Four Strange Women

by E. R. Punshon

  E.R. Punshon

  FOUR STRANGE WOMEN

  “You think it’s murder, don’t you?”

  “There is no proof of that as yet, sir,” Bobby answered cautiously.

  “No, I know, but it’s what you think,” Glynne answered. After a pause, he added: “So do I.”

  Viscount Byatt was found dead in his car without a mark on him. Millionaire Andy White’s corpse was discovered in a remote cottage in Wales – no clue to the cause of death. When a grotesque-looking visitor calls on Detective-Sergeant Bobby Owen in the middle of the night, the latter’s help is urgently needed – if a third young man isn’t to suffer the same murderous and mystifying fate. Accompanied by his fiancée Olive Farrar, Bobby is up against more than one femme fatale in this delicious and diabolical golden age mystery.

  Four Strange Women, originally published in 1940, is the fourteenth novel in the Bobby Owen mystery series. This new edition features an introduction by crime fiction historian Curtis Evans.

  “What is distinction? The few who achieve it step – plot or no plot – unquestioned into the first rank… in the works of Mr. E.R. Punshon we salute it every time.” Dorothy L. Sayers

  INTRODUCTION

  “Take it, dear, the book and me together. Where the heart lies let the brain lie also.” Slightly paraphrasing Robert Browning’s poem “One Word More” (“Take them, love….”), E.R. Punshon inscribed this sentiment to his future wife, Sarah Houghton, in a copy of his novel Constance West (1905), published a half century after Browning’s poem first saw publication, in the collection Men and Women (1855). The couple wed that same year, 1905, and their union would last another half century, until Punshon’s death, at the age of 84, in December 1956. Sarah Punshon survived her longtime spouse by fewer than six months, passing away in May 1957.

  Correspondence between the Punshons and Dorothy L. Sayers held at Wheaton College in Wheaton, Illinois indicates that the couple had a close marriage (though no children came from their union), with Sarah Punshon taking an interest in her husband’s writing and attending Detection Club events with him until the end of his life. Christianna Brand, another prominent mystery writer who became a member of the Detection Club after the Second World War, recalled seeing the elderly couple at Club dinners in the 1950s. In a typical example of what might most charitably be termed her affectionately catty reminiscences, Brand noted that Mrs. Punshon (now an octogenarian like her husband) tended to doze during long-winded guest lectures, even though the husband and wife always made sure of getting good seats at the High Table so they could hear everything.

  Despite the evidence that his marriage with Sarah Houghton was quite a contented one, E.R. Punshon in his fourteenth Bobby Owen detective novel, the masterfully bizarre Four Strange Women (1940), portrays darker potentialities in romantic relationships between men and women. As one character tellingly observes, “there’s nothing sends a man to the devil so quick as when the wrong woman gets hold of him.” Like The Bath Mysteries (1936), Four Strange Women is a serial killer novel, one ahead of its time in its determination to plumb the darker depths of human nature, without flinching over what unpleasant things might be encountered in the murk.

  Four Strange Women follows immediately upon the events of the previous Bobby Owen novel, Murder Abroad (1939). Having successfully performed for the well-connected Lady Markham a private commission involving the investigation of a murder in France, Bobby has been rewarded by this consummate string-pulling lady with the position of inspector in the Wychshire county police force. This post includes duties as private secretary to Colonel Glynne, chief constable of Wychshire; and when the novel opens, Bobby, having returned to his London flat after a date with his fiancée, Olive Farrar, plans to turn in for the night in order to be ready for an appointment with Colonel Glynne in Midwych, the county town of Wychshire. His sleep is forestalled, however, when he is visited by Lord Henry Darmoor, the polo-playing second son of Lord Whitfield, and Darmoor’s fiancée, Gwen Barton, from whom he learns the strange circumstances behind the recent mysterious deaths in the hinterlands of young Viscount Byatt and millionaire’s scion Andy White. The former was “found dead in his car….right away in the middle of Dartmoor” while the latter was discovered expired “in a cottage miles far from everywhere in Wales.” In both cases there was no indication of the cause of death of either man, both of whom had been spending freely on jewelry and passing time at the Cut and Come Again, the notorious West End nightclub (now ostensibly reformed) that features in three earlier Bobby Owen detective novels, Mystery of Mr Jessop (1937), The Dusky Hour (1938) and Suspects – Nine (1939).

