Ten Star Clues

by E. R. Punshon

  “I am afraid,” Bobby insisted, “it is necessary for us to know what you thought at the time. We realize it was only an impression and possibly a mistaken one. If it was, we can soon get that cleared up. The point is that even a mistaken impression will be a guide and a help, and it is essential to know who was and who was not near the spot at the time of the murder. That is what we call establishing identity. Identity of time, place, and any possible suspect.” The vicar was evidently thinking this over. Bobby did not try to hurry him. The vicar said with unexpected insight:—

  “That means me—includes me as a suspect?”

  “Well, yes,” agreed Bobby, though in point of fact he had not thought of that before. “Still, we can leave that aside for the moment. What we are asking for now is the name of the person you thought at the moment you recognized. We have got to know it,” he added with that hard resolve which was at the core of his character though it so seldom appeared, “for we do not intend that the murder of an old, inoffensive man like Lord Wych shall go unpunished.”

  “It will not,” the vicar said with a sudden and a curious severity that matched—outmatched indeed—the hardness in Bobby’s tone. “It cannot, indeed, for the punishment is in the deed itself. No punishment is greater than impunity.”

  Bobby did not attempt to argue that point. He thought to himself that perhaps it was a punishment, this of impunity, that might well encourage crime and still more crime. But he was not sure, for he thought that at least he could catch a glimpse of what the vicar meant. He waited quietly, and with a sigh Mr. Longden spoke.

  “I want to say again,” he began, “that very likely I was utterly mistaken. At the time I know I felt I must be. It seemed it was incredible. But certainly at the time it did seem to me that I had seen the Countess Wych.”

  Neither Bobby nor the colonel could quite conceal their surprise. It was the last name either of them had expected. Colonel Glynne indeed drew his breath in sharply, in a very audible gasp of astonishment.

  “Lady Wych,” he exclaimed incredulously.

  “No doubt I was utterly mistaken,” repeated Mr. Longden eagerly, turning quickly towards the colonel as if hoping to escape from Bobby’s hard insistence. “Incredible, of course. In her state of health.”

  “She came downstairs to dinner last night,” Bobby remarked thoughtfully, half inclined to belief on the old principle: ‘I believe because it is impossible’—or, in this case, so highly improbable. The impression made on the vicar must have been strong, he felt, to have produced such a statement. “Anyhow, you feel sure it was a woman?” he asked abruptly.

  “Well, yes, a woman,” the vicar agreed, “yes, I think so, but really, it was only a glimpse, as—whoever it was— opened the window, pushed back the curtain, entered the room.”

  “The wireless was playing?” Bobby asked.

  The vicar was quite clear on that point. He distinctly remembered hearing it playing. But he had heard nothing in the nature of pistol shots. Concerning the exact time, he was less certain. Somewhere about half-past eleven, he supposed. Nor could he be certain what exact piece of music was being played, or what portion. Classical music certainly, but he had not recognized it. His knowledge of music was limited and his ear by no means first rate.

  There is one thing more where you can help us possibly,” Bobby continued, when it became clear that nothing more definite could be extracted from the vicar’s somewhat vague recollections. “Not far from where you were standing, judging, that is, from where the umbrella was found, there are traces of footprints. Cigarette ends are lying about. Under some rhododendron bushes. It looks as if someone had been sitting there for some time, and it appears to be about the only convenient spot from which the castle can be seen comfortably. There is an uninterrupted view of the library windows. Apparently whoever it was remained there for some time, just as if he or she were watching. It may have been the murderer waiting a favourable opportunity. There may be some innocent explanation. Did you notice or can you remember anything to help us there? Did you smell tobacco smoke, for example, or see a lighted cigarette?”

  Mr. Longden looked a good deal disturbed at this new suggestion.

  “Do you mean,” he asked, “the murderer may have been hiding there and that I may have passed within a few feet of him?—dear me, a most uncomfortable idea.”

  Disturbing as he evidently found the suggestion, he was unable to say anything to confirm it, and Bobby did not press the point.

