The House of Godwinsson: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  6. Death Comes to Cambers

  7. The Bath Mysteries

  8. Mystery of Mr. Jessop

  9. The Dusky Hour

  10. Dictator’s Way

  11. Comes a Stranger

  12. Suspects – Nine

  13. Murder Abroad

  14. Four Strange Women

  15. Ten Star Clues

  16. The Dark Garden

  17. Diabolic Candelabra

  18. The Conqueror Inn

  19. Night’s Cloak

  20. Secrets Can’t be Kept

  21. There’s a Reason for Everything

  22. It Might Lead Anywhere

  23. Helen Passes By

  24. Music Tells All

  25. The House of Godwinsson

  26. So Many Doors

  27. Everybody Always Tells

  28. The Secret Search

  29. The Golden Dagger

  30. The Attending Truth

  31. Strange Ending

  32. Brought to Light

  33. Dark is the Clue

  34. Triple Quest

  35. Six Were Present

  Patricia Wentworth

  The Dark Garden

  Late in the afternoon a man, unidentified, had been seen to throw a glove into the Midwych, Wychshire and Southern Canal…

  OSMAN FORD said he would kill the lawyer Mr. Anderson. So when the latter is found dead, with a bullet in the back, the disagreeable Mr. Ford is top suspect. But the lawyer’s office was also a cauldron of repressed feelings, and not all the staff are sorry to see the lawyer’s demise. In particular, Inspector Bobby Owen fears the dark, brooding clerk Anne Earle. Will her quest for justice lead her to a terrible fate of her own, amid family secrets and lies? The novel combines a satisfying whodunit with elements of the fantastic and macabre, and contains some of Punshon’s best set-pieces.

  The Dark Garden was first published in 1941. It is the sixteenth of the Bobby Owen mysteries, a series including thirty-five novels. This new edition features an introduction by crime fiction historian Curtis Evans.

  “What is distinction? … in the works of Mr. E.R. Punshon we salute it every time.” DOROTHY L. SAYERS

  CHAPTER I

  OSMAN FORD’S WRATH

  IN THE SEAT of the mighty, that is to say in the office chair of Colonel Glynne, chief constable of the Wychshire County Police, sat Inspector Bobby Owen, who doubled the parts of head of the not very extensive Wychshire C.I.D., with that of private secretary to the chief constable, just now absent from duty with a bad attack of pleurisy.

  On the table before Bobby was piled a formidable heap of the war-time instructions, counter instructions, circulars, regulations, with which he was dealing. Some he was reserving for future consideration, some required immediate attention, others he was putting aside for action by the deputy chief constable, Superintendent Allenson, an old time officer on the point of retirement and only too glad to leave to Bobby everything with which Bobby was willing to deal.

  At the moment he was wrinkling his forehead and rubbing perplexedly the tip of his nose over an elaborate scheme for a network of police blocks and controls whereby, necessity arising, parachutists, either as hordes of invaders or merely as solitary spies, could be swiftly dealt with. The scheme seemed to him clever enough but extremely complicated, so much so as to be very likely to break down in execution. It had been drawn up by one of the younger officers, and Bobby knew its author was very proud of it, so that any modification would have to be suggested with great tact, unless mortal offence were to be given. Bobby’s introduction into the force from London had roused a certain amount of jealousy and suspicion, since there were several of the senior officers who still held him for an intruder and thought his probable succession to the office of chief constable on the retirement of its present holder, in the nature of a slight to themselves. The measure of success he had achieved during his service with the Metropolitan police had earned him his present position, but that had not prevented murmurs about ‘favouritism’ and ‘influence’, and these prejudices he was still trying his best to overcome by showing himself as friendly as possible and very willing to accept help and advice.

  But it was going to be a difficult task to suggest the simplification he felt necessary without causing a good deal of that heart burning which makes difficult the smooth and efficient running of any organization, and so it was with a touch of relief that he relegated its solution to the future as he looked up to greet the visitor who had just been introduced. This was a tall burly man of middle age, with the weatherbeaten complexion of the outdoor worker, heavily built, with heavy, strongly marked features and small, close-set, suspicious eyes. He sat down with a kind of ponderous deliberation in the chair Bobby indicated, but did not speak, and Bobby, looking at the card brought to him, said:

  “Mr Osman Ford, isn’t it? What can we do for you?”

