Everybody Always Tells: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  “Do you think she is guilty of the murder?”

  “Well, I do think in the mood into which she had worked herself, she might have done anything. I don’t know. Ariosto, who seems really quite a decent little man, says she’s a fiend, and produces what if I were writing a report I should call strong confirmatory evidence. But Miss Grange sticks to it that at bottom she’s all right. A bit confused, that’s all. Lost. And that anyhow she would always spend too much time thinking about action ever to take action.”

  “A sort of Hamlet in real life?” the Assistant Commissioner suggested. “But Hamlet took sufficiently violent action in the end, didn’t he?”

  “I’m inclined to think though,” Bobby went on, ignoring a reflection that for that matter had been much in his own mind of late, “that if she isn’t guilty herself, she knows who is. I don’t know. I thought of going to Abels End this afternoon to have another look round.”

  “It might be an idea,” agreed the Assistant Commissioner. “That’s where the Acton chap hangs out, isn’t it? He’s not been much in the news lately.”

  “But ever in my thoughts,” Bobby answered, nor was his tone as light as his words.

  “Heard anything about those guinea pigs of yours?” asked the Assistant Commissioner. “I mean those you sent to some professor or another.”

  “There’s been a note to say they were both dead. There were two you remember. So he got two more. If they die, he’ll make a full report, but he wants to wait till then. Apparently he wants his conclusions confirmed.”

  “I see,” said the Assistant Commissioner, and he looked grave. “Yes, quite so. Well, we must just wait, I suppose. But I agree with you. The sooner we get on Mrs Findlay’s tracks, the better.”

  “You can depend on our doing our best,” Bobby said, and then he went off to get out his car for a drive to Abels End he would have enjoyed more if he had been less uneasy as to the ultimate result on Mrs Findlay’s somewhat unusual mentality of what he had told her.

  “Must be,” he reflected, “rather disturbing to try to be awfully wicked and then find out you’ve only been an awful fool.”

  On reaching the village he stopped at the Abels End Arms for a belated lunch, and there, getting into desultory talk with various people, soon learned that of late nothing had occurred to ruffle the placid surface of village life. Afterwards he strolled off to visit the police sergeant now, since these events, sent to the village. He asked about the Actons, and was told that the previous Saturday Mrs Acton and her two children had left rather suddenly for a second holiday at the seaside.

  “Seems she didn’t much want,” the sergeant remarked. “There was words about it and the short notice and all, though in general him and her hit it off a marvel.”

  “Well, most people have no objection to a second holiday,” Bobby remarked, and the sergeant said enviously that he only wished he and his missus had the chance.

  Bobby asked one or two more questions, and the sergeant said he had inquired and, as Bobby had already been told, nothing unusual had happened recently in the village. He added that in his opinion, nothing ever did, had, or would happen at Abels End.

  “They jog along,” he said, and Bobby said that happy was the village where nothing ever happened.

  Leaving the sergeant considering somewhat doubtfully this proposition, Bobby went on up the hill towards the Acton residence. Reaching it, he stood looking at it thoughtfully. Was it possible, he asked himself, or was the suggestion too fantastic, that Mrs Findlay had sought refuge there, and was that why Mrs Acton and her children had been bundled off at short notice?

  On the general principle that if you want to know, the best thing to do is to ask, he decided to knock and inquire. His summons was answered almost immediately—by Noel Lake. He and Bobby, equally surprised, stared at each other, and then both uttered a loud and simultaneous “Oh.” After that, Bobby, the first to recover himself, said:

  “I wanted to see Mr Acton. Are you staying here?”

  “I thought it was Acton when I heard you knock,” Noel said. “He isn’t here. I’m waiting for him.”

  He turned and went back into the house. Bobby followed through the entrance lobby and into a lounge hall, comfortably and pleasantly furnished. Noel said again:

  “Acton isn’t here. I’m waiting for him.”

  “Did he say when he would be back?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him. There doesn’t seem to be a soul in the place.”

  “How did you get in, then?”

