He began to run, angry that his signal had not been answered and yet afraid that there might be for that, good reason. He reached the trees; and as he did so he heard someone laugh, a laugh that had in it no pleasant sound, either of mirth or of joy.
“Who’s there?” he called and plunged forward among the bordering trees, but it was from behind that there came an answer, an answer in a loud, cracked voice, evidently disguised, that said:
“Go home, go home, little man. You’ve nothing to do here.”
Bobby made no answer, but ran fast, or as fast as conditions permitted, in the direction whence the voice had come. But now he heard a rustling and what he thought were footsteps in front again, and so he dashed forward, only to be brought up abruptly by collision with a strong wire fence running through this belt of trees and undergrowth that served as a windscreen to the Kindles garden and as a boundary between it and the fields belonging to Martin Winstanley’s River Farm. Though only some ten or twenty yards deep, it, together with the unchecked undergrowth that had grown up during the war, formed a considerable obstacle, complicated by this wire fence, strong, high, and barbed that ran through it. Indeed, previously it had played its part in the scheme of defence laid down for this district when invasion seemed inevitable—inevitable, at least, till the battle of the skies and the rain of German planes falling from the clouds, brought relief, as rain in season brings relief where famine has been feared.
Now Bobby flashed his light again to judge better of this obstacle that had checked him so abruptly. Doing so, he saw a figure flit between the trees on the other side of the fence, not running now, creeping rather, and yet still with that same air of dark and secret purpose, so silently it went, so purposely, so indifferent to the light that held it plain for a moment, so indifferent to Bobby’s sharp call to it to stay.
He could not tell who it was, and now the trees hid it again. A cap drawn down over the eyes had met, or nearly met, the scarf that muffled most of the lower part of the face. A long, dark coat covered all the body, and the stooping position adopted, to avoid overhanging boughs, made it impossible to judge the height. He was not even sure it had been a man, though he thought so. But it might have been a woman. He could not be certain. And he had seen, too, that the hands were gloved, and that one of them held what seemed like some kind of club or bludgeon.
“Stop or I’ll fire,” Bobby shouted, though he had no weapon on him wherewith to implement his threat; and all the answer that he got was the scuffle of a rabbit running by and the faint murmur of the night breeze through the trees, as though they laughed together.
He flashed his torch again and found a convenient tree with overhanging branches. With its aid he swung himself across the wire fencing and hurried in the direction in which he had seen vanish the dark and ominous figure he pursued or sought. Without success, for both pursuit and search seemed more difficult, more baffling still, now that level rays of light from the risen moon threw long shadows from the trees and made alternate lanes of light with deep pools of darkness at the roots of the trees and where the thick bushes grew.
Abruptly there fell on him a bright strong ray from not far away, a ray from a powerful electric torch. He felt himself oddly revealed, uncovered. The light was like a pointing finger and he had to resist an impulse to run behind a tree to avoid it.
“Who is that?” he shouted angrily and ran towards it, only to be checked once more, and almost at once, by that same strong wire fence.
If it was the same person he had seen a moment or two before, then the fence must have been crossed again in the other direction. Not difficult, if you knew where to find the right spots, or possibly where there was a gate. A game of hide and seek that might go on long enough, he supposed, and now the ray that had been focused on him was suddenly switched off. A game of hide and seek, of whose purpose and of whose object he had no knowledge. Not much use trying, on this confusing chequer board of moonlight and shadow, to follow a fugitive who it seemed could always be on the other side of the fence, so making swift pursuit impossible. But all that might be easier, more practicable, when the light grew stronger and these long shadows and dark pools of night among the bushes less baffling and mysterious.
“All right. All right,” he called into the darkness and in his voice was all the helpless and indignant anger that he felt. “You’ve been warned.”
“Warned yourself,” came the same snarling, high-pitched voice, plainly disguised, he had heard before, and there flew by, within a few inches of his head, some heavy object thrown with force and fierce intention.