  Mr Osman Ford made no answer for a time. He continued to stare darkly and angrily at Bobby, his large hands planted on his knees, his square, powerful-looking body leaning stiffly forward. The impression he gave was of a forceful, somewhat arrogant personality, one intent on pursuing its own aims and possibly not too scrupulous about the means employed to attain those ends. There was even something a little disconcerting about the way in which he sat there, silent, still, and watchful, and it was with a touch of being, as it were, on guard in his voice that Bobby repeated:

  “Well, sir, what can we do for you?”

  “You’re the detective chap they fetched up along from London, for by way of being smarter than the chaps here?” Mr Ford asked, or, rather, asserted, in a voice like himself, deep, compelling, in it a curious undertone of suspicion and hostility.

  “I served in London before being transferred to Midwych,” Bobby agreed, not best pleased by the other’s remark. No business of his, Bobby thought. But a non-Midwych man had to be careful about treading on Midwych toes, and there was often a directness of speech about these people that was apt to sound challenging and even offensive to a Londoner, though not meant to be either. Bobby said: “I understood you wished to see us on a matter of some importance.”

  “That’s right,” Mr Ford answered. His small eyes grew angrier, his expression darkened, but still he did not explain. It was as if he were brooding over a secret grievance he was unwilling to bring into the light lest thereby he should lose some part of it. “That’s right,” he repeated. “Important.”

  “Well, sir, what is it?” Bobby asked, making now no attempt to conceal the impatience in his voice. “We are exceedingly busy. As you may see for yourself,” he added with a comprehensive wave of his hand towards the various small piles of papers covering his desk. “So I should be very glad if you could be as brief as possible.”

  But all the same he was well aware that nothing would persuade to haste the slow, angry obstinacy of the man before him.

  “Aye, I’m busy, too,” Mr Ford answered. “Maybe you’ll know the name—Osman Ford.” He paused, evidently expecting assent and Bobby was almost childishly pleased to shake his head even more emphatically than was necessary. “Of Roman Ends,” he said, and again paused as if for the sign of recognition that Bobby was still pleased not to be able to give since in fact he had never heard either of Osman Ford or of Roman Ends. “Seven hundred and fifty acres of the best and all in good heart,” Mr Ford continued, “and now seemingly I’m to break up old pasture that’s fed cattle since most like the Romans themselves were here tens of thousands of years ago.”

  Bobby thought this estimate of time a trifle exaggerated but made no comment. He waited, convinced now that the quickest way of getting rid of his visitor was to let him tell his story at his own pace, but sighing at the thought that every minute expended now would have to be made up later on. Mr Ford continued in his slow, forceful way:

  “That means capital. Capital. Up there in London they seem to think all land is just land, and as easy to switch from grain to pasture and back to roots as for a London politic
ian to change his coat. Well, it ain’t. You’ve got to have your plans laid all ahead. So many head of cattle requiring so much pasture, so much home grown feed, so much to be bought, so much in roots, so much in grain, all settled and not so easy to unsettle again as them thinks that does it all on paper. There’s machinery to think of and labour that’s scarce even when it’s worse than bad, but at the end of it, it all comes back to capital. You’ve to feed the land if you want a return, just as you have to feed calves if you want fat steers.”

  “I’m afraid we can’t help you there,” Bobby said. “This is a police office.”

  Mr Osman Ford took no notice.

  “Capital I want and it’s my right to have,” he went on, “and I won’t say I haven’t it in my mind to take over the Roman Middles, two hundred acres, that is, and only needs handling to be better than good, even if the Middles will never be same as the Ends.” The anger left his small, dark eyes. A sort of heavy enthusiasm took its place, yet an enthusiasm still charged with defiance and mistrust, as if he foresaw an enmity it would be necessary to overcome. “The money’s there,” he said, “and Castles’ have it. But they won’t part. And for why? Not along of what they say but along of it’s not being there."

  To Bobby, this last reason seemed adequate, even though in conflict with the remark made just previously. He said:

  “I’m sorry, Mr Ford, but all this does not seem to be in any way a police matter. I’m afraid we can’t help you.”

