Death Comes to Cambers (17 page)

Bobby had no answer. He looked at his watch again, and said he must go on. Colonel Lawson would be waiting.

‘He wants to see you, too,' Bobby added. ‘Will you come with me?'

‘I'll go home first,' Eddy said. ‘Then I'll come on.'

Bobby repeated that the authorities were anxious to interview him, and Eddy retorted impatiently that they could very well wait another half-hour.

‘I must go home first,' he said again. ‘I'll come straight on, but there's the shop – after all, we live by the beastly thing.' He paused, contemplating the ‘beastly thing' with evident disgust. ‘Just think of it,' he burst out fiercely, ‘just because an old woman's dead I may have to chuck the whole thing and spend all the rest of my life weighing tea and cutting bacon for any fool who happens to want them, while there's knowledge waiting to be found – knowledge that would set man free from all the old errors and superstitions, and would make me famous as well. My name would rank with Darwin's. I might get a university post offered me. Your Colonel Lawson wouldn't be so handy with his “Dene” then; he would remember to put a “mister” before it. I nearly told him so just now.'

Bobby remembered noticing how Eddy had appeared to resent the somewhat cavalier manner in which Colonel Lawson addressed him. It was childish to notice it, for certainly no rudeness had been intended. It was more childish still to remember and resent it, as Eddy was evidently doing. Probably it was the contrast between the work in the shop that was forced upon him, and that he despised, and his belief in the high intellectual value of his theories that made him so absurdly sensitive. But the insight thus given into the touchy vanity of his character was not without interest.

‘Oh, well,' Bobby said, ‘what's a “mister” matter? You ought to go through the police and hear a sergeant talk to a recruit.'

‘That's different,' Eddy answered. ‘Recruits grow into sergeants, but colonels don't think other colonels grow behind counters.'

‘Oh, well, I must be getting on,' Bobby said. ‘I can say you are following. It's necessary, you know.'

‘That's all right,' Eddy answered. ‘I'm not going to bolt, if that's what you're afraid of. Why should I?'

‘But suppose,' Bobby thought to himself, as he made his way back across the fields to Cambers House and his shorthand notes there awaiting transcription, ‘suppose the vicar had actually got hold of Lady Cambers, and she warned Dene she was going to stop supplies? But then her death wouldn't have helped him. If she's left her money to Sir Albert, then Dene says himself there would be no chance of getting any more help; and if it goes to young Sterling, he's hardly likely to be so interested in archaeology as to go on paying out some hundreds every year.'

Besides there was this question of the lost fountain-pen, a clue that seemed now clearly to point away from the young man.

Still deep in thought, Bobby came to the path that ran from the village by Cambers House past the gate admitting to the grounds of the house, and here he saw coming along towards him, though still at a distance, the odd, unmistakable figure of the vicar himself; his long arms swinging; his long legs striding over the ground almost as though he were perched upon stilts; his big bald head pushed forward as if oppressed by a weight of thought or trouble.

Bobby was in a hurry to get back, for he was not sure what Colonel Lawson would be thinking of so prolonged an absence, but the opportunity seemed too good to be lost.

He waited accordingly, and the vicar, recognizing him, nodded a greeting, and said, without further preamble: ‘They tell me in the village, the young man, Eddy Dene, can't be found, and that Lady Cambers's jewellery is missing, too.'

‘The jewellery can't be found,' Bobby answered, with professional caution. ‘It may be in the bank or...'

‘It was always kept in the safe in the house,' the vicar interrupted. ‘It was a weakness of Lady Cambers to think too much of it. If it's not in the safe, it's been stolen. She liked to have it there to take out to look at when she wanted. Is it true about young Dene?'

‘No,' answered Bobby. ‘He's at the shed in the field over there. He's been busy putting his things straight and didn't want to be interrupted. That's all.'

‘I'm very glad to hear it,' said the vicar quickly, but with an accent in his voice that Bobby thought was more like disappointment than pleasure.

‘He is coming along in a few minutes,' Bobby continued. ‘I'm on my way to tell Colonel Lawson to expect him. I expect the Colonel would be glad to hear anything you have to say.'

