It Might Lead Anywhere

by E. R. Punshon

  Placated by Bobby’s warm approval of everything done, and by the fact that he was showing no disposition to claim undue importance for the small discovery he had made—annoying, certainly, that those tiny little threads had been overlooked, though who could have thought that a broken chair in one room had anything to tell of a murder committed in another?—Spencer went on to explain that the discovery of the crime had been made about half-past one in the morning. The constable on the beat, passing by, had heard the wireless still playing. He had thought this odd, since, of course, the B.B.C. programme stops at midnight; and he had not realized at first that what was coming through was from America on a short wavelength. Then he had noticed that the cottage door was an inch or two open, though there seemed no light within. Thinking this more odd still, he knocked, and when he got no answer he pushed the door a little further open and flashed his torch within, discovering thus the first murder of which Oldfordham annals told for nearly a century.

  Mr. Spencer further explained that the instrument used had been the heavy kitchen poker, found lying near the body. Presumably the murderer had worn gloves, since neither on the poker nor anywhere else had any finger-prints been found, other than those of Brown himself.

  For the rest, Bobby made no further discoveries, in spite of the very close, careful, and detailed examination he made of the cottage and its contents. It was a tiny place, four small rooms in all, a kitchen and a scullery below and two rooms above, one furnished as a bedroom, the other without furniture and evidently used as a receptacle for various odds and ends. Empty bottles figured largely among these; and Mr. Spencer mentioned that there was, for war-time, a remarkable stock of spirits, chiefly gin, in the kitchen cupboard. This had rather surprised the Oldfordham police, for Brown had never been known to enter any of the public houses in the town, nor had he ever been seen under the influence of drink. But apparently he had done a good deal of solitary drinking in his own home, in privacy.

  The general aspect of the cottage was squalid enough. The furniture was cheap, old, and shabby. But if Mr. Brown had lived in no great comfort there was no sign of any pressure of poverty. There was in fact a curiously odd mixture of the cheap and the expensive. Cheap, deal chairs and tables, for instance, and coarse glass crockery, as against window curtains of highly expensive material. Cooking utensils varied from brand new aluminium pans, that in the war-time scarcity of aluminium must have cost a good deal, to cheap tin kettles showing signs of home-made repairs to keep them longer serviceable. There was, too, an elaborate pressure cooking gadget. It was pricey, as Bobby knew, because Olive had been casting a somewhat hesitating eye on one of the same make, at a high figure, and yet apparently had never been used. Probably it had taken the solitary man’s fancy and then he had never bothered to learn how to use it. But it was a purchase that showed no great need for economy. And there was a wireless set of the most elaborate make, a model no longer in production, and one that even before the war would have cost a considerable sum.

  It seemed to Bobby that Mr. Brown had avoided spending money, had wished to live in the obscurity that poverty gives, and yet could, when he wished, spend freely enough. Curious, Bobby thought, and since there must be an explanation, he wondered what it could be, and wondered if, when it was found, it would explain also the cause and reason of the crime. In every other respect this cottage interior showed as commonplace, inconspicuous, and non-committal as had apparently been the late tenant himself in life. Bobby made some remark of the sort to Mr. Spencer, who was, however, now bestowing all his interest on that expensive wireless set.

  “Must have cost a pretty penny,’ he remarked. “You can get America on it. Brown seems to have been listening in to America when he was murdered. The dial shows that. A concert over there. We checked up on that. Dr. Railes is quite definite death took place somewhere about half-past ten and two men passing about that time have come forward to say they heard sounds of what they call ‘thumps’ coming from the cottage through the music. They didn’t pay much attention, but one of them remarked that ‘old Alf Brown must be chopping up firewood ready for the morning.’ Brown’s watch stopped at twenty to eleven, too, though of course there’s nothing to show it was right. Putting things together, though, there isn’t much doubt but that the murder took place about half-past ten or a little later.”

  “Seems pretty conclusive,” Bobby agreed. “Was the American concert something special, do you know? Did Brown often listen in to America?”