  “Well,” answered Noel with some hesitation, “I kept knocking and no one came, so I went round to the back. I thought there might be some one there, but there wasn’t. Not a sign. I tried the back door, and it wasn’t locked and I pushed it open and shouted. Nobody answered, and I thought I had better have a look round and see if anything was up.”

  “A bit like housebreaking, wasn’t it?” Bobby asked.

  “Well, the door wasn’t locked,” Noel said.

  “Mr Acton may not think that an awfully good explanation,” Bobby remarked. “Was there any special reason why you were anxious to see Mr Acton? It’s not usual to walk into other people’s houses, you know.”

  “Well, Kitty—Miss Grange—thought there might be a chance that Mrs Findlay was here,” Noel explained. “I daresay you know she cleared out in a hurry last week without saying where she was going, and Kitty says they’re all awfully worried—especially the old man. Kitty asked me to find out if Mrs Findlay was here. That’s all.”

  “She’s not, is she?”

  “Not unless she’s sound asleep or something. I haven’t been all over the house, you know. But I’ve shouted, and there’s no answer. I was going to wait outside for Acton when I heard you knock.”

  “Did Miss Grange say why she thought Mrs Findlay might be here?”

  “It was just an idea of hers. She must be somewhere. I dare say you know there’s a story going round that she was going to marry Acton next. He’s married already, but I suppose he could get a divorce. Anyhow, that’s the talk. You can get a divorce easy enough nowadays.”

  “Now we are both here,” Bobby said, “I think we had better have a look round upstairs.”

  “Acton may be back any moment,” Noel protested. “He would kick up an awful fuss most likely.”

  “More than most likely,” Bobby agreed. “If he does catch us at it, I shall explain that I found you here alone, and I thought it my duty to make sure that nothing had been disturbed or taken.”

  “Hang it all,” Noel exclaimed indignantly, “I’m not a thief.”

  “But certainly a trespasser,” Bobby pointed out. “Found on enclosed premises for a presumed—or at any rate possible—unlawful purpose. Also you must please remember you are not yet cleared of suspicion of complicity in the murder of Ivor Findlay. There’s always that bit of a menu found in the murder weapon and coming from your restaurant. I’ve known stranger things than that if you wanted Ivor Findlay out of the way for any reason, now you find you have to dispose of Charley Acton as well.”

  “God in Heaven, man, you can’t mean that?” Noel fairly shouted.

  “Why not?” Bobby asked. “Anyhow, I think we had better look through the house, and I think we had better do it together. Then you see, if there is anything wrong, we shall be joint witnesses. Whether Mr Acton has gone off somewhere or is just out for a stroll, at any rate Mrs Findlay’s friends have some reason for feeling anxious.”

  “You don’t mean—you aren’t—I mean, you don’t mean you think Mrs Findlay . . .?”

  He left the sentence unfinished, and Bobby said:

  “I never think if I can possibly help it. Except perhaps that it wasn’t very prudent of her to come here alone, without telling any one.”

  CHAPTER XXVII

  “SHE’S VERY WELL”

  THE RAPID SEARCH of the house the two of them now carried out together showed, however, nothing of any interest, no sign of any recent disturbance, nothi
ng in fact in any way suspicious or unusual. In the bathroom Bobby noticed that such masculine toilet accessories as razor, shaving-cream, and so on were still there. So, unless Acton had a duplicate set, or intended to buy fresh, presumably he would be returning that day, since in this clean-shaven era no man can afford to be separated from his razor for more than twenty-four hours.

  The search over, they left the house, and Noel said he must be getting back to town. There was business to attend to.

  “I like to be on the spot if I can,” he explained.

  He added that he would ring up Kitty and let her know there was no trace of Mrs Findlay at Abels End, so far as he had been able to discover. Bobby said he would wait for a time in the hope that Acton would return before long. Acton might just possibly know something.

  “Well, if he does, I hope you’ll tell him you satisfied yourself I didn’t do any burglary,” grumbled Noel.

