Dark is the Clue: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Bobby said, half seriously. “I think I would offer propitiatory sacrifices instead—a cup of wine and a garland of flowers.”

  “It might be wiser,” Mr Wynne agreed, and he, too, spoke half seriously. “I wonder where the girl’s got to,” he added. “Sylvia,” he called, “where are you? Sylvia.” When no answer came he went over to a Chinese gong near by and struck it one reverberating blow. “Our private signal,” he explained, “when we want each other.”

  Almost at once the front door burst open and with her light, dancing step, Sylvia came running in.

  “Hullo, Daddy dear,” she called. “Want me?” and then she saw Bobby, flashed one of her smiles at him, and then another, a different smile, not general to all the world, but particular to her father and to him alone.

  Strange it was to see how under the radiance of that lovely smile he seemed to grow, to change, how that grey, withdrawn personality of his dropped from him. It was as though she brought with her a brightness from another world, so that the light within her illumined all around—all but the Atropos still shadowy in her sheltered alcove.

  “I’m taking Mr Owen to have a look at the right of way,” her father said, that new warmth and tenderness still making his voice so different Bobby could hardly believe it was the same man speaking. “We shan’t be long. Could you have some tea ready for us when we get back?”

  “Right-oh,” said Sylvia. “Only mind you aren’t long, because I’m ravenous,” and then she looked to see if either of them were shocked by this announcement.

  “That’s very kind of you,” Bobby said; “but really, I ought not to trouble you.”

  “Sylvia likes trouble,” Mr Wynne said. “Unlike her father, who doesn’t.”

  “Marty’s here,” Sylvia said. “It’s a Tiger Ten he’s bought.” She looked at Bobby. “I like it just as much as the Du Guesclin, even if it isn’t so big. But I don’t think I like things for being big. Besides, it’s miles cheaper. He’s paid every penny, too, because I told him you”—the ‘you’ was to her father—“said it was always a mistake to owe anything to anyone.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Mr Wynne said. “I thought he said he hadn’t enough to pay cash?”

  “Oh, he hadn’t, poor boy,” Sylvia agreed; “but his publisher made it up. Wasn’t it nice of him?”

  “Well, then, he owes it to his publisher, doesn’t he?” Mr Wynne asked.

  “Oh, no,” Sylvia protested; “it’s only what Marty’s going to get for his book when he’s got it done.” It was an explanation, Bobby thought, more satisfactory to the daughter than to the father. But Mr Wynne only smiled at her—not a secret, swift, elusive smile this time, but warm and open. “Do come and look at it,” Sylvia added. “It’s awfully swell.”

  She danced away then, and her father and Bobby followed, Mr Wynne explaining as they went that ‘Marty’ was a Mr Martin Maxton, a young neighbour of theirs, a writer living alone in a small cottage but often away for long periods at a time. It was information given quite casually and naturally, and yet Bobby got the impression that Mr Wynne was not altogether happy about the friendly relationship that evidently existed between the two young people. Natural enough that any father, especially such an adoring father as Wynne appeared to be, should eye somewhat critically any young man coming near his daughter. Natural, too, that Mr Wynne, with his preference for a life of calm routine, placid and unadventurous, should regard with especial doubt young men who were ‘writers’, lived alone in small cottages, and were often absent for long periods. Probably a bank clerk or a civil servant would have found greater favour in his sight.

  Outside were the two cars, the Du Guesclin and the Tiger Ten, ranged behind each other on the gravel drive with Sylvia, in a bustle of admiration, fluttering between them. Watching her adoringly was a tall young man, presumably the Martin Maxton Mr Wynne had spoken of.

  Hearing the two older men approaching, he turned towards them as if in greeting, and then stood very still. He was a tall, dark youth, good looking, with strong, well-marked features and dark, deep-sunken eyes. Nothing did he show of that happy, gay acceptance of life in which Sylvia moved as in a bright cloud of joy. It was almost as though, young as he was, he had known the depths, and it was with something of a shock that Bobby realized that Martin knew him and that that was why he had so suddenly stiffened and stood still, and why now there was distrust and even fear showing so clearly in those deep, sunken, troubled eyes of his—the eyes of one who did not sleep well. It came to Bobby that he himself had either seen the young man before or else someone strangely like him.

