“Then, once I had begun to feel like that, I noticed that many of his answers could bear a double meaning. He assured me, and so earnestly I couldn’t help but feel he was speaking the truth, that by no possibility could the grave have been opened without his knowledge. Well, had it been opened with his knowledge? I even felt that he had talked a little oddly the first time I saw him about the dead lying still in their quiet graves, and it came to me after a time that he might have some reason for fearing that was not always true. It worried me a bit.
“I felt the oddities were mounting up in a rather odd way.
“I began to notice, too, that even quite little things were beginning to point the same way. I took pains to let Hagen know that the recovery of the revolver used in the murder was important and might provide the necessary evidence. Also I said that I expected it would be found by some of the small boys you had put on the job. Next morning it was found—found by small boys, as I had told Hagen I thought might happen. And again I didn’t find it quite natural that Hagen, instead of taking charge of the revolver himself, should simply have told the boys to be careful and to take it to the police. It almost suggested he had no wish to handle it himself. Trifles light as air, of course, and hardly even any sort of confirmation. But I noticed them all the same.
“Then there was Chrines. Was he here wholly and solely for local colour? He claimed to possess important family papers, as he called them. He also claimed and tried to persuade himself that he was a son of Asprey and of Janet Merton. Was he hoping the letters, if he could get hold of them, might support that claim? Another complication was that suggestions were apparently reaching the Duke that the Asprey papers, said to have been buried with Janet Merton, had come into some third party’s hands. The whole case seemed in one way or another to be mixed up with those buried poems and letters.
“The final, and what I felt was the conclusive, piece of evidence came when I found that a sonnet Chrines had included with his own poems as his own work was identified both by Professor Long and by Mrs Asprey as having been written by Stephen Asprey himself, one of his very last poems, and one that therefore should have been with the other last poems in the Merton grave. That was the one solid fact, as apart from theory and inference, I was able to produce, and but for it I don’t believe I should ever have got the necessary authority for the opening. By that time, though, putting all I knew together, I had quite convinced myself that in the Janet Merton grave Mr Thorne’s body lay hidden. That I felt was the secret of his disappearance.”
“Well, it turned out that way in the end,” Rowley admitted, but still as if he didn’t quite know why.
“I should have found myself in jolly hot water if it hadn’t,” Bobby admitted in his turn. “But by that time I had to know. I simply had to make sure. By the way, do you know if it is true that Mrs Asprey collected young Chrines from the hospital and went off with him?”
“She told me she was giving up Two Mile End,” Rowley answered, “and going back to Bristol. Apparently she was intending to look after young Chrines till he was better. She said she was a sort of step-mother in a way, and mothering was what he wanted. Oh, and I was to tell you it was all your doing, the way you bullied her into it. I don’t know what she meant.”
“I’m sure I don’t,” Bobby protested indignantly. “Bullying Mrs Asprey, indeed! Sorry for anyone who tried. All I did was to tell her Chrines was a young ass who needed someone to look after him—as far as that goes, she’ll be all the better, too, for someone to look after.”
“Probably that’s what she meant,” Rowley remarked thoughtfully. “Do you know, there was something she said made me think that she had believed at first Chrines was guilty?”
“I had that idea myself once or twice,” Bobby said. “She told me she knew who it was but she wasn’t going to say. And then she made a rather feeble attempt to make me believe she meant Christabel Merton. I rather imagine that at first her suspicions gave her an odd sort of respect for him and made her feel she had misjudged him, as a mere weakling, and then, when she found that was all wrong, she felt she ought to try to make up to him for having again misjudged him. Muddled thinking, but I imagine it was more or less like that. Not thinking so much as feeling.”
“Women don’t think, they feel,” Rowley pronounced. “Another thing she said, just as she was going, was that if you ever came snooping Bristol way and wanted a cup of tea, you could come and see her. I took her up pretty smartly about ‘snooping’, but she went off without listening.”
“She would,” agreed Bobby. “Very good of her to suggest a cup of tea—if, that is, she didn’t mean a broom-and-slop-pail tea. Have you any idea what happened to all those commonplace books of Hagen’s?”
“Gone to the incinerator,” Rowley answered. “First thing the executor did. A cousin of his—landlord of the ‘Bull and Bell’ here. He said they were no use to anyone or any good and best got rid of.”
THE END
FIND THE LADY
Originally published in the Evening Standard, 21 December, 1950
The small writing-room of the Hotel Nimini, Bloomsbury, was full of bustling, living men, and one who was dead.
All were very busy, each with his own special job, except the dead man, slumped in his chair, and Sergeant Bobby Owen, standing with his back to the blazing fire.
The doctor said:
“Death must have been pretty nearly instantaneous. Stabbed to the heart. Pity you haven’t got the knife.”
The Inspector said:
“Ah, that would have been evidence, that would.”
