleep all day.”
“I suppose you’ve heard?” Bobby asked Dick.
“It’s all over the place,” Dick answered. “I went along there, but your men shooed me off.”
“I expect they would,” Bobby said. “They didn’t tell me. Probably they didn’t know who you were. Just another snooper to them. Would you be willing to see the body in case you can identify it?”
“How can I identify a man I’ve never seen?” demanded Dick, though with a certain note of uneasiness in his voice, or so Bobby thought.
Before he answered Dick’s remark, Bobby said:
“There are some things I know and some I merely guess at. It’s those I want to ask you about. I think you may be able to help if you will. I am sure you agree the police have a right to expect every help anyone can give them. All the same, no one is bound to answer questions. And of course you have a right to the presence of a lawyer. Mr Montague Hart, for example.”
“If you have half the brains I expect,” Dick retorted, “you know jolly well I’m not likely to want Hart. Uncle hangs on to him because his firm knows all about the estate and debts and so on. I think he’s a dud. I’ve never known him do a thing except cadge my cigars.”
“Oh, he does that, does he?” Bobby said, interested.
“Smokes one and puts another in his pocket if he gets the chance,” Dick growled. “What about it? Mean anything to you?”
“Everything always means something, doesn’t it?” Bobby suggested, evading a direct answer. “Question always is, what? About the questions I would like to ask you?”
“Fire away,” Dick told him. “I’ll try to answer. I don’t want the poor old chap’s murderer to get away with it.”
“Shall we have our chat here?” Bobby asked. “My car’s outside, if you would rather go anywhere else. Just as you like.”
“Here as far as I’m concerned,” Dick answered. “You must ask Miss Floyd, though, I think. Her show.”
“Oh, yes, sorry,” agreed Bobby. He turned, not, however, to Mary, who did not to him, as she did to Dick, represent the only person in the world really worth considering, but to Mrs Coop. “Do you mind?” he asked. “It would save time.”
“Oh, please, please go on,” Mrs Coop answered, plainly anxious not to miss anything.
“I would prefer it,” Dick said. “I would like Mary to hear anything you have to say.”
“Now poor Peter’s dead,” Mrs Coop said, “I shan’t get any more lotion for my back.”
“I expect stepfather will be listening,” Mary put in, glancing towards the inner door of the kitchen. “He generally is,” she added, as one stating an ordinary and recognized fact.
“I don’t know that it matters,” Bobby remarked. He walked across to the inner door which opened on the small lobby whence rose the stairs to the upper floor. He called up them: “Would you like to come down, Coop? I expect there will be some questions I shall want to ask you, too, presently.”
“I can’t hardly move, I’m that bad,” wailed a voice from above. “Crippled for life most likely, the doctor says, and life not likely to be long either.”
“Well, that’s good hearing,” said Bobby cheerfully. “Anyhow, it won’t stop you answering my questions.”
He went back into the kitchen and closed the door. Mary said:
“You aren’t going to arrest him, are you?”
“I don’t know,” Bobby answered. “It depends. On what help he is ready to give us, for one thing.”
“What for?” Dick asked. “Arrest him what for, I mean? You don’t think he killed Peter, surely?”
“Well, at any rate he is not entirely free from suspicion,” Bobby answered. “Of course, there are others too—several others.” To Mrs. Coop he said: “I’m sorry, but there it is. I don’t suppose it’s much of a surprise.”
“Coop wouldn’t murder anyone,” Mrs Coop said. “There’s things he might do, but not murder. I’m sure of that.”
“Are you?” Bobby said to Mary.
“He wouldn’t plan to do it,” Mary answered. “He wouldn’t mean to, but he might. In a fright. To be safe. To get away. Something like that. But I don’t think he killed Peter.”
“Well, then,” Dick said, rather as if any opinion Mary expressed settled the matter at once and finally.
“You see,” Bobby explained, “it’s pretty certain he shot Sir Alfred and Sir Alfred’s not out of danger yet. At the hospital they seem to think his chances are good, but they won’t let us see him yet.”
“No, I know, they told me that,” Dick said. “What makes you think it was Coop?”
“His face is badly bruised and his story about being knocked down by a car isn’t exactly convincing,” Bobby answered.
“You were going to run me in if I had shown a black eye or two, weren’t you?” observed Dick. “Circumstantial evidence, I suppose.”
“Yes,” agreed Bobby. “You haven’t told me yet if you would be willing to view the body. It’s a question of family resemblance. I would like your opinion.”
“Oh, you
’ve got on to that, have you?” Dick muttered.
