The constable said it was. Then he looked in the front room, and when he saw the chaos there he said simply: ‘Lummy.’ A car with two plain-clothes men in it, but with a uniformed man as driver, now appeared. The hovering woman, who had been eyeing Bobby doubtfully, not quite certain whether to scream and run in case he had murdered the now unseen constable and she might be the next, acquired confidence and drew nearer. In her hearing Bobby said to the alighting plain-clothes men:
“This is the lady who gave the alarm. She spoke to the man on the beat, and he came at once. A very great help. I only wish every one was as quick and alert.” Speaking directly to her, he said: “There seems no one at home. Can you tell us who lives here?”
“It’s Mr and Mrs Porter,” she informed him. “Mr Porter is away on business. They’ve two children, and they’ve all been to the pictures, she and the children. They got back half an hour ago, and Mrs Porter said what a nice picture it was. She would never take them out again now it’s so late.”
The constable who had arrived first came to the door.
“There’s no one in,” he said. “I’ve looked everywhere. The whole place is upset.”
“We had better look again,” Bobby said, his underlying uneasiness not diminished in any way by what he had been told.
“There isn’t any one, and nowhere where any one could be,” the constable repeated.
Bobby went back into the house. The others followed him. He had noticed a door under the stairs, though in his rapid survey of the house he had done no more than pull it open to make sure no one was hiding behind it. It had been too dark to see more. He went back to it now. He had to stoop to pass through, and came at once to the head of some steps, evidently leading down to a small cellar. He called, but got no answer. He went down the steps, and by the light of his torch he switched on, he saw crouching in a corner a woman with two children clasped in her arms. She was staring up at him with frightened eyes, and the moment she saw him she began to scream. Bobby, addressing her by name, tried to say something reassuring. She continued to scream. Bobby retreated.
“Ask that woman outside to come, will you?” he said to the uniformed constable. “The one who gave you the alarm, I mean. Mrs. Porter will know her. I suppose it’s Mrs Porter down there. She’s all right, and the kids, too, I think, but she’s scared into hysterics.”
The woman came as asked. She was a Mrs Bigge. She lived next door, she said, and she succeeded in inducing Mrs Porter to believe that she was now quite safe. The poor woman was in a highly nervous condition. Her disjointed and tearful story was to the effect that as soon as she and the children entered the house on their return from the cinema a masked man had come out of the sitting-room. He poked a knife in her face and threatened that if she made a sound he would cut her throat and those of the children as well. In additional menace he had put his knife to the throat of one child. When she tried to pull it away she had cut her hand badly. She and the two children had then been hustled into the cellar under lurid threats of instant death if they made the least sound. When Bobby appeared she had been convinced that these threats were to be put into instant execution. Even yet she seemed by no means sure that they were all quite safe again. She clung pitifully to Mrs Bigge, comforted to think that among all these large, strange men there was at least one familiar face.
She was clearly in no condition to be questioned further until she had recovered more fully from the ordeal she had endured. Mrs Bigge undertook to put her to bed. Doctor and nurse were summoned. A more thorough search of the house was made with no result. No finger-prints. Gloves had probably been worn. Mrs Porter’s store of household money was untouched in the usual place—an old teapot on a dresser shelf where no doubt Mrs Porter had always been convinced no one would ever dream of looking. It had been looked at, however, for it was overturned, and the lid was lying broken on the floor, but the contents—a few pounds only—had not been touched. Mrs Bigge, coming downstairs for something she wanted, said all Mrs Porter’s jewellery—not very much of it or very valuable—was lying on the bedroom floor. Apparently it had not been thought worth taking.
“Disturbed,” said one of the plain-clothes men. “Means the bloke heard Mr Owen knocking and was off as fast as he knew how.”
“Means,” said Bobby, “he was looking for something much more important than a few bits of jewellery or one-pound notes—and I wish I knew for certain what it was. I can guess, of course, but guessing isn’t much good. We have to know in our job, and then we have to prove we know.”
