The Dark Garden: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  Abruptly he closed the ledger. His narrow eyes half shut but watching the newcomers closely, he said:

  “Yes. I’m here. Anderson’s out. I didn’t expect you back so soon, Blythe. I thought the Arlham conference would keep you longer.”

  “It had to be put off,” Mr Blythe said. “Rogers rang through to say his car had broken down and he couldn’t arrive in time.”

  “Bad luck,” the other said, and whether he referred to the breakdown or to Blythe’s return, Bobby thought doubtful.

  Mr Blythe said to Bobby:

  “This is Mr Castles, our managing clerk. Castles, you know Mr Owen. The county police, you know.”

  “I know, I’ve seen him in court,” Castles said, but without looking at Bobby, for it was on his employer his attention seemed concentrated and it was to him he spoke now as he said:

  “I wanted to look up an account.”

  “The Osman Ford account,” Mr Blythe said, apparently having recognized the page of the ledger being consulted. “The Osman Ford account,” he repeated. Then he said:

  “Why?”

  Castles made no reply, and in his silence Bobby felt he recognized once more that obscure note of menace, of warning, he seemed so continually to be aware of. Later on in the war, he would have been reminded of the atmosphere perceptible in city streets when the raid warning had sounded and all still went about their everyday affairs, but with an expectant and a listening air. Waiting for the explosion. So here and now in this affair, all gave him the impression of waiting for an explosion. Mr Blythe said again:

  “Why the Osman Ford account?”

  “Oh, there are others as well,” Castles answered. “Or are there?” and across his impassive features flitted the semblance of a smile, but not a smile that had in it much of goodwill or amusement.

  Deliberately he took up the ledger, opened it again, turned its leaves lightly and carelessly, and then replaced it in a safe, of which the door was open. Mr Blythe said:

  “Did Anderson leave it open? I’ve never known him do that before.”

  “It is unusual, isn’t it?” Castles agreed with again that almost imperceptible, quite unamused smile of his. He moved towards the door of the room. Over his shoulder he said: “Good day, Inspector. I expect we shall meet again.”

  He went out, shutting the door carefully behind him. Mr Blythe who was looking seriously disturbed, said with a laugh that again seemed anything but amused:

  “Sounded as if he wanted to say ‘At Phillipi’. Oh, well, I suppose Anderson knows, but that’s his own very private ledger. I’ve never even seen it before, except its back, I mean not open. I suppose it’s all right. Castles is a very able man, very able indeed. We shall be taking him into partnership some day.”

  “I suppose he’s an admitted solicitor?” Bobby asked.

  “Oh, yes. Yes. Thanks to Anderson. Anderson has done everything for him. Provided for his education. Gave him his articles. Everything. Promised him a partnership. That’s understood. He’ll strengthen the firm. I don’t know why it hasn’t been done long ago. It keeps getting put off.” He went up to the safe and pulled at the door, but Castles had banged it to, and the lock had caught. “Oh, well,” he said. “No doubt Anderson knows all about it.”

  “Mr Castles is a son of a former partner, isn’t he?” Bobby asked.

  “His grandfather founded the firm,” Anderson explained. “Made it the leading firm in Midwych. Everyone always came to Castles’ first. His son—our Mr Castles’s father—kept the firm in the same leading position till—well, till he started trying to get rich quick on the London Stock Exchange. Gold mines. Clients don’t like that. It might be their money. It wasn’t, of course. No suggestion of such a thing. All the same there was gossip that did the firm a lot of harm. Clients got nervous and the firm lost a lot of business. Castles—the father, I mean—didn’t worry much at first. His speculations were turning out well. He was actually getting rich quick. But the old story. He went on too long. They always do. The luck turned. There had to be a reconstruction. Every debt was paid to the last farthing but there was nothing left. He didn’t live long. Left his boy without a penny. Literally. Only enough to clear up liabilities, not a penny more. Anderson stepped in. Anderson had been his managing clerk. Anderson took over. I came in. Anderson found the money for the boy’s education, did everything for him, gave him his articles, made him managing clerk, promised him his partnership. I must say I think Castles has earned it. Very able man and his name counts. Midwych people still remember it. At the reconstruction the reputation of the firm had almost gone—goodwill worth nothing. But that’s altered now. After all, no one lost a penny except old Mr Castles himself and to-day the name has its value. Castles would be worth his partnership for that alone. Well, I’ll tell Dwight.”

  He went out, leaving the door open. Through it Bobby could see into the outer office. He watched Mr Blythe walk down it, past the double row of desks, a busy worker at each one. Bobby wondered if they were always so busy, or if their industry only increased to such a pitch when a partner opened his door. The rattle of typewriters, the scratching of pens, the rustling of papers or of leaves as ledgers or reference books were consulted, now and again a sharp, brief question, an equally brief reply, all gave an impression of the usual activity of a busy solicitor’s office. Yet well Bobby knew that behind that every day façade, human passions of love and hate, of greed and of ambition, were working themselves out dangerously to their appointed end. He found himself wondering how many more such offices, legal, commercial, dull to all appearance with the utter dullness of everyday routine, hid beneath their drab, commonplace exteriors such human dramas of terror and of passion.