“I think it possible he may be your great-uncle you told me about,” Bobby answered. “The one in love with a girl who married someone else and he took it so much to heart he left home and started to wander about the country like any tramp or gipsy.”
“We thought it possible,” Dick admitted. “There was no very conclusive proof great-uncle had really died. There was the possibility that if anyone had actually died and been buried out in France, that it might be his footman pal—Crayfoot’s grandfather. Nothing much known about either of them after the girl turned great-uncle down. Not her fault perhaps, but it does seem to have broken him up. It was only an idea. We didn’t think it very likely. But it was going to be jolly awkward if it did turn out like that. That’s why we wanted it kept quiet till we knew. You see, under the entail, if great-uncle were living, then Uncle Alfred wasn’t Sir Alfred at all, never had been, never had any right to the property. Make a hell of a mess of things. Legally, I mean. Especially with that cousin of ours on the pounce. I mean the cousin who wants to keep the entail going and prevent the sale of the pictures because he hopes to get hold of the whole lot for himself some day. Uncle says if he does, then he’ll want to break the entail all right himself and sell out at a big profit or some other dirty trick like that. Uncle doesn’t like him. No more do I for that matter. Now this has happened it won’t matter so much, I suppose. No doubt now about Uncle Alfred being Sir Alfred. I don’t see how the question can come up now the poor old chap’s dead.”
“I expect the coroner will want his identity established at the inquest,” Bobby said, and Dick looked disturbed.
“I never thought of that,” he said. “I don’t see how you are going to prove anything,” he added. “I don’t see how family likeness could count for much. You haven’t got anything to show, have you? Or do you want to keep it quiet?”
“No reason to,” Bobby answered. “My own idea is he probably was your great-uncle. I think if he hadn’t been, there would have been more heard about the disappearance of the two El Grecos and the Diabolic Candelabra—especially the last. I think it is because it was known your great-uncle had taken them that it was more or less kept quiet about their loss. Then there was the permission given him to put up his hut on the Rawdon estate land without apparently any record being kept either of the request or the consent. It suggests to me he did it off his own bat, so to speak, knowing no objection would be raised. Another small point is the emphasis he seems to have laid on keeping his word once it was given. Working-class people are just as scrupulous in act but they don’t so often talk about it or call it a point of honour. It’s a phrase that very much struck me when I heard he used it. A working man would talk about letting you down or sticking to what he said or something like that, not about points of honour. Another thing is that he seems to have gone exceptionally squalid in his person and his ways of life. I’ve noticed that before. When well-brought-up people let themselves go, they go all the way.”
“Are you going to bring all that up at the inquest?” Dick asked, not appearing much to relish the prospect.
“Oh, no,” Bobby answered. “All that comes under the general heading of what the soldier says not being evidence. I only meant to show you why I think as I do. After all, I’m not so much interested in who he was as in who killed him. Of course, the two do seem as if they might be fairly closely tied up.”
Mrs Coop had been listening with eyes opening wider and wider. She burst out now:
“Well, I never. Peter . . . a Rawdon . . . Sir Peter . . . only then Peter wasn’t his real name . . . ?”
She subsided into silent bewilderment and Mary said:
“Whoever he was, he has been wickedly murdered.”
“I don’t forget that,” Bobby said gravely.
“You’ve no idea who it was?” Dick asked.
“Ideas, yes,” Bobby answered. “Proof, no. We may get some when we’ve been able to make more inquiries. There’s been some talk of cutting down the oak so as to be able to examine it more carefully.”
“Fingerprints?” Dick asked.
“Well, one would hardly expect to find dabs on a tree,” Bobby answered. “Surface much too rough. But there may be something. Murderers do sometimes leave clues on the scene. There was the Vera Page murder in London some years ago. The murderer left a finger stall near the body. Other cases, too. The doctrine of exchange. Nothing you can do without leaving some trace, receiving some trace yourself.”
“Crayfoot’s missing,” Dick said. “Doesn’t that look as if he did it and then bolted?”
“His disappearance has got to be explained, of course,” Bobby agreed.
“I don’t see how you are ever going to be certain,” Dick said slowly. “I don’t see that it matters very much now. What worried us was whether Uncle Alfred was really Sir Alfred with a legal right to the property.”
“There are still the two supposed El Grecos and the ‘Diabolic Candelabra’,” Bobby remarked. “Worth a goodish bit. Where do they come into the story?”
“Well, do they?” Dick asked.
“Money values have always to be remembered,” Bobby reminded him, “and El Grecos would have it all right—if they are genuine and in good condition.”
