It Might Lead Anywhere

by E. R. Punshon

  “Who else but the young girl, our sister, Theresa Foote, whom evil forces threaten, but who knows well where she must place her trust, though not in you. Be not over-concerned for that dear child.”

  “Oh, Lord,” said Bobby helplessly.

  CHAPTER XXV

  DIFFICULT TASK

  Bobby decided glumly that it was no good trying to get any help at present from Dell. Events might bring about a change in his attitude; though what those events might prove to be, Bobby did not care too much to guess at. But for the present it was plain Duke Dell’s mind was closed, his belief absolute in the guidance he seemed to be so sure he had received from what he called his ‘Vision,’ but that Bobby was inclined for his part to think was no more than the complacent working of Dell’s sub-consciousness, obeying the directives received from his own uncontrolled instincts. Then, too, he had not yet fully recovered from the effect of whatever drug had been given him, and he was very clearly in great need of rest and quiet.

  “I’ll leave you now,” Bobby said to him. “Better try to get a sleep.”

  With that he left the room but he did not go downstairs. He had forgotten he had had no lunch, his mind was too full of troubled and uneasy thoughts for him to be conscious of hunger or fatigue. He sat down on the topmost tread, and tried to get into proper perspective the trend of recent events, so far as he knew them, and to deduce from them the probable shape of things to come. For now he was faced with something he had never known before in all his experience. Normally a detective’s task is to discover the truth from the study of the past. Now what he had to do, he reflected moodily, was to discover from the present what was likely to happen in the future.

  A difficult task. Even an impossible task. He told himself angrily that he had never pretended to be a fortune teller.

  Once, when he was still in uniform, patrolling a city beat, starting a career that had brought him to the position he now occupied, a senior officer had told him that the only thing a detective could do in a difficult case was to sit and wait for people to come and tell him what it was all about.

  Sound advice if undramatic. Bobby had proved its worth on many occasions. But in this case no one would tell him anything. A wall of silence met him on every side; and behind that wall worked and planned the most formidable adversary, he believed, that he had ever met—ten times more formidable by reason of concealment behind a camouflage of incredible effectiveness.

  There were three separate aspects of these recent happenings he had to reconcile, three angles to be resolved before this triangle of a problem could be set up four square and firm for reasonable solution. All were related, he felt sure, in action and reaction—the death of Alfred Brown, his store of hidden gold, the dark and hidden activities of little smiling baby-faced Theresa Foote.

  From this confusion of speculation and of doubts, wherefrom he was still struggling to extract some guiding principle, he was roused by the appearance of Theresa herself, coming tripping lightly up the stairs.

  “Don’t you want any lunch?” she asked solicitously. “Mrs. Fuller wants to clear away but I told her poor you hadn’t had a bite yet.”

  “I believe I do feel a bit hungry, now you mention it,” Bobby said, rising to let her pass, very conscious of the irony of this polite small talk between two who knew so well each other and each other’s purpose.

  “Only whatever you do,” Theresa warned him earnestly, “don’t let Mrs. Fuller think you think it was her soup upset poor Mr. Dell. She’s most awfully touchy about her cooking. She might walk straight out of the house if anyone said that. And whatever should we do then?” asked Theresa, opening her china-blue eyes to their widest.

  “I shouldn’t dream of saying anything of the sort,” Bobby declared with equal earnestness. “Most unfair to do so, when it wasn’t the soup but only what you put in it.”

  Theresa put on an even more innocent air. She pouted. She looked exactly like a spoiled child receiving an unexpected rebuke. One thing though Bobby had noticed in all her airs she could assume with such speed and skill—she could never manage tears. Her clear, wide-opening eyes of such bright china blue remained always hard, undimmed, watchful. Bobby felt he ought to recommend her to carry a slice of onion in her handkerchief. Crude perhaps but effective. She said now with a pretty little sigh:

  “I can’t think what makes you so horrid to me.”

