“If you’re an earl and such like, you don’t have to. There’s ways. What’s the good of being a lord if there isn’t? I’m not yellow,” he asserted, “but I don’t believe in war. What’s the sense of sitting about in a trench being shot at and nothing to eat either?” He added darkly:— “If you’re so mighty keen, why don’t you go yourself?”
“Reserved occupation,” explained Bobby carelessly; “police, I mean. But not the peerage.”
“Think you’re O.K. then, don’t you?” Bertram snarled, and Bobby smiled, as if he thought so, too, though indeed his resignation from the police had already been handed in and instantly rejected. Nor were his efforts at using influence to get permission to enlist meeting with much better success. For indeed this was at a time when the gate admitting to the army was as though guarded by a flaming sword turning all ways at once. Bobby went on:—
“By the way, I’ve just been wondering, it just struck me, talking of the peerage, I suppose. Can you tell me why it is always Earl Wych? I thought you were always Earl of Something—of Derby or Oxford or wherever it is.”
“Saying it short, I suppose,” Bertram answered. “I don’t know. I never thought. Why?” he asked suspiciously.
“Oh, I just wondered,” Bobby answered, and Bertram looked still more suspicious, as if scenting a trap but yet unable to imagine what it could be. “Of course, there isn’t any place called Wych, is there? There’s Midwych and Wychwood and so on, but not plain Wych. Not that it matters. One thing more. You are clear that Miss Anne Hoyle was not in her room about half-past eleven last night?”
“That’s right.”
“You are certain of that because you saw the door open and you looked into the room and you saw it was empty?”
“That’s right.”
“You say, too, in your statement that you and Miss Hoyle went up to bed about eleven. You went to your respective rooms. You went to bed at once. You slept all night. You heard no sound.”
“That’s right.”
“You see,” explained Bobby, “I don’t quite understand how in that case you could be near Miss Hoyle’s room at half-past eleven, see her door was open, look inside, and so on. I think her room is some distance from yours, in a different corridor in fact. It looks as if you did leave your room, doesn’t it?”
Bertram looked very taken aback.
“I... I...” he stammered, then recovered himself. “Oh, I was just going to the bathroom,” he said jauntily. “That’s all. I forgot that, didn’t think it worth mentioning, anyhow.”
“I see,” mused Bobby. “But that means you went rather a long way out of your way, doesn’t it? There are three bathrooms on the first floor apparently. One near your room. One farther away. Only the third, which is the farthest away of all three, would take you near Miss Hoyle’s room.”
“Well, that’s the one I went to, that’s all.”
“Can you tell us what reason you had for going to the bathroom farthest away?”
“There was someone in the other—door locked,” Bertram explained.
“We must find out who that was,” Bobby mused.
“Well, perhaps there wasn’t any one, perhaps the door stuck,” Bertram suggested. “It often does. See here. Are you trying to fix anything on me? or make out there was anything between Anne and me?”
“Why, no,” Bobby answered. “How could there be if she wasn’t there? Now, about that automatic. Miss Hoyle showed it you. Why was that? Any special reason?”
“No, of course not, why should there be, just showing it, that’s all,” Bertram declared, but not too confidently. “She can go to blazes any time she likes and take her automatic with her. Not my style. You won’t go and tell her I said so?” he added, again with that touch of uneasiness in his manner.
He was once more assured that everything he said would be regarded as strictly confidential unless and until required for use as evidence. Nor, once again, did he seem too satisfied with the assurance. He explained once or twice that he thought Anne Hoyle a mighty fine girl.
“Though bossy,” he added. “Knows she would be just It if she wasn’t a girl, and means to be all the same.”
“But that is impossible,” Bobby pointed out. “There is no provision for female inheritance. The title would become extinct, I understand, and the estates go to very distant cousins in America.”
“There’s ways,” Bertram answered, and looked sulky again. “There’s ways. She’s got her own idea.”
