By the time all this ’phoning was finished, Bobby was ready for lunch. So he got something—not much—at a public-house he came across, one of those where the word refreshment is given as a rule a strictly liquid interpretation. Then he drove on to Mr Dan Edwardes’s residence, a comparatively small but comfortable-looking dwelling. It was a converted farmhouse, centuries old, and still bearing its ancient name of Saxon Fields.
Bobby, whose appetite had been more whetted than satisfied by his recent meal, found his nostrils twitching as he alighted from his car at the house door, so fragrant and so savoury was the odour that issued from a window he judged to be that of the kitchen.
Before he could knock, Mr Edwardes appeared, in shirt sleeves, a large apron, a big spoon in one hand, beaming benevolently—or sardonically—through his thick, rimmed glasses.
“Ah, inspector,” he said, “I saw you coming. I was wondering when I would see you again. Just in time for lunch.”
“Thanks so much,” Bobby answered. “I can smell something good. I’ve had my lunch already, worse luck,” and how emphatically a stomach much worse than merely empty endorsed those last two words.
Mr Edwardes suddenly looked excited.
“Excuse me,” he said. “A crisis, I think.” He scuttled away, and as he did so called over his shoulder. “Come in. First door on your right. Shan’t be a minute.”
He disappeared in the direction of that savoury smell already noted. In more leisurely fashion Bobby followed the instructions given, and found himself in a small, pleasant dining-room, comfortably furnished, the table laid with small linen mats on shining mahogany, with silver and with glass that even Bobby, whose knowledge of glass was limited, could see was of rare quality. He was still admiring it all when Mr Edwardes appeared, carrying with care a small silver tureen.
“Excuse my running away,” he said, setting down his burden, “but the fact is—a moment later and all would have been lost. It would have been too late to add the flavouring I had prepared.” He shook his head gravely. “I had to choose,” he said, “between some lack of courtesy to a guest and an insult to an ancient recipe.”
“It certainly smells jolly good,” Bobby agreed, as well as a watering mouth would permit.
“Fish soup,” Mr Edwardes explained. “A recipe my father brought from Japan. Chinese originally. Everything they have in Japan came first from China. Only their brutality is their own, and that I think is primitive, not innate as with the German. So there may be hope for the Japanese. They have a B.C. mind, perhaps, but the Germans have a beastly mind, which is worse.” He was bustling about as he chattered, laying a second place. “I am alone to-day,” he explained. “My housekeeper is out and we’ve no maid. The last didn’t hold with a gentleman never out of the kitchen, so she has gone into munitions.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of fish soup before,” Bobby remarked.
“Ah, we in the West have much to learn from the ancient wisdom of the East,” declared Mr Edwardes. “Now, if you’ll sit down, you’ll be able to tell me what you think of it.”
“Oh, thanks so much,” Bobby said, sternly calling an eager and protesting stomach to order, “but I’ve had my lunch already.”
Mr Edwardes gave him a quick look.
“Which means, I suppose,” he said, “you don’t want to accept hospitality from a suspect?”
“Have you been called suspect?” Bobby asked.
“I have much too high an opinion of your discretion, my dear Inspector Owen,” Mr Edwardes told him, “to suppose for one moment that you would even hint at such a thing till you were ready to clap the handcuffs on. In the meantime”—he was beginning to apply himself to the soup—“you will excuse me? If I am to be marched off to prison, I may as well at least enjoy a last meal. Prison fare no doubt is excellent and wholesome, but probably there they would agree with our late maid and not hold with a gentleman who wanted to be always in the kitchen. Well, do I await arrest?”
“You must know perfectly well,” Bobby said, a trifle sharply, “that there is no question of that just now. Why should there be?”
“I note the qualification ‘just now’,” Mr Edwardes observed. “As for ‘why’—immovable object, irresistible force. As I said before, the immovable object goes. Natural to look to the irresistible force for the reason. When I saw you I made sure you had heard stories from the Mill.”
“What stories?” Bobby asked.