  A real artist in her way, Bobby thought. He remembered being told that the born actor would act even at his mother’s death bed. He thought Theresa was like that. Though she knew well that he knew well what she was, yet she enjoyed presenting to him this facade of guileless youth, enjoyed imposing herself as what her age and sex and looks seemed to proclaim so emphatically she must be. Or did it all go deeper? Was the mystery more profound? Did she truly revert at times to a more normal, natural self? Were there moments when the strange dark influences whereto her will seemed to yield itself, relaxed for a time their power? A useless question and one to whose implications it might be fatal to yield. In that queer uncanny way of hers she seemed to be aware that certain hesitations were present in his mind, even though she evidently did not fully understand their nature. With a confiding, tender gesture she put out a small hand towards him.

  “I do so wish we could be real friends,” she said pathetically. “It’s lovely to be friends.”

  Bobby took her proffered hand and pressed it softly. She seemed a little surprised and even just a little hopeful, as if wondering if just possibly it wasn’t beginning to work at last. Very gently she returned the pressure of his hand. He said in his softest voice:

  “It is, isn’t it? Lovely, and it’ll be lovelier still the day I see you in the dock well on your way to the gallows.”

  “You never will,” she assured him, looking up with a confiding smile. “Not you. And even if you got me there, it wouldn’t do you any good. No one would ever be so cruel as to keep poor little me in such a nasty place. Now, would they?”

  Bobby was inclined to agree with her. He could see even the judge himself basking in the freshness of her innocence and youth, the jury practically in tears at their first glimpse of her, he himself in imminent danger of being lynched on the spot.

  “One has one’s hopes,” he told her. “I play with bits of string sometimes, making a noose I feel would look awfully well on that round white neck of yours.”

  He went on down the stairs then. He did not suppose that what he had said would have any effect or shake her nerve in any way. She moved as it were invulnerable, in magic armour, triumphantly safe. From this conviction, Bobby felt, she had acquired that odd and reckless irresponsibility her actions so often showed, as though she knew that she was secure in her certainty that all doubt or suspicion would vanish automatically before her pretty face, her trustful upturned eyes, her pouting lips.

  “The little devil,” Bobby said to himself and felt a chill, for indeed there were moments when he almost believed those words had a truth beyond that of mere metaphor.

  He went into the small room at the back used by Mr. Goodman as a study. There was a telephone there. He called up his headquarters and gave instructions for two constables to report to him as soon as possible. He had a feeling that presently he might be glad of help. He wished his chief assistant, Inspector Payne, was available, but he knew Payne was laid up with a bad cold. Then he rang up Oldfordham police and told Sergeant Hicks to get in touch with Mr. Denis Kayes and ask him to ring up Bobby at Four Oaks, or, if Bobby wasn’t there at the time, then to ring up county police headquarters in Midwych. Also Sergeant Hicks was to impress upon Mr. Kayes that until he heard from Bobby, or from Midwych headquarters, he was on no account to venture out, or take any notice of any message he might receive. This, Hicks was to impress upon Mr. Kayes was of the utmost importance. Hicks, though sounding very puzzled, undertook to carry out these orders at once, and Bobby had only just hung up when Mr. Goodman came in. He was in the middle of a tremendous yawn, but when he saw Bobby the
yawn changed to a snarl.

  “Don’t mind me,” he said sourly. “It’s only my house and my phone. May I ask how much longer you mean to favour us with your company? Perhaps you want a room got ready for to-night?” and quite suddenly, as if the word ‘to-night’ had associations too strong to resist, he indulged in another tremendous yawn.

  “I know I’m not exactly welcome,” Bobby said sadly, “but then that’s part of the policeman’s job—to be always precisely where he isn’t wanted.” Again Mr. Goodman turned his yawn into a scowl. He didn’t seem to like the implications of this remark. Bobby went on: “I have a feeling we are likely to see a good deal of each other for some time yet.” Mr. Goodman looked as if he liked this remark still less. “But don’t bother about a room,” Bobby added consolingly. “Very nice of you to think of it, though. If I have to stay around to-night, I’ll sleep in my car. I’ve told my people to send the biggest they’ve got. I don’t know yet.”

  Goodman was not scowling now. Nor yawning. He had a frightened air instead. He went towards the door. Over his shoulder as he was going out, he said:

  “I don’t know what it’s all about. It’s getting me down. I think I’ll get a rest. Lie down. If I can get a sleep, it’ll clear my head a bit perhaps. I’ll talk to you later.”