  “Housebreaking,” Bobby corrected gently. “No forcible entry though, so I suppose it wasn’t. Or is lifting a back-door latch using force? You can settle that with Mr Acton if you want to. I don’t think there’s anything for me to take notice of officially. At present anyhow.”

  Noel didn’t seem to like this observation very much. He muttered something inaudible, and then as he was going added, over his shoulder, with deep sarcastic intent:

  “Mrs Tinsley’s been here, so hadn’t you better be thinking of getting after her?”

  “Mrs Tinsley?” Bobby repeated. “Why? Have you seen her?”

  “Yes. First time I knocked and couldn’t get an answer I walked round a bit. I thought perhaps some one would turn up. There’s a tumble-down old cottage higher up, and she was there. She went off in a hurry when she saw me coming. It looked as if she didn’t want to be recognized.”

  “Which way did she go?”

  “Down the hill, towards the church.”

  With that, Noel departed. Bobby, slightly disturbed, wondering what Mrs Tinsley could possibly have been doing at the ruined cottage, went to see. There was no more sign of Mrs Tinsley’s presence here, however, than there had been of Mrs Findlay’s in Abels End cottage. Bobby noticed that one or two of the heavy blocks of stone formerly a part of the parapet round the well had been brought back. Evidently the police warning given to the neighbouring peccant farmer had been effective—in part at least. But Bobby also felt certain that parts of the parapet were much lower than they had been, and indeed showed on a closer look clear signs of very recent disturbance. Apparently what had been returned under police pressure had been compensated for by more being taken. Possibly under the idea that it was only the larger blocks that mattered or could be identified.

  He sat down to wait, thinking it as good a place as any, since it overlooked the approach to the Acton residence. It was rather pleasant sitting there. A great part of any detective’s life is spent watching and waiting, often in extremely uncomfortable circumstances. He could remember very vividly in his own early days spending all of a cold winter’s night with one eye glued to a crack in a hoarding round which all the winds of heaven blew all the rains of earth. And all to no purpose, because some one had forgotten to tell him that the man he was supposed to be waiting for had been arrested earlier the same day. It was a memory made almost pleasant by contrast with his present comfortable, half-recumbent position on this warm, sunny, sheltered bank. Then he sat up abruptly as he saw the figure of a woman coming up the hill on the path leading both to the Acton residence and to this ruined cottage where he waited.

  His first idea—and hope—was that it might be Mrs Findlay. But soon he felt certain that was not so. More like Mrs Tinsley, he thought. The figure came on steadily, and Bobby still watched. At Abels End Cottage, it stood for a time and then turned back towards the village, and then once more turned and came on along the path. There was an odd hesitation, a kind of reluctance that seemed to show in this varying progress by one whom Bobby was now able to recognize as in fact Mrs Tinsley. It was almost as if she were being drawn against her will, fighting against a compulsion, a fascination she did not know how to resist.

  Bobby wondered if she, too, had been on the watch for Mrs Findlay. Possibly she had been down to the village for tea and was now returning. Or possibly she had decided to give up, and yet some obscure uneasiness had prevented her from doing so, had driven her back to continue her vigil. Some such conflict between two impulses, an impulse of reason to go, an impulse of instinct to remain, might be driving her to continue on watch.

  Had she any reason to suppose, for instance, that Mrs Findlay might be seeking refuge with Acton? Any reason, that is, other than the apparently widely spread rumour of a possible impending marriage between them. But why should she be interested? Apparently she hated Mrs Findlay. So perhaps she hoped to be able to find out some discreditable intrigue, involving her? Or, of course, there might be some other and more serious reason? Or even for that matter a less serious reason, mere curiosity!

  Mrs Tinsley was nearer by this time, and even now, when she was hardly a hundred yards away, she made an abrupt turn, and for the moment Bobby almost thought she was going to run. But once yet again she resumed her upward climb. A growth of thick bush hid him very effectively from the view of any one approaching by the path, and he waited quietly till she was actually within the old, overgrown garden of the cottage. Then he got to his feet. She gave a loud and startled cry, and she would probably have tried to run had he not been between her and the path. Instead she drew back a little, seeking support against the rather shaky looking cottage wall, as if fearing that otherwise her limbs might fail to support her.

