The Dusky Hour (21 page)

He said this very angrily, apparently considering Bobby was to blame for the suggestion. But Bobby had never been able to feel there was much sense in the ever popular game of pretending that facts aren't there, and it was entirely obvious that what he had suggested was what any prosecution would advance. Their business, prosecuting counsel would argue, was with what happened, not with guesses about unknown men whose very existence merely depended on the word of one easily mistaken witness. Not much help there, Bobby felt, if Ena Moffatt was to escape the danger threatening her.

The car stopped. They got out and knocked. Reeves appeared and regretted that Mr. Moffatt was out. Young Mr. Moffatt was in town. Miss Moffatt was in the drawing room, and no doubt would be very pleased to see them.

“Tell her,” said the colonel, “a handbag has come into our possession and we would like to know if she can identify it as hers.”

Reeves departed with his message, and Ena appeared at once.

“Oh, have you got my bag?” she cried excitedly. “Oh, I am glad. Do come in. Wherever was it? Did someone find it? I am glad. Have you got it with you?”

They followed her into the drawing-room, where she had been engaged in her customary variety of occupations, by the testimony of the wireless she now turned off, a half knitted jumper with the needles still in it, an open novel, a letter apparently just begun, not to mention a plainly disgruntled Persian kitten stretching itself before the fire as if just disturbed from a comfortable and soothing lap.

The colonel produced the handbag.

“I may take it it is yours?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” she said, and looked a little surprised when, though she held out her hand for it, the colonel did not at once give it to her. “Where did you get it?” she asked. “I thought I had left it in town, at a club I belong to, but they said they hadn't seen it. You don't know how glad I am to get it back.”

She was still holding out her hand for it, and the colonel was still holding it in his. He said:

“I ought to tell you we found it in a suit-case we have reason to believe belonged to the man killed in Battling Copse.”

Ena stared, her eyes opened to their widest, and that was very wide indeed.

“Good gollywogs!” she said slowly, and repeated the phrase, for it was one of her own invention and she was in secret a little proud of it. “Good gollywogs, however did he get hold of it?”

Her air of extreme surprise seemed genuine enough. But the colonel knew that all women are born actresses. His manner was still severe and gloomy as he continued:

“I felt it was necessary to make sure you recognised the handbag as yours.”

“Of course it's mine,” Ena said, looking less surprised now, and instead puzzled and even annoyed, as the solemnity of the colonel's voice and manner began to impress her. “Can I have it, please?” she said, holding out her hand again.

“I am afraid it will have to be produced at the inquest,” the colonel told her. “It will be necessary, too, to call you as a witness. You will be asked to explain how it came to be where it was found.”

“But I don't know. I haven't an idea. How can I?” Ena protested. She was beginning to look frightened now. “I haven't an idea,” she repeated.

“You will also be asked,” the colonel continued, “whether you are quite sure you are correct in saying you have never seen Bennett before. You will, of course, be on oath.”

“Oh,” gasped Ena. “Oh.”

There was no doubt now but that she was thoroughly frightened. The colonel got to his feet.

“I am not going to ask you any questions,” he said. “I think it advisable for you to consult Mr. Moffatt. I should suggest legal assistance, too. Of course, that is for you and Mr. Moffatt to decide. All I wish to do to-night is to be sure that you recognise the handbag as yours, and to inform you that your presence at the inquest will be necessary. You will probably be questioned about it, and also about certain letters in it that may be thought to have some bearing on the case. It is very largely on account of those letters that I think you would be wise to secure legal assistance.”

Ena looked not only thoroughly frightened, but also even more bewildered.

“I... I...” she stammered. “I don't know what you mean,” she burst out. “Please, can't I have my handbag now? It's mine, isn't it? Why can't I have it? It's the letters. I must have them before anyone sees them.”

“You will be questioned about them,” the colonel repeated.

“Oh, but I can't be,” said Ena, with much decision.

“It will depend on the coroner,” the colonel told her. “As in my opinion the handbag and its contents provide important and relevant evidence, it will be my duty to place them in his hands.”

