Dark is the Clue: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  Bobby didn’t ask him, but as by now they had reached the door in the wall round the Old Dower House grounds, he rang the electric bell Mr Wynne had pointed out. Fortunately it was in working order, as electric bells are not invariably, and that, Bobby thought, was in a way a tribute to the quiet efficiency with which he was beginning to associate Mr Wynne.

  Sir Charles looked very much as if he strongly disapproved of this prompt call to the Old Dower House. Probably he would have made some sort of protest if he had been a little more sure of his ground. But Bobby, though he had listened with all due attention, had not been very encouraging, and Sir Charles contented himself with muttering something to the general effect that he supposed he had better get back and see what was going on, and if that ass of an Inspector had any more tomfool questions to ask.

  With that he departed, and the close-growing trees and brushwood had hardly hidden him from sight before the garden door was opened by a rather frightened-looking, very subdued Sylvia.

  “Isn’t it dreadful?” she said. “Daddy’s most awfully upset; he looks ever so ill. I wanted to send for the doctor but he wouldn’t let me. Is she—is she really dead?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Bobby answered.

  “But how could she? I mean in there where no one ever goes.. . . I mean like that, all by herself. Is it someone in the village?”

  CHAPTER VI

  QUESTIONS

  BOBBY DID NOT attempt to answer these questions. Evidently the girl could hardly bring herself to believe that what she was told had happened could possibly be true. She began to lock the door again as soon as Bobby had entered, but he stopped her, saying:

  “If you don’t mind, I think it would be better if it could be left open for the time. Police officers are in charge, and they will want to see your father. He and I were near by when Sir Charles made his discovery.”

  “I’m so glad it wasn’t Daddy,” she said. “It would have been more awful still if it had been. I shall never, never dare go out that way again. I never did if I could help—it’s so dark and damp and horrid.”

  They walked on to the house in silence, Sylvia trying her hardest to realize that what had happened had happened in stark, grim, actual fact; Bobby trying, and failing, to puzzle out any clear proof of connection between this unknown woman’s death and the story of the stolen bank-notes still hidden somewhere in Twice Over. Through the open french windows Sylvia led the way into the room Bobby had been in before. Mr Wynne was sitting there, leaning back in one of the arm-chairs, looking pale and exhausted, as if still suffering from the shock of the discovery. Whisky and a syphon of soda-water and an empty glass stood on his desk. He looked up as Bobby and Sylvia entered. He said:

  “I rang the police. Have they turned up? and a doctor? Have they found out who she is?”

  “I left an Inspector of the County police in charge,” Bobby explained. “It’s for them to deal with, of course.”

  “I hope they will be able to deal with it adequately,” Mr Wynne said. “I don’t suppose they have much experience in this sort of thing. It was a dreadful shock. I’ve never had one like it. I saw plenty of dead men when I was serving in the army; but that was war—that was different. This is so—so personal. Happening on your doorstep almost. It’ll be mixed up somehow with what you were telling me about?”

  “I imagine so,” Bobby agreed. “We must wait till we know more. At present I don’t see how.”

  “No, no,” Mr Wynne said. “If you are trying to recover stolen property buried somewhere, the last thing you would want would be to leave dead bodies lying about. Sylvia, get another glass, will you? I expect Mr Owen would like a drop of whisky. I know I felt I needed it,” and he looked at the whisky bottle as if he were beginning to feel he would like another drink.

  “Thank you very much,” Bobby said. “I never take spirits during the day and never when on duty.”

  “Tea’s ready,” Sylvia said. “Shall I bring it in? I was just making it when you called.”

  She hurried away without waiting for an answer. As soon as the door had closed behind her, Bobby said:

  “I think perhaps you ought to know, Mr Wynne, that Sir Charles Stuart told me that he was convinced you knew the dead body was there and that you were trying to make sure he was the one to find it.”

  “The devil he did,” Wynne exclaimed angrily, sitting upright in his chair. “I’ll have him in court for libel. There are limits. We don’t like each other. Agreed. On bad terms. I don’t care about that. And very likely he does feel he has a grievance over that lease of mine. Well, I say a bargain’s a bargain, and I stick to mine, whether it turns out good or bad. All the same, I’ll see my solicitors at once. What on earth does he think I should do that for? Does he want to make out I murdered the poor creature?”