It smashed heavily against a tree trunk near, with a thud that told what the result would have been had it hit instead of missed. Bobby dashed in the direction whence it came, but tripped and nearly fell as his foot caught in an entangling bramble. A momentary delay, but sufficient, for when he recovered his balance and could hurry on, there was nothing.
“Two of them,” he thought, “one on each side of that damn fence and they’re just playing with me. I mustn’t get excited,” he thought; for he felt within himself such a buzzing of frustrated, storming rage as made him want to make blind rushes to and fro in the hope of finding someone or something. But there was always the fence between, the fence across which, knowing the appropriate places, others could slip with an ease and speed denied to him. “They hold all the trumps,” he told himself. Then he thought: “All right. I’ll throw the lead.”
He remained standing quietly and very still in the deep shadow of a tree near by, waiting and listening with every faculty stretched at its full. At the back of his mind was an uneasy wonder as to what had happened to the constable on duty who should have been there to help, who it was presumably who had sent out that message of the flashing skyward light to which he had responded, but never found the sender. Had he done so, had he had someone to help, then there could have been one of them on each side of the dividing, baffling fence and that would have made all the difference. It would have made impossible the game now being played of dodging to and fro. Now the best chance seemed to be to remain silent, watchful and hidden, in the hope that whoever might be here would presently betray himself or his position. If he did so, then, Bobby told himself with emphasis, for by this time he was very much annoyed indeed, he would know what to do—and how he would do it. A nice thing, he thought gloomily, for a Deputy Chief Constable of Wychshire, for a just faintly possible future Deputy Assistant Commissioner at Scotland Yard, to be played with like this.
For a time, strain his hearing and his sight as he might, he heard, saw nothing. Nothing that is to suggest that any other living, moving human being was anywhere within this belt of trees. Yet now he was beginning to think there must have been two others—the one who had thrown at him, with intent to end his activities for the night, that heavy object which had missed him only by inches, and the one whose bright electric torch had picked him out from the further side of the fence. Or, again, there was the secret and silent figure he had seen passing by as though intent upon some pressing mischief. With that figure he identified in his mind the high, cracked, certainly disguised voice that had bidden him go home. But did that mean there were three—three others besides himself within the narrow compass and shelter of this windscreen of trees? If so, what was their business here so late and so secret, and who were they?
Questions to which as yet there seemed no answer—no answer at least to which he could relate what else had happened hereabouts.
He stiffened to even closer attention. There came to him the sound of low, murmuring voices, distant and indistinct, yet recognizable as coming from two who were talking to each other. Did this mean that the two unknowns of whose presence he had had evidence, had now come together in consultation or in greeting? As silently as cautiously as he might, Bobby made his way in the direction whence those murmuring voices came. They ceased, but now instead he thought he could hear footsteps. He hurried, he almost ran, though still with caution, for he felt that any s
ound he made might well cause those he sought to vanish once again. The light was stronger now as the moon rose higher, and her less level, stronger rays threw shorter, lighter shadows. He could still hear retreating footsteps. Terrifyingly in that still moonlit night rang out a scream, a fearful scream, a woman’s scream.
There was in it, such urgency, such need and such appeal, that Bobby forgot his caution and ran. Once more there closed upon the night an uttermost silence. Challenged and broken for the instant by that one loud, dreadful cry, instantly it came together again and now was as it had been before.
Bobby shouted. He flashed his torch hither and thither and shouted again, and still he had no answer, and still there seemed to echo in his ear that cry of one in most deadly fear and peril.