  There were, of course, Bobby was well aware, many who knew him but whom he himself had either never seen at all or else had had of them only a mere passing glimpse. Few officers of police, indeed, remain for long unknown to criminals and undesirables generally, and Bobby was probably as well known as any. A drawback, of course, but inevitable; and inevitable, too, that many of those who thus knew him should have reason to regard him with distrust and fear.

  All this passed through Bobby’s mind in a flash, and only later on was recalled to be given more careful and prolonged consideration. At the moment the customary ritual of introduction was being gone through, and Bobby and Martin were trying to express a pleasure at making each other’s acquaintance that neither of them felt. Sylvia was busily inspecting and admiring the two cars and occasionally calling attention to this or that point about one or other of them. Mr Wynne was apparently fully engaged listening and answering her very knowledgeable comments, but also, at the same time, as Bobby suddenly realized, watching both him and Martin Maxton with a silent, close attention. Evidently he had not failed to notice the sudden moment of strain and tension when the casual glance which Bobby and Martin had at first bestowed upon each other had become so abruptly charged with a deeper significance. But now again Sylvia’s clear young voice intervened, for she at least was plainly quite unaware of anything unusual or unexpected.

  “I like the Tiger Ten ever so much better,” she announced. “I think it’s just perfect.” Then she added, as if afraid she might have hurt Bobby’s feelings by so pronounced a judgment in favour of another car: “Of course, the Du Guesclin’s lovely, too.”

  “So long as a car takes me where I want to go, that’s all I ask,” Mr Wynne remarked, “but Sylvia’s an expert—nothing she likes better than taking bits of a car to pieces and then putting them together again. It looks as if there will have to be a visit to the Motor Show next month if the bank balance seems like running to a new car.”

  “Oh, Daddy, you are scrumptious,” Sylvia cried.

  “Sounds as if I were a toasted tea-cake,” Mr Wynne chuckled, and to Bobby he said: “Shall we push on?”

  “Has Sir Charles been worrying about that old right of way again?” Sylvia asked. “You know, Daddy, I don’t think he’s really been awfully nice about it,” and it seemed as if, to her, not ‘being awfully nice’ was something that almost passed human comprehension.

  “He would be even less awfully nice if he got half a chance,” retorted Mr Wynne, and then, as he and Bobby walked away, and as soon as they were safely out of earshot, he remarked half to himself apparently and half to Bobby: “I’m a little worried about that young man. He always gives me a feeling that there’s something in his past—something he doesn’t want known. It’s his eyes, I think. I’ve seen men with eyes like that before. Fanciful, no doubt. Do publishers generally provide authors with cars?”

  “It seems very generous of them if they do,” Bobby answered cautiously. “Does Mr Maxton write under his own name?”

  “I don’t really know,” Wynne answered. “Last week Sylvia showed me something in the Open Air Weekly, I think it was. She said it was his and he did it every week. It was signed ‘Max o’ the Fields’. And I rather think she said he had to do with guide-books, but that’s hardly being an author, is it?”

  Bobby did not attempt to answer this searching question. Mr W
ynne lapsed into silence; and it was very noticeable how, as they moved further away from that circle of light and joy Sylvia’s own innate happiness seemed to spread around her like an aura, so her father seemed to grow less, to contract as before he had expanded, to sink again into that grey withdrawal which had been so apparent when Bobby first saw him.

