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  E.R. PUNSHON

  Information Received

  In his London townhouse, city magnate Sir Christopher Clarke is found lying murdered. At the other end of the house his safe hangs open and rifled, and earlier in the day he had visited his solicitors in order to make a drastic change in his will. Later it is discovered that there has been fraud connected with the dead man, and this is but one of the many complications with which Superintendent Mitchell is faced. Fortunately he has the assistance of young Constable Owen, a talented young Oxford graduate who, finding all other careers closed to him by the ‘economic blizzard’ of the early thirties, has joined the London Police force.

  Information Received is the first of E.R. Punshon’s acclaimed Bobby Owen mysteries, first published in 1933 and the start of a series which eventually spanned thirty-five novels.

  Introduction

  When E.R. Punshon (1874-1956) launched his Bobby Owen mystery series in 1933 with the publication of Information Received, his new detective novel got from Dorothy L. Sayers, already one of England’s most renowned mystery writers, the kind of book review most novelists have only ever dreamed of getting. Excerpts from the Sayers review would emblazon the dust jackets of Punshon mysteries for the next twenty-three years, until Punshon’s death in 1956, one year before Sayers’s own passing.

  “What is distinction,” Sayers asked rhetorically in her Sunday Times crime fiction column review of Information Received, before concluding that distinction’s name was Punshon. Sayers made clear that what she referred to here was not plotting distinction but literary distinction. It was literary distinction, she declared, that was “missed by scores of competent mystery writers who can construct impeccable plots. The few who achieve it step—plot or no plot—unquestioned into the first rank.” Sayers asserted that Punshon’s tales possessed qualities more important than those which arose from “the mere mechanics of puzzle-making,” namely “that elusive something which makes them count as literature” and “that enhanced and glorified reality which is the highest art.” The current Punshon mystery, Information Received, was, in Sayers’s view, “a real book, not assembled by a journeyman, but written, as a book ought to be, by a man who is a writer first and foremost.”

  Dorothy L. Sayers’s review of E.R. Punshon’s Information Received was a career-making moment for the lesser-known mystery writer, an epochal event in the life of a man who in 1933 was nearly sixty years old and had been publishing novels since the year of Queen Victoria’s death. Punshon’s novel Earth’s Great Lord, a romance of the Australian outback, had appeared in 1901, to be followed in 1905 by Constance West, a romance of the Canadian wilderness. After publishing a third mainstream novel, Rhoda in Between (1907), Punshon gave an early hint of his penchant for mystery-mongering, producing a couple of crime tales, The Mystery of Lady Isobel (1907) and The Spin of the Coin (1908), both more notable for sensational melodrama than sober detection. “Thrill succeeds thrill,” observed The Bookman of The Mystery of Lady Isobel, while the Morning Leader confidently declared: “Lovers of sensation will rejoice over The Spin of the Coin.”

  Of Punshon’s next dozen novels, at least four—Hidden Lives (1913), The Solitary House (1918), The Woman’s Footprint (1919) and The Bittermeads Mystery (1922)—can be characterized as crime novels, though to each still clings the heady aroma of Edwardian melodrama. Only in 1929 did Punshon make his bid as an author of more firmly puzzle-focused, fair play detective fiction in the modern, Jazz Age manner, with his Inspector Carter and Sergeant Bell mystery series, which ran through five novels into 1932. Although Dorothy L. Sayers had praised the Carter-Bell series as well, the plaudits she lavished on Information Received, Punshon’s first Bobby Owen detective novel, must have been, for both Punshon himself and his publisher, Ernest Benn, an unexpected blessing.

  Why was Sayers so powerfully struck by Information Received? Certainly at the time Sayers reviewed the novel she had become, through her reviews in the Sunday Times and other critical writings, perhaps the most vocal British exponent of transforming the traditional puzzle-oriented detective story into more of a novel of manners with crime, a process which she believed would lead the genre out of what she deemed its body-in-the-library creative dead-end. She saw in Punshon’s books, particularly Information Received, a mystery writer who could really write, someone interested in creating compelling stories of crime as it impacts psychologically credible people rather than merely fabricating intricate puzzles involving clichéd, cardboard characters.

