Murder Abroad (8 page)

“Well, if they did, would it be possible?”

“It might be done,” the elder Camion agreed though somewhat hesitatingly. “It would be difficult, success would be quite a triumph. There is the great crevasse it would be necessary to cross. That alone would require help and ropes. Doubtless it could be accomplished, but hardly in a single day. And if one were alone and met with an accident, even slight, or got lost—finished,” declared the hotel-keeper with emphasis. “But why should one try?” he asked and wandered away, evidently puzzled that so mad an idea should ever have occurred to any one.

“One of the village lads did get lost on the Massif a few months ago,” Shields remarked. “He was still alive when they found him, but he died from the exposure.”

“I heard about that,” observed Bobby. “Some one up there always shows a light now after dark, doesn't he? A sort of guide?”

“That's right,” said Shields. “Excommunicated priest—and they don't excommunicate priests for nothing. I wonder sometimes what that lantern is really shown for.”

“You mean?” asked Bobby, startled.

“Did you know there was a murder here some months ago?” Shields countered.

“I think I've heard of it,” Bobby said. “An English woman, wasn't it? A Miss Polthwaite?”

“That's right,” Shields said again. “I knew her slightly—old friends in a way though we never got intimate. Fussy old girl but not a bad sort. I used to have to come over here to pay her a visit at times. Bit of a drag, I found it. She liked to play at being an artist and I gave her a few hints sometimes.” He smiled faintly. “It was really I who told her about the Pépin Mill. I panicked a bit when I found she was looking for a place round my way so I headed her off here as I happened to know about the Pépin Mill. Had had a look at it myself but decided on Barsac instead. And I definitely didn't want her too near. She would have been on my doorstep all day and every day, wanting to know this and that. Makes me feel a bit responsible sometimes. I don't care about the idea that if I hadn't mentioned the Pépin Mill to her she might be alive still. I mentioned other places too, of course. I really wanted her further away if possible. There was a place at Vienne I thought would suit her down to the ground but she took a great fancy to the mill here. Picturesque sort of place, I know. But I hate to think I ever told her about it. Suicide they say. I wonder?”

“Do you think it's possible it was something else?” Bobby asked gravely.

“Yes, I do. She wasn't a rich woman really. Lived on a small annuity. Told me so herself. But the story got about that she had money. There's an old blind beggar goes about here and he spread the story. He's responsible for half the gossip that goes on and that's plenty.”

“The Père Trouché?” Bobby asked.

“Oh, you've heard of him. Mischief-making old scamp. Ought to be drowned or something. He tells spicy bits about their neighbours to people and then he gets handouts. Kind of blackmail to keep his tongue quiet very often, I expect. Anyhow, the story got about that she had what they call a stocking here and next thing she is found at the bottom of the well. Very likely it's all right, but I don't like it. Nothing you can do, of course, but sometimes I lie awake at night and—well, wonder.”

“The police?” Bobby asked.

“The French police are about the best in the world,” Shields pronounced. “Scotland Yard.” He made a slight gesture of contempt. “Dull. Routine. Red Tape. No imagination.”

“I've heard that before. I expect it's true,” agreed Bobby meekly.

“But even the French police can't do miracles,” Shields continued. “They went into the whole thing very thoroughly. I will say that for them. Made up a procès-verbal a mile long and then turned it down with a ‘non-lieu' as they call it. Questioned me about our being friends, and how, and why, and what for, and what did I know? which wasn't much. Grilled the young fellow here, young Camion, for half a day over at Clermont.”

“Do they think he is guilty?”

Shields shrugged his shoulders.

“Impossible to say what they think, but anyhow there was nothing they could prove. The village still gets a kick out of thinking that perhaps it was him after all. Gives them a thrill to think they may have a murderer in their midst. People come out here just to look at him. Fascinated. Morbid, I suppose. Law-abiding sort of people, these, and murder's a new idea to them. They'll skin you to your last sou in honest bargaining but serious crime's practically unknown.”

“Why was Camion suspected?”