  Mr Blythe was talking to the tall, pale young man Bobby had already noticed. He noticed, too, how Anne Earle, pausing in her work with her hands lifted above her typewriter, was watching them from under her heavy brows, as if she both guessed the purport of their talk and resented it with all the formidable intensity of emotion that somehow her slightest gesture seemed able to convey. When her hands came down upon her machine as Dwight rose to walk towards where Bobby was waiting, it was as if she struck downward blows at a defeated enemy.

  “I don’t understand that girl,” Bobby thought. “I don’t know whether it would scare me more to be her lover or her enemy.”

  He moved back into the room as Dwight came up. Dwight stared at him from behind his thick, heavily-rimmed glasses that seemed as much a concealment and a disguise as a protection or an aid. Bobby closed the door of the room, so that they were alone together, and went and sat down on one of the chairs. Dwight remained standing. His attitude was watchful and hostile. In a pleasant tenor voice and speaking slowly, he said:

  “You’re a cop, aren’t you? Well, what’s it all about? Think you’ve got something on me?”

  “Oh, no, not at all,” Bobby answered. “At least, oh, yes, to what you said first. I’m a cop all right. But why should you think I have anything on you? Not a bad conscience, I hope?”

  Dwight made no answer. He moved across the floor and leaned against the mantelpiece. He did not wish to sit and yet he had felt at a disadvantage standing while Bobby remained seated. Now, leaning against the mantelpiece and looking down on the seated Bobby, he felt on more than equal terms.

  “Well, what’s it all about?” he asked again.

  “About an incident that has been reported. I wondered if you could give us any help or any information?”

  “Why should I?” Dwight retorted. “Some of us don’t see why we should have anything to do with police snooping and spying.”

  “If you had your pocket picked or a burglar broke into your house,” Bobby countered, “would you call it snooping and spying if the police tried to find out who it was and to recover your property?”

  “That’s different,” Dwight snapped.

  “You mean it’s different when you want us and our help from when you want nothing less,” Bobby suggested. “I know. It�
�s often like that. Well, never mind. A complaint has been received that pistol shots were fired at or from or near Rose Briar Cottage, in Long Barsley. Discharging firearms to the common danger is an offence, even if not a very serious one. Can you tell us anything?”

  “Why ask me?”

  “Because we have been informed that the shots were fired at you. Is that true?”

  “First I’ve heard of it.”

  “If you don’t mind, I should like a direct answer.”

  “Well, no one was firing at me, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Is there any foundation at all for the story?”

  This time there was a perceptible pause, but the steady fixed stare remained unchanged and the answer came:

  “None that I know of. I know nothing about it.”

  “Are you sure?” Bobby asked. “Our information is definite. You don’t wish to make any complaint?”

  “Nothing to do with me,” Dwight repeated.

  His attitude was unchanged, impassive. His fixed stare from behind the heavy glasses he wore, never wavered. Yet Bobby could see plainly that beneath that impassive exterior was an extreme nervousness. Small signs, a deliberation of breathing, a rigidity of attitude, an obvious and careful control of every nerve and muscle told their tale plainly. Only one very much on guard would think it necessary to keep so close a watch upon himself, a watch of which the very intensity defeated its own purpose of achieving a semblance of ease.

  “For you to say, of course,” Bobby continued. “Then I am to understand that you know nothing of the incident reported to us, that you make no complaint even though, if we can believe what we are told, your life was in danger.”

  “I can look after my own life.”

  Bobby looked up sharply. He did not know why, but somehow the words seemed to him a challenge to fate, that fate might well take up.

  “It’s not always easy to do that,” he said, half to himself.

  “It’s nothing to do with me,” Dwight said again. “I’m not responsible for what your village cops choose to tell you.”

  “What makes you think it was a village cop?” Bobby asked smoothly. When he got no reply, only another fixed, expressionless stare, he said:

  “Is it because you know a village cop was there to see?”

  “Clever, aren’t you?” snarled Dwight.

  “Oh, no,” Bobby protested. “That’s almost libellous. Call a man clever in England and everyone mistrusts him at once. Instinctively they add ‘By half’. No, not clever. Efficient. That’s the word in this country for real heartfelt praise. Say ‘Efficient’ won’t you?” he pleaded.

  Dwight did not respond. That fixed heavy stare of his was beginning in Bobby’s thoughts to take on a fresh aspect of menace and of threat. That clear, pleasant tenor voice of his grew harsh and muttering as he said now:

  “If you’ve got a report about something you say happened somewhere, it’s only natural to suppose it comes from one of your snoopers. You can’t make anything of my thinking that, try as you like.”

  “It doesn’t take a snooper to notice pistol shots fired in broad daylight from a country cottage,” Bobby pointed out. “Mr Dwight, I wish you would believe me when I say that all I am trying to do is to prevent trouble developing. Quite frankly, I don’t like this story of pistols. I don’t know what it means but I don’t like it. Bullets ask no questions where they hit, they can’t be controlled once they’ve been fired, and sometimes a man, especially a young man, loses his head and does something in a minute that may ruin his whole life.”

  Dwight yawned.

