Worrying, too, Bobby found it, the way in which the Regency and Shakespeare and all that crush seemed always turning up in the case, as if in some way the explanation of the mystery of Sir Christopher’s murder was wrapped up with the excellence of this successful ‘silver and grey’ Hamlet, as the advertisements called it. A fantastic notion, of course, and Bobby tried to forget it, and then, for he was more tired and more worried than he quite realized, he began to fret over the possibility that this unasked-for twenty-four hours’ leave was merely a way of breaking to him that it was intended to return him to uniform duty. So it was in a somewhat despondent mood that Bobby went to bed that night, and in the middle of it, somewhere in the small hours, he woke with a violent start and the question ringing in his mind, almost as if someone had shouted it at him: Why was Marsden so careful to give such exact particulars of the lonely house in which he declared Carsley to have shown so unusual an interest?
Bobby sat upright in bed and slept no more. He really almost had the illusion that this question had been asked him by some outside entity, for he had no knowledge of how well the sub-conscious can dramatize our hidden thoughts. In the dark night, in the silence, the question seemed to him to assume an immense importance, an importance, too, as obscure and threatening as the surrounding night itself.
‘Why? Why?’ he asked himself, and there was terror in his mind, a terror of some unknown threat of which he seemed to sense the heavy menace.
Uselessly he told himself it was mere lolly to let himself be troubled by such fancies. Marsden had simply mentioned the incident as an example of the bad terms on which he was with his partner and of how any trifle was good enough for quarrelling about. That he had mentioned that the dwelling concerned was in an out-of-the-way spot and likely to remain unoccupied for years, was purely accidental – absurd to suppose anything more, the height of absurdity to suppose any threat or danger lay behind. Yet in the darkness Bobby was aware that he was trembling slightly, that a great dread possessed him.
A lonely house in a lonely spot, he told himself again, and Carsley had the key and no one else – nothing in all that, why should there be? There’s no lack of lonely houses in lonely inconvenient spots, likely to remain unoccupied for long periods, and someone has to have the key.
But all the same he could not sleep and in the morning he was up even earlier than usual and poring over the list of house and estate agents in the directory – a dismaying list, for the profession is popular and easily entered.
In spite of his unsought leave, he thought of appealing to Scotland Yard. Scotland Yard, with its immense, ever-ready organization, could within a few hours put the inquiry before every house agent in London – in the country almost. But then he had so little to go on. In his written report he had already referred to the matter; and it was the responsibility of his superiors to decide whether any further steps should be taken regarding it. Bobby had, too, an uneasy feeling that some of those superiors were a little inclined to regard him as a pushing, interfering, officious youngster, badly in need of being taught his place. Better not to give them any further ground for criticism by what might look like a fresh attempt to teach his chiefs their business.
To his troubled and restless mind indeed the twenty-four hours’ special leave that had been given him began to look uncommonly like twenty-four hours’ suspension from duty, or at any rate a hint to try not to meddle quite so much.
He made up his mind firmly to forget all about the case, to spend the morning loafing, the afternoon at the pictures, the evening at the Regency, and so for that day at least avoid all risk of annoying his seniors by a display of too much energy. There was a friend of his who was always ready for a night out; and though he was a young man who in a general way preferred a song and dance show, yet Bobby felt it would do him all the good in the world, and probably improve his mind quite a lot, to introduce him to Shakespeare. So Bobby went out to find him, but on his way to the tube station, where he meant to take the train, he happened to pass an estate agent’s. Before he well knew what had happened, Bobby found himself inside, explaining that he had an eccentric friend, an artist, who was looking for an appropriate residence, old-fashioned, quiet, out of the way – something like an old windmill turned into a dwelling-house would suit him admirably. Did the estate agent know of anything like that?