  Information Received introduces a new series character, a handsome, modest young policeman named Bobby Owen, who features in all thirty-five mystery novels Punshon published under his own name between 1933 and his death in 1956 (he also published two mystery novels under a pseudonym, Robertson Halket, that do not feature Owen). Eventually attaining the rank of Commander, Bobby, as Punshon calls him, starts as a lowly constable in Information Received. An Oxford graduate (pass degree only), Bobby turned to the Metropolitan Police Service after finding before him “a world with but scanty openings to offer to young University graduates with only pass degrees.” At the start of Information Received, Bobby has served on the force for three years, during which “his most exciting experiences had been escorting old ladies across the road and satisfying the insatiable thirst of children for the right time.” Yet things are about to change, most drastically.

  Bobby is on the scene shortly after financier Sir Christopher Clarke is found in his billiard room, fatally felled by a couple of gunshot wounds to the chest. (“Close by lay a revolver, and an acrid smell of powder still lingered in the room. From two round, burnt holes in the dead man’s chest bubbles of blood were oozing with a slow and dreadful regularity.”) Soon on the scene as well is Superintendent Mitchell of the Criminal Investigation Department, a big, bluff, garrulous man who serves as Bobby’s mentor and the lead investigator in the early novels in the series. Given to quirky pronouncements (“A good detective never forgets his sandwiches…. That’s the first law of all sound detective work—don’t forget the sandwiches. We may have to wait here all day.”), Mitchell nevertheless has a wise head on his shoulders.

  Mitchell’s wise head is needed in the Sir Christopher Clarke murder case, where a goodly number of people seem to have had reasons for wanting the dead man permanently out of the picture. Although, to be sure, Information Received has a proto-Cluedo-style opening, with a rich man found murdered with a revolver in the billiard room, the ending is anything but a standard Golden Age device, drawing as it does on an older, richer literary source and Punshon’s “own keen insight into the characters of those under pressure,” as mystery scholar Nick Fuller has put it. As Dorothy L. Sayers wrote over eighty years ago, with Information Received E.R. Punshon crafted a detective novel of distinction—and even better ones were yet to come from the new mystery master’s hands.

  Curtis Evans

  CHAPTER 1

  TWO THEATRE TICKETS

  Since that formidable personage, Sir Christopher Clarke, square built, square jawed, iron of fist and will, with fierce little eyes that gleamed from under bushy brows as though they sought whom they might devour next, was by far the most important and influential client of Messrs Marsden, Carsley, and Marsden, Lincoln’s Inn, the well-known and long-established firm of solicitors, it is perhaps no matter for surprise that a certain nervousness, or even more than that, was apparent in the manner of the senior partner of the firm as he rose to greet him.

  But Sir Christopher was well used to seeing people nervous and uncomfortable in his presence. Was he not the strong, successful man, the man who knew what he wanted and saw that he got it; were not respect, deference, consideration, even fear, his rightful due? And if it was now even more than
fear that peeped from the dark, sharp eyes of Basil Marsden, Sir Christopher took that more as a compliment than anything else. After all, is it not natural to fear the strong, and was he not strong with the strength of a quarter of a million in cash and a credit as high as that of any man in the City of London? Why, but for the recent slump he would have been a millionaire by now, and even the slump had affected him as little as any man.

  So if he noticed the terror that seemed to show in the dark, sharp eyes, if he noticed a certain trembling in the white, well-cared-for hands that moved about the papers on the lawyer’s desk, he took no notice. He said:

  ‘About the Belfort Trust?’

  ‘I have the papers here,’ answered Mr Marsden. ‘The accounts show a total of a little over £20,000. A large sum,’ he smiled, ‘and as in these days of smash and grab raids, one never knows, I asked Carsley to go himself to the Safe Deposit to fetch it, and take two of the clerks with him, just so as to be on the safe side. It’s nearly all in bearer bonds, you remember. Better safe than sorry is a good motto. I think Carsley was almost disappointed nothing happened.’

  ‘Carsley is a partner now, isn’t he?’ Sir Christopher asked.

  A little surprised at the question, Mr Marsden nodded.