  “We didn’t go into that,” Spencer answered. “Just made sure there was music on the air at the time the two witnesses say they heard music as well as the ‘thumps’ they talk about. Check up on everything, you know.”

  “Yes, indeed,” agreed Bobby approvingly. “Never forget that. I was only wondering if the murderer had turned it on to drown any other noise. But that doesn’t seem likely. No reason for tuning in to America if that was the idea, and everything points to a sudden unexpected violent attack with no precautions taken.”

  “That’s right,” said Mr. Spencer. He added rather enviously: “I wish we had a set like this. Expensive thing, though. We can’t even get Paris.” He had been twirling the knobs while he talked and now Paris came through, strong and clear. “There you are,” said Mr. Spencer triumphantly; and continued, not unwilling to show his knowledge of French: “De Musset’s ‘On ne badine pas avec l’amour.’ They never seem to get tired of it, do they?”

  “You might keep it going for a bit, if you will,” Bobby said. “I think there’s someone trying to get in at the back.”

  CHAPTER VII

  VISITING CARDS

  He moved cautiously into the scullery. The back door was both locked and bolted. No good trying to open it. Any intruder would be off and away at the first sound of turning key or drawn bolt. Quite possibly indeed the alarm had already been taken, though he had been careful to move quietly and had hoped that the French broadcast would cover any sound he made. But now the fumbling at the window, the cautious lifting of the back-door latch that he was sure he had heard, ceased entirely. He went back into the kitchen. Mr. Spencer said:

  “No one there?”

  “I’ll slip round to the back and have a look,” Bobby said. “Keep the set going, will you?”

  He went out quickly. The constable on duty was still there, still patiently exhorting from time to time the ever-changing, ever-freshly recruited group of spectators to ‘move on, please.’ To them Bobby’s sudden and hurried appearance was an ample reward for their long wait. Evidently something was happening and they thrilled to the knowledge. They were even more thrilled when Bobby disappeared at a run down a narrow alleyway that led to the back of the cottage. Some of them showed certain disposition to follow, till the constable on duty sternly waved them back.

  At the point where the alley turned at a right angle to lead to the back of the cottages and beyond, Bobby almost collided with a woman hurrying away. He had only seen her once before, and only for a moment or two, but his memory for faces was naturally good and was highly trained and practised as well. He said:

  “Miss Foote isn’t it? Didn’t I see you at Mr. Goodman’s?”

  “Yes,” she answered, her round baby face, her wide, child-like, innocent blue eyes, candid and untroubled. She added, for she had recognized him, too: “You’re the gentleman Mr. Goodman told about the fight at Chipping Up, aren’t you?”

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  “Oh, I’m not being naughty, am I?” she asked, lifting her eyes to his in troubled appeal. “There was such a crowd in front little me couldn’t see anything, so I thought I would be awfully clever and get a peep from behind. Oughtn’t I?”

  She was still looking up at him, trustfully, pleadingly, quite plainly asking him not to be hard on a poor little silly girlie like herself. Bobby didn’t much like either her or her manner, but the explanation was plausible. Curiosity explains much and the scene of a murder—the spot marked ‘X’ in the newspap
er photographs—has a fascination for many. Less amiably than it may be Miss Foote had expected, for her own manner of sweet girlish innocence diminished notably at the sharpness of his tone, Bobby asked:

  “Was that your only reason for trying to open the back door?”

  “Oh, I didn’t,” she answered promptly. “That was Miss Jebb. I expect she was doing the same, trying to get a peep. She was just coming out of the back yard and going away, so I did, too. I should never have dared try to go inside. She must be awfully brave. I should be Frightened.”

  “Wait here, don’t move,” Bobby said; and went down the alley at a run. But there was no sign either of Miss Jebb or of anyone else. Plenty of time, of course, for any intruder to get away. A second narrow alley, further on, led in the other direction, straight into the busy main street of the little town, where the Mote House and the chain-store branches jostled each other incongruously. Escape that way was easy, pursuit obviously useless. Anyone—Miss Jebb or another—could be by now harmlessly making purchases in one or other of the main street shops. Bobby went back to Miss Foote, patiently powdering her nose as she patiently waited. She said winningly:

  “It’s an awfully big thrill to be ordered about and bullied by a real policeman. You are, aren’t you? Mr. Goodman said so. It’s almost like being suspected yourself. O-o-oo. Perhaps I am. Handcuffs?”

