“I think we can be quite sure it was Cy King,” Bobby remarked. “He comes in it somewhere. No proof, of course, and you’ll find conclusive evidence he was filling up football-pool coupons all afternoon with highly respectable friends. What do you make of these?” he added, showing the photographs of Lady Geraldine he had been studying with such care. “She doesn’t look to me like a drunk.”
“No, sir; we’ve noticed that,” the sergeant agreed. “She’s young. Hasn’t begun to tell yet. Now in a few years …”
“Yes, in a few years,” Bobby agreed.
But all the same that was not quite what he had meant. The sergeant went away. Bobby continued staring at the photographs. Difficult to relate them to the irresponsible and senseless folly for which Lady Geraldine seemed to have gained a reputation. They showed a tall girl, bigly made, with large hands and feet, and large, strongly marked features. Handsome rather than pretty, with a thin, long, tightly closed mouth, and an expression of indefinable pride and resolution. Not, as Bobby had meant when he remarked that Lady Geraldine did not look like a ‘drunk’, the face of one likely to seek an easy refuge in drink.
A formidable face, Bobby thought, and one of many possibilities. He found himself wishing that photographs could show, as neither can they nor the portrait-painter, the vivid life that lies in the most revealing feature of all—the eyes.
The sergeant came back. He said:
“There’s a lady, sir. Says she lives here. Housekeeper. Mrs Cook.”
“Oh, yes,” Bobby said. “Just explain what’s happened and then let me have a talk with her, will you?”
He resumed his study of the photographs, trying with ill success to wrest from them the secret of the personality lying behind that dark, brooding face. Capacity there, he felt, for good or ill; and which way had it turned? Pride, he thought, the ‘directive’; but how had pride worked?—pride which is, by strange paradox, both one of the seven deadly sins and yet a foundation stone of courage and of virtue.
“Mrs. Cook, sir,” announced the sergeant, returning.
Mrs Cook was a stout, elderly woman, now flushed with excitement. Bobby listened patiently while she told him how she had never heard of such goings on, that she didn’t know what things were coming to, that it was worse than war, that she never did, never, and why had poor dear Miss Mona, as sweet a child as ever was, been sent off to hospital, where she would be no more than a number on a ticket, when she, Mrs Cook, would have taken good care of the poor lamb in her own home?
Bobby, listening carefully, dropping in an occasional question or two, came to the conclusion that Mrs Cook was an honest, kindly, trustworthy woman, though not perhaps very highly intelligent. He explained that Miss Leigh required the skilled medical attention the hospital would provide. Mrs Cook sniffed.
“Them nurses,” she said, and as she said it, it was enough.
Bobby began to question her discreetly about Lady Geraldine. It seemed Mrs Cook was an old family servant. The connection had been broken during one of Lord Sands’s periodic retreats to the Continent away from bills and creditors and all that. It had been resumed when Lady Geraldine took this flat and needed a housekeeper. Mrs Cook seemed to have no idea of where Lady Geraldine’s income came from and had apparently never given the matter a thought. Lady Geraldine was ‘quality’, real quality, and it was a part of the natural order of things for ‘quality’ to have money, even though temporary embarrassments might arise at times. Mrs Cook supposed Lady Geraldine had ‘come into money’, but she didn’t know. Certainly she spent freely, as a real lady should; and why not? As nice a lady as ever lived, Mrs Cook declared heatedly, and all a pack of lies about her drinking too much. Cocktails now and then, and nasty things, too, but that was all, and the talk all rubbish, as who should know better than Mrs Cook herself?
“It was the police out of spite,” declared Mrs Cook defiantly. “They had it in for her, and it ought to be seen to. Not so long ago the police summonsed her for being drunk in charge of a car. A little upset of course she was, with being stopped and questioned like that, as was only natural, poor lamb, but as sober as any judge as I could see for myself. And one time the police pretended she was so mad drunk it took three of them to get her to the cells.”
