The Dusky Hour (8 page)

Bobby agreed with this pronouncement, and thought to himself that another inspection of the Firearms Register was indicated. One pistol in a lonely country house was not very exceptional, nor a licence for it very difficult to secure. Two of them seemed, however, to require explanation, nor would it be so easy to procure a second licence. But the two women, leaving again the subject of the departure of Mrs. O'Brien – for that, exciting and absorbing as it was, and fit topic for many a chat to come, was none the less eclipsed for the time by the newer thrill of the chalk-pit tragedy – began to question Bobby afresh about this latter event. With a great appearance of frankness he told them nearly as much as they knew already from the gossip they had heard, though they were almost as thrilled to hear it all again, only this time, as it were, from officialdom itself, as if it had all been new. On one or two points of entire insignificance Bobby corrected what they had heard; and on his side he was interested to find that already there was current a vague idea that what had happened had not been wholly accidental. He slipped in an inquiry as to whether anyone had mentioned having seen or heard of any strange motorist in the district. Strangers were rare at this time of year, when touring was out of season, and the roads seldom used by other than the inhabitants of the district. None, however, had been mentioned, and Mrs. Marshall and Aggie explained that neither of them that day had been beyond the Way Side grounds.

“And Mr. Hayes?” Bobby asked. “Did he stay in all day?”

This question set Aggie off giggling again in the same way as before. Mrs. Marshall told her sternly there was nothing to laugh at, and Aggie said she wasn't, and anyhow Mrs. O'Brien wasn't there any more, so what did it matter? And, after various other mysterious allusions, it began to appear that Mr. Hayes was in the habit of strolling over to the Towers Poultry Farm somewhat frequently, even occasionally of having tea there in preference to returning home for it; that this practice had been for some time concealed from Mrs. O'Brien, and that, when she had discovered it, it had been the underlying cause of the arrival of the new hat from London and of the subsequent events, including the famous slap on the face and the subsequent swift departure.

“Knew her nose was out of joint,” said Aggie.

“Now, now, Aggie,” said Mrs. Marshall.

“Knew she hadn't an earthly,” declared Aggie.

“When it gets to face-slapping,” mused Mrs. Marshall, “it means you've come to the parting of the ways.”

“So it does,” agreed Bobby.

“And the eggs he orders, and the prices charged as would make a West End tradesman blush, or as near as he could get,” said Mrs. Marshall.

“I don't blame her for trying,” said Aggie. “Why not?”

“Chicken, too, till I'm tired of the sight of 'em,” said Mrs. Marshall. “And beats me how to use the eggs, useful as eggs is and in most places hard to get the half of what you need. I gave Mr. Thoms four for his breakfast with his bacon this morning and he wanted to know if I thought he was an incubator, and me old enough to be his mother – or very near.”

“Mr. Thoms?” repeated Bobby. “Is that the chauffeur?”

“Yes. Very respectable young man,” said Mrs. Marshall, with a stern eye on Aggie, who was tossing her head again and giving other signs of disapproval, “even if he do like to keep himself to himself, and hours he spends in that garage on his own –” 

“And welcome,” interposed Aggie, but not as if she meant it.

“And had a nasty fall to-night,” Mrs. Marshall went on. “Went off on the motor-bike to get some cigarettes at the post-office and come back with his poor face all swelled up, and such a black eye as you never saw.”

“Dear me, must have been a nasty fall,” said Bobby with keen sympathy – and even keener interest.

“Skidded,” explained Mrs. Marshall, “and went right flat on his poor face.”

“Made it,” explained Aggie, “even uglier than it was before. He'll have to wash it now, though.”

“Now, now, Aggie,” protested Mrs. Marshall. “As smart a young man as ever donned a chauffeur's uniform,” she told Bobby.

“Happened somewhere near Battling Copse, didn't it?” Bobby asked.

“He didn't say,” Mrs. Marshall answered.

“Worst of these country roads – the risk of skidding, I mean,” Bobby said sympathetically, wondering, too, what cause of dispute could have arisen between Mr. Moffatt's son and Mr. Hayes's chauffeur.

Hardly a police matter perhaps, and yet one that might bear investigation. He was beginning to feel, too, that a visit to the Towers Poultry Farm – “Teas” as well – seemed to be indicated, and was it mere coincidence that a quarrel between Mr. Hayes and his housekeeper had broken out so fiercely on the very day and within an hour or two of the stranger motorist's mysterious death? He tried to establish the exact times. There was evidence that the car had gone over the edge of the pit a minute or two after four in the afternoon. Mr. Hayes, it seemed, had gone out some time before that; had returned between five and six, saying he had had tea.