‘I know. I've had a note from him,' the vicar answered. ‘You might tell him I should have been in to see him before only I've had much to attend to. A terrible affair,' he added gravely. ‘A great shock to us all, as you can imagine.'

‘Yes,' agreed Bobby. ‘I'm sure everyone feels that.'

‘Colonel Lawson is still at Cambers House, I suppose? I can see him there?'

‘Yes,' Bobby answered again. ‘I expect he will be there some time. The whole thing is such a complete mystery at present. I think you disapproved of Dene's work, and had asked Lady Cambers not to support it?'

‘That is so,' the vicar answered. ‘I naturally disapprove of blasphemy.'

‘I gathered as much from what Mr. Dene told me,' Bobby said. ‘Only he calls it searching for the truth.' 

‘I know he does. He twists my words. That is characteristic. He pretends I am afraid of the truth. That is not so. How can one who serves the truth fear the truth?' The vicar lifted his great head and raised one hand high in the air, so that Bobby had a swift vision of him in the pulpit, a dominating, formidable figure. ‘No,' he went on, ‘it is not the truth a servant of the truth fears, but the way in which presumptuous and foolish man may twist it. Dene, in his insolence, talks of proving not only that man came from the ape, but that he is ape still – “an ape that has learnt the use of the hand”, I think he says. He actually went so far as to give a public lecture with some such title. Fortunately, I understand, very few attended. But you can see the harm that sort of thing does – where it leads? Teach the young they are all ape, and as ape they will behave.'

He spoke with a fervour, even a fierceness, of conviction that reminded Bobby almost comically of the equal fervour and fierceness of conviction with which Dene had delivered himself, and he had again a moment of sympathy for the dead woman caught between two such strong opposing faiths.

But though fanaticism sometimes causes, excuses, explains bloodshed, there was also the disappearance of the jewels, and there intensity of belief in the mischief of another's views and theories could play no part.

He did for a moment think of suggesting to Mr. Andrews that Eddy did not want to prove that man was ape, but only that man was an ape that had learnt; this last a word that has much virtue – none more, indeed. But the point was hardly one he felt competent to discuss and, except for the clash of personalities and interests it revealed, it had no bearing on the investigation. Abruptly the vicar added: ‘A soul is more easily lost through a twisted truth than a downright lie.'

‘Did Lady Cambers make any promise to stop her help to Dene?'

‘She did not,' answered the vicar sternly. ‘I told her that on her lay the ultimate responsibility for those who might be led astray. Apparently she had consulted the diocesan chancellor. He said he considered I took exaggerated views.' Mr. Andrews paused, plainly remembering his former description of that official as Antichrist, and equally plainly regretting the Christian charity that had made him withdraw it. ‘Later on, I spoke as plainly as I could from the pulpit,' he continued.

‘Without effect.'

‘Without the least effect,' agreed the vicar. ‘But now judgement has been given,' he added passionately.

‘You don't surely mean...' began Bobby, a little shocked.

‘I mean no more than the facts,' the vicar interrupted. ‘Don't misunderstand me. I have suffered so much from misunderstanding – wilful, very often. But there are the facts. There was a work going on in this parish more than likely to lead the ignorant into error – soul-destroying error. Now it has been put an end to – tragically, dreadfully ended. Is not that a judgement?'

Bobby looked at the pale, emaciated face of the priest – the emaciation all the more noticeable for the unusual size of the head with which somehow one rather expected a great round full-fleshed countenance – and he experienced a sudden touch of fear. He felt in the presence of that tremendous force which comes from complete surrender to one belief. He said: ‘One thing that's bothering us is to understand why Lady Cambers went out alone so late at night without saying a word to anyone, apparently without even asking that the house shouldn't be locked up before her return. I suppose you can't suggest anything?'

Mr. Andrews shook his head.

‘No,' he said. ‘If she had refused to continue her help to Dene, I should almost have been inclined to suspect him. Why shouldn't an ape strangle? But her death deprives him of the money help he depended on. I don't think I can suggest anything.'