  “Oh, no,” Bobby said. “No suggestion of that sort. I think what he meant was that you wanted to avoid all the questioning and so on, and having to give evidence—all that sort of thing.”

  “Oh, well,” Wynne said, slightly mollified, apparently, “I daresay that’s true enough as far as it goes. I lead a very quiet, retired life. It suits me. I’m quite content to potter about the house and garden, take a share in our village activities, and have a drink and a chat at the local sometimes. And there’s always Sylvia.” He paused, and again there showed that tender, smiling expression which so transformed him. “When she marries—not just yet, I hope—it may be different. I don’t know. But how on earth does the man suppose I could tell he would be there, or that you would call, or that we should be taking a stroll together this afternoon through the copse? If he doesn’t look out he’ll be hearing from my solicitor.”

  “He may not repeat the suggestion to anyone else,” Bobby remarked; “and of course, as made to me, it is privileged.”

  “Privileged?” Mr Wynne repeated, growing angry again. “Why? A thing like that?”

  “A statement made to an officer of police with the presumed intention of helping the course of justice,” Bobby explained; and Wynne said “Fiddlesticks,” more angrily still.

  Bobby made no reply. Mr Wynne sat and frowned, and his frown was not a pleasant one. It suggested a side to his character that had not as yet appeared—had had no reason to, for that matter. Bobby began to feel that Sir Charles was making an enemy of whom he would have reason to beware. Sylvia came back into the room, and with her entry Wynne’s frown vanished. His eyes, that for the moment had seemed so cold and hard, grew tender again, and Bobby felt that any risk of incurring Sylvia’s disapproval was not one her father would lightly run. She was carrying a tray with the tea, cake and a plate of thin bread and butter. She said:

  “I did some scones this morning. I’ll go and get them. They turned out rather well,” and with that she put down her tray and disappeared, leaving Bobby wondering idly why, if that were so and the scones a success, he had seemed to detect a slight touch of disappointment in her tone.

  “A wonderful little cook,” Mr Wynne said, and as she went his gaze followed her with a deep, admiring affection. “Her mother over again,” he said. “Bosses me, too, just like her mother. It was to please her I retired, but Sylvia does let me do a little on the side,” and he smiled again—no hidden smile this time: one of open pride and affection. “Practically runs the house single-handed, except for Mrs Griggs, who is more bother than she’s worth.”

  Sylvia, bearing her scones with her, had just returned, just in time to hear this last remark.

  “Oh, no, Daddy,” she protested. “She’s very good indeed and a great help. I couldn’t ever do without her. Daddy and she,” she explained to Bobby, “have never forgiven each other since he complained she spilt coal all over the place when she brought it up from the cellar, so now he always does it himself, and she’s not allowed in—in the coal cellar, I mean.”

  “Well, I don’t spill it, anyhow,” Wynne declared. Then he said in a surprised tone: “What’s become of young Maxton? I thought you said he was staying to
tea?”

  “He’s gone,” Sylvia said. “He left a note to say he was sorry, but he had to,” and Bobby was sure now that she was trying to make her voice sound as casual and her manner as indifferent as possible.

  “What was that for?” Wynne asked; and he both sounded and looked much less disappointed than did his daughter. “The scones were to have been a special treat,” he explained to Bobby. “We can’t afford the cream and butter too often. Scrumptious when we get them, though,” he added, smiling at Sylvia.

  Sylvia returned the smile, though not with one of such radiance as some of those Bobby had seen her give before. He remembered the earlier use of the word ‘scrumptious’, and guessed this was a kind of private father-daughter joke. He asked:

  “Did Mr Maxton know what had happened?”

  “Oh, it couldn’t be that,” Sylvia exclaimed, looking startled. “Why should it?”

  “He might have heard me ’phoning,” Wynne said. “I don’t know. I used the one in the hall, not the extension here. I didn’t notice him. I was rather too excited, though, to notice much. He might have been there. Perhaps he thought with a thing like this happening we would want to be alone.”

