Brought to Light: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  “I’m beginning to remember the case,” Bobby said. “It never came up to us at the Yard.”

  “It was all very hush-hush,” Rowley repeated. “The whispers going round were very low whispers indeed. I happened to know of them because an old Indian colleague of mine had a lot to do with handling the case and he wasn’t at all happy about the whole thing. He told me the Duke wanted to take action against the whisperers, but his lawyers wouldn’t let him. There was nothing he could lay hold of, and the only result would be to give the stories wider publicity and make people think there must be something in them. While if he kept quiet, they would die out of their own accord.”

  “You say ‘ugly’ stories,” Bobby remarked. “What precisely were they?”

  “Well, of course, you won’t let it go any further,” Rowley replied, still rather unwillingly, “but it was said that the Duke was jealous of Asprey, believed his wife had been unfaithful, and—well, suppose he had slipped just one or two extra tablets into the dose his wife took? Murder, in short.”

  “There may be evidence of some sort in the buried Asprey letters?” Bobby asked again. “You know, that’s pretty serious.”

  “Opportunity for blackmail,” Rowley said. “Presumably the Duke would pay a good price for letters like that if anyone got hold of them.”

  “Nice reputation this Mr Thorne seems to have,” observed Bobby. “Stock Exchange gambler. Woman chaser. Desecrator of graves. Potential blackmailer.”

  “Very likely it’s all mere malicious gossip,” Rowley said uncomfortably, “except of course for Thorne’s disappearance. That’s a fact. It’s why Day-Bell wants to talk to you. He says if you at the Yard will take the case up and find out what really happened to Thorne, then everyone will be satisfied and all the gossip will die down.”

  “Well, I hope he doesn’t think I can do that off my own bat,” Bobby protested. “I should think his best plan would be to get his lawyers to work the thing up. If they can present a reasonable case for further investigation, supported by the next of kin—there’s a wife and daughter, you said—the Commissioner might take it up. I don’t know. I expect he would want to consult the Home Office. I don’t see there’s much to be done—not after two years. Quite possibly Mr Thorne is living very happily somewhere in South America with his unidentified woman—and the Asprey documents in reserve for possible use if and when trouble crops up. It’s a queer business, though. Compromising letters. Lost poems of a dead poet. A desecrated grave. A mysterious disappearance. Possible blackmail. A Ducal suspect. And all as vague and unsubstantial as a November fog.”

  “The worst of it,” Rowley went on, “is that there’s a lot of back-stairs stuff going on. The man behind that question in Parliament is a Mr Pyle. He’s a chairman of the Morning Daily group. His brother is editor of Morning Daily itself. He could start one of those Press stunts any time he wanted. Morning Daily is an awful rag.”

  “Yes, I know,” Bobby agreed. “We don’t want them butting in if we can help it.”

  “Then there’s Mrs Asprey—Asprey’s widow,” Rowley added. “She’s rigged herself up rooms in an old half-ruined house near here—Two Mile End.”

  “What for?” Bobby asked.

  “I don’t know,” Rowley answered. “I suppose she wants to be on the spot. Then there’s the Duke of Blegborough; and a duke is still a duke, even under Socialism.”

  “Even more so, I’m told,” Bobby remarked.

  “Day-Bell himself as well,” Rowley went on. “He has a big pull with the Joint Committee. Both the Days and the Bells are old local families with a lot of say in local affairs, and Mr Day-Bell has family connections on both sides. Born a Day and tacked on Bell under a family will. Rather a pushing sort, too. And a poor devil of a Chief Constable likely to come under pretty heavy cross-fire between the lot of them. I should be really grateful if you would have a chat with Day-Bell and try to choke him off, if you can. He did say something about fresh developments he would like to consult you about.”