CHAPTER XVII
A TWEED CAP
It was from the Kindles garden, on the north side of the tree belt, that this loud and dreadful cry had seemed to come; and in that direction Bobby now ran, breaking, not without relief, from among the dark and treacherous shadows beneath the trees to the flower beds and lawns and paths where the uninterrupted moonbeams gave a stronger and a clearer light. He called out as he ran. He came to a broad, straight, gravel path, and there at once he saw at a little distance a white patch on the path, clearly visible in the white light of the moon. He ran towards it and saw that it covered in part a crumpled human body. Nearer still, he saw it was the white swansdown cape he remembered he had seen in Lord Adour’s study and that Jane Felgate had claimed as the property of her cousin, Helen. So still lay that huddled form he thought death must be there before him. It came into his mind that only in death, and only perhaps when it had passed away, was he to see the strange beauty which had seemed to have on so many others such powerful effect. But when he knelt by the side of that still figure it stirred, it moved, it raised itself, and Bobby recognized Jane Felgate.
She was looking at him a little wildly from startled and fearful eyes. Her body was shaken by strong tremors so that even her teeth chattered. She put out her hand and clutched at his coat, but when she tried to speak words would not come. Bobby put to her lips the small brandy flask he always carried.
“Drink this,” he said.
She drank obediently. The strong spirit set her spluttering and gasping, but evidently did her good. The tremors ceased and when he felt her pulse it was stronger and she seemed less cold. For a moment Bobby thought of leaving her and starting in pursuit of her assailant, since evidently she had been attacked. He gave up the idea at once. Pursuit so far had been no great success, nor was Jane in any condition to be left. He said to her: “Feeling better? It’s all right now. Quite all right. Are you hurt?” Then he saw there was a trickle of blood on her cheek from a slight cut above one eye. He flashed his torch to see it more clearly and made sure it was only superficial. He said: “What happened?”
“He was going to kill me,” she said fearfully. “Don’t let him.”
“Rather not,” declared Bobby heartily. “You’re quite safe now. Who was it?”
“He meant to kill me,” she repeated, and now in her voice there was a note of surprise. “I don’t know who it was. I couldn’t see.” With sudden fear, she said: “He’s coming back. Listen.” In fact, Bobby could hear rapidly approaching footsteps, those of a man, he supposed, as they sounded heavy. “Let’s run,” Jane panted, and tried to get to her feet.
“That’s all right,” Bobby said, restraining her gently. “This chap’s making too much noise to mean mischief. Mischief goes silently. No such luck,” he added regretfully, “as the bloke who went for you coming back. I only wish he would.”
Jane did not seem much inclined to share this pious aspiration. The approaching figure came nearer, plainly visible now in the clear moonlight. A man certainly. He called:
“What is it? What’s happened? I heard someone—”
“It’s Martin,” Jane said with relief in her tone, and Bobby, also recognizing the newcomer, said:
“Mr. Winstanley, isn’t it?”
Winstanley came up to them. He was carrying a double-barrelled gun and had an air of being very ready to use it.
“What’s up?” he asked. “Jane, was it you called out?” He paused and glared suspiciously at Bobby. “Has this chap—?”
“Shut up,” Bobby interrupted rudely. “Miss Felgate, what did happen?”
“A man jumped at me,” she said and her voice was not very steady as she remembered that moment of fear. “I didn’t hear him. I thought it was Martin come back, but he jumped at me, and I fell down. I knew he meant to kill me. I couldn’t speak or move or anything. He had a great club in his hand. I knew he was going to kill me and he wanted to. I don’t know how I knew, but I did, and I knew nothing could stop him. I couldn’t stir or move or cry out or anything. It was like being dead already, only for still knowing things. I saw the great club coming and I jerked my head and it missed somehow. I heard how it went thud on the ground so close I felt a sort of jerk. I thought if that had been my head it would have smashed like an egg. I thought of Helen breaking eggs for an omelette, and then I don’t know what happened, but the man wasn’t there any more, and it was Mr. Owen instead.”
A strange story; and Bobby might have been inclined to doubt it, but that he could both see and feel where some tremendous blow had smashed the surface of the gravel path. Easy to guess what would have been the result had any human head endured the force of that savage blow.
“What was he like?” Bobby asked.