  He said this with great decision and as he spoke rose from his chair, hoping that Mr Ford would follow his example. He was disappointed. Mr Ford remained more solidly, more securely seated than ever. It looked as if nothing but physical force—and considerable physical force at that—would ever get him out of it. He said:

  “Aye, it’s a police matter all right. You’ll see. Or I wouldn’t be here.”

  Impressed in spite of himself by the heavy, slow power of the man, Bobby sat down again. It was almost as if he were in contact with some elemental force of nature it was useless to attempt either to deflect or to resist.

  “Castles’,” Mr Ford said suddenly. “You’ll know them.” Without giving Bobby the time to signify the assent he could not on this occasion deny, Mr Ford continued: “Five thousand pounds it is, them sitting on it tight as a broody hen on her nest and not with one penny will they part. For why? Where is it? That’s a police matter all right, isn’t it?” he asked triumphantly. “That’s your job, Mr Detective that’s for you to find out—where the money’s gone. That’s what I want done.”

  He relaxed, letting his square, stiff body sink back into his chair as at a task accomplished. He said again while Bobby watched him in puzzled silence:

  “That’s a police matter all right. Five thousand pounds. That’s a job for a Grade One detective. I’ve heard of you. Stick to a job like a pup to a root, they say, till you have it all worked out. Well, work that out. That’s what I want. My wife’s money. Five thousand pounds. Detect it.”

  “Mr Ford,” said Bobby, amused, annoyed and a little puzzled too, “do you mean that you are accusing Messrs Castles, the lawyers, of being in possession of money that is yours?”

  “Aye. That’s right. My money. Belongs to my wife. I want it. For the farm. I don’t say that I mightn’t take over the Dry Fields, as well as Roman Ends and the Middles. That’d make all of twelve hundred acres.” He spoke those last words, longingly, almost lovingly, behind them still the slow force that seemed characteristic of the man. “Castles’,” he repeated. “The lawyer’s. Not Georgie Blythe. It was him humming and hawing and being uneasy like that put me on it. Old Nat Anderson it is, him as did down young Castles, and got the firm into his own hands same as he got my money and means to stick to it if he can.”

  “Mr Anderson is connected with Castles’, and you are accusing them of having embezzled your wife’s money?” Bobby asked.

  “That’s right. That’s what I want you to detect. See? Embezzled. That’s the word I wanted only I couldn’t rightly lay my tongue to it. Get on with the job, eh? Police matter all right, eh?”

  “What proof have you,” Bobby asked, “that this money has been in fact improperly dealt with?”

  “Proof?” Mr Ford repeated with great scorn. “If a field’s bare, do I want proof it’s never been seeded? If the money’s not there, do I want proof it’s gone?”

  “You have seen Mr Anderson? What does he say?” Bobby asked.

  Seldom had Bobby seen a man look more darkly angry than did Osman Ford then. It seemed almost as if he glowed with an inner flame of rage. He spoke slowly, each word heavy with his wrath. He said:

  “He had the impudence to up and say it wasn’t my money but my wife’s, and he wouldn’t discuss it with me, or with her, neither, if I was there, but only if she was all alone, no matter what writing of hers I had, though I showed it him all writ down clear. And he told me to get out. So then I came straight here.”

  “I see,” said Bobby, beginning rather to approve of Mr Anderson, though with an approval slightly checked when Ford added:

  “The old rip. There’s things I know and maybe I’ll tell some day. Him and his lady clerks.”

  He would have gone on perhaps to say more had not Bobby stopped him.

  “That’ll do, Mr Ford, please,” Bobby interrupted in his most official tone. “I don’t want to hear anything like that. Apparently you believe your wife’s money has been embezzled. What is said here is confidential and won’t be repeated, but I should advise you to be careful what you say anywhere else. There are such things as actions for slander and sometimes the results are serious. The only advice I can give you is to consult another firm of lawyers. It is not a police matter.”

  Mr Ford stared at him—glared would be a better word.

  “Meaning,” he said with the slow, hidden anger that seemed as it were to be the core of his character, “meaning to say, you won’t do anything?”

  “Nothing,” Bobby answered firmly, “beyond repeating that if you aren’t satisfied, you must consult a lawyer. Not a police matter at all. Good morning.”

  He picked up his pen again as he spoke and drew some papers towards him, but even that broad hint was not enough to dislodge his visitor.

  “You been hearing tales about Youngman?” he asked, more heavily, more darkly even than before.