“Preparations. Calling an extraordinary meeting. All that. I’ve had a meeting of the responsible heads, telling them what we are thinking of, and asking for suggestions. I’ve given them all a copy of that little book I sent poor Weston—‘What It Will Be Like’. Most of them aren’t a bit impressed. Too new. Won’t work, they say. Indecent haste, too, some of them feel, with poor Weston not yet in his grave. There’ll be an inquest, I suppose?”
“Formal proceedings only,” Bobby said. “We shall have to ask for an adjournment.”
“‘To allow the police to complete their inquiries,’” Mr Edwardes quoted. “Sorry if you think I’m talking too much. I expect I’m nervous. I didn’t sleep too well last night. Murder is a bit unexpected in an average life, and mine has been very average—too average, probably. There’s going to be plenty of opposition to my new order—there always is to anything new—and I should like to see it in running order before there is time for any more trouble to develop.”
“Do you expect any?” Bobby asked sharply.
“I didn’t expect what has happened,” Mr Edwardes answered. “Somehow I doubt if it is finished.”
He got up and went away and came back with a salad.
“A groundwork of cheese,” he explained. “A dressing of dried egg. Most of the green stuff from the hedgerows and byways. Very excellent, too. But no olive oil and only vinegar. Vinegar is an insult to any salad, but lemons can’t be had, and I regard wine, which some recommend, as much too strong. So what else can one have? Well, if you aren’t here to arrest me and you won’t eat with me, I wonder a little why you have come?”
“Well, it’s really about chocolates,” Bobby said. “Have you had any recently? A box or anything?”
“Chocolates?” repeated Mr Edwardes, looking very puzzled. “Do you mean—?”
“Just chocolates,” Bobby said. “Cream. Caramel. That sort of thing. A box has been sent to some one connected with the case. I should like to know who did send it?”
“I didn’t, anyhow,” Mr Edwardes said. He pushed away his plate. He repeated: “Chocolates? Why should that interest you? You don’t mean?”
Bobby nodded. He saw that Mr Edwardes had guessed the reason for the inquiry. A quick and alert mind.
“Poisoned,” he said. “Arsenic, I think.”
“Why do you ask me?” Mr Edwardes said. “I can understand about Weston. He stood between me and what my sons had asked of me. They are dead. Three dead men. Why not a fourth? you might suppose I had asked myself. But why should I want to poison any one else? Who is it?” Bobby did not answer this, and Mr Edwardes went on: “What makes you think it was me?”
“I haven’t said I do,” Bobby answered. “The brown paper wrapping had been used before. There was a name and address on it. There had been an attempt to rub it out, but all the same I think that name and address was your own.”
“I can only say I know nothing of it,” Mr Edwardes repeated.
“I am only asking a question,” Bobby said. “An old address on brown paper is no proof that it was used the next time by the same person. But it is reason for a question.”
“Yes,” Mr Edwardes agreed. “Oh, yes. I see that. Yes. Poisoned chocolates. That suggests a woman, doesn’t it? And the use of a knife suggested a man. Poison is a woman’s weapon. A knife is a man’s. Perhaps meant to deceive both times. Have you thought of that?”
“Oh, yes,” Bobby answered. “Only it doesn’t take you much further forward, does it?”
CHAPTER XXIII
NEW DEVELOPMENT
NEXT DAY the inquest was held and immediately adjourned, in order, as old Dan Edwardes had foretold, “to allow the police to complete their inquiries”. Mr Anderson, as the solicitor in charge of the administration of the estate, was present, and afterwards spoke to Bobby, who had attended to give formal evidence.
“I’ll walk along with you, inspector, if you don’t mind,” he said. “There has been a new development. I don’t quite know what to make of it, but it’s worrying.”
“Definitely worrying?” asked Bobby, still under the obsession of that repetitive word.
“Oh, definitely so,” declared Mr Anderson. “Definitely,” he repeated, pleased to have been offered a word that he felt was so exactly the word required. “You know young John Wilkie? Not a very satisfactory young fellow, I’m afraid. But my late unfortunate client seems to have taken a certain interest in him. I understand there was some sort of not very clear connection by marriage, but no blood relative and no claim on the estate. He came to see me this morning. What it comes to is he says he believes it possible this is not after all an instance of o.s.p.”
