Six Were Present: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  “It must be one of the six of them,” he told himself without satisfaction, “even if it can’t have been.”

  Having arrived at that contradictory conclusion of ‘must’ and ‘can’t’, he returned to the summit room, took another and now somewhat aimless look all round it, and then began the long but easier descent.

  At the level of what had been the first floor of the old house there still remained, as he had noticed before, a doorway which had once provided direct communication between house and Tower. The door itself had long since vanished and the doorway closed by a barricade of boards easily removed and replaced.

  Bobby paused for a moment, and presently, ignoring an ancient painted warning ‘Danger’, on one crumbling wall, crossed into the shell that once had been a human habitation.

  The first thing that happened was that he displaced what was left of a party wall by not much more than brushing against it. It went crashing through vacancy, for all traces of a floor had long since disappeared, down to where rubble lay in heaps below, undisturbed apparently since the day of the fire. After that he proceeded with more care, noting with some relief as he did so that the outer walls seemed still sound. The solid stone of which they were constructed had resisted well both fire and weather. Even the slow, inexorable hand of time had not as yet had much effect. Further in, too, the destruction wrought by the fire had been less complete. Some of the party walls had survived, much of the roof and a good deal of the flooring were still in position, and now he stiffened to attention as in one place, where the flooring seemed secure, near the emptiness of an old hearth, he saw a cigarette butt.

  Moving cautiously, for he did not much trust this flooring and held himself in readiness to jump at the first hint that it might be giving way, he went nearer. It could not have been there more than a few hours, but proof that someone had been recently, probably about the time of the murder. Not one of the six evidently, since they had all of them, all the time, been under each other’s observation. Who then? And Bobby’s thoughts turned instantly to Dewey James and his claim to have been asleep in bed all that night.

  But if he had lied, why? With what motive?

  Moreover, the puzzle still remained how he, if he were guilty, or anyone else for that matter, could have obtained admission through a locked, bolted, heavily curtained door into a room plunged in utter darkness, been able to locate the exact position and place of his proposed victim and strike a blow with such force, from directly in front, all without the others sitting round the table having any notion of what was going on.

  Wholly, even preposterously impossible, Bobby decided.

  All the same it still remained that from these twin impossibilities there had emerged the grim, inescapable fact of murder.

  Leaving the cigarette butt lying where it was, still holding its secret of how it came to be there, Bobby moved slowly forward.

  He was hoping that presently he might find a safer means of descent than return by the somewhat precarious route he had so far followed. A little to his relief he came presently to the great central double stairway, which had remained, as so often had been the case in the bombed houses of London during the war, firmly in position while all around was ruin. Desolate now, robbed of its great gilt balustrade, leading nowhere, it stood in marble serenity, like a warrior wounded to the death, yet still upright and firm.

  Cautiously, Bobby tested it with one foot, next with his full weight, and then heard quite plainly, in the silence of that place of ruin and desolation, the sound of rubble falling. He stood, intent and listening. Now the silence was again complete. The rubble might have fallen simply because a precarious balance had been disturbed by some trifling natural cause, as an avalanche it is said can be started by a puff of wind or the passing of some animal. But also it might mean, and probably did, that someone else had decided to go exploring here. If so, was the object to remove the cigarette butt and with it the evidence that, in addition to the six, another person had been that night in the vicinity?

  Bobby decided that there was no great object in indulging in a game of hide and seek in this old ruin where evasion would be easy and an incautious step result in a fall likely to cause serious injury or even death. The intruder could probably be identified by easier means if he was not made aware that this excursion of his, whatever its reason, had been noticed.

  Carefully, therefore, for he was even yet not fully convinced of its stability, Bobby descended the stairway, by no means sorry to be in the open air again. He did not go away, but stood there, waiting to see if his fellow explorer would presently make his appearance, and then he heard himself called as Nixon came towards him.

  “I’ve been wondering where you had got to,” Nixon said as he came up.

  “I’ve been having a look round,” Bobby explained with a nod towards the ruin.

  “In there?” Nixon asked doubtfully. “You didn’t expect to hit on anything, did you?”

  “I didn’t, but I did,” Bobby replied. “The place isn’t anything like so completely done up inside as you would think. The outer walls seem sound enough, and it wouldn’t be too difficult to patch up the interior again.”

  “It’s been talked about, I believe,” Nixon told him. “Cost too much. Too expensive to restore, too expensive to pull down, so it’s just been left. You said you made a find? Interesting?”

  “Not very, as far as I can see,” Bobby admitted. “But you never know. It may come in somewhere. For one thing, I found I had a fellow explorer doing a prowl. I don’t know who or what for. And I found an old cigarette butt that can’t have been there so very long, and that does seem to suggest there was some other unknown person hanging around about the time of the murder.”

  Nixon made no answer for a time. He was trying to take in this information and to relate it to what had happened. Presently he said:

  “Does that help? I don’t see how. Do you?”

  “No,” Bobby admitted. “I think my fellow explorer is coming.”

  He had heard what he thought were footsteps descending the marble stair. The footsteps became louder. Through what once had been a fine, portico entrance there emerged Baynham. He saw them and came briskly towards them.

