The Golden Dagger: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  “Why should you think so?” Bobby asked.

  “Why shouldn’t I? There’s something. What is it?”

  “Miss Carton and Miss Blythe were attacked earlier to-night,” Bobby said. “Miss Blythe has been rather badly hurt. Their assailant escaped. I had a glimpse of him, but he got away in the fog. Shortly afterwards you were found not far away. I think an explanation is required.”

  “What do you mean?” demanded Longton angrily. “Are you trying to make out it was me? Don’t be a fool.”

  “Can you tell me what you were doing here?”

  “I don’t have to,” Longton retorted. “Why should I?”

  The doctor came out of the bedroom. Mrs Cato was with him. He was saying to her:

  “You’ve done everything possible. Rest, quiet, warmth. Unless pneumonia sets in, I don’t think there’s much cause for alarm.” To Bobby he said: “The injuries to the head are not serious. Concussion. No sign of any fracture. If she had been left out much longer, though, it would probably have killed her. Any idea who did it?” and in his voice, too, there was obvious suspicion as he looked at the bedraggled, dishevelled Longton.

  “It’s too early yet to say,” Bobby answered.

  “She’s asleep,” the doctor went on, though still with one eye warily on Longton, as though he thought it best to be on guard against any fresh outbreak. “Best possible thing. Don’t disturb her on any account. I’ve told her mother what to do if she wakes, but I hope she won’t. I’ll look in again first thing in the morning. Can your man drive me back? He wouldn’t give me time to get my car out.”

  “Of course,” Bobby said. “Ford, drive the doctor home and then back here as soon as possible.”

  Ford and the doctor went off together to the car waiting for them in the lane beyond the fields. Bobby turned to Longton. He said:

  “Mr Longton, I’m not satisfied. There are some questions I must ask you.”

  Before he could say more, Maureen appeared from the room where Linda was sleeping. She stared blankly at Longton.

  “What on earth . . . ?” she began and stood staring, open eyes and mouth, and in her eyes and in her voice, too, there was something that seemed as if it, too, might be suspicion.

  CHAPTER XXXVI

  THE SIZE OF A HAT

  BEFORE LONGTON COULD answer or Maureen speak again, Bobby interposed. He said, speaking to Longton:

  “Miss Carton and Miss Blythe seem to have been attacked in order to get possession of a hat they had with them. There is some reason to believe it belonged to the murderer of Baldwin Jones. You were in the vicinity, though you are staying at a considerable distance. You seem inclined to refuse any explanation of why you were here or what you were doing.”

  “I don’t see why I should,” Longton retorted. He turned to Maureen. “He wants to make out it was me,” he said.

  “I’m only asking at present for an explanation,” Bobby said. “The man was masked and there was a thick mist as well. Miss Carton had no chance to identify him. No more had I, though I got a glimpse for a moment. Just possibly Miss Blythe may be able to tell us more presently.”

  “It wasn’t Jack,” Maureen said. “It couldn’t be.”

  “I have the hat they were bringing here,” Bobby went on, ignoring this. “You remember, Mr Longton, I told you we had information you had won a new hat in a bet. You agreed about the bet, but not about having had the hat.”

  “It’s not Jack’s hat,” Maureen said. “How could it be?”

  “You take rather a large size, don’t you?” Bobby went on. “Seven or over?”

  “I take seven and a quarter, if you want to know,” Longton growled. “What about it? I suppose it’s a policeman’s job to ask a lot of footling questions.”

  “To ask questions, certainly,” Bobby agreed. “I’ve been rather interested in guessing what size hats people here take. Lord Rone has rather a small head.”

  “Six and seven eighths,” Maureen said. “I do know that.”

  “Mr Oxendale, too, I should guess,” Bobby said. “You and Sir William Watson both have rather large heads. I should guess he takes seven and a quarter, too, or even larger.”

  “Are you trying to make out,” Longton demanded, “that one of us two is the murderer? Well, it wasn’t me, I know that, and Sir William of all people—that’s nearly as silly.”