“Eh?” said Bobby startled, wondering if perhaps this was some variation of “O.B.E.”
“Obiit sine prole,” Mr Anderson explained, and Bobby remembered sufficient of his Latin to guess that this meant “died without issue”. “I am gravely troubled,” Mr Anderson went on. “The suggestion is that the deceased contracted a so-called irregular marriage in Scotland and had issue—a son. Naturally, in such case the said issue, if any, would have full right of inheritance. I am,” repeated Mr Anderson, “disturbed.”
“Did Wilkie produce any evidence?” Bobby asked.
“Naturally; the first point I raised. Wilkie’s story is to the effect that my unfortunate client once stated to him, while in a state of annoyance with Mr Martin Wynne, one of the next of kin as I am at present advised, that that young man might find there were others who came before him. Also he said something about perhaps not having been so much of a bachelor as people supposed.”
“Not much to go on,” said Bobby. “Too vague.”
“Oh, definitely,” agreed Mr Anderson, and Bobby wondered uneasily if he had attached another victim to that all-pervading word’s triumphant chariot. “Naturally I pointed that out. Wilkie agreed, but went on to say that the deceased at one time had interests in Paisley. He suggested that it might be worth while to make inquiries in that district.”
“I suppose it ought to be followed up,” Bobby agreed.
“That was my own feeling. I got through at once to the Glasgow firm with whom we are sometimes associated. They undertook to make inquiries. Naturally I shall require the most satisfactory proof. In any event, I feel the story must be probed.”
“Oh, definitely,” said Bobby mechanically.
“These so-called irregular marriages are most unsatisfactory,” Mr Anderson declared. “I cannot think why they are permitted. A blot on Scottish law.”
“Oh, well,” Bobby suggested tolerantly, “I suppose the idea is that people marry themselves. The Church has only to bless their decision, and the State nothing to do but register it.”
Mr Anderson didn’t like this theory. He shook a doubtful head at it. Subversive, he thought. Bolshevism, very likely; and though he didn’t know what Bolshevism was exactly, he did know that it was something very horrible and shocking—except when engaged in fighting Germans.
“I should hardly care to go as far as that,” he said firmly. “Domicile. That’s the crux of the question. If the woman, assuming for the moment that there may be some foundation for the story, was a resident of Paisley, domicile would present no difficulty in her case. But as regards my late client, clear proof would be necessary both of intention and of domicile. For domicile, residence thirty days before the date of the so-called marriage would be necessary. Intention, too. Very difficult at this interval of time. However, now the point has been raised it must be dealt with. Definitely.”
“Yes, I think that’s clearly necessary,” agreed Bobby, dismissing the unworthy thought that a faint smile playing about the lawyer’s lips, a certain touch of honey in his voice, came from the not too distant prospect of a long, even a very long bill of costs. “I’ll get in touch with the Paisley police,” Bobby offered, “and ask them to give what help they can.”
Mr Anderson thanked him and confessed that it was partly in the hope of obtaining such assistance that he had spoken. They had reached by now the entrance to the county police headquarters. Mr Anderson shook hands and then, in the act of departing, turned and said:—
“Oh, in confidence.”
Bobby waited, wondering what was coming, and if it would prove to be something all this had been leading up to.
“It has occurred to me ... I cannot say I was fully satisfied ... I experienced, in fact, a definite uneasiness,” Mr Anderson continued. “The young man’s manner struck me as embarrassed—even painfully embarrassed. I would not say suspicious. That would be going too far. No doubt it may seem to you a far-fetched, even fantastic conclusion, but it did occur to me, perhaps indefensibly, that possibly the young man meant himself, and that his intention is to claim to be the issue of the aforesaid marriage, and therefore first heir to the estate.”
“I say,” exclaimed Bobby, really startled, “that’s an idea,” and only just in time did he stop himself from rubbing his nose, a habit of which, under strict wifely instruction, he was endeavouring to break himself. But perhaps Olive would have been less insistent on this had she but heard the shrill whistle in which he now vented his surprise. “I never thought of that,” he said, as the weird sound he had produced echoed down a startled street, and Mr Anderson positively smirked.