“Towers Poultry Farm,” interposed Aggie with a fresh giggle.

“That's as may be,” said Mrs. Marshall sternly, “and no concern of anyone's.”

Aggie looked disposed to make a pert reply, so Bobby interposed with an inquiry as to whether Mr. Hayes was fond of the country, as he had come to live in such a quiet, out-of-the-way spot, and Mrs. Marshall expressed an opinion that it bored him to death and Aggie that he hated it. Aggie had known him stand at the dining-room window and curse the whole landscape in terms that had both shocked and thrilled her, though she had hardly understood a word, in spite of an extensive film education and a considerable knowledge of current literature. Mrs. Marshall said that the poor soul never seemed to know what to do. He went up to town two or three times a week, and on those mornings he would be quite cheerful. Other mornings he generally spent most of his time yawning and grumbling, cursing the paper because there was nothing in it or the wireless because there was nothing worth listening to.

“Cheers up, though,” added Aggie, “when it's time to go and order a couple more chickens or another dozen new laid.”

“Now, Aggie, no gossip,” said Mrs. Marshall sternly. “Gossip's a thing I never could abide.”

Bobby applauded, and said he couldn't either, and, by way of diversion, Mrs. Marshall got up and produced from a cupboard the very identical hat that had been the apparent, if not the real, cause of the parting between Mrs. O'Brien and her employer.

“Looks funny now it's been jumped on,” Mrs. Marshall confessed, “but cost five guineas –”

“Oo-ooo,” said Aggie.

“– as the ticket shows, from the Blue Jay in Middle Bond Street.”

“Oo-ooo,” said Aggie again, for the fame of the Blue Jay was widespread and the name appeared on most theatrical programmes – “Hats by Blue Jay” – and on the screen as well, “Hats, by Blue Jay,” being a frequent feature of Topical Budgets.

“But, queer as it looks now, not beyond –” mused Mrs. Marshall.

“It just needs –” said Aggie.

“If you just –” said Mrs. Marshall.

“You could easily –” Aggie pointed out.

“A new ribbon there –” Mrs. Marshall suggested.

Bobby, Mrs. O'Brien's departure, the chalk-pit, all were forgotten till a ring at the front door called them back to their surroundings. Bobby said it was probably his chief, and time, too, for now it was nearly half past the hour. Aggie went to answer the summons. Bobby said he would come with her, as the colonel would be sure to want him, and in the passage outside, that lay between the servants' sitting-room and the kitchen, they came face to face with a big, sullen-looking young man whose somewhat damaged countenance Bobby had no difficulty in recognising, as he in his turn was also recognised, to judge by the other's start and grumbled and uncomplimentary comment.

“We meet again,” Bobby said to him amiably, “and not perhaps for the last time.”

“Go to blazes!” snapped the other, and passed on his way.

Mr. Hayes was, as his house-parlourmaid had described him, a small, thin, meagre little man. But Aggie had not mentioned his voice, which, especially as issuing from so narrow a chest, had an unexpectedly rich, deep note, a voice, indeed, that could emulate the lion's roar or the cooing of the dove. Nor had she spoken of his eyes, large, dark, languorous eyes, indeed, almost feminine in their appeal, and as oddly discordant with his shrivelled and mean little personality as were the organ-like notes of his voice.

He seemed quite pleased to see his visitors, welcomed the colonel warmly, was genial to Bobby, tried to insist on their both joining him in a whisky-and-soda – Bobby noticed that the whisky bottle was nearly empty, and so did Mr. Hayes, for he promptly told Aggie to bring a new one and did not seem to regret the necessity. Colonel Warden at first declined the invitation, but Mr. Hayes would hear of no refusal and poured out a drink to whose seduction, after his long drive and hard day, the chief constable yielded. Bobby, however, turned teetotaller – for the occasion, so Mr. Hayes offered him sherry instead, and seemed quite surprised to find that teetotalism covered sherry as well, though Bobby regretted the fact the more that this time the sherry offered was emphatically not of the cooking variety.

The formalities of hospitality concluded, Mr. Hayes began to talk at once, and without asking the business of his visitors, about the recent tragedy.

