Music Tells All: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  Accordingly they started off together. The constable on duty near the bungalow told them Miss Rogers was still there and when they knocked she came at once to the door.

  “I knew you would be here again,” she said. “I knew you would never leave me alone though there is nothing more I can tell you.”

  She went back into the sitting-room and they followed her. She stood facing them, her thin eager attractive face now white and small and strained, those bright passionate eyes of hers that had been her most notable feature now bloodshot and dull. The intense dynamic vitality which had struck Bobby so forcibly the first time they met seemed to have left her, gone so entirely that no trace of it remained. To his fancy she stood there, empty and drained, a mere simulacrum of her former vivid self. She swayed slightly as she stood and Bobby said:

  “Hadn’t you better sit down? We do understand how you must be feeling all this.”

  She gave him a look that was half hostile and half grateful, but all suspicion. She did as he suggested. In a high, uncertain voice that seemed as though it might break into a scream at any moment, she said:

  “I thought perhaps he had done it but he was killed first himself, wasn’t he?” By an effort she controlled herself and in a more normal tone, she said: “Who killed him.”

  “Could it have been your brother, miss?” Bell asked, and though she spoke no word in answer it was plain from the way she shrank into herself that it was no new fear to her.

  After a long pause she said:

  “No. Why should he?”

  “Your brother had used threats, hadn’t he?”

  “No,” she answered at once. “No. Never,” and she took out her handkerchief and put it to her lips and bit on it.

  Bell had brought with him in his dispatch case that piece of paper, preserved between glass, he had previously shown Bobby. He took it out now. He showed it her and said:

  “You recognize this, miss? It is your writing and your initials.”

  “Where did you get it?” she asked.

  “That’s neither here nor there,” Bell answered on the general police principle that it is their business to receive information, not to give it.

  “It is something I wrote a long time ago—a week, more,” she told him and Bobby had the impression that to her, after what had happened, this was almost the same as saying a year ago—more.

  “What threats was he using? What was it he suspected?” Bell insisted. “I am sorry to have to press you, miss, but we’ve got to know.”

  “He suspected about me and—and Fred.” She pronounced the name with an effort. “He began to threaten what he would do.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He was only being silly. He was very angry and upset. I told him we had lived together in Egypt and that was really why they wanted to get rid of me. Bad for discipline. Living with an other rank. George always thinks he’s tremendously enlightened and advanced and all that but really he has all the old ideas—at least he has for me. He talked about Fred being a chauffeur as if that mattered. I told him to shut up and mind his own business and he said I was his business. He is my trustee under my father’s will and he says he can stop me having my money if I marry without his consent before I’m twenty-five. I told him he was the perfect Victorian father.”

  “Has your brother such rights under the will?” Bobby asked.

  “I’ve no idea. He says so. It doesn’t matter.”

  But both her listeners were looking very grave as they listened. The implications were only too plain.

  “You say this note was written more than a week ago,” Bell said, taking up the questioning again. “Can you show us any proof of that?”

  “I can’t make you believe me if you don’t want to,” she answered indifferently.

  “An envelope with the postmark for instance,” Bell persisted. “Or did anyone post it for you? Was it sent through the post?”

  “We never used the post,” she told him wearily. “If you know anything about villages you would understand why. If we had, everyone would have known at once. There’s a woman delivers the letters and the post office is kept by a woman. Between them they know all about it—who gets the letters and who sends them and where they are from and everything.”

  “How did you manage then?”

  “We left messages in the shelter for each other. It is easy to get to it from the footpath across the field. Fred said he didn’t want anyone to know there was anything between us and he thought Mr. Fielding’s housekeeper was watching.”

  “Why didn’t he want people to know?”

  “He said there was something he had to do and he didn’t want me mixed up in it.”

  “Did you never ask him what it was?”

  “I expect so. Yes. He wouldn’t say.”

  “Surely if you were going to be married, you had a right to know.”