“Mrs Porter should be able to tell us,” suggested the plain-clothes man.
Bobby thought that doubtful and said so. Mrs Bigge appeared, having left Mrs Porter in charge of a newly arrived nurse. The doctor, who had arrived at the same time, had already left again, promising to send at once a mild sleeping-draught. He thought Mrs Porter, though at the moment suffering from shock, only needed rest and sleep. Bobby asked Mrs Bigge what she could tell them of the Porters.
“Is Mr Porter away, or is he on night work?” he asked. “We ought to get in touch with him if we can.”
It appeared that Mr Porter was often away. He was employed by a leading firm of turf agents, and his job was to estimate the form and prospects of thoroughbreds, more especially colts. He also advised prospective buyers of promising young stock. His employers, said Mrs Bigge, attached great importance to his opinion when it came to fixing odds. But Mr Porter himself never bet, though once or twice he had given Mrs Bigge valuable tips. A very nice gentleman, Mrs Bigge said, and such a home-lover. He often complained of the frequent and occasionally prolonged absences from home his work entailed, and he even spoke of getting other employment. But that would be difficult. The demand for such specialized knowledge as his was limited. So he and his family had to make the best of it, since providing for his family must be a married man’s first concern.
Bobby agreed on both counts. But he had never heard of any one employed as was apparently Mr Porter. But also he could see that such an explanation provided very satisfactory reasons for absences from home and for the provision of a telephone. There are, of course, plenty of racing touts and tipsters; but the Porter background did not seem that to be expected of such persons, nor are they ever in the employ of large firms of turf agents—a much nicer name than bookmaker, for, pace Shakespeare, the smell of a rose depends much upon its name.
Possibly something he said suggested he had his doubts, for Mrs Bigge launched, somewhat indignantly, into a eulogy of Mr Porter’s personal character. A gentleman such as you seldom met in these days, one in a thousand. Ten thousand, she corrected herself, apparently feeling that she had been guilty of a bad under-statement. She could not, she said, speak of him too highly. The best of husbands, the best of fathers, the best of neighbours. He neither drank nor smoked, and he never—this was said a little enviously—visited the local public-houses. That particular about the children, too. He insisted that they should go regularly to Sunday School; and, though not much of a church-goer himself, he paid for sittings for them all at a neighbouring church. He even encouraged Mrs Porter to attend service on the Sundays when he was at home, and he would look after the Sunday dinner himself in order to allow her to do so. How many men, demanded Mrs Bigge, would do that? Not many, Bobby had to admit. In Mrs Bigge’s opinion, Mrs Porter was a lucky woman, and she said so herself. The only fly in her ointment was that Mr Porter had to be away so often. Still, a man had to do his job, and it was all the nicer when he was at home.
Bobby produced his photograph of dead Joey Parsons. Mrs Bigge identified it at once. It was certainly Mr Porter, and her curiosity as to how and why it had come into the hands of the police had to be gently suppressed.
The renewed search of the house had now been completed—without result. Mrs Porter was sleeping soundly. The children, young enough to recover quickly from a terrifying but only half-understood experience, were also by now comfortably asleep. Mrs Bigge returned to her own home and fami
ly. A local newspaper man who had turned up was provided with a very watered-down account of what had happened—Bobby had no desire for publicity at this stage of the investigation. There also appeared a brother of Mrs Porter’s. He had been working near—he was a foreman road-sweeper under the local borough council—and a rumour of what had happened had reached him. He seemed a sensible, responsible person, a sergeant in an infantry regiment during the war, and he promised to bring his wife round to stay the night. The plain-clothes men went off to make their report. Bobby drove home to find awaiting him a message from head-quarters. It was to inform him that a brown-paper parcel delivered at Wharton House, Mayfair, through the post had contained all the Duchess of Wharton’s lost jewellery, as well as a good deal more recently reported stolen.
“What do you make of that?” asked Olive; and Bobby said he didn’t know, and as it was late and he was feeling tired, he would go to bed and see if inspiration came in his dreams.