The fingerprint expert said:
“As fine a set of dabs as you could ask for. A woman’s. The table must have been fresh polished to take ’em like that.”
The hotel manager said:
“Every morning, first thing. That’s routine. Room dusted. Furniture polished. Fire made up for the morning. Routine. You can’t run a hotel without routine.”
The Inspector said:
“It wasn’t robbery. Wallet stuffed with notes. Gold watch.”
One of his assistants said:
“There’s been a woman. If it was not robbery, then it was jealousy.”
Sergeant Bobby Owen turned round and began to warm his hands at the fire.
The police photographer said:
“Isn’t it hot enough in here, for you, Sarge? Suffocating, if you ask me.”
The doctor said:
“I wish I could keep a fire like that in my surgery. Can’t get delivery. I’ve allowed for the temperature of the room, Inspector, in my estimate of the time of death. Ten o’clock at the earliest and probably a little later.”
The hotel manager said:
“Our cellar’s nearly empty. I don’t know what Jake was thinking of, a fire like that. Trustworthy, careful man. Jake. Must have thought he was stoking the furnace.”
Sergeant Bobby Owen said, over his shoulder:
“It’s 11 o’clock now.”
The Inspector said:
“There’s a clock in the room we can all see for ourselves, Owen, thank you. I thought I asked you to make a plan of the room. Don’t stand there all day doing nothing.”
Bobby Owen said:
“Sorry, sir. I was only thinking.”
The Inspector said:
“Dreaming, you mean.”
The hotel manager said:
“A thing like this does a hotel no good. Frightens people. Old and valued client, though a bit too friendly sometimes with the staff—the female staff.”
The Inspector said:
“Hell, there’s the set-up.”
He sat down at the table and began to write. Bobby Owen left the fire and went to the door. It opened on a long passage which a woman was busy scrubbing. She was in a bad temper because she foresaw very clearly that with all this traipsing to and fro she would probably have to do her work all over again, as already she had had to do in part. When Bobby opened the door she scowled at him as if she h
eld him personally and solely responsible.
Bobby said:
“You are quite certain that the lady you told us about is the only person who went into the writing-room while you were working here?”
The charwoman said:
“How many more times do you want to be told? All alone the poor gentleman was, as I’ll take my dying oath, and then she come along like as there wasn’t a minute to spare, as well I remember, seeing she kicked my pail and splashed a lot of soapy water over what I had just dried, and only God’s mercy it wasn’t pail and all, but never took no notice or apologized or nothing, and then I heard ’em talking, which I suppose I ought to have been listening at the keyhole and been able to tell you all they said. But such isn’t my way, even though they was talking pretty loud, so it wouldn’t have been no keyhole required if I had wanted, which I didn’t. Not my way, it isn’t.”
Bobby said:
“I’m sure it isn’t.”
The charwoman said:
“Not as any keyhole was needed, if I had wanted. Fair shouting at each other they was, the two of them.”
Bobby said:
“You told the Inspector you couldn’t describe the lady, didn’t you?”
The charwoman said:
“Same as I couldn’t, not giving her so much as a look, but grabbing hold of the pail, for fear of it upsetting. That’s how guests is. Always in the way. Now staff, you don’t ever need to notice, them having their work to do, same as you, so they gets out of your way and you gets out of theirs.
“But guests ain’t like that. Always where they can muck up the work the most. Staff’s different. Staff steps careful, minding pails and such, and not stepping where it’s still wet and soapy before dried. But not guests. Gives your pail a kick and never notices or apologize nor nothing, but back again from in that there room on the run and gone before you could say Jack Robinson, which ain’t in no way surprising, seeing what she had been and done.”
One of the other C.I.D. men put his head out of the room. He said:
“The old man’s in a paddy, Sarge, you slipping off like that. Wants you at once.”
Bobby said he was sorry and went back into the room. The Inspector was looking very cross. He said:
“What the devil’s the matter with you this morning, Owen? How much longer am I to be kept waiting for that plan?” Bobby said again he was sorry. But he said it in an absent-minded, perfunctory manner, and the Inspector was in no way appeased. To the hotel manager, Bobby said:
“Has the charwoman outside been here long?”
The hotel manager said:
“Who? Her? No. Why? A day or two. You don’t think she had anything to do with it, do you?”
The Inspector said, and only the general rule that sergeants should not be rebuked before constables prevented him from saying a whole lot more:
“For the Lord’s sake, Owen.”
Bobby did not seem even to be aware of the Inspector’s muffled wrath. He said, still to the hotel manager:
“Got a new under-porter, too, haven’t you?”
The hotel manager said:
“New kitchen-porter? Why? How did you know?”
The fingerprint man said exultingly:
“Got another prize set of dabs. That’s proof that is. Open and shut in quick time.”
Bobby said:
“Nothing to do but find the lady?”
The fingerprint man said:
“That’s right.”
