Death Comes to Cambers (30 page)

‘As a matter of fact,' Bobby answered slowly, ‘I am fairly certain I know who is guilty, but there's always getting proof. Isn't the window just opposite that of the room Mr. Jones occupied while he was here?'

‘Why, you don't think it was him, do you?' the landlord asked excitedly. ‘He went off in a mighty hurry the very next morning after it happened.'

‘Well, if we do suspect him,' Bobby observed, ‘you can prove an alibi, can't you? He couldn't have left his room by the door and gone down the stairs and out by the back way without being seen or heard. If you were sitting up with your sick cow all night, he could hardly have climbed out by the window without your knowing. And there's no doubt he was in his room before the murder was committed?'

‘That's so,' agreed the landlord, looking quite relieved. ‘I'm glad of it, too. I wouldn't care to think we had had a murderer stopping with us.'

Bobby agreed that would have been an unpleasant thought, and took his empty glass back indoors, where he spoke to the maid who attended to the bedrooms.

‘You remember Mr. Jones who left last Monday rather in a hurry?' he said to her. ‘Can you tell me what luggage he had?'

The girl's lower jaw dropped.

‘Oh, was it him did the murder?' she asked breathlessly.

‘I believe,' sighed Bobby, ‘if I asked who had the measles last, you would all think I meant that was who did it. Do you remember what luggage Mr. Jones had?'

‘A small suit-case, that's all,' the maid answered, in a slightly aggrieved tone. ‘It only held his shirt and drawers and his things to wash with, so missis told us to keep an eye on him in case he skipped off without paying; they try it on sometimes when they've so little with them as he had.'

‘Thank you. That may be important,' Bobby said.

‘He could easy have hid the rope in his pockets that was used to strangle the poor lady,' the girl pointed out, her eyes round at the thought.

‘So he could,' Bobby agreed. ‘Could you tell me what time he got back here that Sunday night?'

‘It was after the rain began, because he was wet through with being in it; and it was before it stopped, I know that,' she answered. ‘Somewhere about eleven, it would be. He went to bed, and he asked us to put his things in the kitchen to dry, and he had a hot drink – whisky, lemon, sugar.'

‘After he had gone to his room?'

‘Yes, about half-past eleven. I remember that because the clock struck the half-hour just as I was taking it to him, and I minded it was just the same time when I took the American gentleman an iced drink the night he stayed here. Only that was a hot, close night.'

‘Do you mean Mr. Tyler?' Bobby asked, a little surprised. ‘I thought he stayed with Lady Cambers.'

‘They had words,' she explained, ‘because he wanted to buy her big pearl they say's ever so large, and she wouldn't part, so he went off in a tear. That was why we were all surprised to see him back so soon. We thought he was going to have another try for it, but he never went near her that time. He was motoring to London from where he had been staying, and it got late, so he stopped here, that was all.'

‘I see,' said Bobby. ‘You say he didn't go near her that time. Did he any other, do you know?'

‘Well,' the girl answered slowly, ‘it was my day off week before last, and coming home a bit late I saw him sort of hesitating at the turning that leads to Cambers House, first going up it and then coming back. I watched him, it seemed so funny like, but then he got back in the car and drove off. I suppose he thought it wasn't any good – if she wouldn't sell it, she wouldn't, and no good worrying.'

‘I dare say that was it,' agreed Bobby thoughtfully. ‘One never knows. By the way, are you bothered with mice here?'

The girl, though slightly bewildered by this abrupt change of subject, admitted that they were. She also promised to communicate Bobby's offer – of half a crown for eight or nine live mice – to the potman, who would no doubt, she thought, be able to fill the order. She also promised, with giggles, to say nothing about it, and to persuade the potman to similar silence. Bobby's explanation – that he wished to train performing mice for exhibition at the next police sports – she accepted as fully adequate.

‘Tell him to take them as soon as possible to Station-Sergeant Weatherby, at the Hirlpool police-station, will you?' Bobby asked. ‘I'll ring him up and tell him to expect them – that'll be half a crown for the mice, alive and in good condition, a shilling for the fare to Hirlpool, a shilling for delivery. That all right?'