  CHAPTER II

  SEXTON PHILOSOPHER

  MR DAY-BELL had evidently been waiting not far off to hear if Bobby would agree to their suggested talk. Not that he had had any doubts on the point—he felt himself far too important to be in any way ignored—but when Major Rowley had suggested it would be as well if he first opened the subject with Bobby, Mr Day-Bell had seen no reason to object. Only a few minutes elapsed before the Chief Constable and he appeared together and introductions began. He was an unusually tall, thin man with a long, thin face and long, thin arms and legs attached to a round, plump body, so that what with his small black eyes and small, pursed-up mouth, he bore a somewhat disconcerting resemblance, or so Bobby thought, to an enormous spider. He possessed, however, a remarkably clear, musical voice, of which he made admirable use, though whether as a result of training or by natural gift, Bobby was not sure.

  ‘An actor’s voice or a B.B.C. announcer’s,’ Bobby told himself, ‘but hardly the physical presence for the stage.’

  The moment introductions were over, Major Rowley took himself off on the plea of work to be attended to, but really, Bobby suspected, because he wished to be concerned as little as possible, in any further discussion or action. Then Mr Day-Bell suggested that as it was getting on for lunch-time, Bobby might care to join him for that meal at the Penton Constitutional Club, a little way down the High Street.

  “We have a very good Chablis,” Day-Bell remarked. “I’m on the Wine Committee, and I do try to keep us up to the mark. The good things of life are meant for our enjoyment.”

  Bobby saw no reason to disagree with this sentiment, and soon he and his host were enjoying a very satisfactory meal in the well-appointed dining-room of the club. But it was not until the coffee stage was reached that Mr Day-Bell began to talk of the reasons for which he had desired this opportunity of talking to Bobby. Even then it was in a somewhat hesitating and nervous manner—one, Bobby suspected, anything but characteristic—that he opened the subject.

  “I think our good Chief Constable,” he began, “has told you I am finding myself considerably worried and uneasy over certain recent developments. Major Rowley is a most efficient officer, but, if I may say so, a little wanting in drive and imagination. He tends to think all is well if only his men look smart on parade.”

  “It is not a bad test,” remarked Bobby, who in fact had already come in private to much the same conclusion. “A force smart on parade is generally efficient in action.”

  “No doubt, no doubt,” agreed Day-Bell. He put more sugar in his coffee and stirred it absently. “I don’t care for it too sweet,” he said, and then added abruptly: “I had a somewhat disturbing letter from the Duke of Blegborough this morning.”

  “Indeed,” said Bobby, and waited for more.

  “I expect,” Day-Bell continued, now pushing his cup of coffee away and beginning to fidget nervously with an unlighted cigarette—“I expect you have heard of the story that the last poems of Stephen Asprey—they gave him an O.M., didn’t they? just before his death—and certain letters of his were buried with a Janet Merton, a woman he had been intimate with for several years. The grave is in the Hillings churchyard. I think Major Rowley told you also of the disappearance of my predecessor at Hillings—Mr Thorne.”

  “I understand,” Bobby said, “there was some gossip about his having got possession of the poems and letters, wasn’t there?”

  “I hardly think there can be any foundation for that story,” Day-Bell said; “but I have heard it still goes on. I’ve been for a long time anxious to clear up Mr Thorne’s disappearance. My own position at Hillings is difficult, though the Bishop has asked me to put up with it for a little longer. There are the legal proceedings Mr Thorne’s family have begun. All very unsettling. John Hagen’s suggestion is that Mr Thorne met with a fatal accident on the moor. Even a sprained ankle or something comparatively trivial like that might have fatal results. An injured man might easily lie there helpless till he died
. A lonely, savage place. I do not trust it.” He paused and frowned, as if he spoke of some dangerous, living entity he had reason to fear. He went on: “I should wish to secure the help of Scotland Yard in making fresh endeavours to discover the truth.”

  “But it was gone into thoroughly by the police force here at the time, was it not?” Bobby asked. “I am sure everything possible was done. Of course, if new facts have come to light, they would be at once followed up.”

  “I was a padre during the war,” Mr Day-Bell told him, “and I always found the best plan was to go straight to the highest authority if action were needed—to the corps commander rather than at battalion or company level.”

  “I am afraid,” Bobby explained, “that at the Yard we are not in the position of corps commanders. We have no authority over local police forces.”