  He departed then, leaving Bobby puzzled. Was this sudden drowsiness genuine or was it put on for the occasion? If so, why? Bobby decided that if he did stay the night in the vicinity, possibly it might be prudent to choose another sleeping place than that he had now mentioned. He left the study and went into the dining-room. Lunch was still on the table but Bobby did not attempt to help himself. He was hungry enough but in that house he had no wish to eat. Mrs. Fuller appeared and when he said he wanted nothing, began to clear away. Bobby had a feeling that Theresa was watching outside the room, but he took no notice. He lighted a cigarette, the next best thing to food when a man’s appetite begins to draw attention to itself, and sat down by the window.

  The table had been cleared. Bobby was alone, his second cigarette well under way. Even the brooding presence that was Theresa seemed to have withdrawn itself. From the window presently Bobby had a glimpse of an approaching cyclist. He wondered if it could be Denis Kayes, come in person instead of using the phone. Disconcerting if it were, but there had hardly been time. Then he saw that it was Mr. Childs, the Oldfordham vicar.

  “Now, what’s that mean?” Bobby asked himself. “What’s up now? Quite a gathering of the clans.”

  He got up and strolled out into the drive. Mr. Childs, turning in at the gate, saw him, seemed surprised, and alighted from his cycle.

  “I didn’t expect you would be here,” he said. “I hope there’s nothing wrong?”

  “I suppose I am rather a bird of ill omen,” Bobby admitted ruefully. “Where are the police, there is trouble gathered together. I didn’t expect you either. Any special reason? I am asking in my capacity as policeman, of course, not out of mere curiosity.”

  “No, no, just a friendly call,” Mr. Childs answered, but with such evident embarrassment that Bobby said: “Is that really all? Are you sure? You see, I feel there’s a crisis coming. I feel the cards are on the table but I don’t know what cards—or what table. Any trifle, any smallest hint may be a help.”

  “No, no,” Mr. Childs insisted, “nothing whatever to do with all these most unfortunate, most distressing events. At least, I mean. In a sense of course. I thought I would like a chat with Mr. Goodman. A most admirable man. A most generous man. We, at St. Barnabas, have every reason to know that. Characteristic of him to refuse to accept for himself the Brown legacy. Is it a fact by the way that the itinerant, self-appointed preacher—I think his name is Dell, Duke Dell—is he staying here now?”

  There was an unmistakable gleam in Mr. Childs’ eyes as he spoke—a kind of vicarious greed so to speak. Very plainly there was a clear vision before him of new schools for St. Barnabas, a new church hall perhaps, a new mission chapel, all provided out of the legacy the excellent and generous Mr. Goodman had announced his intention of devoting to public purposes—and what better, more public, more desirable than those connected with St. Barnabas? For himself, even had he been starving, Mr. Childs would have scorned to ask a penny, but for St. Barnabas now was the light of battle in his eyes, his nostrils twitched, his mouth was set and grim, no hound following strong scent could have been more eager and intent. Clearly he meant that the claims of St. Barnabas on Mr. Goodman’s generosity should not be overlooked; clearly, too, he had scented a rival on hearing of Duke Dell’s presence at Four Oaks and so had come full speed to the battle. Had there been any question of the money going to, say, the cottage hospital, Mr. Childs would have sighed as a vicar and submitted as a citizen. Utterly intolerable, though, to think of such a sum going to a hedgerow preacher, a blind leader of the blind, a ranter on the roads, a fomenter of heresy and schism; for so Mr. Childs, forgetting charity for the time, was thinking now of Duke Dell. His mouth was set in grim determination that nothing of the sort must be permitted, too much loose thinking and careless talk already; and Bobby, watching his air and manner of the very militant churchman indeed, could not help wondering again how far the strength of such passionate conviction might not carry him.

  “Mr. Dell is here,” Bobby said, “but he doesn’t seem very well. At the moment he is resting in his room.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Mr. Childs said, promptly forgetting everything else. “Anything I can do? Not too bad for me to see, is he?”