  ‘Now he’s passed his examinations,’ he said, a trifle maliciously. ‘He didn’t find it too easy, I’m afraid.’

  Sir Christopher made no comment but the tone in which this was said had not escaped his notice. It was perhaps not unnatural that Basil Marsden, who had had sole control of the firm for a good many years, was not altogether pleased at having to admit as a partner on equal terms young Peter Carsley, the son of the original Carsley. But as partner he had had to be admitted, or else bought out at a price it would not have been convenient to pay. So installed in a partner’s room young Peter Carsley sat, though as yet very insecurely in the saddle and with hardly more knowledge of the business than any junior clerk – and indeed as a very junior clerk Marsden seemed more than half inclined to treat him.

  Now Marsden got up and opening the door called into an adjoining room:

  ‘Peter, bring me the Belfort Trust papers, will you? Securities and all. They’re in the safe, you know. Dickson has my key.’

  Closing the door, he came back to his seat.

  ‘Carsley won’t be a minute,’ he said. ‘May I ask, is it the intention to close the Trust?’

  ‘You don’t want that, eh?’ chuckled Sir Christopher. ‘Pretty profitable bit of business, eh?’

  Marsden laughed, too.

  ‘Well, we’ve had it a long time,’ he said. ‘I suppose old Mr Belfort ...?’

  ‘Fussing a bit,’ admitted Sir Christopher. ‘He wants to see all papers, bonds, securities, everything himself. Natural, in a way, as he is taking over now his brother’s died. I shall tell him if he can find another trustee to act in my place, I shall be grateful. I have quite enough on my hands, as it is, and the hundred a year I get as trustee doesn’t pay me for my time.”

  Mr Marsden gave an acquiescent murmur though, as, to his certain knowledge, Sir Christopher had never given to the Trust more time than was required for the signing of an occasional paper now and again, he was inclined to think Sir Christopher earned his hundred easily enough. Still, it was true this old Mr Belfort, suddenly imported into the affair through the death of another trustee, seemed inclined to be officious. But then again Sir Christopher wouldn’t mind that, provided Mr Belfort confined his officiousness to worrying not his fellow trustee but the Trust’s solicitor. Probably Sir Christopher would not care if this fussy old man wanted to do everything himself, instead of leaving everything to the others, as his recently deceased brother had been content to do.

  There was a pause while they still waited for Peter Carsley. Sir Christopher, little used to waiting, looked frowningly at the door, and Mr Marsden suddenly remembered.

  ‘Oh, Sir Christopher,’ he said, ‘a boy left your theatre tickets this morning – here they are.’

  ‘Theatre tickets?’ repeated Sir Christopher. ‘What theatre tickets?’

  ‘From the Regency,’ explained Mr Marsden, producing an envelope with the imprint of that well-known theatre and marked ‘Two stalls’. He added: ‘I went with a friend the other night. I had no idea Shakespeare was so interesting. I didn’t find it at all boring, not at all.’

  He paused, for Sir Christopher was looking in a puzzled way at the envelope the lawyer had handed him.

  ‘Some mistake,’ he said. ‘I’ve not booked any seats anywhere. Who left it here?’

  ‘A boy from the theatre,’ Marsden explained, looking puzzled in his turn. ‘It’s addressed to you, in our care, so we thought it was all right.’

  ‘I see it’s my name,’ grunted Sir Christopher, opening the envelope. ‘Two stalls for to-night, apparently, but there’s no–’

  He paused abruptly, and Marsden saw that he had become pale, that in his small, fierce eyes had crept what almost seemed a sudden terror. His hand shook that held the tickets, and all at once he looked a smaller, frailer man, as if in that one moment something had gone out of him, something that left him naked and afraid.

  For the moment Marsden almost supposed that he was dreaming, for what could there be in two theatre tickets to throw into this sudden panic the strong, the successful, the prosperous wealthy man of business?

  Sir Christopher got up suddenly and went to the window. He threw it open and leaned out, far out, as if he had great need of air, and for a moment Marsden played with the idea of creeping up behind and taking him by the legs and throwing him out.