  Darmoor and his fiancée tell Bobby that they fear another young man, an old prep school friend of Darmoor’s named Billy Baird, may meet a fate similar to that of Byatt and White. He too has been recently throwing his money about, spending more than he can afford both on jewelry and a caravan that he has driven up to lonely Wychwood Forest, near Midwych, in Bobby’s new jurisdiction. Attractive young women have been linked to the three men, all of these women friends of each other with connections to Wychshire: Hazel Hannay, Lady May Grayson, and, most inconveniently of all for Bobby, Becky Glynne, daughter of his new employer. Confronted with this disconcerting assemblage of odd facts, Bobby finds himself beset with foreboding about his future:

  It was simple fact, with no trace of fantasy or imagination, that two young men of wealth and position, Andy White and Viscount Byatt, had died in strange circumstances strangely resemblant. Now it seemed another young man, this Mr. Baird, was traveling by the same road, perhaps to the same destination....Again that thought occurred to him which once before had flashed though his mind, that Colonel Glynne had not merely been requiring some pleasant and amiable and well-recommended young man to help him in the routine work of his office, but rather was seeking even desperately for help as he felt drawing closer about him strange forces of darkness and terror.

  When Bobby arrives in Wychshire he finds ample ground for his fears. During his consultation with the sorely-troubled Colonel Glynne he learns that an incinerated corpse has been discovered in the ashen remains of Billy Baird’s burnt-out caravan. Has some sort of serial killer of males struck yet again, like some remorseless angel of death, and are more killings meant to follow? Bobby once again goes in pursuit of the truth, traveling to various far-flung rural locales on the island as well some very dark corners of London indeed. In the course of his investigations, Bobby encounters yet another “strange woman,” an enigmatic and elusive singer of Welsh ballads named Jane Jones. What does she know about this singular case, surely the most outré of Bobby’s career?

  With its grim plot that in many ways resembles noir rather than garden variety classical detective fiction, Four Strange Women is one of the most intriguing and accomplished of E.R. Punshon’s crime novels. The book reads rather like Agatha Christie’s famous serial killer mystery The ABC Murders as darkly reimagined by, say, modern crime writer Val McDermid. Fans of Punshon’s Detection Club colleague John Dickson Carr also should readily detect resemblance to the memorable Grand Guignol found in Carr’s shuddery shockers. Punshon himself was a great admirer of Carr’s detective fiction, during his years as a book reviewer for the Manchester Guardian repeatedly heaping praise on the expatriate American mystery writer for the scope of his imagination. “Mr. John Dickson Carr’s special gift is his power by the sheer magic of his writing to create an atmosphere so full of wonder and of dread that in it we are willing to believe almost anything,” Punshon admiringly observed in his review of Carr’s The Hollow Man (1935) (The Three Coffins in the US), placing his finger on the source of much of Carr’s perennial appeal to generations of mystery connoisseurs. Of another Carr novel, The Burning Court (1937), Pu
nshon declared that “as an adventure in diablerie it is a remarkable and outstanding achievement,” while of Carr’s The Reader Is Warned (1939), he avowed that “the manner in which is conveyed an unearthly atmosphere of wonder and dread” proved that Carr possessed the precious “gift of imagination.”

  E.R. Punshon possessed such a gift as well, and it is this gift that enriches the narrative of Four Strange Women, where Bobby Owen finds himself involved in a bone chilling case of unusual moral dimension that provokes him to meditate, as he envisions his impending nuptials with Olive Farrar, on the strange mystery that is love:

  Was it really this strange passion or instinct or necessity of life, or what you will, which men call love….that had traced the dark and dreadful pattern of secret murder now slowly taking form and shape before his eyes? Was it really, he asked himself, of the same kin and kind, coming under the same category, as the steady and tranquil force of his own feeling for Olive?... Was love, then, he asked himself bewilderingly, a tree like that other one which bore upon itself the fruit of good and evil—fruit of both life and death?

