The Dark Garden: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  “Not even if he fell in love with her? Love’s a queer thing. It just happens.”

  “Not to Anderson, it wouldn’t,” Castles said, “not at his age. And Blythe simply isn’t interested in women. Too taken up with his Hopewell House boys. It means more to him than the practice, if you ask me. I don’t know if you’ve heard any gossip, but if you have you can take it from me, there’s nothing in it. Not Anderson, at his age, his temperament, his experience—and a wife.”

  He paused. Bobby reflected, but did not say, that none of these things gave absolute protection—neither age nor experience nor anything else. Certainly not age. Sometimes it was the elderly man, suddenly left desolate by death or desertion, who felt more strongly the urge to re-make his life, the dread of loneliness, the desire for an intimate companionship.

  “And certainly not Blythe,” Castles went on. “I don’t know if I ought to tell you. I believe he has a sort of horror of women. Psychological. He had rather an awful experience when he was a child. When he was about eight or nine he somehow got into his mother’s bedroom and his mother was there with a strange man in what is called a compromising situation. There was a divorce and I think the child was called to give evidence. Rather a beastly affair and he has never got over it. Warped in that way. I’ve always thought it was partly why he’s so keen on Hopewell House. Keeps it as clear of women as the monks do at Mount Athos. Of course, that’s confidential. I’m only telling you to make you see it’s quite out of the question to suppose that either Anderson or Blythe could have had anything to do like that with any of the girls on our staff.”

  “What about the clerks?” Bobby asked.

  Castles shook his head.

  “I never heard of anything of the sort,” he declared. “If there had been, I should have been sure to know.”

  Bobby was not of that opinion. He was inclined to believe that Castles was so absorbed by his own tormenting doubts that he saw and knew very little of what went on around him.

  “Can you give me any information about the financial side of the firm?” he asked. “Especially as it affected Mr Anderson.”

  “No, and I don’t know that I would if I could,” Castles answered quickly. “I think that’s going a little far, isn’t it? I could understand it in a case of suicide. As it is, I don’t see what the firm’s finances could have to do with it.”

  “Just possibly,” Bobby murmured, “everything.”

  “I don’t see how. A man isn’t murdered because he is hard up. The war has hit all solicitors pretty hard. I suppose we are a luxury trade. Litigation is, anyhow. All law business has gone west. I don’t mean we are bankrupt, you know. Besides, I couldn’t give you details, even if I wanted to. I’m a salaried clerk, not a partner. I don’t see the private balance sheet. Blythe draws that up and he and Anderson keep it to themselves. Naturally. Equally naturally, everyone in the office has an idea how things are going. But not the actual figures.”

  “I think I remember that the first time I saw you you were looking at Mr Anderson’s private ledger?”

  “So I was. Nothing to do with what’s happened. Something else altogether.”

  “Mr Blythe was rather surprised, wasn’t he? I remember he looked taken aback.”

  “I daresay he was. I had my reasons. Good reasons. I don’t intend to tell you—or anyone else—what they were. They’re entirely irrelevant.”

  “Won’t you let me judge that?”

  “No.”

  “Would Mr Anderson have been pleased to find you looking at his private ledger?”

  “It’s no good going on asking questions,” Castles retorted. “Irrelevant,” he repeated. Then he said: “I should have known what to say.”

  “You force me to ask you this. Did you know there would be no need to answer him because you did not mean to give him the chance to question you?”

  “That’s a prosecuting counsel’s question,” Castles said angrily. “I think you are twisting things. Blythe saw me. He could have told Anderson. He never did. At least, if he did, Anderson must have told him it was all right. Anyhow, Anderson never said a word to me about it.” He added once again, frowning heavily as he spoke: “If he had, I should have known what to say.”

  “But you won’t tell me what you would have said?” Bobby asked; and when Castles shook his head again, Bobby said slowly: “Well, you know, that’s almost as interesting as if you did.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Castles muttered uneasily.