CHAPTER XV
AN UNEXPECTED VISIT
Colonel Harold Godwinsson, D.S.O., O.B.E., J.P., came into Bobby’s room, and Bobby rose to greet him.
An impressive personality. Bobby thought he had seldom seen one more striking. In his youth the colonel must have been as handsome as his son, that dream youth, Gurth, whom Bobby had seen at Lady Geraldine’s flat. Now age had taken its inevitable toll, but if something of youthful bloom had been lost, it had been replaced by an air of power and authority. A big man bigly made, he overtopped Bobby by two or three inches, and Bobby measured a good six feet; he had strongly marked, well-shaped features—those, indeed, of the ancient Viking chief of tradition or Wagnerian hero. His once-golden hair had lost much of its first lustre, but could still shine and glimmer when the sunlight caught it, and the loss of one eye only served to make more noticeable the clear, strong, piercing gaze of the other that made one think involuntarily of the solitary eagle watching from some lofty peak. The mouth, close-set and firm, seemed one that could smile on friends, but also one that would set into grim lines at any hint or sign of opposition.
As he stood there silently, the piercing gaze of his one eye fixed, whether in challenge or in question, upon Bobby, it was almost as though the room were too small to hold his tremendous personality. About him, indeed, it seemed as though pride hung like a garment, a pride so great, so much a part of himself as by natural right, that he himself was altogether unaware of its existence.
For a moment or two thus the two men stood, looking silently at each other. Bobby, accustomed to form swift judgments of others, was aware that this time he himself was being considered, judged, placed inevitably in some category or another. He wondered what—and why. He became aware of a feeling of tension in the air, as though were now beginning some strange and dark drama of which he did not understand the beginning, could not foresee the development, but knew none the less that to it there would be an ill ending.
A little absurd, though, that they should stand there facing each other like two old Norse warriors joining in ancient holmgang. Yet so they still remained, and their mutual gaze was direct and strong. Then Bobby pushed forward a chair and offered a cigarette. The chair was accepted, the cigarette refused—with perfect courtesy, indeed, but still with the faint aroma of a suggestion that in making the offer a slight liberty had been taken.
It had been a great surprise to Bobby to find on his desk, on his arrival this morning at Scotland Yard, a note not asking for ™ appointment, but simply stating that Colonel Godwinsson would be glad of a few minutes conversation with Mr Owen and for that purpose would call at ten o’clock. The wording of the note had been entirely normal, and yet it did somehow manage to convey the impression of being a command rather than a request. But, then, there was something almost regal about Colonel Godwinsson’s every word and action. Oddly impressive in its way. All the more so because it was so entirely natural, so completely unselfconscious.
“I understand,” he said now in slow, deep tones through which there sounded reverberations of controlled power, “that you had some conversation recently with my son, Mr Gurth Godwinsson.”
“At the flat of Lady Geraldine Rafe,” Bobby agreed. “Where an attack was soon after made on Miss Monica Leigh. Miss Leigh is a friend of Mr Gurth Godwinsson’s, I think.”
“They are acquainted,” the colonel said, but not as though he altogether approved. “Lady Geraldine was my ward till she came of age. She left her flat some days ago and she has not returned. Nor has she written. It is somewhat disturbing, more especially in view of this attack on Miss Leigh.”
“A puzzling affair,” Bobby agreed. “Miss Leigh’s assailant seemed exceedingly anxious to know where Lady Geraldine was. You know he used great brutality in trying to make Miss Leigh tell him? We are quite in the dark as to what the fellow was after or why he was so anxious to know about Lady Geraldine. The flat was ransacked, but nothing much seems to be missing. Then something very similar took place yesterday in Kilburn.”
“Indeed,” said the colonel gravely. “The same sort of thing? In what way?”