More lies, Mrs Cook protested volubly, and silly lies, too. As if it needed three big policemen to handle one woman, and her a lady brought up delicate like. What had really happened, Mrs Cook explained, was that her ladyship had smacked a policeman’s face for being rude, and then they had all set about her. A fair scandal, and it ought to have been seen to, but Lady Geraldine hadn’t wanted to make a fuss and her name in the papers and all.
Bobby shook his head, said he was sorry to hear these com-plaints, and he would make inquiries. Did Lady Geraldine often go away and stay away without notice or explanation? Miss Leigh seemed a little worried.
Mrs Cook didn’t think there was anything to be worried about. Lady Geraldine went abroad sometimes, and most likely this time she had had to go in a hurry. Generally it was when she had to write something for the papers. About the fashions and what they were going to be like. She never talked about it, because it was rather low and demeaning for real quality to write for the papers, and Mr Owen would oblige if he didn’t mention it. Bobby promised faithfully to do his best to preserve this dark secret; and Mrs Cook, pleased, then admitted that sometimes, too, Lady Geraldine liked to slip away for peace and quiet, away from the racket of society, to enjoy the country where no one knew her.
“I always knew when that was it,” Mrs Cook explained, “because of the flowers she brought back—primroses and violets and such like she had picked where she had been staying. What she loved more than anything else.”
Bobby suppressed an inward gasp. This idyllic picture went ill, he thought, with that dark, enigmatic face of many possibilities he had studied with such care. Recovering slightly, he said, with false enthusiasm, that there was nothing he enjoyed more than a quiet day in the country among the bluebells and the cowslips. The sergeant, at this, entirely failed to suppress his inward gasp. Bobby gave him a severe look and asked him if he remembered that day when they had spent an afternoon making daisy chains with the village children. The sergeant, looking a little wild now, said he remembered it perfectly; and Mrs Cook lost all distrust of policemen who could so employ their afternoons. She went on chatting. To her—and it was clear this was a genuine belief—Lady Geraldine was of a pre-eminently shy and retiring disposition, unfortunately obliged by the exigencies of her birth, to take a prominent part in the social round, though her own wishes were for a quiet country cottage and a garden full of flowers. Above all, timid and nervous to a degree that Mrs Cook evidently thought was highly becoming. Why, she had even insisted on getting one of those ladders advertised as providing a means of escape in case of fire and on keeping it always somewhere handy in her bedroom.
Questioned about visitors, Mrs Cook became vague. It wasn’t her place to notice visitors. There weren’t many. Colonel Godwinsson and the two young gentlemen, and others of Lady Geraldine’s friends. Some of them, Mrs Cook was afraid, not quite her class. Lady Geraldine was so friendly and trusting. Very often Mrs Cook didn’t even know their names. If Lady Geraldine wanted to entertain, it was generally at a restaurant or a night club. Shown the photograph Bobby had brought of the dead man of Angel Alley, Mrs Cook failed to recognize it. Asked about Mr Brown, she looked grave. A really good man, though perhaps rather too strict in his views, but that was just as well in these days. She had heard him talk very straight to some of Lady Geraldine’s friends, telling them off proper and warning them where it would end. They would laugh about it afterwards, but not while he was talking to them. He made no bones about reminding them of the fire that was never quenched and the worm that dieth not. Made them think. Other times he could talk wonderful nice and gentle, so it made you cry to hear him, yearning over you, like a mother over her babes. Bobby might laugh, she told him defiantly, but he ought to h
ave heard Mr Brown when he was talking like that.
Bobby said he had no wish to laugh, which was quite true. He was far too interested. He tried to get some definite information from her about Mr Brown, but it seemed she had no idea of where he lived or worked. All she knew was that the world would be a better place if there were more like him. A saint, though expecting others to live same as he did, as was more than most could. Sometimes Lady Geraldine would joke about his visits being so expensive because he always went off with a cheque from her for his boys’ club. Sometimes from other people as well.
