“Well, we didn’t,” the other repeated. He turned to the door he had just come through and opened it and shouted: “Ma, did you hear any shooting?” He turned back and saw Bobby looking at the broken window. “Someone’s just chucked a stone through there,” he said. “That’ll be what you heard. One of the village boys. I caught some of them prowling round the other night and chased them off and I expect they’re getting their own back.”
A small elderly woman sidled nervously into the room.
“What is it, Joe?” she asked. “Supper will be spoilt. Is it those boys again?”
“Gentleman here says he heard a shot. You didn’t hear anything, did you? I mean, except the window smashing.”
“Oh, no, Joe,” she answered, blinking first at him and then at Bobby. She produced spectacles and put them on as if to see Bobby more clearly. “What sort of shot does the gentleman mean?” she asked.
The man guffawed at this.
“Just a shot,” he said. “You know—bang! Like that.”
“Oh,” she said doubtfully.
She was pale, thin, elderly, with a wisp of grey hair lying across her forehead. She wore a loose, not very clean overall and she still held a large kitchen spoon in one hand. She blinked at Bobby from behind the spectacles she had now adjusted and said again:
“I didn’t hear anything, Joe. Nothing at all.”
“No more did I,” Joe said aggressively. “No shot I mean. There wasn’t one.”
Bobby was quite certain they were lying and he wondered why. The little nervous woman sidled away back to the kitchen, though first with a timid, deprecatory glance at her companion as if to ask his permission.
“I’m sorry,” Bobby said. “I was certainly under the impression it was a shot I heard. Apparently I was mistaken.”
‘‘That’s right,” the other grunted. “Something else it was.”
No use persisting, Bobby told himself, in the face of these deliberate denials. He said:
“Oh, well, it’s all right then. Interesting old place you have here. My name’s Owen, by the way. I suppose you are Mr. Williams. I heard your name mentioned in the village. I only got here to-day. I’m staying at the hotel. I’m on a sketching tour. I’m looking out for good bits to do. I wonder if you and Mrs. Williams would mind my having a try here. The mill would make rather a jolly little sketch, I think, if I got it right.”
Williams looked slightly taken aback at this request. It seemed as if he did not quite know what to say, and Bobby noticed that he glanced at the door behind him as if wishing to appeal to his wife. To prevent any refusal getting uttered, Bobby went on quickly:
“I’ll be off now. Sorry to have disturbed you. Too bad about that window. Kids want talking to. I’ll look in some other time if I may. Good night. Jolly to meet English people. Good night again.”
Without giving Williams any chance to reply Bobby waved a hand and walked briskly away. He did not look back but he was sure that Williams had come to the door and was standing there, watching him go, and he thought that Mrs. Williams, too, still firmly clasping that large kitchen spoon, was watching meekly from behind her husband’s bulky form.
“A queer couple,” Bobby said to himself as he walked away. “Don’t like ’em myself. Don’t think they like me, either. What are they up to? Are they up to anything? Why did they lie about that shot? They can’t have helped hearing it. The man looked scared but she didn’t, only nervous of hubby as if he bullied her. Perhaps she really didn’t hear anything.”
The door of the mill closed, closed with a bang. The light that had poured through it was shut off. On a sudden impulse Bobby crouched down and waited. Nothing happened. The silence of the night lay unbroken around and he heard no more of the small secret rustling that before had seemed to follow him. He waited still and then, sure no attempt was being made to watch him, got to his feet and walked on. He was not quite certain of his direction now. Anyhow, he must keep the mill behind him and then he would come to the stream, even if he missed the bridge. He hoped he would find it, though, he did not want to have to wade the stream as had done the unknown fugitive. He noticed an erection on his right and saw that it was a framework above a well; the well, presumably, in which Miss Polthwaite’s body had been found.