“There is a resemblance,” Bobby said. “A puzzling resemblance. The Kilburn house, like the flat, was entered by a masked man armed with a knife he used to emphasize his threats. And the house was ransacked. Why is not plain, since again nothing seems to have been taken.” He produced another copy of the Joey Parson’s photograph “This man has been identified as the occupier of the Kilburn house, and he seems also to have visited Lady Geraldine’s flat. Do you recognize it as that of any one you have seen at any time? I would ask you,” Bobby said formally, “to try your best to remember.”
Colonel Godwinsson took the photograph, just a little with an air of rather expecting it to have been offered on bended knee. He said:
“I think I have seen the photograph before. I seem to remember noticing either it or one very like it on the porter’s desk at my club. Who is it?”
“It is not that of any one you have ever seen?”
“No,” the colonel answered. “No,” he said again, and added sternly: “I said I thought I had seen the photograph before, not the original. Is there any reason why you should think it likely it was some one I had seen at any time?”
“We are doing our best,” Bobby explained, “to find out who it is. So far we haven’t had much luck. Like Lady Geraldine, he left his Kilburn home recently and has not returned. Can you give us any information about Lady Geraldine? I think you said she had been your ward till she came of age. But I think I remember hearing that her father—Lord Sands, wasn’t he?—died heavily in debt.”
“That is so,” agreed Colonel Godwinsson, “though I don’t think he realized it. Unfortunately he interested himself in business.” This last word was pronounced with a faint and aloof distaste, as it might have been said: ‘he interested himself in sweeping the streets.’ “Naturally he lost all his money. Lady Geraldine was left in my care. Her education was provided for by her friends. After she came of age she wished to be independent.”
“She seems to have lived in very good style,” Bobby remarked. “Can you tell me where her income comes from?”
“I did not inquire,” the colonel answered. “She was of age and fully responsible.” But he spoke with a touch of hesitation this time, and Bobby had the impression that the question was one that had troubled him considerably. “From what she said at times, I understood that she earned considerable sums by advising the big shops and dressmakers on the trend of coming fashions. I think also at times she wrote for the papers. Apparently many people are willing to do that in these modern days. And I remember her telling me once she had been very lucky in bringing off a double—the Leicestershire Handicap and the Grand National, I think,” and this time Colonel Godwinsson’s voice was less frosty, as if he felt it much more suitable that a person of birth and breeding should obtain money by betting on horse-racing rather than by work for dressmakers or newspapers.
“It all sounds a trifle precarious and uncertain,” Bob
by remarked thoughtfully. “One would have thought that with her influential connections something more satisfactory could have been managed.”
“Had she been willing, that could certainly have been done,” Godwinsson agreed. “There were suggestions. The Duchess of Wharton made a most friendly and valuable offer.”
“It wasn’t accepted?”
“Unfortunately, no. I regretted it. Her Grace was willing to provide everything in return for such small services as any girl would naturally offer in her own home. I am afraid Lady Geraldine took offence—a wilful personality. She even told me that when she wanted a job as lady’s-maid she would put an advertisement in the papers.”
This time Bobby’s sympathy was with Lady Geraldine, wilful as she might have shown herself. It did sound to him very much as if Her Grace of Wharton had been trying to get a ‘lady help’ on the cheap. Indeed, the duchess had the reputation of being a hard bargainer who considered that every ducal guinea should be worth at least twenty-five shillings of more plebeian money. He asked a few more questions and learnt that though Lady Geraldine was connected in one way or another with half the aristocracy in the country there were no nearer relatives that some first cousins living in Peru.
“You understand,” Bobby explained, “that we must have some authority for making inquiries, though in the circumstances I think what you have told us, as her former guardian, is sufficient ground. Though we may get into very hot water indeed if the young lady turns up safe and sound from—well, for example from a holiday with friends or a trip abroad. People don’t always like it if police start making inquiries about them. If that happens this time we shall most likely try to push off the responsibility on you. Of course, in this case, there is the rather disturbing coincidence of these two affairs, the one at Lady Geraldine’s flat and at the Kilburn house. There’s a lot that needs clearing up. Oh, by the way, did you wonder how that photograph came on the porter’s desk in your club?”
The House of Godwinsson: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 10