  Bobby turned to pick up the hat from where he had put it down. He looked inside. The size was plainly marked—not seven and a quarter, but six and seven eighths. He stood, holding it in his hand, frowning, contemplative, struggling to see his way clearly through these complexities and contradictions, while the other two watched him doubtfully, uneasily.

  As they all three stood thus, silent, unmoving, there came a knock at the outer door of the bungalow. It passed unheeded—not so much unheard as unheeded, so lost was Bobby on the one hand in the maze of thoughts crowding in upon his mind, so absorbed were Jack Longton and Maureen on their side in their own fear and unease as they waited for what Bobby would say next.

  The knock was repeated. The door opened. Lord Rone was there. He too had a dishevelled, disarrayed appearance. He was bareheaded. From where he stood, he could see Bobby and Longton, but not Maureen. She had not moved since she came out of the bedroom and was still standing with her back to the bedroom door. Lord Rone said:

  “I’ve been wandering about in the fog—quite lost. No idea where I was. Then I saw a light here. Miss Carton went out rather late and hasn’t come back. It may be the fog. Her mother was growing exceedingly anxious.”

  “It’s all right,” Maureen said, coming forward. “I’m quite all right. I got lost in the fog.” Her voice suddenly rose, became shrill. “Everyone did. It’s been rather beastly.”

  Lord Rone was looking at the hat Bobby was holding and that now he was holding forward as if to invite attention.

  “Is that my hat?” Lord Rone asked. “The one I couldn’t find?”

  “No, it isn’t,” Maureen cried. “Of course it isn’t.”

  “Whose hat is it, then?” Bobby asked. He addressed the question more directly to Maureen. She did not answer. He said: “Is it the hat Linda Blythe found on the spot where the murder took place?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered then. “I don’t know anything about it. It isn’t Father’s, that’s all.”

  “Why had you it with you, you and Linda Blythe, when you were attacked?”

  “I think I thought it was Norman Oxendale’s,” Maureen said.

  “That’s not what I asked you,” Bobby said sharply. “Why had you it with you? Why were you bringing it here?”

  Maureen remained silent. Lord Rone said:

  “Well, Maureen, well?” This also failed to draw any reply. He went on: “Linda Blythe? The new maid we’ve just engaged? What’s she to do with it?”

  “She has been injured,” Bobby said, “in an attack made on her and on Miss Carton.”

  “I ran away,” Maureen said. “There was a man in a mask. Out of the mist. All of a sudden. I ran away and Linda screamed and I tried to get back, but I couldn’t, because of the fog, and I didn’t know where I was, and then there was Mr Owen. I expect he saved my life, and I don’t care if he did and I wish he hadn’t.”

  All this came out in a sudden rush of words. Bobby thought that she was on the verge of breaking down. He said to her loudly and sharply:

  “None of that. Pull yourself together. You’ve done mischief enough already without going into hysterics.”

  “I’m not. I never do,” Maureen said indignantly. “You’re horrid, trying to bully.”

  “Where is the hat Linda found?” Bobby demanded.

  “I don’t know. How should I know?” Maureen retorted. Bobby waited—waited in that grim, silent, commanding manner which at times he could assume, almost unconsciously. The expression of a fierce inner energy of will that all could feel and that few could resist. Not Maureen. She mumbled: “I shouldn’t wonder if it hadn’t got burnt or somethi
ng. I don’t know.”

  “I think,” Bobby told her, “both you and your father had better consider your position. So far you have managed to bring both Lord Rone and Mr Longton under suspicion. Either could be charged. If Linda Blythe dies, there may be another charge. You may be charged yourself with destroying evidence that might have provided proof of guilt.”

  “All right, go ahead and charge me if you want to,” Maureen said at her most obstinate. “I don’t care a scrap, not if you did save my life.”

  “I didn’t do anything of the kind, so don’t keep saying so,” Bobby snapped, and added, rudely and indefensibly, but then he was tired, worried, and very cross: “I don’t know that I should even think it worth saving.”