  “What good was that?” she asked with a rather bitter smile. “I couldn’t make him if he didn’t want to. I expect I was afraid to ask too often.”

  “Afraid? Why?”

  “Afraid it meant he was growing tired of me. Perhaps he was.”

  Bobby knew this questioning had to go on. It was necessary. As he himself had said once before: ‘What had to be, must be.’ None the less he felt there was something brutal, almost indecent in this slow unveiling of a woman’s most secret hopes and fears. Perhaps Bell felt the same for he said now with a clumsy effort at gallantry:

  “I can’t imagine that’s likely, not at all likely.” She took no notice. Bell went on: “I’m sorry, miss. But there it is. There’s two men been killed and—”

  “I know,” she interrupted. “Once before two men were killed. In Egypt. Now it’s happened again. Here. Is there anything else you want to ask?—”

  “Did your brother know about your leaving notes for each other in the shelter and your meeting there?”

  “Not till I told him. I told him that, too, when I told him about Fred and me.”

  “When was your last meeting there?”

  “With Fred? I don’t remember exactly. It was after I left him that note you found—when I told Fred about George being troublesome. Fred didn’t seem to mind much. He said I wasn’t to worry. I never saw him again.”

  “We have reason to believe,” Bell went on, “that some sort of scuffle or fight took place between your brother and Biggs. What can you tell us about that?”

  She was silent for a moment or two. Then she said with deliberation:

  “I will tell you anything you like about Fred or me, anything at all. It won’t hurt either of us now. He is dead and I think perhaps I am, too. But I won’t say anything about anyone else.”

  “Does that mean you think your brother shot him?”

  “He didn’t. He never did, he couldn’t,” she cried with such sudden and such startled vehemence that both her listeners wondered if that was the dreadful fear lurking in her mind. Or was there perhaps an even more dreadful explanation?

  CHAPTER XXIII

  SIMPLE TEST

  It was Bell who first broke the silence as the two men walked away from the bungalow. He said:

  “Is it good enough?”

  “For action?” Bobby asked. “My own idea is that she’s afraid it may have been her brother.”

  “Yes, I know,” Bell said, “but I wondered if perhaps she was just trying to put that across.”

  It was the same idea that had occurred to Bobby. He said nothing. They walked on in silence. Presently Bell said:

  “Well, what next?”

  “Better try to find young Rogers,” Bobby suggested. “You will have to ask him to make a statement.”

  “Provided he hasn’t done a bunk,” Bell said gloomily. “I shouldn’t wonder if that wasn’t what he was up to when Fielding saw him. Very likely the girl knows and that’s what’s upsetting her. Confession of guilt if it’s that way.”

  “Only confession of panic sometimes,” Bobby said. “Anyhow, he hasn’t, for the
re he is, on that cycle, coming towards us.”

  In effect, George Rogers had just appeared round a turn of the road. They stood waiting for him. He showed no inclination to stop when he saw them but Bell stepped into the road, holding up a hand. George scowled, but dismounted.

  “Been looking for Miss Rogers?” Bell asked. “She is back home now.”

  “Well, what about it?” George demanded. “I knew she was. I rang up and she answered. Have you been worrying her again? Can’t leave anyone in peace, I suppose?”

  “Everyone’s got to be questioned,” Bell told him; “everyone who has had any connection with it whatever. You’re an educated man, Mr. Rogers, you ought to understand that without being told. There are some things we’ve got to ask you as well.”

  “Go ahead. I don’t mind. Waste of time of course. There’s one thing I’ll tell you without being asked. Do you know why I was worried about Rhoda? Why when she didn’t turn up for lunch I went to see if I could find her? Because you had bullied her into such a state of nerves I was half afraid of suicide. She was talking wildly enough, God knows.”

  “Was she?” Bell asked. “What did she say?” but George did not answer.