“Well, for one thing, immediately after the murder, he visited the évêché—diocese headquarters, you know, where the bishop hangs out. Only a bishop can give absolution for murder and all the village was sure Camion went to confess the murder and get absolution. All rot, I expect. Anyhow he either didn't get absolution or he didn't get much of a penance, for he's been carrying on much the same ever since. But that visit to the bishop's place fairly damned him in the eyes of all the village.”

“Was there anything else against him?”

“He was friendly with the old girl. He used to go there. She was trying to paint his portrait—awful bit of work. Naturally as he was often there pretty late, the village was quite sure she was his mistress.”

“But wasn't she rather elderly?”

“Oh, yes. But they think she paid him. And they think he got so shocked and fed up he did her in.”

Bobby blinked.

“Look here,” he said. “Have I got this straight? The idea is she was his mistress though she was old enough to be his mother and after he had taken her money he killed her in an access of moral indignation?”

“A bit complicated,” Shields grinned, “but that's about it.”

“Sound's a bit topsy-turvy to me,” said Bobby.

“Mind you,” Shields said earnestly. “To my mind, it's all poppycock. Miss Polthwaite wasn't that sort. She took a fancy to the boy. He's good-looking enough, Lord knows, to take any old maid's fancy. I believe there was some question of her lending him money. She hinted as much to me. I told her not to be a fool. He has ambitions, that youngster. Means to be a great hotelier, a new Ritz. Dreams of the Camion as the leading hotel in every capital. The Camion in New York, the Camion in London, the Camion in Paris, in Buenos Aires, in Rio de Janeiro, everywhere. And then politics, to put the world straight. Oh, quite a programme. If you can manage a big hotel, you can manage a country. He told me that once. Miss Polthwaite was to give him his big start. But it was all on the Up and Up—on her side. Sort of maternal instinct. The French don't go strong for maternal instinct between an elderly spinster and a handsome boy. Not their line of country. I don't know that it's mine either. Most likely the boy himself expected to pay in the only way he could. Well, there it is. The village half believes he was the murderer and more than half approves. Thinks she got what was coming to her. But they've the wind up, too, for fear he continues. I suppose that happens. You bring it off once and you think you can again. Why not?”

“Well, I hope whoever is guilty will be caught some day,” Bobby said. “Not that it would do poor Miss Polthwaite much good.”

“No,” agreed Shields, “she's not interested. She was a fair age, anyhow. Nothing much to lose, only getting older and lonelier all the time. I daresay she was spared a lot.” Perhaps thinking that this sounded callous, he added: “She was a good friend of mine; no one felt it more, what happened, I mean. No one.” He shook his head. “Well, these things have to be,” he said, “but I don't mind saying it shook me, shook me badly.”

Bobby said sympathetically that it was no wonder, and then added:

“I thought of trying to do the Pépin Mill some time. I thought it ought to make rather a good sketch when I was by there last night.”

“I've done it myself two or three times,” Shields said. “One sunset piece I thought not bad. I'll show it you if you come over to my place some time. There are English people there now. Did you know?”

“Yes, I had a chat with them the other evening. Williams is the name, isn't it?”

Shields nodded. He appeared to hesitate. He leaned across the table and said in a confidential whisper:

“Scotland Yard.”

Bobby gasped, for the moment thinking that his own identity had somehow become known.

“Scotland Yard,” repeated Shields. “Williams, I mean. He's over here to see if he can find out anything about Miss Polthwaite's death.”

“Oh,” said Bobby feebly. “Oh—how interesting. Are you sure?”

“Oh, yes, he started asking questions and it came out. Keep it under your hat though.”

“Of course,” said Bobby, still more feebly.

Shields got to his feet.

“Well, I must be off,” he said. “Glad to have met you. Quite a coincidence to run up against another English artist, especially one who isn't a cubist or a squarist or any other of the fashionable ists. Only mind you, don't run away with the idea that I'm an old stick-in-the-mud. Good work. That's my idea. Some of the Victorian stuff was pretty sticky, of course. But look at Holman Hunt now, or Millais. Take some beating still. I agree that Landseer or Gustave Doré were rather awful—I was looking at some of Doré's illustrations the other day. A pain in the neck, that's all you can say. What do you think?”