  “Well, of course, I don’t mean you to,” Bobby retorted with a faint smile. “A fair bargain—quid pro quo. You tell me why you wanted a look at Anderson’s ledger when he wasn’t there and I’ll tell you why I think it’s so interesting that you won’t.”

  Castles got to his feet.

  “If you’ve quite finished,” he said, “I would like to be going. We aren’t busy, but we have some work to do apart from trying to guess conundrums.”

  “One moment,” Bobby said as Castles began to move towards the door. “From information received, I understand that Mr Anderson recently disposed of a sum of £5,000.”

  Castles, with his hand already outstretched towards the door, swung round as if he had received a sudden blow. Only by a visible effort did he recover himself and he still looked very disturbed.

  “You do know a lot, don’t you?” he said with what was evidently intended for a withering sneer. “Well, as you know it all already, there’s no need for me to tell you anything more, is there? Good day.”

  “Good day,” Bobby answered, “and thanks very much for what you’ve told me and still more for what you haven’t. Should you mind asking Mr Dwight to come along to see me, just for a little chat. Got to make some inquiries about his revolver, you know. Police have to do that sort of thing. Oh, by the way, if it’s worrying you at all, I might as well tell you we knew about it before—from information received, as we like to say. You can spare Dwight from the office for a bit?”

  “I suppose we’ll have to,” Castles answered grumblingly. He opened the door and went out and then turned back and stared at Bobby. “I wonder what I have told you,” he said doubtfully and went away, and Bobby, as he looked at the closed door, wondered, too.

  CHAPTER XIII

  QUESTION OF ALIBI

  IT WAS SOME time, nearly the lunch hour in fact, before Dwight made his appearance. But for the fact that lunch, for Bobby, in these days of war, consisted generally of a sandwich or two sent in from a neighbouring ham and beef shop, he would probably, when Dwight did arrive, have been out getting his meal either at home or at a restaurant. Nor was Bobby entirely without suspicion that Dwight had hoped that might still be the case and so the interview be delayed a while. But Bobby was careful to make no reference to the delay nor did he take any notice of the young man’s sullen and reluctant air.

  “Very good of you to come along, Mr Dwight,” he said pleasantly. “Do sit down, won’t you? Have a cigarette?”

  Dwight ignored the offer of the cigarette and though he did sit down he still maintained his air of sullen resentment.

  “Castles been saying things about me?” he asked angrily. “Just like him. Trying to get me in to get himself out.”

  “Is he in? Is there any need for him to get out?” Bobby asked.

  “How should I know?”

  “If you don’t, why suggest it?”

  “It’s pretty clear you think someone in the office killed Anderson, and it’s as likely to be Castles as anyone. I don’t suppose he liked knowing Anderson had got hold of the practice. After all, his grandfather made it and it was his father’s, too.”

  “Old story that, isn’t it? Any other reason?”

  “No. I don’t know anything about it. I don’t know what you want to ask me. Suppose I had a revolver a couple of years ago, what about it?”

  “For one thing, you don’t seem to have had a licence. At least, I haven’t been able to find an entry in the Firearms Register. I believe you told Castles you h
ad one?”

  “No. I didn’t. I may have said I was going to get one. I don’t remember. I didn’t bother about a licence. I thought it wasn’t worth while. I chucked the thing away instead. In the canal somewhere.”

  “How did you get hold of a revolver?” Bobby asked. “You can’t buy one like a packet of cigarettes.”

  “I gave a chap in a pub ten bob for it. Somewhere by the canal docks. A sailor. He was tight. He said every time his ship got in he smuggled in a revolver. You can buy them easily enough anywhere on the Continent.”

  Bobby was inclined to believe this story. It is, of course, the fact that a small trade in smuggled revolvers goes on in all the ports. There are always people—sometimes criminals, sometimes merely those who like the feeling of hidden power the possession of a weapon gives them, or again those who have been refused or have not wished to apply for a licence—who are willing to give a good price for such things. The only doubtful point in Dwight’s story was the modest amount he said he had paid, but if the sailor had had too much to drink that would be accounted for.