  Bobby said:

  “Was what you call her state of nerves because of our bullying or because of what has happened and of what she knows and will not tell?”

  “She doesn’t know anything more than anyone else,” George asserted. “I don’t either for that matter.”

  “Well, that’s what we have to be sure of and at present we aren’t,” Bobby told him. “We do know Miss Rogers used to meet Biggs at the shelter and that is where these two murders took place. Did she that night, too?”

  “No, she didn’t,” George answered at once and with emphasis. “Rhoda was in bed and fast asleep when I got back, and that was just about twelve.”

  “Got back from where?” Bobby asked swiftly; and George looked very disconcerted, as if only then did he realize the significance of the words he had left slip.

  “I mean when I went to bed myself,” he said, lamely enough. “That won’t do,” Bobby said firmly. He repeated: “Got back from where?”

  George made no answer. He looked more disconcerted and sullen than ever and he pressed his lips together tightly as if to make sure no more indiscreet words slipped out. Bell said: “Had you been there?”

  “Where?”

  “At the shelter? The shelter at midnight? Is that where you got back from?”

  George had become very pale now. His uneasiness was apparent. He said, and not too steadily:

  “Are you going to try to make out it was me?”

  “Well, was it?” Bell asked.

  “What’s the use of my saying anything?” George retorted sullenly. “It wasn’t, but a fat lot you care as long as you can pick on someone.”

  “But you have said something already, Mr. Rogers,” Bobby reminded him. “You said you got back from somewhere that night but you haven’t told us where that somewhere was.”

  “It was only a slip of the tongue,” George mumbled.

  “Mr. Rogers,” Bobby said sternly, “for a gentleman who claims a conscience and a sensibility greater than those of most of us, you seem inclined to be much less frank—”

  “That’s right,” George interrupted angrily. “That’s what it is. It’s always that way. That’s what you re after. If you could get me convicted of murder or something, then you could discredit the whole great pacifist movement and that would please your bosses, wouldn’t it? That’s the game, and you can’t deny it.”

  “We’ll leave the whole great pacifist movement out of it, if you don’t mind,” Bobby retorted with some impatience. “We are asking you to be frank. So far you haven’t given that impression.” But George only closed his mouth more tightly than ever, thrust his hands more deeply into his pockets, and stared at them defiantly. Plainly he was challenging them to do their utmost to make him speak, and telling them all their efforts would be useless. No good your trying to make me talk when I don’t choose to, his whole attitude was saying. Bobby made up his mind to try a manoeuvre he had known used with success in other cases. He said:

  “Suppose—I’m not saying it is so, but let’s suppose—there is a reliable, trustworthy witness who saw you that night and can say exactly when and where. What then?”

  It was a simple test. A man whose conscience was entirely clear would remain unaffected, for he would know that no such witness could possibly be produced. One whose conscience was less clear would hesitate, prevaricate, be doubtful, would want to try to get to know more before giving a direct reply. Sometimes they betrayed themselves even more effectively, as did George now, when he muttered:

  “I suppose you mean Miss Bellamy? I didn’t know she saw me. I don’t see how she could. She was playing that beastly music of hers.”

  “Don’t you think you had better tell us all about it now?” Bobby suggested. “Wisest in the long run, I think.”

  George began to fumble with a cigarette. He looked very unhappy and was plainly hesitating. The other two waited, watching him silently. Presently he seemed to make up his mind. He threw away the unlighted cigarette and said, unexpectedly: “If you want to know what I think, it was Miss Bellamy.” Miss Bellamy what? Bobby asked, though he felt he knew. “Killed him,” George said. “They quarrelled about Rhoda. It’s in her playing. Killing, I mean. You can always hear it.”

  “Never mind that now,” Bobby said. “Tell us about that night and why you think she may have seen you.”