  “There’s just one thing more,” he said. “You were a good deal surprised when you saw Lady Wych, so much so that I think you said something about praying for guidance. I don’t quite understand what guidance was necessary.”

  Mr. Longden flushed and hesitated.

  “I was conscious of a certain temptation,” he said. “My daughter has undertaken duties towards Lady Wych, whose health is very bad. My first feeling was that Lady Wych oughtn’t to be out there at that time of night, and that her being so might imply a certain neglect on Sophy’s part. I wasn’t sure what to do, I was tempted to do nothing for fear of drawing attention to what might have been a fault on my daughter’s part. But there was, after all, no reason why Lady Wych shouldn’t be up and about. It was not very late and it was a warm, fine night. Yet I felt uneasy. I don’t know why. I wasn’t sure what to do, and when I feel like that, it is my habit to seek guidance. Then I saw Lady Wych turn back into the room and pull the curtains to behind her. I felt that was an answer, and showed there was no need for me to do anything. I went on home. That is all.”

  “Thank you,” Bobby said, touched and a little puzzled by the simplicity of the tale and the natural way in which it had been told.

  He asked one or two more questions about what had passed in the estate office the previous day, with special reference to the pistol incident. Mr. Longden was quite clear he had seen it locked up securely in the safe. Bobby went over all this so carefully and in such detail that he felt by the time he had finished that he was aware of every tiny incident of the interview that had taken place that afternoon. Then Mr. Longden returned to the disturbing possibility that he might have been within arm’s length of the murderer the previous night.

  “If that is so,” he said, “he may think I saw him and know who he is?”

  It was an uncomfortable idea that had already come to Bobby and he had decided to suggest to the colonel that it might be wise, short-handed as they were, to tell off a plain-clothes man to provide some sort of protection for the vicar. It was not necessary to make the suggestion, however, for the possible danger had evidently occurred to the colonel as well.

  “It would be as well,” he said, “if you had one of our men within call. I don’t take it seriously, of course, there’s no real danger, but all the same, precautions mean safety. The murderer may think you know him.”

  “But if he does,” protested Mr. Longden, “and if there’s a policeman about, that might keep him away.”

  “Well, yes, that’s why,” the colonel explained, not quite understanding, or, rather, thinking that the vicar did not quite understand.

  “You see,” explained Mr. Longden in his turn, “if he thinks I know who he is he may come to me for help and advice and I may be able to bring the unfortunate man to a better frame of mind. He might be brought to realize his terrible sin and to show his repentance by confession.”

  The colonel blinked. The idea was not one that had occurred either to him or to Bobby. Nor, in spite of the glowing enthusiasm in Mr. Longden’s voice, did they think such a result very probable. What struck them both much more forcibly was the danger that the unknown murderer might try to remove a possible witness. But this, when it was hinted at, Mr. Longden waved aside. In his opinion, no man, laden with the guilt of one murder, could conceivably wish to add that of another to the burden of remorse he must of necessity know himself to be condemned to bear.

  “There is no risk of that,” he declared with emphasis. “Quite out of the question. And if any
such danger did exist, it would be quite unimportant against the smallest chance that this most unhappy man may come to me for help.”

  None the less, when Mr. Longden had departed, Bobby, with the colonel’s consent, took such steps as were possible to ensure that an unobtrusive watch was kept on the vicarage. They were both inclined to take the danger seriously, and then Arthur Hoyle, whom it had been decided it would be best to interview next, made his appearance.

  “I was hoping,” he said ungraciously, as he came in, “that I could get away long before this. I am a business man with a good many things needing my attention; and dreadful and shocking as all this is, and though I don’t want to seem callous, still a good many people are going to suffer if my work is held up indefinitely.”

  “Oh, not indefinitely,” Bobby protested. “There are just one or two points on which we thought you might like to supplement your statement. You remember I mentioned we found footprints and cigarette ends in the grounds at a spot from which these library windows can be clearly seen. It seems certain someone was there for some time, presumably watching the house. Naturally that interests us as there was a murder committed. We wonder if that watcher was the murderer. We wonder if he saw or heard anything.”

