Free Murder Abroad by E.R. Punshon Page B

asked.
    â€œOh, 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.”
    â€œThe police?” Bobby asked.
    â€œThe 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.”
    â€œI’ve heard that before. I expect it’s true,” agreed Bobby meekly.
    â€œBut 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.”
    â€œDo they think he is guilty?”
    Shields shrugged his shoulders.
    â€œImpossible 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.”
    â€œWhy was Camion suspected?”
    â€œWell, 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.”
    â€œWas there anything else against him?”
    â€œHe 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.”
    â€œBut wasn’t she rather elderly?”
    â€œOh, yes. But they think she paid him. And they think he got so shocked and fed up he did her in.”
    Bobby blinked.
    â€œLook 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?”
    â€œA bit complicated,” Shields grinned, “but that’s about it.”
    â€œSound’s a bit topsy-turvy to me,” said Bobby.
    â€œMind 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