  “I shouldn’t think so,” Bobby answered; and if he had not been so used to the inconsistencies of human nature he might have wondered at this sudden change from bitter rivalry to eager sympathy. But it is a commonplace that men can easily keep their feelings in watertight compartments. This war has shown how the same man may willingly offer his life and the lives of those nearest and dearest to him in the service of the country, and at the same time be secretly planning to hold back for his private use and enjoyment the money and resources his country needs as much. Human nature, Bobby reflected sagely, is the damnedest, queerest, most tangled thing that is or can be. He said abruptly: “May I ask you something?”

  “Certainly, certainly,” Mr. Childs answered at once, quickly and gravely. “I shall be delighted to do my best to answer.”

  “Do you believe in demoniac possession?” Bobby asked.

  “Demoniac possession?” Mr. Childs answered and was plainly rather taken aback. “Demoniac possession?” he said again, as if not quite sure he had heard aright. “You mean actual possession of a human being by an evil spirit? As a possibility, yes, most certainly. There is the authority of Holy Scripture. One hears, too, of strange cases from time to time. But they can only be accepted with considerable hesitation. A very difficult question. Some recent writers, certainly to be regarded with great respect, are evidently inclined to think that cases still occur. A recent work by an Oxford scholar, for instance. There are spiritualistic phenomena, too, which are most disturbing. One hesitates to make a definite pronouncement. I must admit some such idea had crossed my mind in connection with recent events.”

  “Oh, yes,” Bobby exclaimed, startled and impressed.

  “I put it out of my mind,” said Mr. Childs firmly. “I would not consider it. But I did see clearly that much of what was happening was so harmful to the Church, much of his conduct—”

  “‘His’,” repeated Bobby, even more startled now.

  But Mr. Childs did not hear what he said. Theresa had just come into the dining-room, clearly visible through the window, and Mr. Childs beamed.

  “Ah, there is that dear child,” he said. “I have counted much upon her aid in this household. One wonders if her sweet young innocence—if there is such a possibility as you mentioned, one wonders if she has felt instinctively … ” He paused. He went on: “One might try to ask her—discreetly, very discreetly. About Mr. Duke Dell, I mean. The innocence of a young girl like Miss Foote is a very wonderful and sacred thing.
”

  “Oh, Lord,” said Bobby helplessly.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  BELLE DAME SANS MERCI

  Theresa had come skipping to the door, all happy smiles and shy, bright-eyed welcome, to greet Mr. Childs. Bobby could hear her prattling prettily as she led the way into the house. Plainly came to him her dulcet tones of sympathy and concern as she spoke of poor Mr. Dell and how bad he had seemed just before lunch—no details neglected, Bobby reflected grimly. What an artist the woman was, already the idea was being firmly implanted in Mr. Child’s mind that Dell’s illness could have nothing to do with what he had eaten at lunch since his attack had come on before the meal. Only a small unimportant trifle in a way. Yet, as has been said in a very different connection, by trifles perfection is attained and perfection is not a trifle. Now, too, Theresa was telling the sympathetic and approving Mr. Childs how dreadful it was to hear Mr. Dell saying such funny, awful things, even about Bishops sometimes. It made her quite uncomfortable and she simply didn’t know how people could listen to him.

  Her voice died away and Bobby felt gloomier than ever as once again he recognized the odds against him. She had them all bemused, as thoroughly bewitched as ever was knight of legend by fairy glamour. ‘A belle dame sans merci,’ he told himself; and he was the pale knight wanly wandering, no victim indeed himself to her sorcery, but lost in the magic maze she wove, unable to protect others from her spells, unable even to be sure at what end her evil magic aimed.

  He found himself wondering once again how old she was. Eighteen or nineteen apparently, by what she had told Goodman; a young, inexperienced eighteen or nineteen by dress and manner, as indeed was clearly the impression she wished to give.

  “‘The dewy bloom of innocence, fresh on girlhood’s cheeks’,” he quoted to himself. “That’s her line.”

  He was inclined to put her real age as getting on for thirty. He would have liked to put it at forty, but that he felt was only bad temper. Thirty or less, he decided; even though in these days of short skirts and make-up, it is not always easy to distinguish the grandmother from the schoolgirl. Except, perhaps, that the schoolgirl often knows more. Any jury would have adopted for Theresa the schoolgirl theory instantly and firmly; and Bobby smiled wryly as he pictured to himself the tender paternal care, the fatherly protective benevolence with which counsel would question her—the poisonous little viper.