He went nearer and his thoughts were dark and heavy as the night around. There came a vision to his mind of a woman creeping out on such a still, black night as this to end her life by one desperate, downward plunge. He stooped and lifted the cover by which the mouth of the well was closed. It was heavy and he had to use both hands. There was a small protective wall around and a frame above from which rope and bucket could be let down for drawing water. No one could possibly have fallen in by accident, so small was the aperture and so well protected. He peered down into the blackness he had uncovered. Straight, damp walls of brick and far below a blackness and a void. Difficult to imagine any one deliberately ending life in such a way, by leaping down into that dreadful and attentive darkness. He found himself shuddering at the thought, and now he seemed to have a vision more horrid still, that of an unconscious body, the helpless unconscious body of a woman carried here and thrust down, down into that pit of darkness. He seemed to hear the sullen splash echoing slowly upwards, to see figures slinking hurriedly away. Or, perhaps, still more horrible, the victim had not been unconscious but had known her fate, had sent upwards from the black pit a cry that none but murderers had heard.
Bobby replaced the cover. If it had been like that, then such a crime must not go unpunished, the cry that had issued from those sullen depths must yet be heard. For a sudden conviction had come into his mind that here cruel murder on an old and defenceless woman had been done and that the call had come to him to see that it did not pass unavenged.
“Please God,” he said aloud and walked away.
He found himself trembling a little. That long look he had taken down the dark descent of the well to the sullen gleam of the water so far below, had moved him more profoundly than he knew. He came to the stream, he found the little rickety bridge that crossed it, he walked quickly to shake off the impression still sharp in his mind. He turned from the track he had been following into the main road and from the roadside came a low chuckle and a voice that said:
“This time it seems one is not in such a hurry.”
“What’s that? What? Who’s there? What do you mean?” Bobby asked sharply.
He moved to the spot by the roadside whence the voice had seemed to come. He made out there was some one sitting there, huddled up so as to make form and feature indistinguishable. The voice had been that of a man, though, and it went on now:
“Not one of us others, I think, not of the Auvergne, not of France elsewhere. No, not German either. Russian perhaps? No, English, isn’t it? A voice of a soldier, too, of one who knows how to command. An officer without doubt?”
“I am English but not a soldier,” Bobby answered. “Do you mean some one went by just now?”
“Some one who ran,” the voice answered, “who fled indeed, as if pursued, yet none followed after.”
“Did you see who it was?” Bobby asked eagerly.
“I saw nothing,” came the reply. “Who ever it was, he passed so close I could have touched him. But I saw nothing.”
“You must have,” Bobby said sternly. “It’s dark, but if he passed as close as that, you must have seen something.”
From the huddled form by the roadside came another weird chuckle but no other response.
“You must have seen something,” Bobby insisted.
“But no, monsieur, no,” the other replied. “No, for I am blind, I who speak, I, the Père Trouché, the blind beggar of Citry-sur-l’eau.” Changing his tone to a professional whine, he added: “Of your charity, sir, of your charity, and God will reward you.”
CHAPTER IV
THE BLACK VIRGIN
Bobby gave the old man a small coin and passed on. He had noticed before a café that stood nearly in the cent
re of the village, not far from his hotel. Late as was the hour, it seemed to have plenty of customers still, and in pursuance of his plan to make himself as friendly and familiar with the local inhabitants as possible, Bobby went in and took a seat at a vacant table.
His entry was followed by a kind of general pause and break in all the busy noise and chatter that had been going on. A game of dominoes over which excited shouting had been till now continuous came to a standstill. A furious discussion on market prices ceased abruptly. A roaring argument on something that M. le Maire had either done or not done, sank into whispers. All eyes were turned in Bobby’s direction as a stout man in an apron, apparently the ‘patron’, proprietor of the café, came bustling up.