The estate agent did not, but since he did know that few people know what they want so clearly that they will not take something else if it is pressed upon them with sufficient energy, he recommended in turn a semi-detached villa in Golders Green, a wonderfully cheap luxury mansion flat practically in the heart of the West End, Bayswater district, and an attractive half-house in Chelsea. Bobby said he thought these were not quite what his friend was looking for, and managed to escape, but not all twenty minutes had elapsed. At twenty minutes to a visit, that meant three estate agents questioned an hour, without allowing for the time occupied going from one to another. It seemed at that rate as though progress would be slow, and Bobby wondered whether it would not be better to go straight to Lincoln’s Inn and ask for the information direct from Marsden or one of the clerks. But something seemed to warn him against doing that. If the reference to the lonely windmill turned into a house meant anything, then it would be wiser not to risk putting those concerned on their guard. He felt he did not trust Marsden, better not give Marsden any hint of what was being done, and then he had a new idea as he noticed that just across the way stood a public library.
CHAPTER 27
SEARCH FOR A WINDMILL
Entering the library, he asked for the librarian. He was, he explained to that official, interested in windmills; he was, so to say, collecting windmills, windmills were the passion of his life, the sole interest of his passing days. Could the librarian tell him where and how he could get information about the sites of all the old windmills in or near London?
The librarian received the request quite calmly. He was used to such demands. The earnest young lady wanting a book giving a brief, bright and complete account of the Kantian philosophy, the currency reformer requiring information on the monetary system of Ur, the biblical student wishing for a complete list of all contemporary references to the book of Daniel, the local antiquarian needing direction to the exact spot where stood the last old oaks that had flourished in the borough, the amateur of languages in a spasm of indignation because the library had no copy of the recently-published Elements of Iroquois Grammar in Its Primitive Period – the sad librarian knew them all, and a little inquiry about the sites of windmills left him quite unruffled. He provided Bobby at once with an armful of books, and added that one that might be useful, Picturesque Windmills and Watermills of the Southern Counties, was in the reference department of the central branch but could be got down by the afternoon, if Bobby would like to see it.
Bobby said he would, expressed his gratitude, and retired with his armful of books, searched them diligently without coming across anything that seemed likely to be useful, and then retired to seek some lunch. In the afternoon he went back and found Picturesque Windmills and Watermills waiting for him. It was a formidable and ponderous tome, written three-quarters of a century ago, and when he had searched it half way through he came to a description that seemed to him as if it might be that of the house Marsden had spoken of.
At any rate the district was one that even yet London’s all-pervading tide had not entirely flooded, and the author of the book had added to his account of this particular windmill an indignant protest against the impending vandalism which was threatening to turn it into a dwelling-house. Nothing else in the book seemed of interest, so Bobby returned it to the librarian, expressed his thanks once more, and then, after having a cup of tea and ringing up Scotland Yard to be assured there were no orders for him, started off to find the spot described.
Rather a wild goose chase, he supposed, but still it was something to occupy his mind and prevent his thoughts beating so restlessly against the bars of the prob
lem in which it felt itself confined.
The task did not prove an easy one, for the directions given in the book had not been explicit. Even when he reached what he thought must be the right locality, an old gentleman, smoking his pipe outside his cottage door, from whom Bobby made inquiries, declared emphatically, and with some amusement at the suggestion, that there was no windmill there and never had been, and he had known the neighbourhood, man and boy, for seventy year.
Disappointed, Bobby made up his mind to abandon the hunt and return home, for by now it was growing dark, and then a young woman made her appearance from the cottage, curious probably to know what the good-looking young stranger wanted.
‘Gentleman’s looking for a windmill,’ explained the patriarch, chuckling at an idea that seemed to him as extraordinary as humorous, for never before in all his long life had he known anyone come looking for a windmill – a public-house, now, that would be different, but a windmill! ‘There’s no windmill here and never has been,’ he repeated, ‘and I’ve known these parts man and boy for seventy year.’
‘I’ve heard tell the house down the lane used to be a windmill at one time, and I’m sure it looks it,’ the young woman remarked.