  “There’s a chap in there,” he said. “What’s he up to? I only had a glimpse, but I saw him plainly through that gap.” He pointed to one near the Tower, by which Bobby knew he himself must have passed. “Who was it? What’s he think he’s doing up there? Jolly suspicious, people prowling about like that.”

  “Up to no good, anyhow, you may be sure of that,” Bobby pronounced. “Wouldn’t be one of your chaps, would it?” he asked Nixon.

  “I’m sure it wasn’t,” Nixon answered. “They’re all busy packing up. Done about all we can do here, and that’s precious little. I was looking for you, though, Mr Baynham, and for Mr Manners, too. I don’t think it’s necessary to ask either of you to wait any longer. I must tell you frankly I feel it’s certain it was one of those at the meeting, but nothing to show which.”

  “Well, it can’t have been, all the same,” Baynham retorted.

  Neither of the other two tried to answer this dictum, to which indeed they knew no reply. Instead, Nixon said he must see how his chaps were getting on and tell Mr Manners there was no reason now why he should not leave at once if he wanted to. He went off then, but Bobby remained, for he felt it might be a good opportunity to see if Baynham would be willing to answer a few questions.

  “Of course,” he explained once more, “you understand I have no official standing here. I’m only present as the nearest, I think the only, male relative, in the country.”

  “You’re a policeman, aren’t you?” B.B. asked, and without waiting for a reply, went on: “Not six of us. Mrs Outers and Miss Outers don’t count. Mrs James is out of it, too. She was on the floor. Knocked over. I remember thinking for a moment she had been killed, too. That leaves three of us. Three, not six. Peel, Manners and me. One of three.”

  “One of six,�
� Bobby corrected him. “Nobody who was present can be freed from suspicion as yet.”

  “Well, you’ve got to use common sense,” B.B. said impatiently.

  “There isn’t any in this affair,” retorted Bobby, and got the unexpected reply:

  “What about the map to a gold-mine somewhere in Africa Mr Outers was supposed to have got tucked away. Did you know about that? Can that come into it?”

  CHAPTER XIII

  FINGER-PRINTS

  “GOLD-MINE? GOLD-MINE?” Bobby repeated, taken aback, for this was indeed a complete surprise. Was it possible Mr Outers had chosen to talk about uranium as camouflage for the possibly more universally attractive gold? He didn’t think it likely. Just one more complication in this baffling case. “In Africa?” he asked. “No. Why? Have you?”

  “Or about strange, wandering coloured men appearing and disappearing round about here?”

  “Well, yes. I’ve heard something like that,” Bobby admitted. “Mr Nixon told me. I don’t think he took it very seriously. I’m sure I didn’t. We will now. You mean you think there may be some sort of connection between the vanishing Negroes, this gold mine map, and the murder?”

  “Well, I think it might be worth while making a few inquiries among the Midminster coloured people. A very decent lot on the whole, and I’m sure they would give you all the help they could. We employ quite a number, and glad to get them.”

  “I’ve no doubt Mr Nixon will take that up if you speak to him,” Bobby said. “Can you tell us anything more? How did you hear about it?”

  “I don’t really know,” B.B. answered. “I didn’t pay much attention. Gold-mines are not in our line. Talk at the Club, chiefly. About how rich the mine was, but Outers wouldn’t do anything about it. Thought the natives were better off as they were, and anyhow if it was developed they wouldn’t get much of a look in. That’s all. Of course, if it’s all true and someone wanted the map showing where it was and Outers wouldn’t part—well, there’s a motive.”

  “So there is,” agreed Bobby.

  “Limits it to someone who knew about the map,” B.B. said, and added defiantly: “Like me. I thought I had better tell you.”

  “Much more sensible,” Bobby told him. “Much. I’ll pass it on to Mr Nixon. I don’t see that it helps much though. It may answer ‘Why?’ but not ‘How?’ or ‘Who?’ If it was talked about at the Club, many people might know. What Club?”

  “The Midminster Conservative-Liberal-Unionist—the C.L.U. Add a ‘B’ and you get ‘Club.’ It’s for Midminster top business-men. I’m not tops by any means, but my grandfather was a founder member—‘Old B’ he was always called. That’s why I get called ‘B.B.’ even by people I’ve never met before. And one reason why Ludo Manners doesn’t like me, as you may have noticed. He isn’t a member. Got turned down.”

  “Oh, why?”

  “Well, he’s more or less on his own—insurance broker and not long established. Also it got about that once when he was there as a guest he tried to do business. Sort of blasphemy. You may talk business as much as you like, you may treat a client to a swell luncheon on expense account, but you mustn’t actually do business. So he got turned down when he put up.”

  “Then it’s altogether likely Mr Manners knew about this gold-mine map if it exists?”

  “He might. Anyone in Midminster might, for that matter. You could ask him. I’ve no idea. The Midminster News got to know and sent one of their chaps to try to interview Mr Outers about it. Mr Outers wouldn’t talk. All he said was that he wasn’t responsible for the chatter of a lot of old women who ought to be out doing an honest day’s work for a change. It didn’t endear him to the Club.”

