Four Strange Women (8 page)

“They've done as much as they can. Inspector Morris is on duty. He is on the spot. Sergeant Rich knows where it is and he'll take us there. Morris rang up the superintendent—Oxley his name is. I expect he'll be there before us.”

The colonel took out a cigar, relapsed into silence. Bobby asked no questions. He wondered if it was only fancy that made him feel his companion's uneasiness was increasing, increasing in proportion as they drew nearer the scene of the fire. Was he dreading what they might find there? To Bobby it seemed that the whole interior of the car throbbed, as it were, with wave upon wave of anguished terror. He stole a look at the colonel's face, calm enough to all appearance; indeed, Bobby thought, almost unnaturally so with a calmness that gave an impression of fierce and intense effort.

“He'll see it through, whatever it is,” Bobby told himself; and in his thoughts used the French phrase ‘jusqu'au bout,' telling himself again that what that end might show itself to be, would make no difference.

The car left behind the lights of the town, of the suburbs. It was travelling through complete darkness now, along unlighted country roads, and yet at a high rate of speed. There were no stars visible, the moon had not yet risen, the clouds hung low and heavy, letting escape now and again a splutter of rain. The only light came from the headlamps, throwing their powerful beams before as the great car crashed through the still darkness of the night. Presently the car left the smooth and well made road which hitherto it had followed and began to swing and lurch on a rougher track. Its speed did not diminish. The lamps picked out great trees that stood on each side, crowding in on them, bending above them, stretching down their branches as if to clutch at them as they sped by. The colonel muttered suddenly:—

“This damn cigar won't draw.”

Bobby thought it might be more tactful not to point out that this was because the cigar had never been lighted. The remark had not been addressed to him and he need not have heard it. The colonel said in a surprised tone:—

“Oh, I never lighted it.”

He put it back in his case. A specially severe jolt nearly threw them into each other's arms. Bobby could hear the sergeant appealing under his breath to his Maker. They had left even the rough track they had been following before and now were bumping over what seemed merely a footpath. Colonel Glynne leaned forward and said gently:—

“I don't want a spill, Biddle, but if you can go faster, do so.”

“Very good, sir,” said Biddle, and charged and smashed down a young tree in quite the best manner of the tank corps.

Bobby held firmly to his seat and hoped for the best, little as he expected it. Sergeant Rich's appeal for the protection of heaven grew more audible. The car, probably thinking it had been entered for a hurdle race, did its best to show what it could do in that way. In a voice full of relief, Rich said:—

“There we are, over there, look. Steady on, mate, we're nearly there.”

Biddle's response was to accelerate. His headlamps had shown him a comparatively open stretch of ground. He charged straight across it; hitting, Bobby was convinced, every stone, every tree stump, every hole or mound that existed in the whole world. Nevertheless, everything held, not a single spring broke. A tremendous tribute to the workmanship put into the car.

They drew up. The colonel jumped out. Bobby followed, rubbing the back of his head where it had come more than once in contact with the hardest part of the car's roof. Sergeant Rich said very fervently:—

“Thank God.”

Biddle was looking at his tyres. He said proudly:—

“Not a sign of a puncture.”

Before them, at a little distance, was a kind of bay, or inlet, in the forest, surrounded on three sides by trees. It lay low and seemed damp. An odd place, Bobby thought, to choose for camping, especially so late in the season, and even though the caravan, from Lord Henry Darmoor's description, was apparently of an expensive type and presumably fitted with every possible comfort. Two or three cars were standing near, the rays from their lamps converging on the centre of the glade, so that it was like an island of light in the midst of that enormous sea of darkness, darkness intense and primaeval as in the days of long ago. The lamp rays were focused on a dark, shapeless mass that lay crumbled there. Men were moving to and fro around it. Near one of the cars lay on a stretcher, covered by a rug, something that had no longer human form, but that Bobby knew instinctively had once been the habitation of a living soul. Even those busy in this far and silent glade, going about their various errands, occupied with their different duties, lessened their haste as they passed near. Two men, separating from the others, came across to meet the colonel. He greeted them as Mr. Oxley and Inspector Morris. He introduced Bobby, whom they both greeted civilly enough but with a certain reserve, which, Bobby feared, concealed some hostility, though he hoped not very deep-seated but only the instinctive hostility always felt when a new-comer joins the pack. Not improbably they resented his sudden appearance as their chief's confidential assistant. Still, that was something he had known he might have to reckon with.