  Bobby paused. Arthur muttered angrily and uneasily:— “Well, how should I know?”

  “The footprints,” Bobby continued, “are too indistinct and confused to be of much value. But they do suggest that the person making them wore a rather unusually large size of shoe. Most likely a number ten. Perhaps a nine and a half. Difficult to be sure. Except that it was an outsize shoe.” He paused and carefully did not look at Arthur Hoyle’s feet, encased in number ten shoes, for Arthur, though not a big man, had both big hands and big feet, a plebeian inheritance from his mother’s side of the family. Involuntarily Arthur made a movement to withdraw his feet under his chair, and then, recognizing the futility of so doing, thrust them ostentatiously forward. He did not speak, and Bobby went on:—“The cigarette ends were a not very common Greek brand—blend of Grecian and Turkish tobacco. ‘Le Proche Orient’ it’s called. We have made a few inquiries, and we understand it is a brand you smoke and that you have some interest in the manufacture, isn’t it?”

  “Not in the manufacture,” Arthur answered. He spoke more quietly now, and seemed to have recovered a self-possession that for the moment had been badly shaken. “I am a director of a small private company, a distributing company, trying to popularize the use of Greek tobacco. The Greeks are our allies, Greek tobacco is first rate, we think it would be good for both countries and for our own pockets as well, if we could create a demand here for Greek tobacco.” He smiled faintly. “Patriotism and profit. Unluckily we haven’t had much success so far. Now look here.” He leaned forward and spoke with emphasis. “It’s plain enough what you’re driving at. I’m not the only person who takes a big shoe. I’m not the only person who smokes those cigarettes. I give them away freely myself, I’ve seen they are on sale in every retailer’s in the district, and the company has offered a bonus for biggest increase in sales. We’re pushing ’em. I do take an outsize in shoes. I do smoke ‘Le Proche Orient’ cigarettes. I wasn’t anywhere near here last night after I left about nine or a quarter past, after dinner. Got that? Now, something else, I understand your insinuations and I resent them. Got that?”

  “I am afraid,” Bobby said gently, “that I might reply that we resent your suggestion that we have insinuated anything. I have made no insinuations. I have made a plain statement and asked a plain question. But it would be a pity, don’t you think? if we just stand about resenting each other. It is our duty, as police, to find who murdered Earl Wych. I am sure you will agree that it is the duty of every citizen to help us, especially your duty, Mr. Hoyle, if I may say so, since his lordship was the head of your family. I suppose you are in the line of inheritance yourself?”

  “What the devil do you mean by that?” demanded Arthur, angry again.

  “Merely what the question means itself,” Bobby answered. “Indeed, it was hardly a question, more a statement of a fact well enough known. Mr. Hoyle, you are helping neither yourself nor us by taking this tone. Now I must ask you another plain question and please don’t ask me what it means, because it means exactly what it says, neither more nor less. You left this house about a quarter past nine. There is, of course, proof that Earl Wych was alive then. He and Mr. Ralph Hoyle were in the library together much later than that. Where did you go when you left here?”

  “Home. But if you want to know I didn’t go straight home. I drove around for a while. I like night driving. I daresay it was midnight when I got home. Make what you like of that.”

  “Could you tell us exactly where you went? Did you stop anywhere, speak to any one?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Arthur said. “Why should I? The pubs shut pretty early, you know. I just had an enjoyable drive in the fresh air, round by Wychwood Forest. I couldn’t say exactly what roads I followed. I didn’t notice. I wasn’t afraid of getting lost. It’s pretty lonely round there. I don’t remember that I saw more than one or two other cars. I didn’t notice them and I don’t suppose they noticed me. I drove pretty fast. I’m not a speed merchant, but I don’t believe in mooching around either. I daresay I had done more than a hundred miles—well, not more, but not far short—when I got home. I’m not the only person taking an outsize in shoes, I’m not the only person smoking those cigarettes, I’m not the only person who was out last night, and I’m going straight from here to have a talk with my lawyers.”