‘You had no other differences of opinion with Lady Cambers?' Bobby asked. ‘There was some question of divorce. She agreed with you about that?'

‘Entirely,' declared Mr. Andrews. ‘She fully appreciated the Church's standpoint. I don't know if it's of any importance, but she expressed herself as being very grateful for the explanation I was able to give her. She was grateful that my teaching had perhaps prevented her from acting too quickly. I have some reason for thinking she hoped her husband might return to her. She even destroyed, the other day, a will she had made in her first distress and anger when Sir Albert left her. By it everything went to her nephew, Mr. Sterling.'

‘Did Mr. Sterling know that?' Bobby asked quickly, for this was a piece of information that seemed of significance.

‘No one knew except myself,' the vicar answered. ‘I don't think even her lawyers knew.'

‘You are quite certain the will was actually destroyed?'

‘I saw her burn it. That was last Monday – a week ago. I approved. In a way, it was by my advice. Her husband remained her husband, however grievously at fault, and between husband and wife there should be complete community of goods.'

‘Would you say Lady Cambers was ready to take advice as a general rule?'

The vicar permitted himself to smile. It was not a thing that often happened to him, and the effect was to soften and to humanize his expression to an extraordinary degree.

‘As a general rule she was more ready to give it,' he answered. ‘Even as regards purely Church matters. Fortunately her advice was generally good, and her extreme generosity gave her, in a way, a right to express her opinion. I didn't always agree, but I am always ready to give way in the non-essentials. I think I may say we never differed seriously, except in this matter of her most unfortunate support of Dene. And there she had engaged herself deeply before she understood fully what was intended – before I did myself, for that matter. It was a weakness in her character that she never wished to draw back. She prided herself on not changing – it was pride, too, the sin of pride. Now it is too late.'

‘There was some argument about rabbit-traps you supported her in, wasn't there?'

‘You mean about the cruelty of using steel traps? I confess I had little idea of what was going on till she told me. We met with a good deal of opposition from some of the farmers. There was reason to fear some who had promised to give up steel traps continued to use them all the same. Lady Cambers felt very strongly about it; she even said publicly she would refuse to renew the lease of any of her tenants who continued to use the steel trap. But surely there is no connection...?'

‘Oh, I don't suppose so,' Bobby answered. ‘Rabbit-traps can hardly lead to murder. Only in such a difficult case every fresh angle of approach may be useful. There's so little to go on. A dead woman at night in a lonely field. We want a starting-point.'

‘I hardly think you will find one there,' observed the vicar, ‘even though, certainly, Lady Cambers felt very strongly – very strongly indeed. And I fear she was right about the steel trap being still in use. Last night I was certain I heard a rabbit crying, as they do when they are caught – a most pitiful sound, almost like a child. I went out to see if I could find it, so as at least to put it out of its pain.'

‘Did you succeed?'

‘No. The rainstorm we had last night burst almost at once, and I had to take shelter. It was lucky there was an old hut near that saved me from a drenching. After the rain stopped I looked round a little, but I found nothing. Possibly the rain had drowned the poor little thing. I hope so.'

‘Whereabouts was this?'

‘Over there,' the vicar answered, with a wave of one long arm towards the rising ground known as The Mounts. ‘The vicarage is at the foot of the slope on the other side. The night was so calm and still before the rain came that one could hear sounds a long way. I thought the cry I heard came from up there somewhere, and I knew it was Mr. Hardy's land, and that Lady Cambers suspected young Ray Hardy was still using spring-traps. The young are often cruel; they have not yet suffered enough themselves. That comes after. It was Mr. Hardy Lady Cambers had specially in mind when she talked about refusing to renew leases of tenants who persisted in using the steel trap. She knew Ray Hardy had been boasting he wouldn't give them up for her.'

‘Then you came down this way looking for the trapped rabbit after the rain stopped?' Bobby remarked slowly. ‘You must have been quite near when the murder took place. I take it you didn't see or hear anything, either of Lady Cambers or of anyone else?'