  By a kind of instinctive movement, both Jack Longton and Lord Rone had moved so as to stand between her and Bobby, almost as if they wished to form a kind of protective screen. She looked at them both, and somehow it seemed to make her change her expression, even in a sense it might have been said, her personality. With a gesture that was not without a certain dignity, she stepped between them, and stood facing Bobby. She did not speak, but just stood there. Now it was she who was waiting, and she managed to put into that waiting something of the same force and controlled energy Bobby had shown before. But he was still too angry to take much notice. He said:

  “You’ve been acting like an irresponsible schoolgirl.”

  “Have I? Perhaps I have,” Maureen said. She was speaking quietly now, quietly and steadily, without a trace of the hysteria that had at one time threatened. “I’m not going to say another word,” she went on. “Not even if I have to go to prison.”

  “What is all this?” asked Lord Rone. Till now he had appeared so bewildered as to be unable to get out even a word of protest. “What are you talking about, Maureen?” he demanded. “What have you been doing? Something was said about charging me or Mr Longton with something or another. Is that seriously meant? Does that mean—?”

  He did not finish the sentence. It was as though he feared to put into spoken words the thought in his mind. Longton had no such hesitation. He said brusquely:

  “It’s seriously meant all right. We’re both under suspicion of having murdered Baldwin Jones—jointly or severally, I suppose the lawyers would put it. Have you an alibi? I haven’t. I could get in or out of my room at the hotel any time I wanted. Easy as winking. I did once when my car broke down coming from Town and everyone was in bed and asleep. I didn’t want to wake them all, so I climbed in. They’ll remember if you ask them—surprised to find me there in the morning. What about you?”

  “Alibi?” repeated Lord Rone. “I don’t know, I’m sure,” and he had rather the air of not quite knowing what the word meant.

  “A hat was found on the scene,” Bobby said. “You all know that. By Linda Blythe. She says she left it there, meaning to take it back with her to Cobblers on her way home. But then it had gone. Or so she says. Unfortunately, she can’t be questioned at the moment. I’ve been trying to find it for some days. It should provide the proof needed. I’ve suspected—indeed, felt sure of—the identity of the murderer for some time, but I hadn’t enough evidence to act on. Now that evidence may have been destroyed.”

  “Whom do you mean?” Lord Rone demanded. “I think we have a right to know.”

  “Don’t ask that, Daddy, please,” Maureen said. “Please don’t.”

  They heard steps approaching. The door of the bungalow opened. Ford was there. He was saying to someone just behind him:

  “Please come in, Sir William. Mr Owen is here and others as well.”

  CHAPTER XXXVII

  “A LONG, LONG SLEEP”

  SIR WILLIAM CAME forward slowly into the lamplit room. Ford followed. None of the others moved or spoke, but they all watched intently. He, too, was dishevelled, bareheaded, all his clothing in disarray, his expression one of utter fatigue. His face was slightly scratched and bleeding a little. He stumbled as he walked and when he sat down on the nearest chair, it was more as if he collapsed upon it, and might indeed have collapsed instead upon the floor but for Ford’s guiding hand from behind He said:

  “You will excuse me. I am so tired. I have been wandering out there in the mist—in the mist like a lost soul for I don’t know how long. Then I met our friend here.” He indicated Ford with a gesture of one hand. “He insisted on my joining you.”

  “It was in Higgles Lane across the fields where I saw the gentleman,” Ford said. “Almost the same place where Mr Longton was.”

  “We are quite an assembly.” Sir William said, blinking at them from half-shut eyes that seemed to shrink even from that soft lamplight. “What is it that has brought us all here together? Strange. No, thank you”—this was to Bobby, who had filled a cup with coffee from the pot keeping hot on the oil stove and had brought it to him, only to have it waved aside. “All I want is a sleep,” Sir William said. “A long, long sleep. And sound. I’ve been wandering out there—I almost thought for years. Lost in the fog. Lost—for ever lost. I wonder—”

  “Why?” Bobby asked. He was still holding the cup of coffee he had poured out—black and strong it was. He asked again: “Why were you out in the fog so late?”