  “What ammunition had you?” he asked.

  “I hadn’t any,” Dwight answered. “It was loaded but that was all.”

  “Mr Dwight,” Bobby said, “I don’t want you to think that I am asking you these questions because of anything Mr Castles told me. He did admit he had seen you in possession of a pistol. He couldn’t very well deny it. But he was quick to point out that it was a long time ago and he expressed a very strong opinion that it was absurd to suppose any connection with Mr Anderson’s death. We have received much later information and I may tell you quite frankly that I am fairly certain it was you who was seen at Rose Briar Cottage. That was when what was probably your own revolver was fired after you, though not, I think, with any intention of hitting you. The occupier of the cottage says it was only fired in the air.”

  “You needn’t say ‘occupier’,” growled Dwight. “What’s the sense of being so damn official? You might as well say it was Mrs Jordan. She’s telling a pack of lies.”

  “I can only tell you,” Bobby said slowly, “that at present I am inclined to accept her story, not yours.”

  “Meaning I’m a liar?” asked Dwight truculently.

  “You’ve made that accusation against Mrs Jordan, haven’t you?” Bobby reminded him. “‘Liar’ is your word, not mine. And I think I must remind you that in a murder inquiry a witness not entirely frank comes automatically under suspicion. Would you care to reconsider what you’ve said? People do often find second thoughts best and we are always ready to hear them.”

  Dwight hesitated. He was plainly uneasy. Then he seemed to make up his mind.

  “No,” he said. “It’s only Mrs Jordan’s word against mine. She couldn’t possibly have been sure it was—” He had evidently been about to say ‘me’, but stopped just in time. Instead he said: “She can’t be really certain or you would have had her along to identify me.”

  “Hardly necessary when she mentioned your name,” Bobby said. “It isn’t only her word. Our man confirms to some extent.”

  “Some extent isn’t good enough,” retorted Dwight. “Neither Mrs Jordan nor your copper would stand up to cross-examination for two minutes. And when a witness breaks down in cross-examination, it’s a big score to the other side.”

  “I can see you haven’t studied law for nothing,” Bobby said with a smile. “I agree. That is so. I can assure you that when we send papers to the public prosecutor, that’s the first point checked. If they think we’ve put forward evidence that won’t stand up, well, we get it in the neck good and hard. You ought to hear a K.C. explaining exactly what he thinks of us for expecting him to put a witness like that in the box. A study in language. Interesting but painful. I’ve seen strong men reduced to tears—or very nearly. When I say strong men I mean tough cops of twenty years’ service. Pale and trembling as they creep away after listening to that K.C. So you may be sure we are pretty careful. Now let us suppose just for the sake of supposing that it actually was you at Rose Briar Cottage, what do you suppose might have been your motive?”

  “I’ve told you it wasn’t me,” Dwight repeated, scowling more furiously than ever.

  “It’s only supposing,” Bobby repeated, smiling more amiably than ever. “For instance, could your motive have been jealousy?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I think you do. Mr Anderson was living with Miss Anne Earle.”

  Dwight jumped to his feet, pale with anger. His anger nearly choking him, he stuttered:

  “Leave her alone, leave her name out of it.”

  “Mr Dwight,” Bobby said with sudden sternness, “murder has been done, and in murder no one can be left alone, no one’s name can be left out. Before to-day women have done murder—what’s the matter?”

  For quite suddenly the hot anger faded from Dwight’s expression. He looked suddenly small and stricken and very white. He sat down quickly, so quickly that it almost seemed he had been afraid of falling. As though to hide what he feared might be written there, he put his hand up to his face.

  When he did not speak, Bobby, slightly puzzled, repeated:

  “What’s the matter?” When there was still no answer, he said as gently as he could: “Won’t you tell me what’s the trouble? You’ve just thought of something, haven’t you? You know, it’s only guilty people who have anything to be afraid of. Innocent people are always safe.”