Bobby said:
“Inspector, may I have five minutes before I start on the plan? I think I can be back with the murderer in that time, only I’m afraid if I’m not quick, there’s a risk of important evidence being destroyed.”
The Inspector didn’t say anything because he was for the moment incapable of speech. But for the fact that it was morning, he would certainly have suspected drink.
The doctor chuckled. He said:
“Quick work—five minutes. May I stop and see the lady—when produced?”
The Inspector, recovering slightly, said, with almost complete self-possession:
“Very good, Sergeant Owen, very good indeed. Five minutes? Five minutes then. Mind, not a second more. And if you aren’t back in that time, murderer and all, then I think I shall have to ask the Super if he can spare time for a chat with you—five minutes, not one half second more.”
Bobby said:
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir, very much indeed. It shouldn’t really take that long, only I want to be on the safe side.”
It was in less than three that he was back. He was carrying a bucket of coal. A small, nearly bald man, his face very dirty, in very dirty working clothes, was with him. A little mouse of a man he seemed; and yet he held his head high and somehow he was clothed as with a strange and distant dignity.
Without waiting for Bobby to speak, he said—while all stared and gaped—and his voice was calm and perfectly steady:
“That’s right. I did it. Though how you knew so soon I can’t think, and even where I had the knife hid.”
Bobby lifted the coal bucket. He said:
“In here. That’s why I wanted to hurry. I was afraid the knife would go into the furnace with the next lot of coal.”
The Inspector said—in gasps:
“But—but I mean to say—well, how did you guess?”
Bobby said:
“Well, sir, I heard stoking up the furnace mentioned and, of course, it was obvious that would be a very satisfactory final way of disposing of the weapon.”
The little mouse of a man said:
“That’s how I had it worked out. Another minute or two and the coal in that bucket, and the knife with it, would all have gone into the furnace together. What about your evidence then?”
Bobby said:
“The bucket was near the furnace, all in line for the next stoking.”
The little man said:
“Another five minutes and I would have gone to lunch and I wouldn’t have come back. Well, you were too quick for me and maybe this way’s best.”
The Inspector said:
“But there’s only been a woman in here and no one else. That’s what the charwoman outside swore and stuck to it.”
Bobby said:
“She was only thinking of the people staying in the hotel—the guests. She told me you never noticed staff.
“What put me on to the truth in the first place was the fire. If the fire was made up first thing to last all morning, as the hotel manager said, why at 11 o’clock was it blazing the way it was? It ought to have been beginning to die down. Had fresh coal been added? To provide an excuse for entering the room without attracting attention?
“Then, too, the manager happened to say he was getting short of coal, so was it likely a man like Jake he called careful and trustworthy—I took Jake to be the head porter— would be so wasteful? I asked if the charwoman was new and so unlikely to notice any change in routine, and that someone else was doing what the man, Jake, generally did.
“Well, she was, and so I asked if there was a new under-porter, and anyhow there was a new kitchen-porter. It all seemed to fit.”
The fingerprint man said:
“Best set of dabs ever—and all for nothing.”
The little mouse-like man said:
“That’s right. Got it all worked out. No one noticed me. Why should they? He didn’t—him in the chair there. He just looked up and went on writing and I put the coal on and then I came back by where he was sitting and writing, and I put the knife in him. and I don’t reckon he knew a thing till he was dead.
“You see, that was my wife you were looking for, my wife he took from me and then he ditched her. He took my wife from me, so I took his life from him. Fair enough?”
About The Author
E.R. Punshon was born in London in 1872.
At the age of fourteen he started life in an office. His employers soon informed him that he would never make a really satisfactory clerk, and he, agreeing
, spent the next few years wandering about Canada and the United States, endeavouring without great success to earn a living in any occupation that offered. Returning home by way of working a passage on a cattle boat, he began to write. He contributed to many magazines and periodicals, wrote plays, and published nearly fifty novels, among which his detective stories proved the most popular and enduring.
He died in 1956.
The Bobby Owen Mysteries
1. Information Received
2. Death among the Sunbathers
3. Crossword Mystery
4. Mystery Villa
5. Death of a Beauty Queen
6. Death Comes to Cambers
7. The Bath Mysteries
8. Mystery of Mr. Jessop
9. The Dusky Hour
10. Dictator’s Way
11. Comes a Stranger
12. Suspects – Nine
13. Murder Abroad
14. Four Strange Women
15. Ten Star Clues
16. The Dark Garden
17. Diabolic Candelabra
18. The Conqueror Inn
19. Night’s Cloak
20. Secrets Can’t be Kept
21. There’s a Reason for Everything
22. It Might Lead Anywhere
23. Helen Passes By
24. Music Tells All
25. The House of Godwinsson
26. So Many Doors
27. Everybody Always Tells
28. The Secret Search
29. The Golden Dagger
30. The Attending Truth
31. Strange Ending
32. Brought to Light
33. Dark is the Clue
Brought to Light: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 28
