‘Again is Shields as successful as he claims to be in selling his stuff? He boasts of a very comfortable income from his sales and yet does not seem to spend much money—economy or scarcity? Shields is certainly not a really well-known man, but then I believe some artists have private connections they do well out of. He seems, too, to have been the chief suspect of the French police till his apparently impregnable alibi satisfied them. Personally I don’t like alibis, seen too much of them. Every rogue is of the elder Mr. Weller’s opinion. Even a grave in the churchyard alibi may be a fake—twin brother perhaps.’
It was some time before Bobby roused himself from the deep thought in which he now became lost and wrote down the next name on his list:
‘Eudes’.
Of the schoolmaster, Bobby had less to write. The association, perhaps suspicious, perhaps innocent, with Shields he had already dealt with. Now Bobby noted his undisguised eagerness to secure money for starting his projected journal from which he hoped such great things and the fact that such fanaticism as his may easily take a man far.
‘Anti-clericalism,’ Bobby wrote, ‘is itself a kind of religious fanaticism, and religious fanatics are unpredictable. Of course, starting a paper in France is much easier and simpler than it would be in England, and is often an ambitious politician’s first step. Eudes is ambitious enough, that is fairly evident, and very likely he sees his paper as the first step to high political office. Though he would need very much less capital for the enterprise than would be required in England, it would still probably be very much more than he would have any chance of raising in the ordinary way.
‘You have to remember, though, that he is one of the three suspects with an apparently sound alibi, since he was attending a political conference at the time at Dijon. I suppose one can slip away from political conferences and Dijon is not so far from here, but I take it his alibi was checked at the time, though goodness knows how carefully.’
Of the next name Bobby put down:
‘Abbé Taylour’,
there was even less to write. He was one of the three who had an alibi, since apparently he had been ill at the time of the murder. But he himself had said that his fever had gone by the time a doctor saw him and it is not difficult to sham a few symptoms that a doctor with no reason to be doubtful, would accept as genuine. The sole ground for suspicion in his case seemed to be that he was a somewhat mysterious person come suddenly to live near where a mysterious murder presently occurred. Bobby was conscious, too, of a vague feeling that in some way the regular hanging out of a lamp at night was somehow of importance and yet he could not think how that could be. No possible connection, it would seem, between a lantern high up upon the hill-side and a murder occurring in the valley far below.
Next was written:
‘Abbé Granges, curé of Citry-sur-l’eau’,
and there, of course, what Bobby emphasized was the fact that the curé was actually in possession of uncut diamonds that once admittedly had belonged to the murdered woman. True, he said they had been a free gift, but of that there was no proof. Again he had been upon the spot about the time of the murder, he had apparently overheard the quarrel and Camion s threat, and, as in Père Trouché’s case, might have seen the opportunity to use such threats as cover for his own contemplated crime. Was it possible, too, that the visit he had induced Camion to make to the bishop had been for the purpose of diverting any possible suspicion from himself? A far-fetched notion, perhaps, and yet in such a mirk of fog and doubt one had to consider every possibility. Remarkable, too, that living in such extreme poverty as seemed to be the case—even as Bobby had heard, taking long walks in the winter to keep himself warm so as to save fuel—he yet spoke continuously of his project for restoring the Citry church to its former glory. There was his tale of ‘l’oncle d’Amerique’ certainly, but that might well be merely a blind. Bobby shook his head as he put all this down. It was at least susceptible of being interpreted as evidence of guilt.
Finally Bobby wrote the names of
‘Mr. and Mrs. Williams’,
He dwelt on their tenancy of the Pépin Mill which he did not believe for one moment was merely a coincidence, but added that on the theory of their guilt their sudden departure seemed hard to understand since no fresh threat to them had appeared. If they were innocent, though, they might well have decided that they didn’t want to have anything more to do with the Pépin Mill and its mysteries. Bobby dwelt, too, on all the many odd and suspicious facts about them he had noted, their attempt to bully Lucille, their attempt to drive him himself out of the village, and other such details.
‘They were at the Pépin Mill in my belief,’ he wrote finally, ‘neither for health nor for holiday, but for some purpose of their own, and, in view of their record, probably a criminal purpose. Is it the diamonds supposed to have been in Miss Polthwaite’s possession that they think are still somewhere in the garden or on the premises and are trying to find? If so, how do they know about them? Why do they think the stuff is still there? If they do think so, are they right? If so, have they found it and is that why they cleared out in such a hurry? Did they commit the crime, and did they know the diamonds were still somewhere in or near the mill for the very good reason that they had failed to find them? Apparently they were never seen in the village till they rented the mill and they claim they were in Paris at the time of the murder. But I suppose that alibi was not checked, since, when the investigation was on, they had not been heard of—they were then in fact in the position of the unknown “X”, a detective has always to keep in mind. In any case I still stick to it that alibis, like promises and piecrusts, are made to be broken.’
