“Do you know her?” Bobby asked. When Kayes shook his head, Bobby said: “What made you think of her?”
“She was telling lies about Janet—about Miss Jebb,” Kayes said moodily. “Who is she?”
“Mr. Goodman’s secretary,” Bobby answered.
“Is that all?”
“All we know.”
“I don’t see why she should pick on Janet or start talking about me,” Kayes said. He got up and began to walk about the room. He was obviously disturbed and uneasy. Bobby watched him closely. Kayes said: “I don’t understand all this. Why was Brown murdered?”
“I’m trying to find out,” Bobby said quietly.
“I take it you’ve searched the cottage?”
“Oh yes, thoroughly,” Bobby answered. No doubt the story of the hidden gold would have to be told sooner or later, but it might be as well to say nothing about it yet. He asked: “Do you know Mr. Goodman?”
“He was my uncle’s lawyer,” Kayes said. “He was one of the executors. The London and Midwych Bank was the other. I went to see him the other day about some of uncle’s investments. By the way, I think I left my card there, too. He didn’t know much. He’s retired, apparently. He handed over all the papers to the man he sold out to. They’ve all been got rid of for salvage, apparently.”
“When did your uncle die?” Bobby asked.
“Nine years ago. I was in Australia. I was born there. Father went there when he was a young man. This is the first time I’ve been in England. All my service has been in the Pacific zone, until now.”
“I see” said Bobby thoughtfully. “You’ve given me some very interesting information.” He paused and he did not fail to notice that Kayes shot at him a quick, searching, somewhat uneasy glance as if wondering what this ‘interesting information’ could be and what Bobby was likely to make of it. Bobby went on: “I must think it over: I expect when you called on Mr. Goodman you saw Miss Foote. Rather a flirtatious young woman, isn’t she?”
Kayes evidently did not think so at all.
“Not by the way she looked at me,” he said briefly.
“Oh, why?” asked Bobby.
“I don’t know,” retorted Kayes. “All I know is she looked at me as if I were poison and she wanted to give me some of the same. Lord knows why. I don’t.” And certainly he looked both puzzled and also a trifle annoyed, as if in his quality of good-looking young airman he was not much used to finding girls, flirtatious or not, looking at him as if he were poison.
Bobby thought it curious. Of course, Kayes might have mistaken a twinge from a too tight shoe or something of that sort for a glare of hatred. In any case he could not imagine in what way there came into it this young woman, so interested in the murder cottage, so ready to give the glad eye to one young man, and yet, apparently, regarding another as if he were poison. It might be significant. It might mean something. Or it might not. You could never tell. A detective’s greatest difficulty is to pick out in all the criss-cross tangle of human relations, the significant threads, those that led to the heart of the labyrinth. When one did that, all became plain and easy. One simply went forward to the inevitable end. But how easy to make the wrong choice, to follow the wrong threads, and so wander hopelessly and helplessly in nightmare confusion till it became too late. For time is always against the detective, always on the side of the criminal, and unless the problem can be solved quickly, it can seldom be solved at all.
CHAPTER XV
TORN TROUSER
It was, then, in a thoughtful and worried mood that Bobby left Aspect Cottage. His instinct, his professional instinct he sometimes called it, told him Kayes had spoken the truth. But had he spoken all the truth? Yet if he were innocent, and surely he must be innocent if he had not even known where Brown lived, what was being held back and why?
A puzzle that would have to wait developments for solution, Bobby told himself. He turned into the steep, narrow, winding street that led uphill to St. Barnabas
Church and the adjacent vicarage, one of those enormous mansions that the Church of England loves to tie, like a millstone, round the necks of its clergy. Presumably, so that they may be cast into the deep sea of poverty and debt. The hour was still early, the vicar still at home, and Bobby was shown at once into Mr. Childs’s study, where he was received with a friendly smile and handshake.
“I heard Mr. Spencer had been found,” the vicar said. “I do hope it’s not true that he’s so badly injured he isn’t likely to recover.”
“I’m afraid the doctors seem to think his condition’s pretty bad,” Bobby answered.