Oxley, the superintendent, was beginning his report. There was not in it very much that was enlightening. Information had been received of the discovery of the burnt out caravan. Evidently the fire was not recent. It must have taken place two or three days before, possibly even longer. Impossible to say for certain. It had plainly been very fierce while it lasted. The caravan was drawn by a small trailer, perhaps there had been an extra petrol store to account for that. People sometimes kept by them more than was either prudent or permitted. As far as was known, the fire had not been seen by any one. Certainly no report had been received. If it had happened in daytime, the flames would not have been clearly visible; and any smoke seen might have been taken for the burning of rubbish on one of the small scattered farms or holdings in the neighbourhood. Not that there were many of these, for it was a thinly inhabited district. In any case so fierce a fire as this had plainly been, must have burnt itself out very quickly. The discovery had been made by a Mr. Eyton, a journalist on the staff of the
Midwych and District News
—not to be confounded with that much more important paper, the
Midwych Herald
. Mr. Eyton had been cycling through the forest and had come upon the scene of the fire. He had rung up from a public-house near, and had waited to guide the police to the spot. He had made a statement and then had gone off to write his report for the next issue of his paper. It was, the superintendent remarked in a slightly offended tone, what journalists called ‘a scoop', and Mr. Eyton had flatly refused to wait Colonel Glynne's arrival, apparently thinking it more important to get his story through, not only to his own office but to one of the big London papers, for which he acted as occasional correspondent and in which he hoped this time to ‘hit the front page'.

“I did think of detaining him, sir,” Oxley said, “but thought it better not to.”

“Much better not,” agreed the colonel, “can't be too careful with the press—a touchy lot, journalists. Too big for their boots most of them.”

“That's right, sir,” agreed Oxley with a touch of ancient bitterness in his voice. “Think all they need do is to say ‘Press' and then you've got to go down on your knees. He told us straight out he was going to play it up big. ‘Mysterious Forest Tragedy—Is it Murder?' Nothing to show it isn't accident, but he had the cheek and impudence to say an accident was only worth a par., while a murder, especially when mysterious, was worth a column and more. He said the torso murder was worth hundreds to some of those who were in on to it early.”

“Did he know who the caravan belonged to?” the colonel asked.

“Oh, yes, had it all pat; it was he gave us Mr. Baird's name. Said he had tea with him last week and looked him up afterwards in
Who's Who
. Political gentleman it seems. Of course, it may turn out to be someone else and not Mr. Baird at all. Identification won't be too easy. Mr. Eyton said he was going to risk that. It wasn't libellous to say a man had been murdered.”

“Did Mr. Eyton say what he was doing here?” the colonel asked.

“Said he was doing a series of articles on the forest at night time,” the superintendent explained. “Going to make a book of it seemingly. Said he was going to call it
Ghosts of the Forest
. Well, after this there ought to be a ghost about here all right.”

The colonel asked a few more questions. Oxley answered them, appealing now and then to Morris for further details. Bobby took no part in the conversation. He was content to listen, and he felt, not without amusement, that this modesty was making a good impression on his future colleagues.

“We rang through to Mr. Baird's London address,” Oxley added, “but there was no answer. We can't do much more till morning. I'll have the debris raked over again when it's daylight. There were just a few things we got together. There's a photo, of a lady that's not been damaged at all.” 

