“Can I get you a taxi?”
“No, thank you,” said Bohun. “I’ll walk.”
“Quite sure?”
“Thank you. I’ll be all right.”
“Well, I’ll ring you up if anything transpires. And you might keep in touch with me.”
“All right,” said Bohun. He went out quickly.
Hazlerigg watched him go and there was a thoughtful look in his grey eyes.
Bohun walked all the way home.
It had come to him quite suddenly: the monstrous idea that Bob Horniman really was a murderer and that he really was going to pay for it: was going to have his arms strapped to his side and a hood put over his head: was going to be made to stand on a chalked “T” on a trap; was going to have his neck snapped by the dead-fall of his own descending weight. Up to that moment he had been intrigued by the machinery of detection and had not cared to look beyond it.
Now he felt quite sick.
It was not that he knew Bob very well. He could hardly be described as a friend. But they had been at school together. And Bob had done well in the war, and had always shown himself very friendly to Bohun; and he was Bohun’s sort of person.
“If only he had stopped after the first one,” said Bohun. “That could have been forgiven. Not by the law perhaps—the law took an absurdly narrow-minded view of the sanctity of creatures like Marcus Smallbone—but by his friends. None of them would have moved a step in his detection. But to kill the pathetically stupid and harmless Miss Chittering. From motives of self-preservation—”
“I wouldn’t step under that bus, sir,” said the policeman at the Aldwych corner. “Not whilst it’s actually moving. Fatal accidents, very upsetting to the schedule.”
“I’m sorry, constable. I wasn’t looking.” Bohun proceeded more circumspectly, past the Law Courts and up Bell Yard. Another thought had occurred to him. What would his position have been as a partner, if Bob had completed the recently proposed deal? Suppose Bob had transferred his share in the partnership to him and removed himself quietly to a farm in Cornwall before anything had come to light. The demand from the Husbandmen for their June instalment of interest would, he imagined, have been the match which would finally have set off the powder keg. Suppose Bob had already extricated himself by that time?
“The man’s a crook,” said Bohun firmly. “Sympathy’s wasted on him. He’s also a particularly cold-blooded murderer.” A further instalment of awful thoughts. Was there not one person who, if their theories were correct, held Bob in the hollow of her hand? Anne Mildmay. They didn’t want to get back to the office on Monday morning and find that Anne had gone the same way as Miss Chittering.
Bohun, now back in his room, thought for a moment of ringing up Hazlerigg. Then he decided that this was a thing which he could settle for himself, with a little co-operation. There was at least one trustworthy ally to hand. He sought out Miss Cornel.
There was not much time for finesse.
“You’re pretty good friends with Anne Mildmay, aren’t you?” he said.
Miss Cornel looked faintly surprised, but confined herself to saying: “Yes.”
“Good. Could you possibly have her to stay with you this weekend?”
“Friday night to Sunday night?”
“That should cover it.”
“I could ask her,” said Miss Cornel. “No, wait a minute. It’s my Saturday morning on duty.”
“We’re not opening tomorrow morning,” said Henry. “I heard Mr. Craine saying so.”
“The firm’s going downhill,” said Miss Cornel. “I suppose it’s no use asking what this is all about?”
“I’d much rather you didn’t,” said Henry. “Just for forty-eight hours.”
Miss Cornel looked at him shrewdly.
“I see,” she said. “It’s like that, is it? All right, I’ll do what I can. Maybe she’ll have plans of her own, though.”
“Try and persuade her,” said Bohun. “Yes, Charlie. What is it?”
“Mr. Craine wants you, sir, right away.”
“All right.”
He found Mr. Craine reading a letter. The little man was as near worried as Bohun had ever seen him.
“We may need you yourself almost more than your money,” he said.
“What’s happened, sir?”
“Birley’s quit,” said Mr. Craine. “Here you are. It’s all in this letter. Lock, stock and barrel. He’s not even claiming his share in the equity.”
“What happens now?” said Bohun.
He felt a little dazed. He had a feeling that the next time he opened his eyes the Duchy of Lancaster would have taken over the firm.
“His share reverts, I imagine, to the other partners,” said Mr. Craine slowly. “You’ll be getting more for your money, that’s all.”
“I see,” said Henry. “Well, I ought to be in a position to let you have an answer one way or the other by Monday.”
It occurred to him that quite a lot of problems were due for solution over that weekend.
IV
The oddest event of an eventful day was yet to come.
Bohun left the office at six o’clock, went home and did absent-minded justice to one of Mrs. Magoli’s collations before setting out on his evening stroll. It was a night of low cloud, with rain behind the clouds, and he buttoned his mackintosh round his neck determined to keep his mind rigorously away from anything to do with Horniman and Birley and Craine.
It was outside the Temple Concert Hall that he saw a name. It was a poster announcing a performance that evening by the Equity Choir of Bach’s St. Matthew Passion. The leading soloists were well-known singers. And there it was, in smaller letters: “Second Tenor, Eustace Cockerill.”
“There couldn’t be two people with a name like that,” thought Bohun.
He pushed the door softly and went inside.
The small concert hall was packed, and as no one appeared to pay any attention to him he placed himself quietly behind a pillar and disposed himself to listen.
Part One of the performance was more than half over. The chorale, “Here would I stand,” drew to a close, and Bohun locating himself by means of the Tenor and Bass Recitatives that followed, knew that he had come in at exactly the right moment. The second choir were on their feet and he saw Cockerill get up quietly to join them.
There was an unmistakable touch of confidence in the way he held himself and after the first two notes of the “O Grief”, Bohun’s impression was confirmed. The man had a more than ordinarily fine voice. It was not one of the great tenor voices of the world. It lacked perhaps the tight consonantal finish which die-stamps the work of the professional; but full compensation was offered; the tone and the good temper and the clear sincerity of the singing. “Oh grief, how throbs His heavy laden breast. His spirit faints, how pale His weary face.” It was as if the singer was hearing the words for the first time. The mutter of the choir: “My Saviour, why must all this ill befall Thee?” The tenor voice spoke again: “He to the Judgment Hall is brought. There is no help, no comfort near.”
The words set off a train of pictures, like an uncut cinema film, starting with an old and evil judge mouthing over the words of the death sentence and finishing in a small concrete shed in a high-walled yard at dawn.
When he brought his thoughts back, Cockerill was on his feet again for his second solo. “I would beside my Lord be watching.” This is a difficult passage for any amateur, but the singer rode through it with a sort of innocent triumph, taking the long runs with perfect judgment, until it fell away into its final chorale.
“And so our sin will fall asleep. Will fall asleep. Our sin will fall asleep.”
Taking a quick look round him as the last notes died, Bohun saw that he was not alone in his appreciation. The audience having paid the tribute of silence and stillness to a moving performance, broke into the momentary shuffle which is the complement of this sort of attention.