  The path they were following led directly to a door in the garden wall, topped by barbed wire with specially long, ugly-looking spikes. The wall itself was about six or eight feet in height, and along its foot ran a hedge of loganberry bushes. Wild, untrimmed, even overgrown they looked: a contrast to the trim tidiness of the rest of the garden. Wynne saw Bobby looking at them, and laughed softly—the first time Bobby had heard him laugh. He said:

  “My first line of defence against the village boys, who seemed to think I grow fruit for their special benefit. Very effective, too. They climbed the wall with no trouble at all, but I’ve not been bothered so much since one of them tumbled over it right into a specially deep tangle of those bushes. Scratched himself more than badly getting himself free,” and he laughed again, the same soft laugh, as if he found this tale very amusing. Then, as he took some keys from his pocket and began to look for the right one, he repeated: “No, I’m not altogether happy about him. Very pleasant to talk to, but I do have that feeling that he has a past, and not an altogether agreeable one. Not that I take any notice of the gossip about him. I’ve no doubt there’s gossip about every one in the village as well. Including me, very likely. I know there is about Stuart. But when it comes to talk of blackmail, it seems a bit more serious. Actionable.”

  “A criminal matter,” Bobby corrected him, a little startled by the use of a word of such ominous content. “Is it thought that Maxton is blackmailing someone?”

  “No, no,” Wynne answered quickly. “The idea seems to be that he is the victim—at least that’s what I gather. There’s nothing said in so many words, of course—it’s all nods and winks and so forth.” He had found the right key now and was opening the door. Bobby noticed that it was a mortice lock and that it had recently been oiled. “It’s not much used,” Wynne went on to explain, “but I always keep it locked. I’ve had an electric bell fixed. It rings in the kitchen. So far as I can make out the whole of the blackmail story depends on the fact that once a month or so a woman calls on him and apparently he gives her fairly large sums of money. At any rate on one occasion she lost her handbag after a bicycle accident. She was knocked down, and afterwards her handbag was found in a ditch. There was a hundred pounds in pound notes in it. Rather a large sum for an impecunious young man to hand over. Very likely there’s some quite simple explanation.”

  “Can you give me any description of her?”

  “Well, I’ve seen her once or twice near Maxton’s cottage—if it’s the same woman, that is. Tall and stout, middle-aged, I should say, but trying hard to look younger. Rather a furtive look about her, as if she didn’t much want to be seen. Hair dyed, I thought. I remember especially her nose: it was very prominent.”

  “That’s a very good description,” Bobby said. “Much better than those we generally get.”

  “I suppose it was the stories about her made me notice her,” Wynne said carelessly.

  CHAPTER IV

  TRESPASSING

  ON THEIR WAY through the garden they had been walking in bright, warm sunshine—exceptionally bright and warm for the time of year, and very welcome after recent persistent rain. But now as they passed on into the copse the change was immediate. Here the rays of the already declining sun were entirely cut off by the high wall, and much of the remaining daylight was lost in the thickly growing trees from which the leaves had not yet begun to fall. A dark, chill silence reigned, like that of a neglected cemetery. Even their footsteps on the sodden ground sounded dull and muffled, and here indeed no bird sang—or ever would, Bobby thought. It was an all-pervading damp, one to penetrate even to the bones; and as Wynne carefully locked the door behind them, he said with some appearance of uneasiness:

  “I hope we shan’t run across Stuart on the prowl for trespassers. He often is. My landlord, and unfortunately we are not on good terms—don’t speak to each other, like a couple of school-girls. Awkward, of course, and if he hears you came to me rather than to him, he’ll be definitely hostile. Put a spanner in the works if he can.”

  “I hope it won’t come to that,” Bobby said. “It will have to be dealt with if it does. As I said before, it is necessary to avoid attracting attention, and I did hear there was a lot of coming and going at Sir Charles’s place—Over Abbey, isn’t it?”

  “Coming and going is a nice tactful way of putting it,” Mr Wynne observed. “Not that any one worries—except the Vicar. Nothing to lay hold of, except that Stuart seems to have almost as many nieces—most attractive young ladies, all of them—as a mediaeval pope had nephews. And why shouldn’t he? Some elderly but still skittish visitors as well. Aunts, probably. All Vicar can do is to look worried, and meanwhile Stuart subscribes most liberally to all good causes in the village. Puts me quite in the shade. Not that I mind. Have you any idea why these people should choose this particular spot to hide their loot? I shouldn’t have thought it very suitable. How did they know about it?”