  “Always more satisfactory to have legal advice,” agreed Bobby. “I can assure you we are very well aware of all you’ve been saying. Certainly you are not the only person out late last night. Very odd if you had been. Mr. Longden for instance, was close by somewhere about the time of the murder, as far as we can judge. In fact, it was through him that we came across the footprints and the cigarette ends I told you about.”

  “Longden? the vicar?” repeated Arthur with a start of surprise that made Bobby wonder if it would be fair to call it exaggerated. “If Longden says he saw me there, he lies. That’s all. It’s a dirty lie.”

  “Really, Mr. Hoyle,” Bobby protested, “I said nothing of the kind. Nor did Mr. Longden. I said ‘through him’. What happened is simply that he left his umbrella standing against a tree. Apparently he has a trick of leaving odd possessions about. When the umbrella was noticed, naturally further search was made and the cigarette ends and footprints were found. Mr. Longden had nothing to do with it, but if he hadn’t left his umbrella there, very likely no special search would have been made in that particular spot. That’s all.”

  Arthur was evidently thinking deeply.

  “Look here,” he said. “Have you thought of this? If he left his umbrella leaning against a tree—well, doesn’t that suggest he wasn’t merely on his way home? Looks to me as if he had stopped there for a time. Or why did he put his umbrella down? Thought of that?”

  “Well, yes,” agreed Bobby, “but no one could possibly suspect him, could they? what possible motive...?”

  “He might have been meaning to have it out with the old man, if he had been a bit worried over that girl of his. Anyhow, that’s likely enough, and a lot more sensible than talking about outsizes in shoes and cigarette ends.”

  “You mean Miss Sophy Longden?” Bobby asked. “The young lady who is a kind of nurse-companion- secretary to Lady Wych. Why? do you mean there’s been gossip about her?”

  Arthur shrugged his shoulders.

  “I never paid it any attention,” he said. “The old man used to be a bit of a lad in his time—gay Edwardian, that sort of thing. They went the pace before the last war just as much as they did after it, if all tales are true. Anyhow, he still had an eye for a pretty girl, and Sophy Longden is that all right enough. Plenty of opportunity, too. Naturally, the old boy would be in and out of his wife’s room at all hours. She has had a sort of separate suite since her illness. Miss Longden has the ne
xt room. Not that I ever believed a word of it. My own idea is that that Martin fellow started the talk. Trying to make mischief. Or perhaps just for something to say. A good butler who knows his job may be hard to get and worth keeping when you find him, but I wouldn’t have that fellow in my house at any price. Malice and mischief making, if you ask me. But if Longden heard about it— well, he’s a clergyman with extra strict ideas, and it might explain why he was mooching around and leaving his umbrella about and saying his prayers and all that. And if there was a row, Earl Wych wasn’t the kind of man to stand being talked to. He had a pretty big idea of himself. Natural, I suppose; he was always very much his lordship, the Earl Wych and all the rest of it. Anything might have happened. Mind you, that’s only a possibility. I wouldn’t mention it to any one but you.”

  “I shouldn’t,” said Bobby drily. “But you may be sure it’s a possibility we shan’t forget. Everything has to be considered, no matter how improbable on the face of it, or how apparently insignificant—even cigarette ends, for instance. By the way, you had already heard about Mr. Longden’s umbrella?”

  “Every one has,” Arthur retorted. “Wasn’t it one of the servants who spotted it first?”

  “The under-gardener, I think,” Bobby agreed, aware that the news of the discovery had been widely spread. “You mentioned that Mr. Longden was saying his prayers. I think that was what you said?”

  Arthur’s expression changed suddenly. Till now he had looked confident and self-possessed. He had answered every question readily with no sign of hesitation. But now he did hesitate, a wary look came into his eyes, he almost stammered as he said:—

  “Oh, well, well now, well, he always does, you know. Hang it,”—the words came more fluently now—“if you ask me, he never sets out to catch the ’bus for Midwych without stopping to pray he may be in time. And that probably makes him lose it, ha! ha!”