  They parted then, B.B. to avail himself of the official permission to depart and Bobby to wander into the house to see if he could find Ludo Manners. In that he had no difficulty, for on his side Ludo was also looking for him.

  “Just been having a turn-up with Nixon,” he said. “I can’t stand cocky official blokes. I took it to mean he thought it was all hunkadory when he said there was no need for me to hang around, but now he’s claiming everyone’s suspect. Me, too.”

  “Everyone who was present at the time,” Bobby corrected him. “Necessarily so, till the situation’s clearer. Have you heard anything said about a gold-mine?”

  “Gold-mine?” repeated Ludo; and he, too, stared in amazement, in which, however, with him, a certain amount of relief seemed mingled. “No,” he said with emphasis. “I’ve never heard anything about gold-mines. What have they to do with it? Never,” he repeated with even greater emphasis.

  “I gather,” Bobby explained, “there’s been talk about Mr Outers having known where there was one, but kept it secret.”

  “Doesn’t sound likely,” pronounced Ludo. “If you know where there’s a gold-mine, you develop it, don’t you? Why not? No good keeping it up your sleeve. Outers was a queer, secretive sort, and so this gold-mine yarn got about. If he was secretive, there had to be something to be secretive about, and why not a gold-mine? Filled the bill all right. That’s all. He wasn’t really secretive, but he always had the murder of his two boys on his mind and he knew he was blamed for it. His own fault, mixed himself up with a lot of beastly native superstitions, silly Stone Age stuff, cannibalism and all.”

  “I’ve heard something about that, too,” Bobby agreed. “I suppose there isn’t anything else you can say? I’m not here officially, you know. Officially, I’m on leave. In a way, you may feel you can talk more freely to me. Nixon probably kept you to facts. I’m more keen on impressions. I could follow up what you could hardly put in an official statement. Of course, if I did turn up anything relevant I should have to tell Nixon at once.”

  “Hand in glove with him, you mean, don’t you?” Ludo grumbled. “I made a statement to Nixon as long as your arm. It didn’t amount to anything. We all more or less lost our heads. Running around in circles. I didn’t even notice old Mrs James had been knocked over. I must say that monumental prig of a B.B. was a bit more sensible than the rest of us. He rushed off at once to ring up your Midminster chaps. I own up I was so muddled I started to think that was how the murderer got in when B.B. opened the door till I remembered poor old Outers had had his already.”

  “It may have been how the murderer got out,” Bobby said.

  Ludo shook his head.

  “Couldn’t,” he said. “I had switched on the electric lamp by then. There were the two oil lamps we use as well, and someone else had got them going, too. Light as day.”

  “Did Mr Baynham help in that?”

  “No. I told you. He rushed off immediately first thing to give the alarm.”

  Ludo spoke with a considerable show of impatience, but also with an oddly satisfied air, and Bobby got the impression that he felt he had succeeded very well in drawing attention to the fact that B.B. was the only one among them who had had the opportunity to dispose of the murder weapon. And the man who had done that must, of course, by necessity, be the murderer—or need he? Might he have done it to save someone else? A disconcerting thought. But then the young man seemed strongly attracted by Rosamund and might risk much to earn the gratitude of her and of her mother. Bobby left these doubtful considerations. To Ludo, who, at the moment, was busy lighting a cigarette, and, at the same time keeping an observant eye on Bobby himself, he said:

  “You were one of those who heard a voice that didn’t seem to come from anyone present, weren’t you?”

  “That’s right,” Ludo said. “Teddy Peel. Cunning little devil. Cheat his dead mother of her shroud if he got half a chance. He didn’t murder Outers, though. Not him. He might slip a knife into you if he knew he could get away with it, but not when he was sure to be suspected. Besides, why should he? Outers was a jolly good client—five guineas a sitting. And you don’t kill your best clients. They’re your bread and butter.”

  “There’s always that,” Bobby agreed, though reflecting that for a sufficiently big prize—such as a gold-mine, even
a Teddy Peel might take a desperate risk.

  Now Ludo announced that he must really be getting off, if only he could fight his way through the crowd of newspaper men and others gathered together outside and kept at bay only by the extreme and unremitting efforts of the police on duty.

  “You won’t talk to any of the journalists, I hope,” Bobby warned him and Ludo gave a knowing smile.

  “Nixon started to lecture me about that,” he said. “I told him I knew my onions. But I don’t say that if I happen to call on some of my prospects to-morrow to make up for losing to-day, I shan’t find it a bit easier to see some of the top rankers, if they think I can give them the low down on it all. Bit of a sensation you know. We don’t have so many murders in Midminster as all that.”

  He departed then, and Bobby watched him go with some distaste. Unreasonable, no doubt. No real reason why he should not use his momentary notoriety, as witness of a mysterious murder, to advance his business interests. All the same, Bobby was not sure that the aura of suspicion surrounding all the six of them would be as helpful to Ludo in his business relations as he seemed to think. In any case, Bobby felt he preferred the young man who might conceivably have made himself an accessory after the fact to help others to the one who planned to turn such a tragedy to his business advantage.