“Oh, you mustn't,” Ena cried. “I mean, not the letters, not for anything. You see,” she explained, “they are just simply, most awfully horrid.”

The colonel made no comment. He knew that already. He was edging towards the door. Ena made a run and got between him and it. She wasn't so much frightened now as angry – though anger is a poor word to use. No fury like Ena in a paddy, her brother had once said, and she was at the moment fully living up to that fraternal judgment. She and the colonel faced each other. A slightly awe-struck Bobby looked on and thanked all the gods that be that he wasn't in the colonel's shoes. The absolute silence in the room was broken only by the purring of the kitten, now reconciled by the warmth of the fire to the loss of even so comforting a lap as Ena's. Ena herself was dead white with rage. The colonel was nearly as pale, though with him it showed more, he having no make-up to disguise his pallor. Ena said in a penetrating whisper:

“You haven't – read them?”

The colonel said nothing.

Ena understood his silence. She said very loudly and distinctly:

“You cad!”

“Miss Moffatt,” said the colonel, “no purpose is served by continuing this extremely distressing and painful scene.”

“Painful yourself!” said Ena.

Then she boxed his ears. Good and hard. Bobby gave a little gasp. Never, never in his wildest dreams had he ever thought to witness such a thing. Chief constable of a county, too, and how clearly Bobby perceived what advantage sometimes appertains to the mere sergeant's humbler rank. The colonel was superb. He could not prevent himself from staggering slightly under the impetus of what may be fairly described as a good in-swinger from the right, beautifully timed, most accurately aimed. Nor was it his fault that a kind of crimson splash, so to say, appeared promptly where ear and Ena had made such resounding contact. But that was all. The incident passed without further comment, as the newspapers would have said. He made her a little bow.

“We must be going now,” he said. “Ready, sergeant?”

 Ena collapsed into a chair and wept aloud.

The colonel passed through the door into the hall. His gait was stately and unmoved. Bobby followed. As he went he cast one awe-struck glance at Ena. She wailed: “They aren't mine, and I promised no one should see them – oh, oh, oh.”

“Eh?” said Bobby. “What's that?”

Ena sprang to her feet, the tears streaming down her face till, in comparison, Niobe would have seemed a mere spot of Sahara.

“Jane's father's a dean, and awfully, awfully strict,” she lamented. “Oh, whatever shall I do?”

Bobby dashed after the colonel, who, absorbed in his own thoughts and quite unaware that Bobby was not with him, had entered the waiting car and had just signalled to the driver to start.

“Beg pardon, sir,” Bobby panted, for he had come at a run. “I think there's a mistake, sir. It's someone called Jane. Her father's a dean.”

“Mr. Moffatt,” said the colonel, coldly and decisively, “is not a dean.”

“No, sir, that's Jane, sir – I mean, Jane's father,” Bobby explained. “They aren't Miss Moffatt's at all; they are Jane's.”

He explained further. They returned to the drawing room, where Ena still wept, huddled in a chair.

“Go away,” said Ena, seeing them appear again. “The dean will kill Jane, and Jane will kill me, and it's all you. Beasts!”

“Yes, yes, quite so,” said the colonel soothingly. “Do you mean those letters were not written to you?”

“Of course they weren't,” said Ena, sitting up. “I wouldn't let any boy write to me like that. I think it's simply disgusting of you if you think I would.”

“They were in your handbag,” the colonel pointed out as meekly as ever yet did colonel speak since colonels were.

“Jane gave them me to read,” Ena explained. “Her dad's dean of St. Ermines. Most likely he'll be a bishop someday, unless Jane can stop it. He's most frightfully strict, so, of course, Jane's a bit the other way. It's reaction or something, she says; and then she likes it – she really enjoys cocktails,” said Ena, slightly bewildered at the idea, “and she said those letters were awful fun. It's some man she met at Brighton. She stays with an aunt there, and so she always goes for a long walk on the Downs in the afternoon when there's
thé dansants
at the hotels. That's where she met this boy, and she gave me his letters because they would make me laugh my head off, she said, but they don't a bit; they're just silly and rather beastly. I was just writing when you came in to tell Jane I had lost them somehow and they weren't funny a bit, only silly. You can read it if you like.”