  She held out to him two small gloved hands in the prettiest way imaginable and Bobby repressed a strong desire to box her ears. Flirtation could be jolly good fun in its time and place, but this was neither. He asked:

  “Are you sure it was Miss Jebb you saw?”

  “Oh yes,” she answered. “At least I think so. I don’t know her very well. I’ve never spoken to her. I shouldn’t Dare. She looks so severe. I think teachers always do, don’t you?”

  “If you don’t know her, why do you think it was her?” Bobby asked.

  “I only mean not to speak to,” Miss Foote explained. “The schoolchildren got up a concert and I went and it was Awfully Good. The children sang ever so well and Miss Jebb taught them. She made a little speech. I don’t know how anyone dare—I think Miss Jebb must be awfully clever and efficient and managing, don’t you?” and Miss Foote’s eyes, wider than ever, invited comparison between such severe efficiency and her own appealing, clinging femininity.

  “Mr. Spencer is here,” Bobby said. “I think he would like you to tell him about this yourself. He is in the cottage if you’ll come with me,” and as he spoke he turned back along the alley, Miss Foote trotting confidingly by his side.

  “I think Mr. Spencer is such a nice man, don’t you?” she chattered, as they walked along. “I do hope he won’t think I was silly and scold. I didn’t think there was any harm trying to get a peep. But he’s always ever so nice and kind.”

  A slight acidity in her tone as she said this suggested she didn’t altogether consider her present companion had shown himself worthy of such praise. But Bobby was busy with his own thoughts and hardly listened. He and she emerged from the alley; and so was sensation greater still, for he had entered alone, as all had seen, and now he returned in company, as all could see. Whispers arose, stares were unashamed. Bobby glared. But it is difficult to rebuke a stare or answer a whisper you have been more conscious of than actually heard. Then it happened that he caught the gist of the murmured remark of a gaping youngster near.

  “Lummy, he’s got her, he has,” the lad had said, and Bobby’s hand shot out and grabbed him by the collar.

  “What’s that?” he demanded. “You be careful what you say or you’ll find yourself in bad trouble. Remember that. You won’t get another warning.”

  He released the lad; who fled as fast as shaking legs and knocking knees permitted, persuaded he had escaped instant prison by the narrowest of margins.

  Bobby transferred his glare to the rest of the startled onlookers.

  “Clear out, all of you,” he ordered. Forgetting that his foot was no longer on his native heath, that here his warrant was null and of no effect, he warned them: “Some of you will be getting charged with obstruction if you don’t mind. Hurry now,” and as he spoke he lifted a hand towards the slightly astonished constable on duty at the cottage door, much as if inviting him to carry out various arrests on the spot.

  That imperious gesture, that voice of command, air of authority, had their effect, and indeed Bobby could look formidable enough when he chose. The group of spectators dispersed, sulkily and slowly, but still melting away. To Miss Foote, Bobby said:

  “This way. It’s in here.” To the constable on duty, he explained: “The young lady has some information to give Mr. Spencer.”

  They entered the cottage where Mr. Spencer was still absorbed with the beauties and delights of that super superb wireless set.

  “You can get practically anything anywhere,” he said enthusiastically as Bobby and Miss Foote came in. Then when he saw who it was he looked very surprised, turned off the set, and said: “Oh, Miss Foote, isn’t it?”

  “They all think it’s me,” Miss Foote told him, opening those big blue eyes of hers more widely than ever. “Isn’t it a thrill? Little me doing murders and hitting men with pokers and things and killing them ever so dead. I expect,” she went on complacently, “everybody will be most awfully frightened of me now, don’t you?”