‘But it’s a house now and always has been long as I’ve known it,’ retorted the patriarch triumphantly, ‘and that’s seventy year–’
Bobby interrupted with a word of thanks to the young woman, who then added the information that the house was uninhabited and had been so for some time, and could only be seen by an order to view. At one time a neighbour had had the key, but now that was in the hands of the lawyers.
‘That’s what I told the lady, as she couldn’t get in no ways,’ observed the patriarch, ‘but she went on just the same.’
‘The lady? What lady?’ asked Bobby sharply.
‘The lady what asked the way,’ explained the patriarch, ‘but it wasn’t no windmill she was looking for – “Prospect House, that’s to let”, she named it, same as it always has been in my time, and I’ve known these parts man and boy–’
‘Exactly,’ interrupted Bobby. ‘What was the lady like?’
‘Well, she was very nice spoken,’ replied the old gentleman after due consideration, ‘and she might be youngish, or it might be not so youngish as she looked, but looked a lady as was a lady and hadn’t ever done a stroke of work in her life.’
The young woman added the information that the stranger had worn a blue leather motoring coat, with a blue hat trimmed with red and adorned with a crystal ornament in the shape of a dog. The lady’s face, unfortunately, she had not seen, but she described her as taller than most, and Bobby remembered clearly the tall, slim form of Jennie Carsley as he had last seen her in a blue leather motoring coat and a blue hat to match, trimmed with red and showing a crystal ornament in the shape of a dog.
Uneasily he told himself it must be a mere coincidence. No doubt plenty of youngish women possessed blue leather motoring coats and wore hats to match. Certainly crystal dogs are common enough as hat ornaments. He told himself again, yet with a vague, growing unease, that it was a pure coincidence, for surely it was impossible Jennie Carsley could have come to-day to this lonely, deserted spot. The patriarch coughed, expectorated, and observed:
‘She ain’t come back yet.’
‘Are you sure?’ Bobby asked, and noticed that his voice had suddenly taken on a higher note than usual.
‘She might have gone by without your seeing her, granddad,’ the young woman remarked.
‘I’ve been here ever since, ain’t I?’ retorted the old man impatiently. ‘How could she have gone by without me seeing her? Except she’s gone away by the fields at the back, and she wouldn’t do that, a lady like her, and if she hasn’t then she’s there still, ain’t she?’
The young woman said in an aside to Bobby:
‘He drops off to sleep sometimes and then anyone might go by and he wouldn’t know.’
Her grandfather saw her whispering.
‘I tell you the lady ain’t come back,’ he repeated irritably, ‘so she’s there still, and making a long stay of it, too, she is that.’
‘It’s only three minutes’ walk down the lane,’ the young woman said to Bobby, and he thanked her and walked on.
A tall clump of trees had hitherto hidden the house from him, but when he was past them and the turning just beyond, it came clearly into view, crowning a low eminence, showing dark and heavy against the dark and heavy northern sky.
It may have been nothing more than the gathering shades of evening that seemed to give it to Bobby’s troubled imagination so frowning and sinister an appearance as it crouched there on its low eminence, as if preparing to hurl itself upon its prey in the meadows below. A tangle of trees and bushes in a neglected garden compassed it about, hiding its lower portion, but above one could see plainly where once, when its life had been busy and useful, its swift, revolving arms had hung.
For a moment or two Bobby stood still watching it and noting its lonely and deserted aspect, its shuttered windows and the broken steps to the front door, as though no living creature had been near it for long years. Yet a woman had asked the way to it only a short time before, and if she had come here and had not returned, what could be keeping her so long? It did not look a place where one would linger by choice.
The gate admitting to the garden hung broken on its hinges, and the gravel path leading up to the door was overgrown with moss and weed. There was no sign Bobby could distinguish to tell that anyone had really entered recently, and he wished he had the skill he had read that some possess, whereby a bent blade of grass, an overturned stone, can be made to tell who has passed that way.