“What did actually happen?” Mr. Childs asked.
“I’m trying to find out,” Bobby answered. “All we know at present is that he was attacked, and left, probably for dead, in Brown’s cottage.”
“Is it connected with this extraordinary story of packing cases full of gold there?” Mr. Childs asked, and the question gave Bobby something of a shock.
Optimistic, he supposed, though, to expect that so sensational a tale could long remain a secret. All the same, he was looking rather glum as he said:
“Oh, you’ve heard about that? Who told you?”
“It’s all over the town,” Mr. Childs answered. “It is true, then? I could hardly believe it.”
“It’s true in a way,” Bobby agreed cautiously. “There was a large sum in gold Brown had hidden. Hardly packing cases full, though.”
“The motive of the poor fellow’s murder?” Mr. Childs asked.
“Possibly. We don’t know. It hadn’t been touched, though it could easily have been taken by anyone who knew about it. I’m sorry the story’s leaked out. You think most people know?”
“Oh, everyone, I should say,” Mr. Childs answered. “The milkman told my housekeeper first thing this morning. I told her not to listen to such nonsense. I’m afraid I was a little sharp. I detest idle gossip and I thought that’s all it was. So she’s come to tell me every time she hears it afresh and that seems to be from everyone who has been near the house. I’ve had to apologize.”
Bobby reflected, not too happily, that if ‘everyone’ knew, then almost certainly Kayes knew, too. But he had said nothing, asked no questions, showed no interest. It did look as if there were more to Flight Lieutenant Kayes than appeared at first. Only what? Something to do with the murder, or something private and personal and comparatively innocuous? If Kayes had been an ‘O. R.’—an ‘other rank’—then Bobby would have suspected a case of ‘A. W. L.’—‘absent without leave’—and how the army loves initials! But ‘A. W. L.’ isn’t very likely in the case of a flight lieutenant. Or was it merely masquerade? A silly youngster trying to show off by pretending to be an officer in the R.A.F. It didn’t seem likely, but a detective’s motto must be ‘Try all things,’ and Bobby decided to ring up the Air Ministry as soon as possible. Or was it that for once his famous ‘professional instinct’ had failed him, and Kayes was simply a peculiarly good liar? He became aware that Mr. Childs was apologizing for the possession of knowledge he now gathered the authorities had wished to be regarded as confidential.
Bobby said it couldn’t be helped. If everyone knew, then everyone knew, and that was all there was to it.
He went on to say that what he had really called for was to ask if Mr. Childs could give him any information about the dead man, about his habits, his way of life, anything that might be useful in solving the mystery of the fate that so strangely and so suddenly had fallen upon him.
Mr. Childs looked a little uncomfortable.
“I suppose you’ve heard,” he said, “of the recent unfortunate brawling at our services and that I had been forced to consider taking serious steps to end it. Both my wardens advised legal action. We should have had the support of the church council. I was most unwilling. For many reasons. The scandal. The Church should be very reluctant to appeal to the State. Erastianism. Rather it should be the other way, the State appealing to the Church. The thing had flared up very suddenly and
I did not wish to take precipitate action. I hoped it might end as suddenly as it began. After all, indifference is the real enemy. Neither hot nor cold. Not too much zeal. I hoped presently to bring Brown to a more reasonable frame of mind. I even hoped I might be able to harness his zeal to the true service of the Church. Especially as I associated his conduct with the appearance about here of a kind of itinerant preacher, a man named Dell. Duke Dell, I think. The man you saw that day at Chipping Up.”
“Yes, I remember,” Bobby said. “Brown hadn’t been making himself a nuisance before?”
“No, no. He wasn’t even a member of the congregation. I had talked to him once or twice. I try to visit every house in the parish once a year, though that’s not always possible. Brown always gave me the impression of feeling uncomfortable, of trying to avoid me, in fact. He led a curiously solitary, retired life. I imagine misers often do. He did tell me once he didn’t hold with Popery. I said I didn’t either. My general impression was that that was merely an excuse. It did seem to me that his real reason was that he was afraid.”