  Mr. Spencer looked bewildered. Miss Foote giggled. Bobby said sourly:

  “Miss Foote was in the alleyway at the back of the house. She tells me she saw Miss Jebb trying to open the back door. I thought she had better report direct to you. Some of those fools outside saw us and started staring and whispering. I gave them a bit of a talking-to—to shut them up.”

  “They won’t,” Miss Foote told him. “They’ll go on gossiping. Of course they will. I like gossip myself,” she added candidly.

  “I don’t quite follow,” protested Mr. Spencer, still bewildered, and then, catching at the one fact he had really grasped, he said: “Miss Jebb? You saw her? What was she doing there?”

  “Trying to open the back door apparently,” Bobby said.

  “But really,” protested Mr. Spencer. “Well, why should she?”

  “I expect she just wanted a peep, don’t you?” suggested Miss Foote. “Like me. I did, too. It’s so awfully fascinating, isn’t it? A murder, I mean.” She lowered her voice to a hoarse whisper. “Was it—here? Right in here?”

  She looked pleadingly at Mr. Spencer. Mr. Spencer seemed not wholly unresponsive to the young lady’s kittenish charm. The conversation between him and Miss Foote began to take on the semblance of a flirtation—heavily paternal on his side, respectful and admiring on hers. With some interest Bobby watched the staid, elderly Mr. Spencer blossoming into a kind of juvenile gaiety of spirit. Not for Bobby, though, to show any surprise or impatience. He had to keep on the right side of Mr. Spencer or he might find himself incontinently booted out and some meddlesome thruster from the Yard—for so, sad to say, did Bobby in this moment of feared frustration think of former colleagues of his—taking over a case that seemed already full of odd possibilities and strange dramatic twists of human character.

  He turned to give his attention to a pile of papers, neatly arranged on the table. They had been examined by Mr. Spencer’s sergeant and were now awaiting inspection from Mr. Spencer himself. They were few in number and none apparently had been considered to be of much importance. As always with this anonymous Mr. Brown, it was the negative, not the positive, that was suggestive. For there was nothing whatever to indicate his source of income. A few receipted bills, various circulars, but no letters, no personal documents, no bank book, no dividend warrants, nothing like that. There were two visiting cards. One was that of Mr. Childs and had on it a pencilled note: “Have called twice. May I suggest a talk? Can you come to the vicarage this evening?” The other was that of Flight-Lieutenant Denis Kayes.

  Bobby regarded them both thoughtfully. Mr. Childs had wished to make an appointment. Had that appointment been for last ni
ght and had it been kept? And why had Denis Kayes called? Apparently Brown had been out, but had Kayes called again; and if so, had his visit taken place the previous night?

  CHAPTER VIII

  MATERNAL INDIGNATION

  The flirtation, or near flirtation, between Mr. Spencer and Miss Foote, so paternal on his side, so innocently kittenish on hers, was ending now. Miss Foote, with pretty little cries of horror at the lateness of the hour, hurried away. First though she bestowed upon Bobby, now apparently forgiven, her sweetest smile as she bade him farewell.

  “Such a thrill,” she assured him earnestly, “to meet a real live detective busy with a real dreadful murder.”

  Therewith she tripped gaily away and Mr. Spencer said:

  “Pretty little thing.” With a touch of envy in his voice he added: “You’ve made a conquest. All the time she was talking to me, it was you she was watching.”

  “Was it though?” said Bobby with considerable interest. “Are you sure?”

  “Now, now, married man, aren’t you?” said Mr. Spencer, arch and knowing. “Eyes in the boat, young fellow, eyes in the boat. Not that I blame you. If a pretty little girl gives you the glad eye, what can a poor devil do?”

  He chuckled richly. Bobby gave a wan smile. His mind had been far too full of other things, of bewildering and ugly thoughts, for him to pay Miss Foote’s charms the tribute they so plainly both deserved and desired. All the same, interesting to know that all the time of her flirtation, or near flirtation, with the paternal Mr. Spencer she had continued to give to Bobby himself her best attention. He said aloud:

  “I wonder what she saw in me?”