“Can't think,” he declared, “how any man could contrive to get into that chalk-pit. Of course, on a dark night, and a bit over the nine, you might manage it. I don't see how else. I expect you know there's a lot of talk going. I drop in sometimes at the Red Lion for a pint. You get all the news there,” said Mr. Hayes, chuckling, “as well as the little bit that others haven't heard.”

The colonel smiled, said he supposed there was sure to be talk, and had Mr. Hayes heard anything definite?

“Bless you, yes,” answered Mr. Hayes. “Lots, all contradicting all the rest. Knife found in the poor devil's heart; his throat cut from ear to ear; a pool of blood ankle deep, sometimes at the bottom of the chalk-pit and sometimes on top; full and precise particulars of sinister-looking strangers – when the beer's in, the tongue wags. I don't suppose much of it would be repeated to you folk, though. One thing to spin a yarn in a pub to make the other chaps gape, quite another to repeat it for taking down in a notebook, eh?”

And Bobby noticed that those soft, languorous eyes rested for one brief moment on the bulge in his pocket that showed where his substantial notebook was stored and then flickered swiftly away. Bobby told himself that it looked as though those soft, gazelle-like eyes missed little; he even wondered if they were always so soft and gazelle-like as they now appeared.

“I've got men out,” observed the colonel, “trying to pick up any local gossip that might give us a pointer. You can't tell us anything likely to be useful?”

“I don't think so,” answered Hayes, considering the point. “I didn't pay an awful lot of attention, and all it came to was that none of them believed it was an accident. What do you think? That is, if it's a fair question. Of course, if it's an official secret...”

“Hardly that,” said the colonel. “It will have to come out at the inquest, anyhow. The post-mortem shows shots through the heart.”

Mr. Hayes whistled. Also he emptied his glass and thoughtfully filled it again.

“Funny,” he said, “how often there's truth behind these pub stories. All the details wrong, of course, but the essential fact there all the same. I'm certain none of the Red Lion crowd knew there had been shooting, and yet they were all sure as hell there had been dirty work. Well, well. No idea who the chap was, I suppose? But perhaps that's not a fair question either. The Red Lion seemed sure he was a stranger here.”

Without waiting for a reply to his question, Mr. Hayes began to remember the claims of hospitality again, produced a box of what seemed excellent cigars, urged the colonel to let his glass be filled again, offered to have a cup of cocoa made for Bobby.

“Or anything else; coffee, anything,” he boomed in his rich, deep tones. “Very wise of you young fellows to be T.T. I'm not myself,” he explained unnecessarily, for he was now at his third drink since the arrival of his visitors, and he had certainly been imbibing before – not that it appeared to have had the least effect on him; he might have been emulating the night-club hostesses who remain sober all evening on the cold tea that is whisky's innocuous twin looker. “But I do advise it for all young chaps. I do indeed. Isn't there anything I can offer you, inspector?” he asked, his voice so coaxing, so winning, so full of sympathy and true friendship, that Bobby felt his refusal ought to have been accompanied by a tribute of regretful tears. “Nothing at all? Too bad. I'm sorry,” said Mr. Hayes, making the words sound like a lament over the heroic dead. “You know,” he continued, turning to the colonel again. “I never saw how it could be an accident. I know the place quite well. If I go for a country stroll – I love a country stroll,” he interposed, his voice vibrant with emotion; “peaceful, beautiful, a lovely calm; to one who has had to spend his life in crowded towns, inexpressibly attractive. I often go by the copse. The bluebells in the spring” – and now his voice was like a song – “remind you of a carpet with the spotlight turned on it. And too well hidden for London trippers to get at, fortunately. I was by there yesterday just about the time the thing must have happened.”

“You didn't see or hear anything?” the colonel asked.

“Nothing. Not a sound; not a sign,” declared Mr. Hayes, the regret of all the ages in his sadly lingering tones. “No. I wasn't hurrying either. Just strolling along, enjoying the air, on my way to Miss Towers's place. You know it? She and her sister run a poultry farm. There's an old mother, too. Lost all their money in some City smash, I'm told. Took it on the chin, though, and started this poultry idea. I get a lot of stuff from them, just by way of helping a bit; more eggs than cook knows what to do with, I believe. I have tea there sometimes, too. Nice, pleasant people, all three, and I'm afraid they have a hard time of it; very few customers, which is why I'm one more. Got to do what you can to help, you know.”