  Curtis Evans

  CHAPTER I

  BEGINNINGS

  Detective-Sergeant Bobby Owen had spent a most enjoyable evening—dinner, theatre, dance, supper—with his fiancée, Olive Farrar, and was now on his way home. In his pocket was his application for permission to transfer to the Wychshire County Police, and on the morrow—or to-day, rather, for now it was in the small hours—he was travelling up to Midwych, the county town of Wychshire and a busy manufacturing centre, there to interview Colonel Glynne, the chief constable.

  The fortunate conclusion of a recent semi-private investigation on which he had been engaged had put money in his pocket, won him influential friends, and gained him the promise of an appointment as inspector in the Wychshire county force, with special duties as private secretary to the elderly Colonel Glynne, and with the additional prospect, therefore, of some day succeeding him as chief constable. Indeed the rich, enchanting words, ‘deputy chief constable’, had already been breathed to Olive by Lady Markham, who, in gratitude for Bobby’s services in the semi-private case already mentioned, had been busy pulling those necessary strings by which such comfortable appointments are generally to be obtained in our happy land of England.

  Bobby, therefore, was in a very contented, not to say complacent mood as he strolled along. He wondered a little what his future chief would be like. Lady Markham had described him as both efficient and considerate to those working under him, though with a bee in his bonnet about football pools, against which he had been conducting a kind of crusade. He had indeed obtained a certain notoriety by an attack he had delivered on them in public, in which he described them as a menace to society and produced figures to show how badly trade in Midwych was suffering from the diversion to the pools of money that would have been so much better spent in other more productive and useful ways.

  Bobby wondered if his future work would include taking part in this campaign. He would be quite willing to do so. Not one of the ways in which he wasted his own money, and every policeman, like every social worker, knows well what harm is done by unrestricted gambling. A little awkward though, if it were true, as he had heard, that a son of the chief constable’s, a young man who had occasionally himself played as an amateur in first division football, was rather a devotee of those same pools. However, that, Bobby supposed, would be papa’s trouble, not his. He turned into the street in which he lived and noticed without interest a large, imposing-looking car standing near his door. He supposed vaguely that perhaps the doctor occupying the next house had bought a new car and was now suffering under the doctor’s tenth plague— a night call. As he passed it on his way to his own door, he was aware of an odd impression that some one from within the car’s dark interior was watching him intently. It was almost like a physical sensation and one curiously disturbing, this idea he had that from out that darkness so intent a gaze was fixed upon him. He almost turned back to ask who was there and why such intensity of interest, but then, putting aside an idea he felt absurd, he inserted his latchkey in his door and entered. To his surprise his landlady, who should have been in bed long ago, made a prompt appearance. “There’s a man to see you, Mr. Owen, sir,” she announced.

  “At this time,” protested Bobby, for by now it was less late than early, nearly two in fact, since theatre, supper, dance, escorting Olive back to her little hat shop where she lived near Piccadilly, had eaten up the night.

  “I couldn’t get rid of him,” the landlady explained resentfully. “Said he was going to stop if it was till the milk came. I don’t like his looks,” she added, “and me all alone, and should have been in my bed at a Christian hour long ago.”

  “Too bad,” said Bobby, “I’m sorry.”

  “As villainous looking he is as ever I saw,” the landlady went on, “so I asked him if he would like a drop of beer, and I gave it him in a glass with a bit of butter rubbed on it so as to leave his fingerprints and then you’ll know who he is.”

  “By Jove,” said Bobby admiringly, “that was smart.”

  “I won’t say it wasn’t,” admitted the landlady complacently; “but then I’ve not had a Scotland Yard gentleman with me so long without picking up a bit of how it’s done.”

  “We shall have,” Bobby told her gravely, “to get you a job on the staff at Central. Did he say what his name was?”

  “His sort,” sniffed the landlady, “has as many names as a cat has lives.”