  “Frank Farmer,” Bobby explained, “the gangster I told you we found shot—probably by one of his pals—was born here. His father was a farm worker in the district. He is sure to have known this copse—blackberrying, for one thing—and then it’s easy of access and yet private. As soon as we heard of the rumours going about we got out an Ordnance map, and this struck us all as the obvious place.”

  “Probably Dowie thinks that was the old monk’s idea, too,” remarked Wynne. “Looks as if the copse is going to be busy, and if Stuart doesn’t upset it all I shall be surprised. I don’t want to say anything about people behind their backs, but he really is unreasonable. He threatened me with proceedings over my right of way.”

  “But surely there can be no question of that,” Bobby said, “if the lease says so?”

  “It’s a yearly lease,” Mr Wynne explained, “but renewable at the option of either party. Stuart’s lawyers wrote me that that applied only to the duration of the war. They said their client held letters from old Lady Stuart—his great-aunt, I think, he was her heir, to prove that was her intention, and that as he had to dispose of the property on account of death duties, he would be unable to consent to its renewal. I told them liability for death duties was hardly my concern and I stood by my lease. They wrote again, I took no notice and next thing Sir Charles came to see me. Thought we might come to some friendly arrangement, he said. What he meant was that he thought he might bully me into going. I remember very well now that he started by chatting about the Post Office van robbery you mentioned. The papers were full of it. The oblique approach technique. He soon worked round to asking me to go. I gave him a pretty blunt refusal, and he went off in a huff. And I must say I’ve heard no more about forced sales to meet death duties. He seems to splash his money about—death duties or none—the legendary uncle from America, perhaps. After all, if there really are master minds in the underworld, why not rich forgotten uncles in America? Anyhow, I know that was the village gossip at the time. But what I’m rather afraid of is that if Stuart sees you, especially in my company, he would try to do what he is saying he’ll do to Dowie if he catches him trespassing, looking for hidden treasures or anything else.”

  “Oh, what is it he intends to do? Nothing too drastic, I hope,” Bobby asked, not because he was very greatly interested in Sir Charles Stuart’s possible reactions to trespassing, but because he wanted to keep the conversation going as long as Mr Wynne remained in his present communicative mood.

  “Take him by the scruff of the neck and run him out in double quick time,” answered Mr Wynne; and once more that faint, almost unseen smile of his flickered and was gone, and once more Bobby was slightly annoyed, for it was as though in his secret thoughts Mr Wynne was enjoying a menta
l picture of a high Scotland Yard official getting embroiled in a scuffle with this apparently bellicose neighbour. Working off a grudge against that neighbour, perhaps, or even possibly against the police. As Bobby knew, some motorists have rather biased views about police activity on the roads.

  “Well,” he said mildly, “let’s hope it won’t come to that.”

  “Not when you tell him who you are, it won’t,” Wynne agreed. “But the trouble is that he would at once rush off to Sergeant Jenkins to check up, and on the way tell everybody he saw all about it. Any accomplice of this man you mentioned, watching to see if the coast were clear, would soon know it wasn’t.”

  They had come now to the end of the right of way where it joined up with the public footpath running between the copse and the fields beyond. Mr Wynne began to explain how the spot where they now were stood in relation to the village, the church, the more distant railway station, and to Over Abbey, the residence of Sir Charles Stuart. Bobby listened carefully. Topography was always important. Turning one way instead of another might easily ruin a whole careful plan. But all the same with a part of his mind he was considering the problem presented by this apparently truculent, talkative Sir Charles. None knew better than Bobby the mischief a clacking tongue can work. He said with a gesture down the public path, as if directing his companion’s attention there, but really to prevent his turning round too abruptly:

  “Do you think it might be Sir Charles watching us? I had the impression once or twice that we were being followed. I might be wrong.”

  “I don’t think so,” Wynne answered. “I rather had the same idea myself. It would be just like Stuart, ready to jump out on us if we moved an inch from the right of way.”

  “If it is him, it won’t matter so much,” Bobby said. “I can deal with that. I could make him understand there would be unpleasant consequences if he really interfered. But it may be Rogers or some pal of his on the look-out. If it is, we may as well call the whole business off.”