She indicated the half-written letter she had been busy with when they entered. The colonel gave it a glance where it lay open on Ena's blotting-pad. The colonel beamed. His ear was still sore, but what did he care?

“My dear child – my dear young lady – my dear Miss Moffatt,” he babbled, “relieved... enormously... great relief... very much... comfort...”

“It won't be a comfort to Jane, if you go and tell on her,” Ena said.

“I don't think it will be in the least necessary for anything to be said now,” the colonel declared. “So long as the letters have no connection with the murder, there will be no need to.”

Ena was beginning to see light now.

“My sacred gollywogs !” she exclaimed, using the strongest expression she knew. “Did you think it was me?”

The colonel said nothing, but the red patch in the neighbourhood of his ear became merged in one universal spreading crimson that bathed his countenance from cheek to chin.

Ena said:

“Well!”

But how she said it!

It made the colonel feel about a foot high. Bobby felt a little less than that. Ena surveyed them both.

“Well!!” she said again.

Once again the only sound in that silent room was the purring of the contented kitten by the fire.

“I think,” said the colonel, trying to sound brisk and cheerful, “now everything is satisfactorily cleared up, we had better be going. Ready, sergeant?”

“Yes, sir,” said Bobby with alacrity, and never were two of the masculine sex more ready, and indeed anxious, to depart from the company of a pretty girl.

“Good night,” said Ena coldly. “I'm not a bit sorry I slapped you.”

“I am,” said the colonel simply.

Ena was looking at herself in the glass.

“Me – murder,” she murmured. “Murder – me.” Unconsciously she put on a slight swagger. It was as if she felt she was quite as capable as anyone else of an odd assassination or two. “Oh, well,” she said tolerantly, “I suppose you didn't really mean anything, and if you really want to know who killed that poor man, I can tell you. It was Mr. Larson.”

“What's that?” said the colonel sharply.

Ena had turned to the mirror, endeavouring to repair the ravages recent events had caused to her complexion. She paused in the complicated and careful technique she was employing and repeated over her shoulder:

“It was Mr. Larson. Didn't you know?”

The colonel sat down heavily on the nearest chair and stared blankly at her. Bobby was reduced to the expedient of rubbing his nose and looking almost as helpless as he felt. Ena bestowed on them each a bright smile and resumed her task, giving it all the grave care and attention it required. The colonel looked at Bobby, and Bobby looked nowhere in particular. The colonel said:

“Miss Moffatt, do you realise what you are saying?” Ena turned and stared at him.

“Of course,” she said. She finished with her nose – and whether one prefers the feminine nose a violent red, or more white than nature ever meant a nose to be, must remain a matter of personal taste. She sat down, picked up the kitten, and said reflectively, “I look awful, don't I? It's the way you bullied me.”

“Eh? What?” exclaimed the colonel. “We? You?”

“I suppose,” said Ena complacently, “you always treat suspects like that. It's the third degree, isn't it? I expect you thought you would get me to confess, didn't you?”

It was a view of recent events the colonel found slightly bewildering. Reflectively he put up a hand to his still tingling ear. Third degree indeed! But he felt argument and remonstrance would be alike ineffective. He said:

“Miss Moffatt, you have made a very serious accusation.”

“Oh, I haven't,” she interrupted indignantly. “I only told you who did it.”

“I should like to know your reasons, if I may,” suggested the colonel.

“It isn't reasons,” Ena retorted with a certain contempt; “it's because I know. Anyone would if they had seen the way he looked at Gwendolene.”

“Gwendolene?” repeated the colonel, and Bobby produced his notebook, ready to take down full particulars of this fresh personality now appearing on the scene.

“Yes. Mr. Larson had been with dad talking about investments and things, and he came out of the room, and Gwendolene was there, and the way he looked at her, it was awful!” Ena sat upright. She squeezed the kitten so hard it emitted a protesting mew. “If it hadn't been for me, he would have killed her – that's how he looked; just too murderous. It saved her life, I'm sure, me being there.”