  At this suggestion, Sylvia cheered up a little, though still not yet the radiant personality she had seemed previously. Bobby himself made no comment, but remembered afresh how closely the body found in the copse answered to the description given by Mr Wynne of the woman he had seen near, or leaving Maxton’s cottage. Whether Wynne also had noticed this resemblance Bobby could not tell, but if so he had been careful not to draw attention to it. It was Sylvia who spoke first, saying:

  “I don’t think he need have rushed off like that, and next time I shan’t make any scones for him,” and she looked very severe and determined indeed.

  “Well, anyhow, try one of them,” Wynne urged Bobby, and Bobby, who had been eyeing the plate of thin bread and butter with some concern, doubtful if all of it provided more than one reasonable mouthful, accepted the suggestion and the offered scone, and found it merited all and more Mr Wynne had said—scrumptious indeed.

  “Our own milk, cream, butter, eggs,” Mr Wynne explained. “I rent a field from a farmer near by, and he looks after my two cows, so we aren’t so badly off in that way, even if Sylvia does give half of it away.”

  “You can’t help, can you?” Sylvia protested, “when you have lots and other people haven’t. Daddy likes me to, really,” she explained to Bobby, “only he pretends he doesn’t.”

  Bobby said the scones were delicious, that Miss Sylvia certainly made good use of what she didn’t give away, and that young Mr Maxton had missed something by his hasty departure—and privately he wondered if the scones were all that he had missed. Or avoided?

  After that the conversation languished. Neither father nor daughter seemed in a mood for much more tea-table chatter. Not surprising, Bobby supposed, though he did wonder a little at Sylvia’s unusual silence, for hitherto it had seemed no thought entered her mind that did not forthwith bubble out again in words. Possibly her silence was a result not only of the happening in the copse but also of young Maxton’s hurried and unexplained departure. Mr Wynne was silent, too. Perhaps he was asking himself how much of the publicity threatened he could manage to avoid—an attitude as rare as admirable, Bobby told himself. Mr Wynne said:

  “They must be finishing out there. That was the garden bell, and there’s a policeman standing at the door.”

  “Inspector George,” Bobby said. “The man I left in charge.”

  “I’ll get another cup,” Sylvia said. “I expect he would like some tea. You can give it him, Daddy. He’ll want to talk,” and she hurried away.

  “I’ll bring him in here,” Wynne said. He got to his feet and then paused and said: “Sylvia told me she saw a light in the copse about eleven the night before last. I don’t know if that can have anything to do with it. People do come prowling round there after dark, though eleven is a bit late. Lovers,” he explained, and went on: “And last night I heard what I thought at the time was a cry—somewhere about eleven, too. I was reading in bed—a bad habit of mine. I got up to look. But it all seemed quiet and I went back to bed. Sylvia woke, too; but that may have been my opening my window.”

  He went out then through the french windows. The Inspector was coming up the path now. Bobby waited. Sylvia came back into the room with the cup and plate she had been to fetch. Bobby said to her:

  “Mr Wynne tells me you heard something that woke you last night. Do you know what time it was?”

  “It must have been soon after eleven,” Sylvia said, “soon after I got into bed. I don’t think I was properly asleep. Daddy says he thinks most likely it was him opening his window. Noises at night always make me afraid it’s burglars, but there was a light in Daddy’s room, so I went to sleep again.”

  She put down plate and cup and went away again as Wynne came back with Inspector George. Wynne said:

  “Mr Dowie has taken himself off without saying anything, and the Inspector has found a spade in the copse with Dowie’s finger-prints on it.”

  “Checked,” the Inspector said, “with same as left in room occupied at the Over All Arms.”

  “When did he leave?” Bobby asked.

  “Last evening,” the Inspector replied, consulting his notebook. “Eight, nine, ten, as reported various by Over All Arms staff. Took with him what he calls his treasure detector, as always done by him. Later, exact time or interval uncertain, reported various as before and unreliable, rang up to say he had been unexpectedly called away.”