“I've hardly ever seen anything of Doré's,” Bobby answered. “I've always thought that anyhow Landseer knew how to draw.”

Shields was looking at his watch.

“I must be off,” he repeated. “I'm popping round now to have a word or two with the schoolmaster chap here before I go. I got a bit pally with him when I used to run over to see poor old Miss Polthwaite. He's rather an intelligent chap. No time to lose or I'll be getting stranded at Clermont—the last train Barsac way leaves pretty early.”

“Awkward if you miss it,” Bobby suggested.

“.Oh, if I do, I'll walk,” Shield said cheerfully. “Shan't mind that, though. Fifteen miles and I shall enjoy every step. I like a walk at night sometimes, good for the eyes, too. Rests them and trains them at the same time till you can see in the dark nearly as well as by day. A little gift of mine I've cultivated. But when it comes to walking, the curé here has me dead beat. He's got quite a name for the way he marches up and down the roads, walks for miles and no one knows why, unless it's to say his prayers.” Therewith he took his departure, leaving Bobby with much to think about.

Over on the hill-side, too, high above the village, shone out that distant light in which Shields seemed inclined to suspect some hidden, sinister significance.

Bobby's intention had been to spend the rest of the evening in the cafe he had visited before, in further pursuance of his plan of making himself as familiar and friendly with the villagers as possible.

His talk with Shields, however, had given him so much to think about, had seemed to make it so necessary to get some kind of order into the confused tangle of his ideas, that instead he went up to his room and sat there at the window, trying to sort out his impressions and to decide what to do next, whether he ought now to report to the authorities his discovery of the diamonds in the church or whether he should still preserve silence about that curious and somewhat disconcerting fact. Then, too, there was the troubling statement that Williams apparently claimed to be a Scotland Yard man.

Could it be, Bobby wondered, that Williams was a private detective employed by some one who knew of Miss Polthwaite's hidden hoard? If so, who was that employer? In that case he might really be a retired police officer. Retired Scotland Yard inspectors and superintendents sometimes take up private detective work. So sometimes do those who have not retired but been dismissed. In some such complication lay, it seemed to Bobby, a possible explanation both of the shot he had heard and of the denial by the Williamses that anything of the kind had happened. Or was this Scotland Yard claim entirely unfounded, and if so why was it made?

It was a clear and lovely night with a young moon near to setting and stars brilliant in the heavens above, numerous and bright as they seldom are in English skies. One or two constellations Bobby could name, and then on the distant hill-side he saw a twinkling, stationary light that he took to be the lantern hung out by the Abbé Taylour, the supposedly excommunicated priest of English birth or extraction, of whom Shields had spoken with so much doubt.

Suddenly Bobby made up his mind. He would take a walk up there and try to form his own judgment. Also he decided it would be a good plan to try to make friends with the Père Trouché, the blind beggar of Citry-sur-l'eau as he called himself. According to Shields he was general gossip-in-chief to the neighbourhood and probably—for adequate remuneration—would be willing enough to tell anything he knew.

These decisions come to, Bobby went to bed, slept soundly, and after a breakfast that seemed less tenuous now since his previous night's dinner was still more than a mere memory, he asked to be provided with a picnic lunch, procured his sketching materials, and sallied forth on what he hoped would be regarded as merely a search for fresh subjects for his pencil.

His way led him past the church. He entered. The little bare building was quite empty. Bobby went to where the black Virgin watched from her high pedestal as she had done through so many centuries, through so many changes. There were fresh flowers on the narrow shelf at her feet. But when Bobby got a chair and stood on it, balancing himself with difficulty, and looked, he saw that the diamonds were no longer there.

Presumably the curé had removed them. Why? Because he was suspicious? Suspicious of what? Of Bobby himself? Of theft? Or of—discovery?

Anyhow, it would be useless now to make to the authorities a report of the truth of which he could offer no proof. He went back to the door of the church. The curé was in the poor and meagre garden of the presbytery, searching through the scant foliage of some pea plants that looked too thin and of too feeble a growth to have produced any pods. However, the curé seemed to find some, for it was with quite a satisfied air that he returned to the house, carrying with him a small basket.