  Mr Day-Bell waved this aside, evidently still convinced that, whatever Bobby’s disclaimers, Scotland Yard was still the central and authoritative police force in the country.

  “New developments are threatening,” he said, “that go far beyond merely local matters. I mentioned that I had a letter this morning from the Duke of Blegborough, and now there’s a telegram to say he is on his way here and wants to see me.”

  “It sounds like a sudden decision,” Bobby remarked. “Nothing in the letter to explain it?”

  “No. Nothing. No. He wanted to know if any further steps had been taken to get an order to open the Janet Merton grave, and if there was any possibility that it had been opened secretly and the letters taken. An unpleasant suggestion, when you remember the gossip about my predecessor. It is certainly untrue. I can’t imagine any one in charge of a parish committing such a horrible outrage as violating a grave in his own churchyard.”

  “No,” Bobby agreed. “One would want very clear, strong evidence before even considering such a possibility. Most likely rumours about these letters—Asprey’s last poems, too, aren’t there?—got started in some way, and then the story got tacked on to the known fact of Mr Thorne’s disappearance. If one item of a piece of gossip is true, it is often taken for granted that the rest of the tale must be true as well. It looks to me as if some such story, perhaps with added detail, has reached the Duke and upset him. He must be taking it seriously, whatever it is. The natural course would be to ask his lawyers to look into it.” Bobby paused, and then added thoughtfully: “I wonder if there’s any reason why he’s not doing that,” and now he was remembering that suggestion of blackmail possibilities made previously.

  “It’s all very upsetting,” complained Mr Day-Bell, and looked very much as if he found it so. “I shouldn’t be inclined to take it seriously myself, only for what Hagen has told me. A most trustworthy man.”

  “Hagen?” Bobby repeated the name. “You mentioned him before. Who is he?”

  “John Hagen? He is the sexton at Hillings,” Mr Day-Bell explained. “An unusual character. Remarkable, indeed. Self-educated to such a degree that really you might almost call him a scholar. His library would put to shame many of us clergy. He has a knowledge of Latin fully equal to mine—he reads it easily, though his pronunciation is all his own. Quite natural, as he has had no teaching.”

  “He certainly sounds unusual,” Bobby agreed. “Is he content to remain on as sexton? I should have thought with those qualifications he might have secured something more suitable, more to his taste. Is he a young man?”

  “No, middle-aged. About fifty, I suppose. He appears contented enough. I did suggest at one time he ought to try to find more congenial employment and I offered to try to help. I find it, I must admit, a little embarrassing at times to have one’s sexton correcting one’s Latin or explaining the meaning of some quotation from the early fathers.”

  “He didn’t take up your suggestion at all?”

  “No. He said, quite truly, that acquaintance with Latin, or with the writings of the early fathers, hasn’t much commercial value and his lack of general education didn’t fit him for any academic post. Besides, he thought he was very well off where he was. He has leisure, freedom, quiet, and enough to live on. Pursuing a private line of research, he says. I believe every penny of his wages goes on books; and his garden and his hens provide enough for his daily needs.”

  “A sexton philosopher,” Bobby said smilingly. “It sounds an ideal life for those who can live up to it. Not many, I think, and not me, I fear. You were saying he had mentioned something you thought rather disturbing?”

  “Yes, when taken together with other happenings. People often come—in the summer especially—to stare at the Janet Merton grave. Even the touring coaches come. The story of the buried letters and Stephen Asprey’s last poems is in all the guidebooks, and these coach tours—they seem exceedingly popular—apparently include a visit to Hillings and crossing the Great Mercian Moor among the attractions they advertise. Why crossing the most bleak, desolate spot in the whole country should be an attraction I don’t know, but it seems to be considered so.” There was again that odd note of hostility, of dread almost, in Day-Bell’s voice as he spoke of the moor. For a moment he was silent. He resumed in rather a grudging way, as if unwilling to make the admission: “Certainly there’s a fine view from Gallows Tree, the highest spot on the moor, if you don’t mind the associations—it was used as a place of execution till comparatively recently, and earlier on women convicted of witchcraft were taken there to be burned alive. Hagen makes a little extra by selling postcards both of that place and of the grave. He was given permission originally by Mr Thorne, and I’ve made no objection. In fact I’ve rather encouraged it. It’s an incentive to him to be on the alert when these tourists and coach parties arrive.”