If the old man he had been talking to could be trusted, a woman, wearing such clothes as Jennie Carsley often wore, had arrived here not long ago, and, again if the old man were correct, had not yet departed.
Yet the tumble-down old place, with its shuttered windows and neglected, overgrown garden, had so lonely and desolate an air it was hard to believe any visitor had recently troubled its brooding solitude.
For a moment or two Bobby stood hesitating, half reluctant to go on. Then he advanced slowly up the path, watching the transformed mill closely for any sign of life or movement. A low whistle close behind him made him start violently, so much did it take him by surprise, and when he turned he saw someone, half hidden by a tree, beckoning to him. He went across and recognized a man named Paul, one of the C.I.D. men.
‘Paul?’ he exclaimed, ‘what on earth... what are you doing here?’ he asked uneasily.
‘Have they sent you along?’ Paul asked. ‘How did they get hold of you so quick?’
‘I’m only mooching around,’ Bobby answered. ‘Is anything up?’
‘I don’t know,’ Paul answered, ‘but it looks queer to me – more than queer. I thought I had better let ’em know I had trailed my bird here – as rummy a place as I ever saw. I tell you, Owen, I don’t half like it. When I reported, they said they’d be along as soon as they could manage it. I thought when I saw you – it would have been quick work, though. What do you mean – mooching around?’
‘I’m not on duty,’ Bobby explained.
‘Well, then, how did you... I mean... what’s brought you along?’
‘I just came along. I had heard of this place and I came along to have a look,’ Bobby answered. ‘Do you mean you’ve trailed Mrs Carsley here?’
‘Mrs Carsley?’ Paul repeated. ‘What’s she got to do with it? It’s Carsley himself that’s here, not his wife – she’s not in the game, is she?’
‘I don’t know... she may be,’ Bobby answered. ‘Do you mean... do you say Mr Carsley – Peter Carsley’s here?’
‘Yes, and a rummy place to come to, if you ask me. Up to something he is, or I’ll miss a month’s pay. What do you mean – Mrs Carsley? What makes you look like that?’
‘Some people down the road,’ Bobby answered, ‘told me they had seen a lady, answering Mrs Carsley’s description,
go past just now towards this place – and they said that she hadn’t come back again.’
Paul was a little pale himself, now.
‘Having tea, are they?’ he said, trying to make a joke of it. ‘Or fixing up something together – I’m glad I rang up, anyhow. A rummy place,’ he said, ‘for a husband to ask his wife to meet him.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Bobby.
‘I suppose she’s got lots of money,’ Paul said. ‘Piles of money she’s got, I suppose.’
‘Yes,’ said Bobby again.
‘Come round this way,’ Paul said. ‘I’ll show you something.’
He led the way round to the back of the building, where a small opening near the ground gave a measure of air and light to an inner cellar.
‘Have a look,’ Paul said.
Bobby lay upon the ground, the only way to see within.
Inside was Peter Carsley. On the cellar floor was a pile of freshly turned earth. In front of Peter was a large hole. Peter had a spade in his hands, and had evidently been digging, but for the moment was resting.
Paul said softly in Bobby’s ear:
‘I couldn’t make it out at first, but now it looks to me as though it is a grave he is digging down there.’
CHAPTER 28
THE DISCOVERY
It was perhaps the cold dampness of the earth, striking up as Bobby lay stretched full length, that set him shivering and shaking, like a man stricken with a fever. He scrambled to his feet. He knew now in literal truth what that old phrase means which speaks of the tongue cleaving to the roof of the mouth. For so now did his, and he could not speak. Paul said to him:
‘Pull yourself together.’
‘Yes. Yes,’ Bobby muttered, getting the words out with difficulty. ‘We must... I mean we must ask him... ask him what he’s doing... and stop him...’
Information Received Page 20