“Afraid?” Bobby repeated, somewhat puzzled.
“There are many like that,” Mr. Childs explained. “I find it frequently. They fear the Church because they know they cannot obey the Church without entirely changing their way of life. And they don’t want to. So they stay away, out of danger as they think. Easier to pretend religion isn’t there than to accept religion. I suspected it was something like that with Brown. A miser wouldn’t wish to be told to regard his gold as filthy lucre. Then there came this most unexpected development. Of course, I know there had always been an undercurrent of opposition in the parish. There are some who always seem to think that the more dead, dull, uninspired the worship offered, the more acceptable. But it was an extraordinary surprise to find it being worked up by Brown. Under,” said Mr. Childs, frowning now, “under the influence of this man, Dell, who was very careful, though, to keep himself in the background.”
“Thank you, that’s very interesting,” Bobby said, and indeed found it so, and perhaps even more than Mr. Childs suspected. “I gather Dell didn’t take part, himself, in these disturbances?”
“No, indeed,” Mr. Childs answered, and looked very much now the church militant. “I should have known how to deal with him.” He paused and his flashing eye and grimly set mouth gave confirmation. “With my own hands, if necessary,” he said. “I didn’t take the unarmed combat course for nothing when I was chaplain to the forces.” Then he explained as Bobby looked a little startled by this resurgence of the old Adam: “Dell was not a parishioner. He had no rights, none. Brown was a parishioner. He had rights. I had a responsibility for him. In my cure.”
“Yes, I see that,” Bobby agreed, though wondering if he did, wondering, too, how far this sense of responsibility might go. “We found a card of yours at the cottage with a message on it, asking Brown to call to see you.”
“Oh yes, I remember,” Mr. Childs agreed. “Some days ago. Either he wasn’t at home when I called or he wouldn’t come to the door. So I left a message.”
“Did you get any answer?”
“No. No. It’s one thing to create a disturbance during divine worship—” Mr. Childs paused and again Bobby had that impression of the Church very much militant; of strong, even passionate feelings held firmly in check. “It’s quite another thing,” Mr. Childs continued more calmly, “to face the priest—” He broke off again, as if unwilling to go on. “No, I got no answer,” he repeated.
“Do you remember when was the last time you saw him?”
“Well, strictly speaking, I saw him, if one can call it so, on the night of the murder. I suppose I must make full confession. I expect it’s bound to come out sooner or later.”
He paused again. Bobby sat upright. He had no idea what was coming but the vicar’s remark seemed startling. Mr. Childs went on:
“I do hope you’ll believe it did not occur to me that I was doing wrong. I had stayed to dine with Mr. Goodman. I was on my way there when I saw you at Chipping Up. Mr. Goodman is not a parishioner—I only wish he were. But he has shown considerable interest in our work at St. Barnabas. If only we had more laymen like him. He made a most generous suggestion of financial help towards a very dear project of mine. He insisted on my staying to dinner and in spite of all I could say, he would send me home in his car. It was quite useless my telling him I had my bicycle and it was certainly a very dark night. I can’t say I was altogether looking forward to the ride home in the dark. Some of the army lorry drivers seem to me to take undue risks. However, I do ask you to believe that it never once occurred to me that I was guilty of a criminal offence in the misuse of petrol.”
“Oh yes, yes,” agreed Bobby, blinking a little, for he was not much used to meeting consciences so sensitive. “Yes, I suppose so—strictly speaking. Still, more a technical offence than a criminal offence, I think.”
“I am very relieved to hear you say so,” said Mr. Childs gravely. “It seemed an unfortunate position. I was unable, as I should have done, to communicate with the authorities and explain my fault without compromising both Mr. Goodman and his chauffeur. I am perfectly certain it never occurred to Mr. Goodman cither that there was anything wrong in what he was suggesting. On his part it was pure kindness, great kindness. I do not like cycling in the dark—especially when you come to the main road where the army lorries are and the sometimes rather reckless young dispatch riders. I was, I fear, too relieved by Mr. Goodman’s offer to realize the position. An unfortunate dilemma. No matter how much I tried to keep Mr. Goodman’s name concealed, it would have been bound to come out.”