Jane had got to her feet now. She had taken her hand from Bobby’s coat and was holding Winstanley’s arm instead. She said: “I don’t know. I couldn’t see his face. It was all hidden. I only remember that great club thing he had. I knew he was going to kill me. I knew he wanted to.” There was again a note of surprise and wonder in her voice as she repeated: “He wanted to. I just lay and waited. I couldn’t speak or move or cry out or anything.” Bobby felt this last remark wasn’t very accurate. If she hadn’t moved her head at the last moment, almost certainly it would have been no pleasant sight that he would have found there waiting for him. Evidently, too, she had no knowledge or memory of that great and dreadful cry that she had uttered at the last as she had seen what had seemed like death descending, and that had brought him running to her aid. Winstanley said:
“We must find him.” He looked angrily at Bobby: “Why aren’t you doing something?” he demanded.
“First things first,” Bobby said. “We’ll do our best, but for the moment I would like to know what you are doing here? Had you and Miss Felgate arranged to meet each other?”
“No. We hadn’t,” Winstanley retorted, still angry.
“Please, can I go?” Jane said. “I … I feel so dizzy somehow.”
Winstanley was all concern at once.
“Can you walk?” he asked. “Shall I carry you?”
He put down his gun in preparation for this task. Bobby took the opportunity to glance at the gun’s butt end. Clean, polished, unscratched, it had certainly not been used to strike that blow of which the gravel path showed so clear an impression. Bobby said: “There’s someone coming.”
Hurrying footsteps were now in fact plainly audible, and soon Lord Adour could be recognized.
“What’s going on here?” he called authoritatively.
“As far as I can make out,” Bobby said, “Mr. Winstanley and Miss Felgate had been meeting. When they separated, someone made an attack on Miss Felgate, apparently with intent to murder. She doesn’t seem to know who or why.”
“Tried to—what?” Lord Adour said. “Nonsense. Impossible.” But he did not pronounce these last two words very confidently. Bobby noticed that he was wearing a scarf round his neck, a cap pulled down low over his eyes, and that he had on gloves. “Why should anyone …?” he began and left it at that. He turned sharply on Bobby: “Why are you here?”
“I’m a policeman,” Bobby explained, “and it’s the business of the police to be as much on the spot as possible.
I see you have been out, too. A little late for taking a stroll, isn’t it?”
“That’s Helen’s cape,” Lord Adour said, without answering Bobby. “Where’s Helen? Is she here?”
“She’s at home,” Jane answered. “She went up to bed early. I borrowed her cape to come out. I’m sorry I—” She paused and would have fallen had not Winstanley supported her. “It’s my head,” she said. “It goes funny. Please, can’t I go?”
“Your cheek’s bleeding,” Bobby said. “Let me look.”
“I felt something,” Jane said. “I think it didn’t quite miss me, only nearly.”
Bobby assured himself again the wound was only slight. He assured her, too, when she asked a little anxiously, that it would not even leave a mark. He thought that probably the very great violence with which the gravel path had been struck, had thrown up a splinter or fragment of stone with force sufficient to inflict this small injury. Proof of what would have been the effect had the blow been better aimed. Winstanley and Jane began to move away towards the house, the girl leaning heavily on Winstanley’s arm. Lord Adour was about to follow them. Bobby stopped him and said:
“Did you know Mr. Winstanley and Miss Felgate were meeting here to-night? Did you object in any way?”
“I had no idea anything of the sort was likely,” Lord Adour answered. “Quite the reverse. If I had known, I shouldn’t have objected. Why should I? It’s not so late as all that and Miss Felgate isn’t a child.”
“No. No,” agreed Bobby. “I see you’ve been out. Do you mind telling me where?”
“What do you mean, out? I’ve not been out all evening. I’ve been at home.”
“Oh, sorry,” said Bobby. “I noticed you had on your coat.”
“I heard something,” Lord Adour answered and his tone was not pleased. “Someone calling. I wondered who it was, so I put on my hat and coat and came out to see. Why?”
Helen Passes By: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 13