Bobby tried to persuade him to be a little more explicit, but he only shook his head and grumbled again something about ‘bossiness’ and ‘wanting to be It’. He complained, too, of having been led on to talk without Clinton Wells being present, and that it hadn’t been fair, and therewith took himself off. Colonel Glynne hardly waited for the door to close behind him before exploding wrathfully.
“The fellow’s a coward; a rank, shivering, shaking coward,” he thundered. “Got cold feet at the mere idea of active service. You brought that out very well, Owen, but I ought to have stopped you, because, of course, it has nothing to do with the case.”
“It might have, sir,” Bobby suggested.
“You mean he can’t be the murderer because he hasn’t the guts?” asked the colonel. “Well, I don’t know. Doesn’t take much courage to shoot an unsuspecting old man, and murder is a cowardly game.” He paused and looked puzzled. “Do you think he can be our man?” he asked. “What could be his motive? His grandfather accepted him, recognized him. So did the countess.”
“It might be to make sure recognition wasn’t withdrawn,” Bobby suggested thoughtfully.
The colonel gave a little gasp, stared, rubbed his head. It was a new idea to him, for he had supposed the recognition given to Bertram to be necessarily final.
“Oh, well,” he said, and repeated, “Oh, well.” Then he said:— “That would be a first-class motive, of course, but there is nothing to show it was likely, is there?”
“No, sir,” Bobby agreed. “Except that all this has happened since Bertram’s return, and it seems to me certain that there is something very queer about the whole business. Recognition by the old people seems conclusive, but Ralph Hoyle doesn’t accept it.”
“Oh, well,” interrupted the colonel, “that’s natural. Natural form his disappointment would take. Ralph’s a fighter. He won’t give up easily.”
“I don’t understand,” Bobby went on, “the man’s own attitude. He is very uneasy and disturbed. Is that because he is guilty? But a man who could carry out such a crime as the murder of Earl Wych you would expect to have better control of his nerves.”
“He is scared of Miss Anne, for one thing,” observed Colonel Glynne with a faint smile. “She’s certainly a young woman who knows her own mind. I’m not surprised he thinks her bossy. But then she is engaged to Ralph. I suppose if this fellow is really an impostor he may be afraid she’ll dig out the truth!”
“I didn’t think it was that was worrying him,” Bobby answered. “He gave me the idea of not being too sure of himself, and not very happy at the idea of facing the responsibilities of being the new Earl Wych. It involves a good deal. One would almost think he doesn’t like the idea of being so much in the limelight.”
“That would mean an impostor who is afraid of his own success,” the colonel pointed out.
“Yes, sir. I know it sounds rather absurd put like that,” agreed Bobby. “Why start a swindle if you are afraid of going through with it? It might be he didn’t realise before what a prominent position an Earl Wych is expected to take in affairs. Possibly he thought it was just a question of getting hold of a big bank balance and drawing cheques. And now he finds there is more to being Earl Wych than that.”
“Good God, so I should think,” the colonel exploded. “But that’s all speculation. We haven’t got to decide anything of that sort. Our job is to see that the murderer is brought to justice. Don’t you think our questioning was rather straying from the point?”
“Well, sir, I was trying to get the background,” Bobby answered meekly. “Backgrounds are important. Like the screen at cricket. You can’t judge the ball unless you can see the bowler’s arm.”
“Don’t admit that,” grunted the colonel. “It’s not the bowler’s arm, it’s the last lap home of the ball you want to watch. You brought out one thing of importance. Apparently both Miss Hoyle and this fellow—Earl Wych now, if he is Earl Wych—were out of their rooms at the relevant times. Where was Miss Hoyle? Why? Now you come to think of it, he came pretty near to accusing her, didn’t he?”
“He could hardly have made it much plainer,” agreed Bobby drily.