For he put trust in, and in general entertained, no idea that was not fortified by rule and precedent; and so was much gratified that this unaccustomed excursion of his into the realm of conjecture was apparently being received with respect and even favour.
“I never thought of that,” Bobby repeated. “I do know he has told lies about his movements on the night of the murder.”
“You think he may be the murderer, then?” exclaimed Mr Anderson excitedly.
“Oh, no, not yet,” protested Bobby, noting that even the trained legal mind can jump to conclusions too hastily at times. “A case for reasonable suspicion only so far. A liar isn’t necessarily a murderer, and sometimes a perfectly innocent man will lie himself into suspicion by trying to avoid it. A bit sticky, too, if a man known to be there or thereabouts at the time of the murder comes forward afterwards to claim to be the dead man’s hitherto unrecognized son and heir.”
“It is a point I considered,” Mr Anderson replied. “It struck me, assuming the hypothesis I have put forward to be well founded, that possibly the statement made may be in the nature of staking out a claim with a view to future development when the situation might appear more favourable and safer. The investigation closed, that is, and all clues—the correct word, I believe—obscured by the lapse of time. One idea might be to delay the distribution of the estate.”
“That might be it,” Bobby agreed. “I suppose, anyhow, it will be some considerable time before the estate is ready for distribution.”
“Oh, considerable,” agreed Mr Anderson. “Except for Mr Martin Wynne, all the claimants are abroad. One or two are serving. It will be necessary to communicate with them all. In these present war-time conditions—well, twelve months or even longer is no unreasonable estimate. A most complicated affair,” and though Mr Anderson did not smack his lips physically, Bobby was sure he did so spiritually.
“Always difficult,” Bobby agreed, “to reopen a case once it has been closed.”
“Fortunately,” Anderson went on, “Miss Rowe, a most capable young woman, agreed to continue her assistance when I pointed that out. She had expected apparently there would be little need for her services and was already thinking about seeking fresh employment. I assured her there was no need. Indeed, I told her the period
necessary might well extend over the year. In the present scarcity of competent clerical help it is a great relief that she consents to continue. I shall hope in due time to persuade her to join my own staff. A most striking young lady.”
“Yes, isn’t she?” Bobby agreed. “Every one feels that. I expect Mr Weston did, too.”
“Naturally,” Mr Anderson declared, once more shaking hands preparatory to departure, “if any such claim as seems to be foreshadowed is put forward, I shall contest it up to the Lords if necessary,” and there came into his eyes such fire as one might expect in those of the warrior charging on the foe. “The whole thing,” he said, “may turn out to be merely a form of blackmail—a claim put forward in the hope that a compromise may be agreed to in preference to undergoing the cost and worry of defence. No such agreed compromise will be effected with my consent,” and again his eyes flashed fire.
CHAPTER XXIV
DRAWING NEARER
WAITING BOBBY’S return from the inquest was Sergeant Payne with a whole bundle of reports, fruits of that patient, all-embracing, sometimes even world-wide search, whereby the police organization digs up from here and there those small facts and no facts, it is the business of the detective to put together till they form, if indeed they ever do, the coherent pattern whereon action becomes possible. For, indeed, it may be the answers to the seemingly commonplace and unrelated questions put by ordinary police constables at John O’Groats and at Land’s End which provide in the end the solution of the mystery in the Midlands. Just as in that great detective problem which is the universe, it is the patient work of the ordinary investigator here and there that in the end provides the material for the answer to the question posed.
“I’ve had a talk with the young fellow Franks had borrowed that half-crown from,” Payne began. “I think we must accept his story. I’ve seen his young lady, too. She says the same. The lighting is pretty dim in a cinema foyer these days with all these restrictions, and fuel and light inspectors liable to pop in at any moment, but Franks spoke to them both, and they both know him.”
Night's Cloak: A Bobby Owen Mystery Page 16