  A foolish, impracticable idea, of course. Besides, the Marsden, Carsley, and Marsden offices were on the first floor of the building and a fall would hardly have been fatal, not immediately fatal at any rate. Anyhow, the opportunity passed, for Sir Christopher turned back into the room and very slowly, very deliberately, tore envelope and tickets in half and threw them down on the floor.

  ‘Trying to frighten me,’ he said between his teeth, more to himself than to Marsden, and Marsden wondered bewilderedly why a gift of two stalls for a successful Shakespeare revival should be supposed to be an attempt to frighten a man like Sir Christopher. It was said that the finest performance of Hamlet for two generations was to be seen just now at the Regency, and what was there about that to alarm any man? But Sir Christopher was looking straight in front of him as grimly as though he saw there some strange enemy, and though his great clenched fist on the table before him was steady enough, there was still that dark look of terror in his eyes – of terror mastered and held down no doubt, but of terror all the same. He said heavily: ‘It doesn’t matter... it makes no difference... Marsden, I’ll make a fresh will.’

  ‘Now, to-day?’ stammered Marsden, more and more astonished.

  ‘Now, to-day,’ repeated Sir Christopher, glaring at him as if daring him to say a word, and the door opened and young Peter Carsley came in rather quickly, carrying a sealed packet in his hands.

  ‘I’m so sorry I’ve been so long,’ he said. ‘We couldn’t get the safe open at first.’

  Peter was a tall, fair, good-looking youngster, with grey eyes, prominent, well-shaped nose, a strong, even obstinate-looking mouth and chin, and a direct, rather blunt manner. That he had had some difficulty in passing his final examinations is a fact that must not be concealed, but at any rate he had got through in the end, even though the intensive effort required had quite likely cost him his chance of representing England against Wales at Twickenham – and whether the gain was worth the sacrifice he was in his secret heart not quite sure.

  He greeted Sir Christopher now with a certain restraint and Sir Christopher’s manner to him was far from cordial, indeed almost rude. Peter flushed a little, he had a trick of flushing, it was the secret shame of his inner life, and put down on the table the sealed packet he had brought with him.

  ‘This is the list of securities,’ he said, producing a typewritten document. ‘It’s not been checked yet.’r />
  ‘We’ll do that now,’ growled Sir Christopher. ‘Make sure they’re all there for Belfort to see. He’s coming to dinner to-night, and he can go through them afterwards to his heart’s content.’

  ‘Shall you be keeping them all night?’ Marsden asked, a little startled. ‘Isn’t that a trifle – dangerous? £20,000, almost all in negotiable stuff.’

  ‘I’ve a good safe,’ Sir Christopher retorted, ‘and I’m sorry for the burglar I lay hands on.’ He held out his hand as he spoke and certainly it looked one of which the grip would be formidable enough. ‘Besides, I keep a loaded six-shooter in my bedroom,’ he added.

  ‘But–’ began Marsden hesitatingly.

  ‘But what?’ grunted Sir Christopher. ‘I’ve had diamonds worth as much as that in the safe for three months now or longer – they’ve been all right.’

  He had rather a grim look as he spoke, and indeed his square-set figure, his fierce, glittering eyes and great hooked nose all gave him the look of some huge bird of prey it would be best not to meddle with. One felt it would be a rash thief indeed who ventured within his reach.

  Peter turned towards the door, and, as he did so, noticed the torn theatre tickets lying where Sir Christopher had thrown them down. He paused, surprised, and Sir Christopher said with an evident sneer:

  ‘Two stalls for a theatre. You can have them, if you like. I’m engaged.’

  Looking still more surprised, Peter picked them up.

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ he said, with the gratitude a gift of theatre tickets always evokes, and then with a certain disappointment: ‘Oh, Shakespeare.’

  ‘Prefer a musical show?’ asked Sir Christopher.

  ‘Well, yes, I do,’ confessed Peter. ‘They ram Shakespeare down your throat so at school, you do get fed up with him.’

  ‘Better go,’ grunted Sir Christopher. ‘It’ll improve your mind. They’re for to-night.’

  ‘Oh, for to-night, sorry, I’m engaged to-night,’ Peter answered, and put down the tickets on the corner of the table from which, with an angry gesture, Sir Christopher swept them to the floor as the door closed behind Peter.