  “I’m sorry if I startled you,” Bobby said. “I don’t think I should lean against that wall though. It doesn’t look too safe to me.”

  She drew away then, slowly, still watching him. She sat down on a tree-stump, an uncomfortable seat, but she didn’t seem to notice that. She muttered:

  “Why are you here? Why?”

  “That’s exactly what I was going to ask you,” Bobby said. “I’m awfully sorry if I gave you a fright—you looked as if you had seen a ghost.”

  “I didn’t,” she snapped. She was beginning now to recover her self-possession. She said: “I shouldn’t mind seeing your ghost.”

  “That doesn’t sound very kind,” Bobby protested mildly. “Especially as I think we are probably both on the same errand. You are looking for Mrs Findlay, aren’t you?”

  “Suppose I am? Nothing wrong in that, is there?”

  “Oh, no,” he agreed. He found a dry log and sat down on it close by. He offered her a cigarette. She refused it with a shake of her head. He remarked: “You don’t look very well, if I may say so?”

  “You wouldn’t either,” she retorted angrily, “if the only person you cared for in the world had been murdered—brutally murdered.”

  “Perhaps not,” Bobby agreed. “You still think Mrs Findlay is guilty?”

  “It doesn’t matter now,” she said, and suddenly she looked very tired. “It doesn’t matter now,” she repeated.

  “You see, I think it does,” Bobby answered gravely. “I think it matters quite a lot.”

  “I suppose you came here to find her?” she asked. “Well, you won’t, you never will.”

  “What makes you say so?”

  “Because you won’t. You thought she had run away with Charley Acton, didn’t you? I did, too. I came to find out. Well, she hasn’t.” She gave a short, harsh, rather disconcerting cackle of laughter. “All wrong,” she said.

  “Yet you are still waiting here?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “It rather looks, doesn’t it? as if you still thought something might happen. As if you still thought it possible Acton might join her here.”

  “I’m sure he won’t.” Again she gave that cackle of hard, strange laughter that sounded as if at any moment it might break into uncontrollable hysteria. “The very last thing he wants or intends.”

  “Have you any idea
where she is?”

  “If I had, I wouldn’t tell you. It’s her business—it’s between her and Charley Acton. I’m not interfering.”

  “Yet I think you are, or why are you here?”

  “That’s my business,” she retorted.

  “You realize you yourself are still under suspicion of being concerned in the murder?”

  But that she only answered by another of her hard and rather disconcerting laughs.

  “Well, I’ll be going,” she said, rising. “It’s getting dark.”

  “I hope I’m not driving you away,” Bobby said. “I had no idea I was likely to find you here.”

  “I didn’t expect you either,” she retorted. “You won’t see me here any more—at least not if I can help it,” she added. She shivered. “How cold it is, how cold. It’ll be dark soon. I’ll go. You needn’t worry any more about Mrs Findlay. You’ll never find her. She’s very well—very well indeed where she is.”

  She began to laugh again, and she was still laughing as she moved away.

  Bobby remained sitting where she had left him, and there still sounded in his ears an echo of that strange, distant laughter of hers. He could almost have thought she was still laughing, when presently the increasing darkness hid her from his view.

  He got up and began to collect dry twigs, the remnants of what once had been the garden fence, and such other bits of wood as he could find. As he did so, he noticed a light was now showing at Abels End Cottage, so he supposed Acton had at last returned. So much the better, very much so, in fact. He went on with his task, and when he had collected enough to make a small bonfire he lighted it and then sat down again to await the result.

  It was a little time before at last he heard footsteps approaching and saw the occasional gleam of an electric torch switched on and off as some one picked a doubtful way along the rough, upward path.

  He waited till the newcomer was nearer and then he called: “That you, sergeant?”