  “I don’t know anything about any young man,” retorted Bobby, impatiently, and this time pressed the bell on the table.

  Promptly there appeared Sergeant Wright, a brisk young man whose recent promotion was partly due to a favourable report made by Bobby.

  “Oh, sergeant,” Bobby said as he entered, “you might show this gentleman the way out, will you? I’m afraid I’m too busy to go to the door with him myself. Good morning, Mr Ford. Sorry not to have been more helpful.”

  Sergeant Wright was quite sufficiently alert to guess what all that meant. It was not the first time that importunate and troublesome visitors had had to be got rid of.

  “This way, sir, if you please,” he said, with considerable emphasis on the ‘if’.

  Osman Ford sat on, taking no notice of Wright, bending on Bobby a glance of fury and of menace, so fierce a glance indeed that Wright, a little startled, took a hasty step towards him. There was a moment of tension. Then Ford apparently realized that he had either to go voluntarily or offer a physical resistance that would be as foolish as useless. For Bobby, too, was on his feet now, and powerfully built as was Osman Ford, he was certainly no match for the two of them. Neither Bobby nor Sergeant Wright had much the air of men to be trifled with.

  “Aye, I’ll go,” Ford said and rose heavily from his chair.

  In his slow, ponderous way he moved towards the door Wright was now holding invitingly open. In the doorway Ford paused and turned and said with immense scorn:

  “Call yourself a detective and won’t even try.”

  He moved a step onwards and paused once more. Over his shoulder he said with scorn greater even t
han before:

  “Detect—you couldn’t detect a cow in a turnip field. Take legal advice, that’s what you would say.”

  “That’s enough of that,” Wright said sharply and laid a hand on his arm.

  “Keep your hands to yourself,” Ford snarled at him with such sudden cold ferocity that Wright was startled again.

  He did not loosen his clasp for that, and for a moment there was again tension in the air as once again Bobby was on his feet prepared for any eventuality. But now Ford moved away, down the passage towards the street, and yet as he went managed to preserve still that same air of anger and of threat, so that his slow retreat had about it something strangely ominous. Wright followed him, wishing silently and intently for an overt act on the other’s part that would justify him in action. Bobby called after them:

  “Sergeant, I want to see you for a moment, please, after you’ve seen Mr Ford out.”

  “Very good, sir,” Wright answered and was soon back. “Went off quiet enough, sir,” he said, “though looking fit to murder every one near. I did think we were in for a bit of a rough house,” he added regretfully, for the other’s manner had annoyed him so much he was very disappointed at not having been given an opportunity to show his disapproval by appropriate action.

  “A nasty customer,” Bobby said. “Do you know him?”

  “Oh, yes, sir,” Wright answered. “He’s well known. He farms in a big way. Got on wonderful, his old dad was cowman on the same place where he’s master to-day.”

  “Well, that’s to his credit, I suppose,” Bobby said, and Wright looked as if he did not think anything could possibly be to Osman Ford’s credit. Bobby went on: “He seemed worried about some money belonging to his wife. I told him it wasn’t a police matter, he must take legal advice if he wasn’t satisfied. He said something about a young man he seemed to think I had heard about. Have you any idea what he meant?”

  “I expect he meant the Youngman affair,” Wright answered, “not a young man, it’s a name, Youngman. He used to come courting Miss Vigors that’s Mrs Osman Ford now. Old Mr Vigors farmed Roman Ends and Osman Ford worked up to be his bailiff. He did good work by all accounts, pulling the farm together. He’s a born farmer, as tender to the land as he’s hard to all else. Old Mr Vigors had been letting it go downhill, losing his grip he was, with illness and age. In the end Osman Ford had it all in his own hands so he got to look on himself as master. Mr Vigors had only the one child, a pretty lass they say in those days, and there was this young fellow—Youngman by name—a Midwych chap, something in the cotton trade—used to visit there so often every one thought it would be a match between him and the girl, most like with Osman Ford staying on as bailiff, as every one thought would be good enough for him with his old dad having been a cowman on the place. But then Mr Youngman was found dead in the canal near Ends Bridge and how he got there there’s no saying, but plenty of gossip all the same. Mr Vigors died soon after and Miss Vigors married Osman Ford, so he is boss now, not bailiff.”