Bobby began to ask him about the merits of the local ‘cru’. He was aware that almost everywhere in France there is a local wine of distinctive nature, not always of the best quality, perhaps, but often well worth getting acquainted with and at any rate always moderate in price. As it happened the proprietor had an interest in the vineyard from which that of Citry-sur-l’eau came, and he waxed enthusiastic in its praise. Bobby listened gravely, pleased to have found a subject on which he guessed it would always be easy to start a conversation, and yet still acutely conscious of the fact that he remained the centre of attention, to a degree far beyond anything that natural curiosity might account for. He had the impression that there was not only curiosity but an element of hostility and doubt he did not understand.
‘‘They are suspicious,” he thought. “What of? Can Miss Polthwaite’s murder have been a communal affair and are they all guilty and afraid together?”
He dismissed the suggestion as impossible, and he noticed more especially one tall, well-built young fellow, a small head set upon tremendous shoulders, who was seated at a table by himself and who was watching him even more intently than were the rest of the company. Bobby, still talking to the proprietor, or rather still listening to a discourse on the merits of the local ‘cru’, felt he would know this youngster again anywhere, if only from the contrast between his unusually large ears standing out nearly at right angles and the smallness of the rest of the rather indeterminate features of his small round face. It was as if Nature, in forming him, had forgotten his ears, and then, aware at the last moment of this oversight, had snatched a pair belonging to some one else, twice the appropriate size, and hurriedly stuck them on. Bobby wondered why this youngster was watching him so closely, with an hostility and a suspicion, too, even more marked. The question of the local ‘cru’ having been settled by now he said to the proprietor who had talked himself into an excellent humour:
“Who is that youngster sitting there by himself? Is he a visitor here, too?”
The proprietor turned to stare.
“Henri Volny?” he said. “The young Volny? A stranger, my faith, no, his father owns the best farm in all the commune. But evidently he is in a bad temper to-night and when he is in a bad temper and wishes to sit alone—well, it is best so.”
Evidently the young Volny guessed that they spoke of him. He looked angry, very angry indeed, and yet, Bobby thought, frightened, too. He got to his feet. The proprietor took sudden alarm and bustled away, muttering something about fetching the wine he had praised so abundantly. Volny began to move towards Bobby’s table. Bobby took no notice. Producing a cigarette, he lighted it. He thought Volny was about to speak, but the young man seemed to change his mind and left the café. As he went by Bobby noticed that the boots he wore were quite clean, though those of every one in the place were thick with dirt and dust.
Bobby found himself wondering if that was because Volny had changed them after getting those he had worn before soaked through by wading across a running stream? The proprietor returned with the wine and Bobby said: “A fine, strong-looking young fellow, the young Volny. He had the air of an athlete.”
“He is a boxer,” the proprietor explained. “Renowned. He wished even to adopt it as a profession but his father forbade it. He was disappointed, but when one’s father is rich, a farm, vineyards, property—well, he has a right to expect obedience, hasn’t he?”
“Yes, indeed,” agreed Bobby. “In such a case obedience is only prudence. I suppose, then, young Monsieur Volny doesn’t often do much work in the fields himself?”
The proprietor stared.
“But why not?” he asked, “seeing the fields will one day be his own? All this day he has worked at the harvesting like two, like three, like—” said the proprietor, drawing a deep breath, “like four.”
Fortunately at this moment he was called away, much to Bobby’s relief, thus putting an end to an enumeration that seemed as if it might have gone on indefinitely. At any rate, it seemed fairly certain young Volny had changed his shoes, and was that because he had got them wet?
Thoughtfully Bobby sipped his wine, and, though he was no great judge, decided that it deserved at least a proportion of the praise given it by the patron. He observed, too, not without some relief, that the interest taken in him seemed to be lessening. The game of dominoes broke out once more into a spate of protest and argument. The discussion on market prices resumed its stormy way. The merits or de-merits, whichever it was, of Monsieur le Maire once more occupied the attention of the group by the window, all talking at once at the top of their voices. People drifted in and out. Bobby began to hope that his presence was now going to be accepted as normal. Fortunately he felt sure it would be easy to start conversations when he wished to do so, though it would be better, perhaps, not to try to-night. All he would have to do would be to get out his sketch book and begin to make a drawing of some one present. He knew from experience that that would soon result in his being the centre of an interested group. Then a little tact, the purchase of a bottle or two of wine for general consumption, would be enough to break down most barriers. He was wondering, however, whether to-night it would not be better just to drift away back to his hotel and to bed, when the door opened again and there came in that tall youth of the dark and haughty looks, the dominating nose, whom he had seen before and knew to be Charles Camion.