“I don’t think,” Bobby said with a touch of impatience in his voice, for he really thought all this was making much too large a mountain out of a very small mole hill, “there’s any need to bother. I can assure you we shan’t prosecute. We shan’t even ask Mr. Goodman where he got his petrol. As a rule we only take action if there seems to be deliberate, continued misuse. I imagine Mr. Goodman didn’t come, too. He wasn’t making his offer to you an excuse for a longer drive somewhere else?”
“Oh no,” declared Mr. Childs, looking quite shocked. “I’m sure Mr. Goodman would never think of that. It was merely his kindness and hospitality made him forget war-time regulations.”
“No doubt,” agreed Bobby. “Well, it doesn’t matter in the least. But how was it you happened to meet Brown, if you returned by car? Did you pass him on the road?”
“No. Nowadays, Mr. Goodman uses his small two-seater but, unfortunately, there was something wrong with it. I think Mr. Goodman was rather vexed; I think he was inclined to suspect that the chauffeur was trying to make excuses to avoid turning out. He spoke quite sharply. He said in that case the other car must be used. I tried to protest but he insisted he couldn’t afford to let his man get away with a tale like that. So the big car it was. Enormous it looked in that darkness. It couldn’t possibly have got up our narrow, winding streets. I made the chauffeur stop at the foot of the hill. I remembered the trouble there was once with Canon Wade’s car, though that was nothing like the size. So I got out, retrieved my bicycle from the back, where Mr. Goodman had kindly placed it for me, and wheeled it up the hill. As I was passing Brown’s cottage I saw him at the window. He was adjusting the blind. I waved to him. He may not have seen, though I was standing in the light from the window before he got the blind back in position. I was much inclined to stop and insist on a talk. But it was late. After ten, I think, and finally I went on home.”
“Did you see or meet anyone else?”
“Oh no. No. We are early folk in Oldfordham.”
“Do you remember if Brown had the wireless on?”
“Yes, it was one reason why I decided not to knock.”
“Did you recognize the music? I mean, what piece was being played?”
“I’m afraid not,” Mr. Childs admitted. “My ear for music is not of the best.” He sighed, for this was a cross he had to bear. Even when he intoned a
prayer during church service, he knew very well what silent—and not always silent—criticism he was being subjected to. Then he brightened a little. “At any rate,” he said, “it was not one of the familiar hymn tunes. That, at least, I am sure of. I do know them.”
“Could you tell me what make Mr. Goodman’s car is?”
“Dear me, no,” answered Mr. Childs, a trifle surprised and even amused at what seemed so irrelevant a question. “I fear I am totally uninstructed in motoring matters. Is it of any importance?”
“Any small detail may turn out to be all-important,” Bobby explained smilingly. “One never knows. For instance, we found a thread of black cloth caught on a splinter of a broken chair at the cottage. That may mean nothing. Probably it doesn’t. We have sent it for examination by the experts. They may be able to tell us something. Such small apparent trifles have, before now, led to the gallows.”
Mr. Childs stared, gulped, went very pale. He rose to his feet from his chair behind the table where he had been sitting. He looked down and Bobby could see quite plainly where a small tear on the knee of one trouser-leg had been neatly and expertly darned.
CHAPTER XVI
UNDIGNIFIED AFFAIR
A silence followed. Mr. Childs kept his eyes fixed on that tiny, almost imperceptible, darn on his trouser-knee. So did Bobby. He waited. Silently. He had a great gift for silent waiting. Olive, in one of those moments of exasperation that occasionally add a touch of spice to normal married life, had told him once that there were times when it removed him from the category of the human. So he waited now, passive and watchful. An enemy might have said, like a cat watching a mouse, though Bobby’s feelings would certainly have been much hurt by a comparison he would have felt to be so fundamentally unjust. It was the booming of the hour from the great clock of St. Barnabas that, at last, roused Mr. Childs. He said:
“The hidden things shall be made clear.” After another pause he added pensively: “If there had been coupons to spare, I should probably have bought a new pair.”
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