He paused and for a long time remained frowning and deep in thought. Then he took his pen again and wrote more slowly:
‘Well, to sum up, this is how it stands.
‘Take motive first:
I. GREED.
A. Camion.
Camion needed money to realize ambitions Miss Polthwaite had herself aroused. She had promised him money and after their quarrel might have refused it.
B. Volny.
He was kept short by his well-to-do father and had talked about going to America to train for professional boxing.
C. The curé.
He needed it and apparently expected to procure it, to rebuild his church.
D. Eudes.
He required it to start his projected paper and realize his political ambitions.
2. ALIBI.
Alibis, by implication or directly, are claimed by Williams, Eudes, Shields, the Abbé Taylour.
3. IDENTITY (of time and place).
Camion, the curé, Père Trouché, are known to have been near the mill at the time of the murder.
4. ILL FEELING.
A. Père Trouché had been threatened by Miss Polthwaite with the police and boasts of revenging himself on those who offend him.
B. Camion is known to have quarrelled with Miss Polthwaite that night and to have uttered violent threats.
C. Volny is said to have resented her show of friendship towards Camion.
5. CHARACTER.
Both Camion and Volny have shown a tendency to resort to violence, Camion when he felt his “honour’’ injured, Volny against those he believed weaker than himself. Both conditions apply. Père Trouché boasts of his revenges and is under some suspicion of having killed already. Williams has a criminal record.’
Bobby once more paused to re-read what he had written and frowned again to contemplate so many indications all pointing different ways. Then he wrote:
If you look at and read everything from the very beginning over again carefully, you will see—it is of course perfectly obvious, even a child at school couldn’t miss it—that the murderer’s name may be there on record, staring us right in the face all the time. But even so, it doesn’t help—not, I mean, from the official point of view which only considers the solid proof you can rub a jury’s collective nose into. Still, there it is as, at
least, a clear indication.’
But even yet he added a postscript. It ran:
‘I am waiting anxiously for your reply about those broken bits of wine glasses I sent you. If my luck is in, and Records finds finger-prints on them, any finger-prints at all, I shall chance my arm and go to the police commissaire. Not that the finger-prints, even if found, will affect anything in this letter or any of my previous ideas. But I shall gamble, I shall have to, on my other guess being right. Only if it’s wrong, I shall probably find myself advised to return home by the next train and not meddle with other people’s business. I shall be on the fidgets till your letter gets here.’
He had scarcely written these last words when Madame Camion came out from the hotel with a letter that had just arrived. He opened it eagerly and found within two sets of photographs of clearly defined finger-prints.
“That means me for the commissaire,” Bobby told himself uncomfortably, “and quite likely me put on the train and packed off back to England for an interfering, fussy fool. Got to chance it, though.”
He noticed that Madame Camion was lingering near. Evidently there was something she wanted to tell him. When she saw that she had his attention, she said to him: “There is news about that poor Monsieur Williams. It seems he is less sober in Paris than here, for now one hears he has been in trouble with the police and they put him in the shade for a day or two.”
‘In the shade’ is French slang for prison, and Madame chuckled again as she moved away, for Williams had never been a favourite of hers. But Bobby’s face was very grave, for to him it was as though all suddenly he had been aware of the chill presence of death passing slowly by.
CHAPTER XVIII
BOBBY TALKS
It had been not far from a full day’s work to get down upon paper and to consider all the various details in all their different and generally doubtful implications, mere hints indeed, that in the end seemed to him to point so clearly in one unwelcome direction.
Nor did Bobby take immediate action when at long last this conclusion had become firmly established in his mind. For one thing, he was certain that if there were any justification for those chill fears Madame Camion’s story of Williams’s trouble with the police in Paris had put into his mind, then it was too late for that to be prevented which he so darkly feared. For another, he was very keenly aware of the heavy responsibility that would be his if he decided to inform authority of the conclusions at which he had now arrived. Once again he found himself remembering wistfully how much easier it had been when his sole duty was to place his views before senior officers, running no other risk than that of a snub if they decided that his theories were unwarranted and that his report had best go into the waste-paper basket.
Now, it was for him alone to decide whether to take action. Easy to keep quiet, to await events, to allow the official investigation to continue without knowledge of the facts that he had gathered. No one could blame him for failing in a mission so difficult, one in which the French police with all their advantages had not succeeded. Only then the guilty would go unpunished; and Bobby’s looks were dark as he thought of the well at the Pépin Mill and of the still living, perhaps still conscious woman thrust down into those black depths. More important yet, suspicion would continue to rest here and there, and Bobby knew well how corroding can be the effects of unfounded suspicion upon all but the strongest characters.
Again, he had to remember that upon his decision rested any chance his employers, Lady Markham and her relatives, might have of recovering their lawful property.