The girl thought it would be, and Bobby thanked her for her assistance and the information she had given him, and, though a little worried over the unexpected references to Mr. Tyler, which he felt might, or might not, prove of significance, he went to the telephone-box and rang up the Hirlpool police-station to give his message for Station-Sergeant Weatherby – already warned to expect it. He took the opportunity, too, to ring up the Hirlpool dentist who had attended Eddy Dene, and received a prompt reply that Eddy had in fact visited him and had a tooth extracted on the day following the murder.

‘Exposed nerve,' the dentist said. ‘Sort of thing anything might set off – a chill, or biting on a crust or almost anything.'

Bobby thanked him, said that was interesting, and, ringing off, went on to find Ray Hardy, whom he discovered walking home from work in the fields. Bobby was really shocked at the young man's appearance; he looked so changed, years older, with red, inflamed, and sleepless eyes, and a pale, drawn expression.

‘He's having a bad time of it,' Bobby thought. ‘Dreams of being hanged every night. He'll have a nervous breakdown soon.'

He called to Ray, who had not seen him yet, and when the lad turned and recognized him, he started violently, and looked more than half inclined to run. But he stood his ground, though plainly on the verge of panic.

‘What's it now?' he asked, in a high, uncertain voice.

‘Have you come... do you want... My God, if you're going to arrest me, do it and get it over. I can't stand it much longer.'

‘No, because you've been drinking too much,' Bobby retorted; and to himself he thought: ‘The poor devil is in such a state of nerves I believe I could get a confession out of him if I tried.'

‘Well, a chap must do something to keep up,' Ray muttered. ‘They all think it was me. It wasn't, but I can see them – pointing and thinking.'

‘You ought to have more sense,' Bobby told him roughly, ‘than to take to drinking at a time like this.'

‘I've got to,' Ray repeated, in the same sullen undertone. ‘I won't touch another drop when it's over.'

Bobby produced his note-book and a pencil, and presented a blank page.

‘Write that there and sign it,' he ordered. ‘Date it, too.'

Ray stared, hesitated, but then obeyed the order given with such confidence.

‘What's that for?' he asked.

‘So you won't forget,' Bobby answered. ‘You're the sort that's best T.T.'

‘How do you know I've been drinking? Been watching, have you?'

‘Good heavens, no! I know because I can see; the same way I know you've been having bad dreams. I've got eyes in my head.'

‘You're right enough about the dreams,' Ray admitted, shivering a little. ‘What do you want, anyhow?'

‘I want you to tell me all over again, from the very start down to the smallest detail, everything you did or thought or said that Sunday night, down even to the colour of the tails of the rabbits you trapped.'

Ray considered this.

‘Rabbits' tails are always white,' he announced.

‘Then don't forget to say so,' Bobby snapped. ‘Wire in.' And Ray, controlled by the other's stronger will, proceeded to repeat his story, amplifying the details, and admitting that in these midnight excursions of his he had made a practice of trespassing pretty widely on Lady Cambers's land.

‘There was more rabbits there,' he explained simply.

‘You never saw anyone else that night?'

‘I kept out of folks' way,' Ray explained. ‘I didn't want any talk about what I was doing out so late. I saw vicar, though.'

‘Where was he?'

‘Coming out of the old shed beyond Low Copse. He had been taking shelter there against the rain. It was where I was making for when it came on so hard, like a solid wall almost, so I was soaked through pretty well before I knew it had begun. I stood against a tree, and the water ran down it like a gutter-pipe. When it let up, and I moved, I saw vicar coming out of the shed.'

‘You are sure it was Mr. Andrews?'

‘Yes. It was dark, but he struck a match to light his pipe, and I saw him plain. He didn't see me. When he had gone, I went inside the shed, to wring the wet out of my things a bit, and there was a book of his on the ground. So I'd have known who it was even if I hadn't seen him.'

‘What book was it? Have you got it still? Besides, how do you know it was his?'

‘It has his name in it,' Ray explained. ‘It's in foreign language – German perhaps; not French anyhow, I know that.'