The effect was curious. Of the entry or the exit of no one else, save of Bobby himself, had any notice been taken except for a few conventional shouts of greeting or farewell. But now with this young Camion’s appearance, there seemed a sudden change in the general atmosphere of the room. It was not the silence of curiosity and doubt that had greeted Bobby’s appearance. The game of dominoes continued, but quietly. The production of a double six produced not a murmur, went almost unremarked. The discussion on market prices continued, but in whispers. The group by the window seemed suddenly to lose interest in the crimes or the virtues, whichever it was, of their mayor. One or two of those at other tables got up and sidled out, and Bobby observed that one man, at least, hurriedly crossed himself as he went. Yet whereas Bobby had been the centre of all eyes, at young Camion no one looked.
He went up to the zinc counter and ordered something and stood there, looking slowly round, and where his dark and proud glance rested, there showed at once uneasiness and doubt, and a shuffling of heavy, uncomfortable feet on the boarded floor.
One man joined Camion, and apparently, though Bobby could not hear what was said, made some sort of advance. The rest of the company seemed to think this was a daring thing to do. Camion took not the least notice and the other slunk away. The game of dominoes broke up. The market discussion died into silence. Yet there seemed no hostility. One or two as they were going even shouted a good night to Camion but seemed to take care to do so from the safety of the door. Bobby could not help thinking that it was all a little like what he had seen happen in certain disreputable haunts in London, when colleagues of his put in an unexpected appearance. Yet it was not quite like that either. All that seemed clear was that in some way young Camion had been set apart, that there was about him something of which they stood in awe, that they dreaded, and yet that invested him with a kind of awful fascination.
Camion himse
lf did not speak. He stood there, his face dark and expressionless, and yet Bobby watching him intently noticed signs of nervousness, of tension. He was only too plainly exercising a strong self-restraint and Bobby found himself wondering what would happen if it broke down. He felt certain, too, that behind Camion’s air of pride and aloof indifference there was strong emotion, an even stronger resentment.
People were beginning to drift away now. It was late, certainly, but all the same there was a subtle air of relief about them as they slipped off, as though they felt safer in departing. Bobby heard Camion say abruptly to the man behind the zinc counter:
“Has Volny been here?”
“He was here,” the other answered, “but he went a little while ago. That was before you came in.”
This last sentence had evidently been added by way of excuse or reassurance and Bobby thought that Camion winced as if he realized the underlying implication.
“Then I’ll go, too,” he said, “or there’ll be no one left. I only came to speak to Volny about to-morrow, so don’t be afraid.”
“But why? What for? Afraid of what?” asked the patron from behind, where he was assiduously polishing glasses.
“Afraid that I should come again,” Camion answered very bitterly. “Heap of fools,” Bobby heard him mutter as he turned and left the café.
“The poor lad, now he does not sleep well,” said some one sitting at a table near.
“Who? That young man?” Bobby asked, turning to the speaker. “I thought it was only in the town that one did not sleep, not you who live in the country.”
“In the country also there are those who do not sleep well,” the other answered and got up and went away.
Bobby followed him soon, the prospect of bed not unwelcome, for the day had been long and tiring.
It seemed to him plain that in this apparently quiet and normal little village there were many currents and cross-currents at work, of which some at least, it was only reasonable to conclude, resulted from the Polthwaite tragedy. Had they also anything to do, he wondered, with the missing Polthwaite diamonds?
Murder Abroad Page 4