“A toss-up if they are,” Dick retorted. “Nothing to show. Of course, there’s the Cellini stuff. Cellini’s name counts and there would be a curiosity value as well. I suppose there might be enough to put the property straight again. Only where are the blessed things? I should say it was odds on they’ve been lost or destroyed or something long ago.
“Supposing the old man had them, whether he was actually a Rawdon great-uncle or a Crayfoot grandfather, have you any idea where they could be? Not in his hut or someone would have seen them. So where?”
“No idea,” Dick answered. “I don’t see how he can possibly have had them. Do you? I suppose other people did visit that hut of his sometimes. I never heard anyone ever said anything about having seen oil paintings or silver candlesticks there, and they aren’t things you can overlook very easily. Especially when the paintings are El Grecos and the candlesticks by Cellini. Of course, the old man may have kept them hidden somewhere. Some place like that hollow oak where you found the poor old boy’s body. Good God,” exclaimed Dick excitedly, as a sudden idea occurred to him, “do you think the things were actually hidden there? I mean, in the hollow oak? And whoever killed him knew somehow and was trying to get them, but the old man interfered, and got killed as a result?”
“It’s a possible theory,” Bobby agreed. “No sign of any struggle near the oak, though. The body had apparently been hauled up by a rope round a branch and then pushed down into the hollow in the tree. Means an exceptionally strong man, unless there were two on the job. All the same your idea is quite possible.”
“Might mean the murderer was Crayfoot,” Dick remarked, more taken up with his own idea than with Bobby’s comment. “He was trying to get hold of the things, he was caught in the act, and that ended in the killing.”
“It would fit all right,” Bobby agreed again, “but no more with Crayfoot than with others—with Mr Coop, for instance. Change Crayfoot to Coop, and the theory is just as sound.”
CHAPTER XXXIV
COOP’S THEORY
WHEN HE HAD said this, Bobby looked at Mrs Coop and at Mary, wondering what they would think of the suggestion. Neither of them made any protest, nor could he see that they appeared much surprised. He had the clear impression that not for the first time had the possibility occurred to them. The door opened and Coop himself appeared.
“Just like a cop,” he said bitterly, “taking away a respectable man’s character. I’ll have the law on you for that. Slander, it is, that’s what it is—slander and evil speaking.” He paused and then pointed a finger at Dick. “What do you want to pick on me for?” he demanded. “Why couldn’t it be him? Or her?” Now he was pointing at Mary. “She had the best chance to know what he had t
ucked away, hadn’t she? Loo would know and as like as not told her. The only one Loo would tell.” He swung round on Bobby. He spoke earnestly, feelingly: “You would think she was just a girl like any other girl, wouldn’t you?” he asked. “All boys and giggles. Well, take it from me, there isn’t anything she’s not up to, for all she looks like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth or a thought in her head beyond what ought to be, scrubbing the floor or cooking the dinner and such-like. You can’t trust any woman, and her less than any. Why, you seen her yourself ready to throw a pot of boiling soup over me, all for nothing. You forgotten that?”
“Oh, no,” said Bobby. “I remember it very well.”
“Well, then,” said Coop triumphantly.
“Look here,” began Dick, rising in wrath, but Bobby checked him.
“That’s all right,” he said; and as Dick spluttered indignantly and incoherently, Bobby added to Coop: “You had better go back to bed and stay there till you look a bit more respectable. Sir Alfred got in some jolly good work. Mistake, though, after he had floored you, not to make sure you weren’t armed. I expect he never thought of that.”
“He never would have floored me only for—” began Coop indignantly and then paused and hurriedly corrected himself. “Mean to say,” he said, “he never would have floored me if we ever had had a fight, which, of course, we never did, never having occasion, and him a gentleman and all.”
“You can thank your lucky stars it isn’t a case of murder,” Bobby said. “Bad enough as it is—attempted murder. I’m only waiting till Sir Alfred is able to tell his story. And I may as well tell you I’ve got a man on guard to see nothing happens to him. Of course, you can tell your own story first if you like. Oh, and then there’s Mr Smith. I want to hear what Mr Smith has to say, too.”
Coop stared and gasped and went as pale as his discoloured and bruised face permitted.
“You mean that chap who came to the Abbey to see uncle?” interposed Dick. “Is he in it, too?”
“I’m inclined to think,” Bobby answered, “he started it all. Anyhow, I want to hear what he has to say. Just as I want to hear what Coop has to say. Sir Alfred, too. I don’t mind which story I get first.”
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