“It seemed so absurd, I hardly took it in,” the colonel admitted. “A mass of contradictions,” he complained impatiently. “No one behaving sensibly or consistently. Why was he hanging round her room? There can’t be anything between them, can there? I can’t believe that possible. She’s engaged to Ralph, has been since they were kiddies. It all seems such a muddle. What is Anne doing with a pistol? If it’s true she had one. If she had, can it be the one that seems to be missing from the case in the table drawer here?”
“There are two pistols we’ve heard of, we must trace,” Bobby said. “Earl Wych’s pistol, which is missing. And the Wych estate pistol, which, according to Ralph Hoyle, is locked up in the estate office safe. Even if it is there now, that doesn’t prove it wasn’t used last night. When we do know which weapon was used, we shall be a good deal further forward.”
“We had better have in Anne Hoyle next,” the colonel said, but not as if he looked forward to the interview with any very great pleasure. “A formidable young woman,” he said. “I’m a bit scared of her myself, but not like this Bertram fellow. I can’t quite see why he should go all shivery when he mentions her.”
“He thinks,” said Bobby with a grim smile, “that she means to marry him.”
CHAPTER XII
ANNE
Before Colonel Glynne could make any comment on this remark, which had surprised him greatly and of which he strongly disapproved, the door opened and Anne came in. She gave them a quick glance, sat down, and said briskly:—
“I may as well tell you at once that if you think you are going to treat me like poor little Sophy, you’re very much mistaken.”
“I am not aware—” began the colonel stiffly, but Anne cut him short.
“It won’t be the very least bit of good trying to bully me,” she announced.
“We have not the least intention—” the colonel tried again, and still more stiffly, and again Anne cut him short.
“The poor kid’s so scared,” she said, “she can’t get a word out. Just sits and soaks into her handkerchief.”
“If you are suggesting—”
“I’m not like that,” Anne told him. “You won’t reduce me to a state of speechless tears.”
“Madam—” began the colonel, and his voice was certainly both loud and stern.
“It’s no good shouting at me,” declared Anne even more sternly if less loudly. “If you can’t behave with ordinary decency, you can’t. But you won’t frighten me by shouting.”
“Miss Hoyle—”
“One thing,” Anne explained carefully, “to bully a poor little bit of a thing like Sophy who wouldn’t dare say ‘Boo’ to a goose. I think you’ll find I’m different.”
“Will you be so good as to allow me to say one word?” asked the colonel pronouncing each separate syllable with an almost awful restraint.
“You may say as many as you like,” answered Anne. “That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it? just to listen to what you want to say.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said the colonel with an emphasis Anne failed to notice.
“I’m only telling you it’s no good trying to bully me,” she explained once more. “I’m not Sophy, poor little wretch. Grandmother’s very annoyed. She may snap Sophy’s head off herself, but she doesn’t like other people doing it. Her privilege. She’s talking about going to see the Home Secretary.”
Colonel Glynne snorted. Home Secretaries may be Home Secretaries but Chief Constables are Chief Constables, and fully prepared to talk with Home Secretaries in the gate or elsewhere at any moment required. Anne, who knew little of the powers and the status and the dignity of the chief constable, who indeed has no superior save God and the king, went on in a milder tone:—
“I only wanted to let you know I’m not Sophy. I expect she was easy. I’m not. I’m waiting,” she added, adopting a listening attitude with her hands clasped before her and her head inclined to one side, as though tendering an attentive ear. “And, oh, would you mind being as quick as you can, please. I’ve no doubt you have lots of time, but there are a great many things to be seen to. Grandmother is hardly fit to attend to them, and I have to do my best by myself. There’s no one else. Even Sophy’s too upset to be much good.”
“Please try to understand,” said the colonel, now very red in the face, for that hint of an appeal to the Home Secretary had touched him to the quick—Home Secretaries, indeed! “Please understand that we don’t bully any one, and certainly not Miss Longden. She saw fit to refuse to answer my questions—”
“I know,” Anne interrupted again. “That’s what I was saying. You’ve got the poor kid into such a state that she can’t get a word out. She just sits there and uses up a week’s supply of handkerchiefs every two minutes. I expect you think that a great triumph.”