Asked about Mona, Mrs Cook had little to say, except that she was a very nice young lady, though not quite of the same class as Lady Geraldine. When Bobby wondered if Miss Leigh and Gurth Godwinsson were thinking of getting engaged, Mrs Cook was frankly amused. If you asked her, Mr Gurth was head over heels in love with Lady Geraldine, but Lady Geraldine wasn’t one for the men. She kept them at arm’s length and boxed their ears for them if they came any nearer. Oh, yes, gentle and quiet as she was as a rule, if she were roused she could show all the spirit of her fighting ancestors, who had been soldiers since no one knew when. Not that there was any truth in that silly tale about her hitting a too-pressing admirer on the head with a champagne bottle. Just another lie. A coffeepot had been used.
On this triumphant note the interview ended; and as it was now late, and time for dinner, Bobby, wondering a little if the background he had thus so laboriously built up was really going to be much use, returned home to consider the information gathered and to decide on future action.
CHAPTER XII
27495?
The next morning Bobby found on his desk at the Yard, as a result of the inquiry he had set on foot, a list of all London boys’ clubs in whose affairs any one of the name of Brown took part. There were several, including two or three in the Canon Square-Angel Alley district, and these Bobby decided to visit first. A long shot, of course, and a shot in the dark, but one never knew. The faintest indication sometimes proved of primary importance.
There was a good deal of desk work he had to attend to before he was free, and it was getting late in the afternoon before he drew up his car outside the police station in whose district was Angel Alley. He had rung up to say he was coming and why, and the station sergeant had ready the information required. It seemed the Mr Brown connected with one of the neighbouring clubs was a local business man, well known for his interest in social activities and for his rather more than local fame as an athlete in former days. Bobby lost interest in him at once. At the other club there was a Mr Brown, a well-to-do stockbroker, resident in the West End, who came somewhat irregularly. He was always very welcome both for his lively and invigorating personality and for his influence on the lads, and also because he was a liberal contributor to the club funds. Of Mr Brown himself the local police knew nothing, nor was there any reason why they should. Bobby took a note of the address of the club. He thought it might be worth while to pay it a visit.
“Is it well attended?” he asked.
“Very popular indeed,” said the station sergeant. “For one thing, they don’t overwork the religious side. It’s there, but they don’t push it down the boys’ throats. I remember hearing that’s why they got Mr Brown’s help and his subscriptions. He visited one or two other clubs, but thought they were too much like Sunday schools. He says he’s not a religious man himself, but he does believe in decent living.”
“He doesn’t think there is any connection?” Bobby asked.
The sergeant considered this, and decided to pass it over.
“The club does very good work,” he said, slightly on the defensive now. “It gets called ‘Angel’s Home’ very often, or ‘Angels’ for short, because some one said it was founded to turn the little devils from Angel Alley into little angels. Has a good try, anyhow. The proper name is ‘Action Stations’, because that is what they are always on against the bad conditions here.”
“Do the boys pay any subscription?” Bobby asked.
“No. And in my humble opinion it’s a mistake. ‘Let ’em all come’ is the idea, and it means too many black sheep get in. I’ve known alibis sworn to when we knew well enough the lad had been mixed up with some of these gangs. But his pals swore he was at ‘Action Stations’, and it sounded so good the jury gulped it down.”
“I suppose,” Bobby suggested, “they think if they can get hold of the black sheep in time, there may be a chance of getting some of the dye off before it’s soaked in for good.”
“There’s that,” agreed the sergeant, “but you do get some thorough young scoundrels, rotten bad through and through, and they spread the rot. We’ve one in the cells now—Eddy Heron. They did get round at the club to thinking about barring him altogether, but this Mr Brown begged him off. Said couldn’t he have another chance? Acts tough, Mr Brown does, and that’s why the boys like him, but if you ask me,” said the sergeant tolerantly, “as soft as any other old woman who thinks all you have to do is to be nice to people and then they’ll be nice to you.”
Bobby produced his photograph of dead Joey Parsons, but the sergeant had never seen Mr Brown, and could not say if there was any resemblance. They would know at the club, suggested the sergeant. Bobby said he would go round there and make a few inquiries. He asked what the charge was against Eddy Heron. The sergeant scratched his head and said it was funny. As funny a business as he had ever known. Eddy, narrow-chested, ill-developed, suspected of incipient T.B., had walked up to a policeman and quite deliberately smacked his face. The constable, recovering with some difficulty from his astonishment, had turned Eddy round, smacked him in turn in the place kindly provided by nature for the purpose, and told him to run home to mother. But Eddy tried again, and in the end he had to be brought in.