  “So they have,” agreed Bobby, “Smith to-day and Brown to-morrow. You run along to bed. I’m sorry you’ve been kept up. Most likely it’s only an old ‘con’ trying to borrow the price of a bed because he’s sure of an honest job to-morrow and wants to look his best. Half a crown will get rid of him.”

  He bade her good night and opened the door of his sitting-room. One of the ugliest men he had ever seen was there and got up as he entered. A low forehead; a long, crooked nose; a mouth framing teeth too widely separated and irregular in shape, and stretching, it seemed, almost from ear to ear; ears themselves enormous and standing out nearly at right angles; eyes small and hidden, indeterminate in colour, the left eye with a cast in it; all that combined with a squat, ungainly figure and sprawling hands and feet to produce an effect so remarkable that Bobby found himself reflecting that fingerprints would hardly be required for identification if the Records Department at the Yard knew anything of him. He appeared to have omitted to shave, but this unfortunate impression was, in fact, due merely to an abnormal growth of beard, so that a shave twice a day at least was necessary to avoid an appearance of not having shaved at all. His hands, his brows, his ears, all showed, too, the same strong growth of hair, and Bobby noticed that though his clothes looked of good cut and material, they were old and worn, and as shapeless as if the coat had never known a hanger or the trousers a press. He was smoking a short pipe full of some exceptionally vile tobacco, so strong that Bobby, getting a whiff of the smoke, nearly choked. But when the stranger spoke from behind the vile, odorous cloud that half hid him, his voice was singularly pleasing, of a rich, musical tone—organ tones they might have been called. He said as Bobby came in:—

  “Mr. Owen, isn’t it? You must think it awful cheek, my hanging on like this, but I had simply got to see you.”

  “It is a bit late, isn’t it?” Bobby agreed, none too cordially.

  “Yes, I know. I do apologize. Only it seemed the only chance, if you’re buzzing off in the morning.”

  “How do you know that?” Bobby asked sharply.

  “Cripes,” answered the other, “everyone knows it. I’ve been waiting hours with poor old Gwen hanging on outside like grim death.” He dashed to the window, let the blind up, stood there, waved both hands above his head and went back to the chair in which he had been sitting when Bobby entered but that Bobby, himself still standing, had not invited him to re-occupy. “That was to tell Gwen I shan’t be long now,” he explained confidentially.
“She must be fed up, waiting out there, but she wouldn’t come in, though it’s her idea really. You see, she gets her hats or something from Miss Farrar and so she’s heard about you.”

  “Look here,” began Bobby with an impatience slightly controlled by this information that he was talking to a friend of a customer of Olive’s—and Bobby had long since learnt how sacred is the aura surrounding that word ‘customer’, more especially when the customer it refers to is the customer of a small West End hat shop, “it’s jolly late and—”

  “Yes, I know,” the other pleaded in that rich, deep voice of his, “but don’t throw me out, there’s a good chap. It’s important and I’ve been waiting hours with nothing but a glass of beer they gave me here. Nice woman and nice beer but glass a bit greasy outside. I had to wipe it.” And Bobby perceived a glass polished till it shone again by aid of a large linen handkerchief lying near that its owner now put in his pocket. Certainly on that glass no trace of any finger-print would remain. Bobby reflected that not for the first time over-subtlety had defeated itself, and he wondered if this stranger had suspected the purpose of the slightly greasy exterior. He said:—

  “Do you mind telling me who you are and what you want? Sit down, won’t you?” he added, partly under the influence of that magic word ‘customer’, but still more under that of the other’s deep, resonant tones, that really it was hardly an exaggeration to compare to the tones of a distant organ.

  “My name’s Darmoor, Henry Darmoor,” the stranger explained. “My old man’s Lord Whitfield, you know, the diplomatic bloke. He wanted me to go in for it, too, but you couldn’t have an ambassador with a mug like mine. Couldn’t be done. He did see that at last, so he pushed me on the Stock Exchange, not that I ever go near the beastly place. But I’m supposed to be a bit of a dab at polo. Oh, and I’m engaged to Gwen Barton.”