  “Well, if she told you, she must have,” George said. “I knew Rhoda went out sometimes to meet Biggs and I meant to stop it and I knew there were stories about Biggs visiting Miss Bellamy late at night. It wouldn’t have done any good telling Rhoda. She would have said it was only gossip. I made up my mind to see for myself. Keep a look out. So I did and I heard Miss Bellamy at her piano.”

  “What was the time?”

  “About ten. I had an idea that when she played at that time it was to let Biggs know she wanted him. That’s why I went that night.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “No. She stopped playing and I hung around. I thought I would wait and see if he came and if he did I meant to wait till he was inside and then I would knock and have him out and then Rhoda would have to believe. I didn’t mean my sister to throw herself away on a man like that, a chauffeur working for a neighbour. Bad character, too.”

  “Why do you say ‘bad character’? Do you know anything?”

  “He was mixed up in that smash and grab raid affair, wasn’t he? And then I saw him once talking to a man I recognized. I’ve done time.” He smiled, a little proudly. “Probably you knew? I expect that settles it as far as you’re concerned. I did a month before it was agreed I should take a job with a farmer. I stood out at first that none of what I helped to produce was to go to the army, but I had to admit it would be hard to manage so I agreed to do what I could to help. The man I saw talking to Biggs was there. In prison, I mean. Of course, nearly all of them were just victims of society—fundamentally the same as anyone else. Merely wanted sympathetic treatment. This man was different in a way. He was at open war with society. You can’t wonder. But he did boast of what he had done and what he meant to do. Violence had corroded him. He was most offensive to me. He boasted they couldn’t prove anything against him. I suppose he was right about that because they had to let him go.”

  “He is the man you saw talking to Biggs?”

  “Did he recognize you?”

  “I don’t think so. As soon as I saw who it was I turned back. I have every sympathy with the unhappy victims of society, of course. But this man—not his fault but he did show himself inclined to be violent and offensive even when you were trying to understand him.”

  “I don’t wonder,” interposed Bell, very emphatically.

  “No, of course,” agreed George, pleased with a remark of which it is to be feared he had not quite grasped the exact meaning
.

  “Can you describe him?” Bobby asked.

  George gave a general description that would have applied to at least half the male population of the country, but insisted all the same that he had an excellent memory for faces and had certainly made no mistake. Indeed it is true that some people can keep the memory of a face once seen quite clearly in their memory, and yet be utterly incapable of giving any recognizable description in words.

  “You ought to have told us all this before,” Bell said severely.

  “Why? What’s it got to do with it?”

  “It may have a lot to do with it,” Bell retorted. “How long were you watching Miss Bellamy’s cottage?”

  “I don’t know exactly. It was just about twelve when I got in. I told you. I made sure Rhoda was in her room, asleep.”

  Bell said slowly:

  “Had you been first to the shelter to see if she was there and did you find Biggs instead? For indeed it seems to me that that is very much what your story comes to.”

  CHAPTER XXIV

  PSYCHOLOGICAL STUFF

  That ended the interview, for it seemed there was nothing more to be learnt, at any rate for the time, and there was much more to be done. The two detectives departed therefore, leaving behind them a young man considerably less perky and self-confident than usual. Bell said in his depressed and worried way:

  “Isn’t there a story about a donkey starving to death because it couldn’t make up its mind which bundle of hay to start in on?”

  “Buridan’s ass, you mean,” Bobby said, searching his mind for memories of old college lectures. “In Aristotle somewhere, I think—or is it Plato?”

  “I’ve heard of them,” Bell remarked a little proudly. “On the Brains Trust—Plato,” he repeated. “That’s the name Dr. Joad writes under, isn’t it?”

  “I shouldn’t be a bit surprised,” Bobby agreed. “Where does the ass and the hay come in?”

  “It’s the way I feel,” Bell explained. “Like a prize champion donkey for one thing, and such a good case re both the Rogers girl and the Rogers boy that I don’t know which of ’em to pinch. One thing, they may be both in it together,” he added with a more hopeful air than he often permitted himself to show.