  “Ask our dear little Maureen,” Sir William said as he waved a hand towards her. “Do you know, I think I’ll have that coffee after all if I may? It may keep me awake and I don’t want to sleep just yet—not yet. I won’t either—not yet. Thank you.” He took the cup Bobby gave him and began to drink. “Black and strong,” he said. “Black and strong,” he repeated and went on: “You know, Mr Owen, I’ve been watching you. I’ve been afraid of you. I’ve dreamed of you. I expect the hunted man does tend to dream of the hunter close upon his tracks. Quite a long time before I understood my danger came rather from dear little Maureen, little fool Maureen, Maureen who hardly knows the difference between the stage and life, between acting and reality.”

  “I was trying to help you,” Maureen said. “I promised I would. She made me take a Bible and I held it and I promised.”

  “What do you mean, Maureen?” Lord Rone demanded. “Promised who—what?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned sharply towards Bobby. “He doesn’t know what he is saying. He must be out of his mind.”

  “I don’t think so,” Bobby said and he spoke to Maureen. “Then you knew what I only suspected?” he asked. “Did you?”

  “Aunt Bella knew,” Maureen said. “She told me. I heard her crying all one night through. Have you ever heard someone you rather liked and had always known crying all night long? That wasn’t acting; that was real enough. If I never knew the difference before, I did then. I mean real crying, not just when you feel you want to, but crying because there’s nothing left to you but to lie still and cry. I think I almost knew before, because I knew what Uncle Bill said about the hat wasn’t true, because he was wearing it when he came, and then you couldn’t help seeing there was something between Aunt Bella and Baldwin Jones. I should have liked to kill him myself.”

  “He had letters from her,” Sir William said, rousing himself from the slumber into which he had seemed to be falling. He held himself upright, fighting off by an effort of will the sleep that oppressed him. “After it was over,” he said, “I took the letters from him.”

  “Not all she had written,” Maureen said. “He kept half of them back. He was that kind of beast. Aunt Bella knew where he lived because she had been there, so she told me, and I went and I got them and I burned them. And then Mr Owen came, and, of course, he would; he always does. So I said they were mine. I’ve told an awful lot of lies,” she added meditatively. “Not that I care.”

  “Really, Maureen,” said Lord Rone, even more hopelessly than ever before.

  “I say, Maureen,” said Jack Longton. “You have been going it. Oh, I say,” and then he could say no more.

  “Ought to be in the dock,” muttered Ford from behind.

  “I wasn’t going to have anything horrid happening to Uncle Bill if I cou
ld help it,” Maureen said defiantly. “I promised Aunt Bella I wouldn’t, and I didn’t want myself, and I don’t suppose Uncle Bill ever meant to, not really. Aunt Bella kept saying it was a kind of accident and I expect it was.”

  “He wouldn’t give me her letters back,” Sir William said in his faint, slow, wandering voice. “I wonder—is there any more of that coffee left? Black and strong, blacker, stronger.” His head dropped forward as if sleep were overcoming him as he spoke and then with an almost visible effort of the will, he jerked himself upright. He took the coffee Bobby brought him and drank it off. It seemed to revive him for the moment. He said: “Never kill anyone, not even the man who is trying to take your wife from you, trying to make her run away with him, not even if there’s a figure on a knife that’s come alive and whispers, whispers, whispers: ‘Kill, for that’s what I was made for, what you were born for. Kill, kill,’ she whispered and never stopped. You see, I got it out of Bella that she was going to meet him that night. But I went instead of her and he grinned and laughed and said she would come to it sooner or later. And I thought perhaps that was true, so I killed him.”

  There was a silence then. It lasted only a moment, but it was a long, strange moment, a moment that seemed as though in it there passed long hours, long days. Ford was the first to break it. He murmured, but in a murmur that in that strange silence sounded like the blast of a distant trumpet:

  “He’s said it now.”

  “He is in no state to say anything,” Lord Rone protested. “In his present condition he can’t be held responsible.”

  Sir William, unheeding, went on:

  “Excusable, no doubt, in the circumstances, but still an error, a mistake. I recognize that now. But he really shouldn’t have laughed. I really don’t know why I am rambling on like this. An intolerable old bore, you must all be saying.”