  But still Dwight would not answer, still he remained huddled in his chair in the same stricken attitude and Bobby thought:

  “He’s telling himself that perhaps Anne Earle did it. He’s almost sure she did.”

  He waited silently till Dwight looked up and said:

  “I’m sorry. It’s nothing. It was just that I got scared all of a sudden. You are doing your best to make out it was me and I saw all at once that you might bring it off and then I should be hanged and it scared me stiff. I’m all right now. You’ll have a job, you know, proving it was me, when it wasn’t.”

  “I don’t think it was that at all,” Bobby told him quietly. “I think it is something quite different you are afraid of. I wish you would be a bit more open. It would be a lot better all round, much better than keeping your suspicions to yourself.”

  “I haven’t any suspicions,” Dwight asserted. “Why should I? I don’t know anything about it.” But his voice was so unsteady, he showed himself still so pale and shaken, that his words managed to convey almost the exact opposite of their literal meaning. “None,” he repeated, staring defiantly at Bobby.

  “I can’t make you tell us if you won’t,” Bobby said. “I can only advise you to think it over very carefully. I will put this to you. It is the fact that Anderson and Miss Earle were living together. Police have nothing to do with private morals, only with public order, and in this case, as Anderson’s wife had left him, and he and Miss Earle seem to have honestly cared for each other, I daresay some people would hold them justified. I’m glad I haven’t to express any opinion one way or the other. They thought it necessary to keep their connection quiet. No doubt the practice would have suffered if it had been generally known that Anderson was living with one of his girl typists. To a great extent, they did manage to keep their secret to themselves. But some people knew. I think you had some idea, even if you weren’t sure. I think also you were deeply in love with Miss Earle yourself. I think your jealousy drove you to break into Rose Briar Cottage to make sure of the truth. I think you took your revolver with you. I think it is even possible you took it with some mad idea of shooting Anderson if you found him there.”

  “Meaning you think I’ve shot him now?”

  “If I did think so,” Bobby said gravely, “I should not be questioning you. I should be charging you. You notice I have not given you the usual warning. That’s because at present I see no substantial evidence against you.”

  “Thank you,” said Dwight, with a feeble attempt at irony.

  “But
I do think there are grounds for asking you some direct and personal questions. I will ask you this: ‘Are you in love with Miss Earle?”’

  “I am not saying anything about her,” Dwight replied with renewed sullenness.

  “Did you suspect her connection with Mr Anderson?”

  “What’s the good of going on? I tell you I won’t answer anything about her.”

  “Were you in fact jealous, even passionately jealous?”

  This time Dwight made no answer at all, unless an even deeper scowl could be taken for reply.

  Bobby went on:

  “Will you tell me where you were Tuesday evening, the evening, that is, when we believe Mr Anderson was murdered?”

  “If you like. I’ve an alibi all right, if that’s what you are after. Tuesday evening I was playing billiards at the St Peter’s Square billiard hall. I didn’t leave till ten. Then I went straight back to where I hang out—the Welsdon Private Hotel. My people pay my bill there.”

  “That’s very satisfactory,” Bobby said. “You can give me the name of the person you played with?”

  “It was Billy Swift, he’s with Morgan’s, the Beak Street solicitors. He’ll remember because it happens he won—by a beastly fluke.”

  “That’s all right,” said Bobby. “I expect someone saw you when you got back to your hotel?”

  “Oh, yes,” answered Dwight confidently. “Mrs Hillman, she runs the place, was in the hall, and I said good night to her, and then there’s always someone at the desk to spot who comes in, and it happens I ran into old Watkins. He’ll remember, because I ran into him literally, at the foot of the stairs, and knocked his book out of his hands and he was awfully mad. I should think that’s enough?”

  “It certainly sounds like it,” agreed Bobby.

  “And if you think Billy Swift’s telling lies to help a pal, which you can be jolly sure he wouldn’t, more likely to tell ’em to down a pal, you can ask the attendants at the billiard hall. They all know me, and I remember speaking to the chap at the door, thinking I would book a table for another night, and then I thought I wouldn’t.”