  “If you’ve nothing more interesting to say,” he remarked, “I’ll go and get on with my work. I’ve got some to do, if you haven’t.”

  He yawned again, straightened himself from the lounging position he had preserved while they talked, and went back to his desk. Bobby followed him, feeling that again his intervention had been a complete failure. More than words, more than a warning, he felt, would be needed to influence Dwight. Possibly what had been said might in the long run have its effect, but of that Bobby did not feel too sure. He remained aware of an uncomfortable sensation that beneath the smooth surface of everyday life events were hurrying to a climax he had no power to stay or alter. There had seemed to him a quality in young Dwight’s sustained effort at concealed control as ominous as had seemed Osman Ford’s glowing anger he had cared so little to hide. He noticed as he walked slowly through the big outer office that all the staff were watching him, watching with a cautious expectation.

  “They all feel something’s wrong, something’s going to break,” he thought.

  As he let himself out he glanced back and the last glimpse he had of Dwight showed him the lad’s features no longer set in a firmly held control, but contorted with some deeply felt emotion that he was doing his best to conceal behind some papers he was examining.

  “Fear? Hate? Love? Which? Or all three together?” Bobby asked himself, and, descending slowly the great stairway that led to the building’s entrance hall, he saw Castles standing there, waiting for him apparently. Coming forward, Castles said:

  “I’m just going out to lunch, I’ll walk along with you if I may.”

  As he spoke, he fell into step by Bobby’s side. In the street, Castles said:

  “I expect you are wondering what I was doing in Anderson’s room.”

  “Not at all,” Bobby answered. “Why should I? Nothing to do with me.”

  “Sure?” asked Castles, looking up. He seemed to have a trick of keeping his eyes on the ground and also he was a head and shoulders shorter than Bobby, but now the keenness and suddenness of his upward glance was a trifle disconcerting. He added: “You see, I’ve a pretty good idea why Blythe brought you in.”

  “Have you?” asked Bobby cautiously.

  “Oh, you needn’t be so careful,” Castles told him. “The Osman Ford account. You heard Blythe say that was what I was looking at.”

  “Well?”

  “I am wondering what to do.”

  “Are you?” Bobby asked. “Well, what are you driving at?”

  “What am I driving at?” Castles repeated in a voice suddenly shaken as it seemed by an abrupt fury. He flung out one hand. He gripped Bobby by the arm with such force that that evening Bobby found faint bruises where his arm had been held. “Listen,” he said. “Perhaps Anderson ruined my father. I don’t know. I do know Anderson sits where my father used to sit and I’m a hired servant where my father was boss. There’s another thing I know. It was Anderson saved me from the workhouse. If it hadn’t been for Anderson, I should have been a pauper, with a pauper’s upbringing. He’s treated me like a son, but did he ruin my father and was it that killed my mother? That’s the problem.”

  The man spoke with an intensity of emotion that shook him from head to foot. Bobby stood still and looked at him with bewilderment. One or two passers-by gave them curious, interested glances. Bobby did not speak. He did not know what to say. Castles took out a cigarette case and held it in his hand. He muttered:

  “Yes, that’s just the point.”

  “What is?” Bobby asked.

  Castles began to walk away. Some instinct of doubt or of mistrust born of the excitement Castles was showing, made Bobby call after him:

  “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know,” Castles answered over his shoulder, “That’s the question,” he said and walked on.

  Bobby stood still for a moment or two looking after him as he hurried away, lost to sight soon in the busy traffic of the street. A good deal in all this, Bobby told himself, that he did not understand, and that he could only hope it would never be his business to understand. From the door of Chief Building he saw emerge the girl Anne Earle had called Ursula. By her side was another young man Bobby had noticed in the office of Messrs Castles. His name Bobby now knew was Roy Green. They were walking side by side. They passed close by Bobby without noticing him, without noticing anything for that matter, for they
were conscious only of themselves. They did not seem to be talking but somehow they managed to give the impression that for them talk was unnecessary. In the busy traffic of the street they, too, disappeared; and Bobby found himself thinking that something sweet and wholesome and altogether natural had passed, far removed indeed from those rumblings of underground, hidden fires of passion and of doubt of which before he had felt so strongly aware. When they had vanished from sight he glanced again at Chief Building and this time he saw standing plainly visible at one of the windows on the first floor the tall, brooding, distinctive figure of Anne Earle. She was bending forward, looking down on the crowded pavement beneath, and once more he was reminded of one of the Valkyria of old, stooping over the battle, the chooser of the slain.

  As he walked away Bobby told himself that he wished he had seen Mr Anderson. Everything seemed to revolve round him and yet of him, of his personality, of his character, Bobby had no knowledge whatever. It would, he felt, be much easier to decide whether all these hints and warnings and those pistol shots denied by all concerned, had any mischievous intent. He wondered, too, very much, why Mr Anderson had called to see him.

  But in these strenuous days of war, there were many other things to attend to and to think of and provide for. Bobby thought little more of Mr Anderson, of Castles, of Rose Briar Cottage, till thirty-six hours later, on the morning of the following Thursday, when there came before him officially the information that Mr Anderson was missing.