On the other hand, he risked, if his theories and his deductions from the impressions he had noted, proved ill-founded—and that they were correct he had no firm, material proof to show, it was all a matter of argument and reasoning—he risked inflicting great, perhaps irreparable, harm on the person he would then have wrongfully accused. Incidentally it might also lead to unpleasant personal results, to his being asked to curtail his visit to France, to hints reaching Scotland Yard that one of their officers had been meddling foolishly abroad in matters that did not concern him. It would mean a big black mark against his name if that happened.
Yet it was perhaps this fear of possible personal consequences he felt he must not allow to influence him, that helped him in the end to make his decision. All the same he decided to wait till morning before taking the final step of communicating with the authorities. The delay would do no harm, and after a night’s sleep he would be able to review his decisions and see if his resolve seemed weakened or strengthened.
He found it strengthened, but when he came downstairs for his morning rolls and coffee, he found also that his projected journey to Barsac would be unnecessary, for almost the first thing he heard was that once again the commissaire of police was in the village, that he had established himself at the Mairie, that, in spite of the early hour, he was already beginning to interview people. Of this, too, he had further proof when presently a message, extremely polite in form but all the same equally firm, informed him that Monsieur the Commissaire Clauzel would esteem greatly the privilege of a short interview with Monsieur Owen, at Monsieur Owen’s entire convenience, at any hour before ten that morning.
Bobby sent back word that naturally he would be only too willing to attend as requested, and that, in fact, he believed himself to be in possession of certain facts he had already determined it would be well to place before Monsieur Clauzel.
“Monsieur Clauzel,” Bobby said to Madame Camion who, pale, restless, and red-eyed, was wandering uneasily to and fro, between reception desk and door, “is the official of the police who was here before?”
Madame Camion promptly began to cry, slowly and with difficulty, for tears come less easily as the years pass.
“He searches my son for the guillotine,” she said, a touch of wildness in her voice. “He hunts him down. Where is the good God that He permits such things? Since I swear to you that Charles is innocent, innocent as the blessed saints themselves.”
“That is the important thing,” Bobby said, though he thought he detected in the vehemence of these last words a dreadful fear in the mother’s heart that possibly her son was in truth guilty. “The innocent have nothing to fear.”
“The innocent have suffered before now,” she answered with the same touch of wildness latent in her voice so that Bobby feared she might at any moment break down. “He is there at the Mairie, this Clauzel, he sits there and asks questions, lays traps, twists answers, makes things seem different, so that if a boy sharpens a knife, there is the proof that it is for murder. Next, it will be the juge d’instruction.”
“They seek only to discover the truth,” Bobby repeated.
“They have sent for you, they have not sent for Charles,” the poor woman said, and evidently felt, as Bobby himself felt, that that was no good sign. She added: “Besides, for that matter, he is not here.” Seeing that Bobby looked startled at this piece of information, she said quickly: “Oh, he has not run away. He went very early, before even Monsieur the Commissaire arrived.”
“Do you know where he has gone?” Bobby asked, hoping that to all the other complication was not to be added yet another flight or disappearance.
“He did not say. I think it is in search of Volny fils. It was foolish, their quarrel. If it was for fear of him that Volny went, then Charles feels it is for him to get him to return. Oh, Charles will return,” she added, for Bobby was still looking doubtful. “He went once before to try to find him and was back for the evening service. He promised he would try to be back to-day in time for that.”
“Well, I hope he will,” Bobby said. “It is not wise to be absent at these times.”
“In the village they whisper, whisper all the time, but when I come near they are silent,” Madame Camion went on. “They will whisper and whisper and whisper till they whisper us out of our minds. Charles, he is calm and proud, oh, so proud and calm—without. But within it is different. He said to me that none will be content till the
y have driven him to seek his own death himself. Then perhaps they will know remorse.”
“Remorse?” repeated Bobby, startled and uneasy, for he felt young Camion was exactly the type to stage a dramatic suicide in a state of gloomy anticipation of how sorry every one would be when finally his innocence was established. “Not they, not likely. They would only feel how right they had been; and even if some one else were proved guilty, they would all remain quite sure he had been mixed up in it somehow. He is not going to give in so easily as all that, is he?”
Madame Camion looked impressed.
“I will say all that to him,” she told Bobby. Then she added: “It has comforted me to talk to you.”
With that she went off and Bobby retired to his room and collected all the material he had got together. When he came down Madame Camion was there again, looking more troubled than ever.
“Lucille Simone,” she told Bobby, “is proclaiming to all the world that she and Charles are affianced. How can that be? To me, to his father, he has said nothing, and yet, she, a young girl, proclaims it aloud. What is one to think of such happenings?”
“Well, for one thing that Mademoiselle Simone is sure of your son’s innocence,” Bobby answered, but felt, too, that the girl’s gesture had more than a touch of the defiant, of the melodramatic, not altogether consistent with assured and certain confidence in the young man’s innocence.
Murder Abroad Page 20