  “Like young Maxton,” remarked Wynne.

  “Eh?” said the Inspector. “What’s that?”

  “Never mind just now,” Bobby said. “Go on, please, Inspector. What about his luggage? If he had any. And his bill? He gave no other explanation?”

  “None as reported,” the Inspector replied, with one cautious eye still on his note-book. “Requested his things—nothing much except pyjamas, toilet material, so on—should be kept till called for, asked the amount of his bill, and promised to forward remittance immediately. Same not yet received. The girl who took the call said his voice sounded funny.”

  “As if someone were personating him?” Wynne suggested. “Sounds very funny indeed. And Stuart saying I knew where the body lay. He told Mr Owen that, Inspector. Did he say same thing to you?”

  “I don’t think I follow,” the Inspector said, looking rather bewildered. “What for should he say a thing like that? And Mr Maxton?”

  “Mr Maxton had called here,” Wynne said. “Not the first time. Bought a new car on tick he wanted to show off. He left in what seems to have been a good deal of a hurry. He may have heard me talking to Jenkins on the ’phone, telling him what had happened, and thought he wouldn’t be wanted. That’s all.”

  “Not quite all,” interposed Bobby. “I understand there have been stories in the village about his being blackmailed. Did you know?” When the Inspector shook his head, Bobby continued: “Mr Wynne told me earlier this afternoon that he noticed a woman leaving Maxton’s cottage. There are points on which his description of her tallies with that of the dead woman.”

  “I didn’t say actually leaving Maxton’s cottage, did I?” Wynne protested. “If I did, I must correct it—‘leaving or near’ would be better.”

  “‘Leaving or in vicinity of same’,” suggested the Inspector, fingering his note-book.

  “One moment,” Bobby said. “About this spade—presumably Dowie hadn’t it with him when he arrived? The Over All Arms people would have noticed it at once. Not an ordinary article of luggage. Looks as if he had either bought it subsequently or it belonged to a friend or assistant he was expecting.”

  “Yes, sir,” agreed the Inspector. He sat down, opened his note-book at a fresh place, and then closed it again rather helplessly. “That means there’s three as must be questioned. Mr Maxton and what call had he to leave in a hurry and why was deceased at his cottage? Mr Dowie ditto, and
what about his spade and his dabs on it? And Sir Charles as found the body saying Mr Wynne here led him up to it purposeful like. And a suspicious-looking character, as stated by Sergeant Jenkins seen at the Over All Arms, but no complaint. Which is four.” He opened his note-book again. “Four,” he said determinedly.

  “Five,” said Mr Wynne bitterly. “You had better say five, Inspector. Sir Charles evidently means you to include me.”

  “Oh, well, sir,” said the Inspector, uncomfortably this time. “Of course, if you say so.”

  CHAPTER VII

  IMPLICATIONS

  THERE FOLLOWED A brief silence on this demand of Mr Wynne’s that his name should be included in the list of those from whom explanations were to be demanded. Bobby was not sure that Wynne had intended or wished his suggestion to be taken as seriously, as apparently it was by the Inspector, now writing busily in his note-book. But, then, Mr Wynne was not a man whose thoughts, or whose intentions, could be read easily or quickly; and once again Bobby was not sure that that faint hidden smile of his had not flickered for one brief passing second behind his unmoved features. Possibly a smile of satisfaction at the prospect of having reasonable cause to send a solicitor’s letter to a neighbour with whom he seemed on such bad terms. It was Wynne himself who was the first to speak, saying:

  “Mr Owen here tells me what anyone chooses to say to a police officer is called privileged—license for libel, I call it. I’ll see what my solicitor thinks.”

  “Very wise, sir, if I may say so,” approved the Inspector, looking up from his note-book. “I always say the less talk, the better. There will be plenty.” Then he looked at Bobby and said: “Do you think, Mr Owen, sir, you could stay on till Mr Kimms gets here? He’s our C.I.D. chief. I’m sure he would like your opinion—what with people disappearing and no one knowing who she is or why, and talk starting already, and as like as not London journalists all over the place, making you say things you never meant.”