He pointed to where a small pile of miscellaneous objects lay, none apparently of much importance, some so damaged by the fire as to be almost unrecognizable, mere melted lumps of metal. The photograph to which Oxley referred had somehow escaped all damage. Bobby picked it up carefully by one corner, using his handkerchief to make sure he disturbed no possible finger-prints. It was an almost mechanical action. There was a small gold badge, too, which also seemed to have escaped damage, though gold melts easily. Like the photograph, it must somehow have escaped the heat of that blaze which had destroyed so much. Odd, Bobby thought, and more odd still, he thought it, when, on inquiry, he learned that both objects had been found close to, but apart from, the heap of charred and twisted wood and metal that was all that remained of the caravan. He went back to where the colonel was standing and showed him the photograph.

“I thought you ought to see this, sir,” he said.

The colonel looked at it. He did not show any surprise, but it was a minute or two before he spoke. Then he said:—

“May Grayson, isn't it?”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Bobby.

“Would that be a relative, sir?” asked Inspector Morris.

“I don't think so,” the colonel answered, “but I believe she was a friend of Mr. Andrew White's.”

The name did not seem to convey anything to either Oxley or Morris, nor had there been anything in the colonel's slow, indifferent tone to attract their attention. Only Bobby thought he could detect an undercurrent of a deep unease. The colonel noticed the gold badge Bobby was holding. He put out his hand, took it, looked at it carefully.

“Oh, yes,” he said in the same indifferent, almost uninterested tones. “The last eight at the Southpool tennis tournament this spring were given them. Becky had one. I wonder how this one got here.” He gave it back to Bobby and spoke to Oxley:— “Nothing else we can do to-night. Carry on, Oxley. You had better leave two men here for the rest of the night, I think. You can spare them somehow. In the morning we'll have another look. Nothing to show it's not been an accident, I think?”

“Oh, no, sir,” agreed Oxley. “Accident almost certainly. Not that a blaze like that would have left much to go on in any case. We'll get the doctors on the job, of course, though there's little but burnt bones for them to work on.”

The colonel nodded and turned back towards his waiting car. His shoulders drooped. He had the air of a very old man. He said to Bobby:—

“I'll drop you in Midwych. I want you to get in touch with Eyton.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bobby, who had the same idea but who had preferred to wait for instructions, for it was beginning to seem to him that these were slippery paths on which now their feet were set.

“Find out what he is putting in his articles; if there is anything more he has not told us,” the colonel continued. “Try to make out whether he has any real reason for talking about murder or if he only wants to work up a sensation. I expect there'll be someone still at the office of the
Midwych News
, and very likely they'll be able to give you his address. Oxley and Morris are taking it as an accident, but you think it's murder, don't you?”

“There is no proof of that as yet, sir,” Bobby answered cautiously.

“No, I know, but it's what you think,” Glynne answered. After a pause, he added: “So do I.”

The
Midwych News
does not go to press at so early an hour as do those ‘national' papers, whose endeavour is to appear on the universal breakfast table from one end of the country to the other. Their offices were still in full activity when Bobby, duly deposited in the town by his new chief, arrived to ask for Mr. Eyton. He had gone home, but Bobby got his address. Fortunately it was not far, and the constable of the city police, with whom he had been provided as guide, took him there by a short cut through side streets.

The hour was late by now, but a light in the window, the rattle of a typewriter, suggested that Mr. Eyton was still busy, making the most of his ‘scoop'. Bobby's knock brought him to the door in person, the other inmates of the house having probably retired for the night. He was a small, plump, middle-aged man, rather prim in dress and manner, with small, inquisitive eyes behind large, rimless spectacles. He seemed a little surprised when he saw Bobby's tall form.

“Oh, I thought it was someone from the office,” he said, blinking up at him. “Are you police? I've told everything I know, I think, but come along in.”

He led the way into a small room, fitted up much like an office, with two large card index cabinets, an enormous stationery cabinet, shelves filled with row upon row of box files, all neatly labelled, and a few, but not many, reference books. On the gas fire a kettle was boiling, and on the oak writing table stood a tin of cocoa, a cup, milk and other requirements, as also a typewriter, a pile of newly-completed scrip and another pile of fresh paper.