He produced a small copy of Horace as he spoke, and Bobby examined it with interest.

‘It ought to be returned to Mr. Andrews,' he said. ‘I'll do that for you, shall I?'

‘He'll want to know what I was doing round about there,' Ray protested.

‘Then you can jolly well explain,' Bobby retorted, putting the book in his pocket. ‘If you don't want it known where you've been, you shouldn't go there. It was Solon said that, or else Socrates.'

‘Who're they?' Ray asked.

‘Dead,' explained Bobby briefly, and Ray lost interest at once. ‘I'll give you some advice on my own, though – keep off the drink, and if you must dream, dream of something jolly.'

With that he nodded a farewell and went off towards the vicarage, leaving behind him a puzzled, but relieved, Ray, and thinking to himself that things were really beginning to clear a bit.

‘Though there's one pretty bad hurdle to get over,' he reflected, and grew lost in thought and deep contemplation thereof.

Fortunately for those legs of his Bobby had had to work so hard during his investigations into this case, he was lucky enough to meet the vicar almost immediately, so saving himself the journey back to the vicarage. Mr. Andrews knew him again at once, and paused of his own accord to speak, and when Bobby produced the little pocket Horace he claimed it immediately.

‘Why, yes, that's mine,' he said. ‘Where did you find it?'

‘Have you any idea where you lost it?' Bobby countered cautiously.

‘I've been wondering,' the vicar answered. ‘I was reading it on Sunday night when I heard the rabbit crying I told you about.' He paused and blushed slightly. ‘I amuse myself in odd moments,' he explained, ‘by attempting a fresh translation of the Odes. Purely for my own amusement, you understand. After the intense strain of Sunday, with its very strong emotional experiences, I – I don't know that I should like some of my brethren of the church to hear me say so, but I find something calm, cooling, even refreshing, in what is I am afraid Horace's very earthly philosophy. It seems to call one back from what is at times perhaps a somewhat dangerous exaltation of spirit. While we remain in the flesh we are not meant, I think, entirely to forget the flesh – and Horace certainly reminds one of it very effectively and even agreeably, in a way. So I have got into the way of often reading him on a Sunday evening. One feels, somehow, less risk of being – well, carried away. One relaxes the tension – loosens the bow.'

‘Yes, I understand,' said Bobby, though in fact he found it a little difficult to take in this view of Horace as a kind of cold-water bandage to be applied to a head too fevered by strong religious emotion. But he supposed it might be effective. ‘You can't remember what you did with the book when you went out?'

‘I can't be sure. I didn't miss it till the next day. Then I thought perhaps I had put it in my pocket and it had dropped out. I remember when I was sheltering in the old hut by the Low Copse I took my coat off to give it a shake, as some raindrops had fallen on it before I got inside. I thought perhaps the book dropped out then, but when I went back to the hut to look, it wasn't there.'

‘It had been picked up,' Bobby explained. ‘The finder gave it me; that's how I got it. There's one little point – I think I've heard you don't smoke on Sundays?'

‘It's a busy day; there is not time,' Mr. Andrews answered. ‘That's all. Over Horace I often do indulge myself with a pipe.'

‘Were you smoking when you went out to look for the rabbit?'

‘No, I don't think so. Why? I remember lighting my pipe, though, as I was leaving the hut after the rain stopped.'

Bobby thanked him for what he had said, asked him to regard their conversation as confidential for the present, returned him the book, thanked him again for information he astonished the vicar by saying might prove of value, and then made his way to Cambers House, where Farman admitted him, and informed him that Sir Albert was still in bed, though making a good recovery.

‘Nasty turn it's been,' Farman said. ‘Touch of pleurisy. Might easily have turned to pneumonia, the doctor says; and that's always touch-and-go.'

‘I should like to have a little talk with him,' Bobby explained. ‘There are one or two points he might be able to clear up.'

Farman said he would inquire, and came back presently to show Bobby to the room where Sir Albert was still in bed, though he had been promised permission to get up that afternoon.

‘Got any news? Found out anything yet?' he greeted Bobby, as soon as the young detective entered the room.