“Can’t make it out,” said the sergeant. “Seems as if he wanted to be pinched, and wanted it bad. Hadn’t been drinking either. Gone off his nut, in my humble opinion, or else it’s been a dare.”
Bobby agreed it was strange; and, because all strange things interested him, since for all such happenings there must be a cause, he said he thought he would like a word or two with Eddy. He asked if anything had been found in Eddy’s pockets. The sergeant said, No, but Mr Owen could see what there was if he wished. Privately he wondered what there could possibly be about a young street rat getting himself into trouble to interest this big noise from head-quarters. Probably just another ‘V.I.P.’ making a fuss about nothing to show he really was a very important person. The contents of Eddy’s pockets were produced. They did not seem very interesting. A dirty handkerchief; an empty cigarette-case; an old tram-ticket or two; a piece of blank paper, folded, crumpled, dirty, and with a small safety-pin sticking in it; some bits of string and a broken boot-lace; and that was about all.
“Looks to me,” Bobby said thoughtfully, “as if he had cleared out his pockets in preparation. What’s this?” he added, pointing to the dirty bit of paper with the safety pin attached.
“Just a bit of paper, isn’t it?” the station sergeant said. “It’s blank, nothing on it. I did ask him what he was taking such care of it for, and he said he wasn’t. We found it pinned inside his vest pocket.”
“Well, then, why, for if he wasn’t taking care of it?” Bobby wondered, and the sergeant said he didn’t know, and quite plainly meant that he didn’t care either.
Eddy himself was brought in. An unpleasant-looking, furtive-eyed youth; to all appearance as uninteresting and deplorable an example of what bad environment and bad heredity can make of bad material as Bobby had ever seen. He offered Eddy a cigarette, which was accepted with alacrity and suspicion. There followed a little aimless chatting, and then Bobby dropped a casual inquiry as to why Eddy had wanted so badly to be ‘taken inside’. Eddy denied this with great indigestion. What had happened had been that the cop had started pushing him around, and he wasn’t going to stand for that, so he wasn’t. He straightened his pitifully narrow little shoulders as he said this, an
d tried to look tough. A question or two about the ‘Action Stations’ club brought no response beyond a sneer. A reference to Mr Brown, however, brought a new look into the lad’s sly eyes, and he hesitated a moment or two before replying.
“Oh him?” he said at last. “He tried the reform game on me. Offered me a job. Hard work and low pay. Nothing doing. Nothing soft about me. I’m tough.” And again there was that pitiful attempt at a swagger.
“Soft all through, I should say,” Bobby remarked.
“Me?” protested Eddy, quite taken aback.
“You,” repeated Bobby. “Tough lads don’t get pinched because they think they’ll be safer in than out. What are you afraid of?”
But this direct assault failed. Eddy merely looked sulky and said nothing.
“Well, think it over,” Bobby advised him. “I’ll tell you one thing, though. If it’s what I suspect, you’ll need more than a week or two at Wormwood Scrubs if you don’t want to be picked out of the Thames by the river police some day. You’ll want to get as far away from London as you can, or even farther.”
Eddy first looked frightened, then sulkier than ever, and finally brightened up as a brilliant idea struck him.
“There’s Australy,” he said ingratiatingly. “If I got a bit of help … a fresh start.”
“Australia wouldn’t have you at any price,” Bobby told him, and Eddy looked very hurt. “Put a few years hard, honest work behind you and save half what you earn. Then there might be something doing,” and now Eddy looked very dismayed. “Meanwhile, what about this?” and Bobby pointed to that folded, dirty piece of paper found pinned inside one of Eddy’s pockets.
“Never saw it before,” Eddy declared promptly. “The cops must have picked it up themselves somewhere.”
“Any time you feel like trying to tell the truth—if you know how, that is—let us know,” Bobby told him. “Meanwhile, think it over. You’re in a bit of a jam, aren’t you?”
The House of Godwinsson: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 8