“We don’t,” roared the colonel.
“Well, then, why did you?” demanded Anne.
“We didn’t,” protested the colonel, though by no means sure what it was he hadn’t.
Anne raised her eyebrows delicately.
“Indeed,” she said, and oh, how insultingly she managed to utter that simple word. “Indeed. Well, both grandmother and I have seen her, you know. We are both inclined to believe our own eyes.”
“I am only trying to explain—”
“Exactly, and I am trying to explain that I do not find your explanations convincing. If that is all you have to say to me, perhaps I may as well go and get on with things. There is a great deal to attend to.”
So far Anne had conducted the conversation brilliantly. She had reduced the colonel to a state of incoherent rage, all the more incoherent for being also suppressed. But this last remark of Anne’s was a mistake. As so many do in great things and in small, when they feel they are being successful, she overplayed her hand. True, the colonel was almost on the point of letting her go, but the attempt to evade further questioning was just a little too obvious, and now Bobby interposed.
“Possibly,” he said, “as Miss Hoyle seems to wish to make such a point of believing that you, sir, are responsible for Miss Longden’s tears, which I expect have a different cause, you would allow me to ask a few questions. Miss Hoyle will, I am sure, not think it necessary to warn me so continuously that I need not try to bully her.”
Anne turned to look at Bobby, whom hitherto she had been inclined to regard as just another and quite uninteresting piece of furniture. Her expression became wary.
She did not quite know what to make of the stolid, matter-of-fact way in which he was regarding her. A very ordinary young man to all appearance, she thought, and yet somehow with an odd suggestion that there was something extraordinary in his very ordinariness. Was it that he possessed ordinary qualities to an extraordinary degree?
“Never been so bullied in all my life if it comes to that,” Colonel Glynne was muttering under his breath, and then added aloud to Bobby: “All right. Carry on.”
“Suppose,” Bobby suggested to Anne, “that we forget about Miss Longden. Any complaint she may wish to make will of course receive careful attention. Any explanation she may require will be most readily furnished. But that is not the question for the moment.”
“I was only warning you that you couldn’t bully me,” Anne repeated.
“I am sure of it,” Bobby answered.
They looked
at each other for a moment in silence, two adversaries measuring each the other’s strength. Bobby noted the closely-set mouth, the firm chin, the hard and resolute eyes, the general expression of a determined will that seemed to show so clearly in feature and expression. On Anne’s side she noticed how steadily and how searchingly those clear eyes of his rested on hers. Penetrating eyes, that looked as though they could smile very readily, but now had in them no hint of a smile, showing only indeed a stern and settled resolution nothing would ever shake or change. Bobby went on slowly:—
“So we will consider ourselves warned, shall we? Now, we have been looking again at the statement you made earlier to-day and you mention that you went to your room about eleven o’clock last night and that you did not leave it again till this morning.”
“Well?”
“We have now received,” Bobby explained, “another statement according to which the door of your room was open about half-past eleven and the room itself was seen to be unoccupied.”
“Well, it wasn’t.”
“Apparently a witness is prepared to swear it was. You realize, of course, that such a conflict of evidence bothers us a lot, and we have to consider it. Especially as the murder almost certainly took place about then.”
“I suppose it’s Bertram told you that, isn’t it?” Anne remarked.
“Why should you think so?”
“Because he was sneaking round. I saw him. I don’t think any one else was.”
“If you saw him and he says you weren’t in your room...?”
“Where was I? Well, if you want to know—behind the window curtains.”
“A little unusual,” murmured Bobby, while the colonel was beginning to look very worried, for murders were within his experience, but young ladies hiding behind bedroom curtains were altogether outside it. A murder, he felt, might happen anywhere, but young ladies behind curtains, and open bedroom doors were not to be expected in houses of the standing of Castle Wych.
He definitely disapproved.
Ten Star Clues Page 14