  “You find that necessary?” Bobby asked.

  “Oh, definitely,” Day-Bell assured him, not much to Bobby’s surprise. “It’s not so much the coach parties. They are generally well enough behaved, and some of them even take an intelligent interest in the church, which goes back to Saxon times. It’s the private motorists. If we weren’t careful the Janet Merton grave would soon be scribbled all over with the initials of louts from every place in the country. That is, if anything were left of it. Hagen has found people—especially Americans—trying to chip off bits of the tombstone for what they call souvenirs.”

  “Has he noticed anything of the sort recently?” Bobby asked; as Mr Day-Bell seemed inclined to pause here, and indeed all the time he had been speaking he had seemed to show a certain hesitation, almost a reluctance, to continue, as if to do so cost him a real effort he none the less knew was necessary.

  “Well, yes,” Day-Bell admitted now. “Yes. I didn’t think much of it at first; but now, what with one thing and another and the letter this morning, I find it disturbing. Hagen is fortunately a light sleeper. His cottage overlooks the churchyard, and he makes a point even in winter of sleeping with the window wide open so that he can hear if there’s any disturbance. Two nights ago he did hear something. He got up, pulled on some clothes, and went out, first arming himself with the kitchen poker—the first weapon he could lay his hands on now he has lost his revolver. The police refused him a licence for another. He could just make out in the darkness two figures near the Janet Merton grave. He can’t say what they were doing, he is not even certain there were two. They—or he, if there was only one—must have heard Hagen coming, and at once made off. Hagen shouted to them to stop and tried to follow, but that wasn’t much good in the darkness. So he went back to bed. But he was up again as soon as it was light. There were plainly visible footprints in the churchyard, and they pointed in the direction of the moor. He showed them me, and he showed me, too, where it certainly did look as if the churchyard wall had been climbed. We found a few more footprints, all still leading towards the moor, but on the moor itself we soon lost them.”

  “Are there any cottages on the moor?” Bobby inquired.

  “No, but caravans—gypsy or occasionally private ones—are sometimes parked there. Cars, too, now and then. Motorists camping ou
t. At present there is one caravan. It belongs to a Mr Edward Pyle.”

  “Pyle?” Bobby interrupted quickly, remembering at once that Major Rowley had mentioned the same name. “Never mind. Go on, please, if you will.”

  “He came to see me,” Day-Bell continued accordingly. “He seems to be keenly interested in the Asprey story. He told me he was gathering material for a biography of Asprey, and he was evidently sounding me about the possibility of opening the grave and recovering the letters and poems. He spoke of it as a matter of public interest, and hinted that he was trying to get it taken up on what he called ‘top levels’. I told him there was nothing I could do and for that matter nothing I should wish to do. But after what Hagen saw, and with those footprints all clearly pointing towards where his caravan was standing, I felt it my duty to speak to him about it. I went on to the caravan, but Mr Pyle was not there. An extremely surly, unpleasant person appeared to be in charge. He said Mr Pyle had not told him when he would return. When I tried to get some more information he became extremely rude. He even called me a ‘snooper’, going so far, indeed, as to use threats of violence. Later on, I heard that Mr Pyle was staying at a Penton hotel, so I wrote to ask him to call to see me here. At three this afternoon. Would it be too much to ask you to be present? I am seriously uneasy, and I think I ought to know what this Mr Pyle was doing in the churchyard in the middle of the night—he and that ruffianly-looking fellow I saw, for I feel sure it was they Hagen disturbed. Not at all the sort of person one would like to meet in a lonely spot at night. One of the worst squints I ever saw and a broken nose. Bandy legs as well. I suppose the squint is no fault of his, but I shouldn’t wonder if the broken nose wasn’t a result of some scoundrelly brawl or another.”