by John Bude
The footprints definitely puzzled him. He had hoped by an examination of the cliff-path to settle on some definite clue, some means of identification. Of course, either Mrs. Mullion or Ruth Tregarthan might have committed the crime. Neither of them were above suspicion. Both had been on the cliff-path at a late hour, apparently unobserved, and both had had the opportunity to shoot Tregarthan through the window. These were two further lines of enquiry which would have to be followed up.
Beyond this—what did he know? Tregarthan had been shot at by a person or persons outside the house and that one of the bullets fired, seemingly from an Army Service revolver, had entered his skull and killed him instantaneously. So far no evidence had come to light that he had any special enemies; neither was it possible, at the moment, to fix any definite motive for the crime. It was probable on the other hand, considering the nature of the crime, that it was a premeditated affair—a matter, without much doubt, of malice aforethought. The criminal must have known that Tregarthan was in that particular room at that particular time, for, with the curtains drawn, it was impossible to see in through the window. In some way (and Bigswell made a note of this point) the murderer had attracted Tregarthan's attention so that he moved to the french windows, drew back the curtains and looked out into the night, offering a clear target against the brilliant light of the room. This fact seemed to rule out the idea of a homicidal maniac. Of course, there was the chance that Tregarthan might have been watching the storm over the sea, but from what he had learnt from Pendrill and the Vicar he was inclined to rule out this supposition. Tregarthan was a man of rigid habit, precise, not particularly imaginative and with little appreciation of nature and natural phenomena. Bigswell felt that it would take more than a storm effect over the sea to move Tregarthan from an easy-chair, where he had, by evidence supplied, been reading the newspaper, and take him to the window. Yet something had lured him to the window. What?
By this time the Inspector had reached the circular patch of gravel in front of the severe, stone façade of Greylings. But instead of entering the house, he dodged right, through the dark clump of laurels, and followed the tiny path which led over a broken stile and thus down the north side of the garden wall. Reaching the wall he climbed over it and, switching on his torch, he made a minute inspection of the narrow cement strip which ran under the french windows. From this the grass dipped in a brief bank to the level of the lawn, forming a small terrace. The cement was still damp, and on its smooth surface, thrown into relief by the slanting rays of the torch, were numbers of tiny pieces of gravel!
The Inspector gave a muffled grunt of satisfaction, and with the industry of a pecking hen his fingers darted here and there, until he had a collection of these small pieces in his hand. He returned again by the north track to the drive. In his left hand he scooped up a sample of the surface, and moving to the light shed from the hall windows, he made a careful comparison of the two specimens of gravel. To his amazement, for he had not expected this result, the two specimens coincided!
The gravel which had been thrown against the window to attract Tregarthan's attention was identical with the gravel on the other side of the house!
This he felt was important.
Drumming lightly on the front door, he was let into the hall by Grouch and proceeded to the sitting-room, where Grimmet, the chauffeur, was lounging in an arm-chair reading the paper. On seeing the Inspector he sprang up and stubbed out a half-smoked cigarette. Bigswell poured the two little heaps of gravel side by side on a table.
“What d'you make of those, Grouch?”
Grouch quizzed them for a moment.
“Same gravel, sir—in both heaps.”
The Inspector explained how he had collected the right-hand pile under the window.
“Does it strike you as peculiar at all, Grouch? I mean that the two heaps should be the same. What's the general run of stone round these parts?”
“Crushed limestone—slate—granite. That's as far as my knowledge carries me, anyway.”
“Then the gravel for the drive was imported stuff, eh?”
“That's right, sir,” exclaimed Grouch, who was beginning to realise the trend of these questions. “Not done so long ago neither. About three months since, I should say. I remember the stuff being unloaded from a lorry up on the road.”
“Nobody else in the place has used the same gravel to your knowledge, Grouch?”
“No, sir. Unless it's off my regular beat. Local stone—that's the cheapest road material and to my way of thinking ... the best!”
“Good,” ejaculated the Inspector with a brisk air. “This gets us somewhere at last. I think we can say that whoever murdered Tregarthan first snatched up a handful of gravel from the drive to throw against his window.” He paused for a moment, frowned, and went on. “But what puzzles me is why there are no footprints on that north track. The chap must have made a pretty wide detour, Grouch, to avoid leaving a clue. It argues a pretty keen intelligence. The whole business looks intelligent to my way of thinking—damn carefully thought out.” He took up his hat which he had set aside during the conversation and moved toward the door. “Well, Grouch, there's nothing more to be done to-night I'm afraid. You'd better stay here until you're relieved. I'll be over early in the morning. Nothing to be touched. Nobody to leave the house. Understand? We'll have to broadcast a description of that man on the drive and give the papers some details. It may bring a few people forward. Can't get it in until the midday editions now. There'll be an inquest of course. Let's see, what's to-day?”
“Monday, sir.”
“Probably on Wednesday or Thursday then. We must get hold of the midwife and anybody else who may have happened to be round about the house to-night. I'll see Miss Tregarthan and the Cowpers first thing in the morning. You've done well, Grouch. Good night.”
“Night, sir.”
The police chauffeur came forward and followed the Inspector out to the car. As they were about to step out on to the drive, however, there was the sound of rustling in the laurel bushes.
“Quiet!” hissed the Inspector, pulling the other man back into the shadow of a dumpy fir tree which grew beside the projecting wall of the stone porch. “Don't move, Grimmet.”
With great care the Inspector, making a peephole with cautious hands, peered out between the thick foliage.
A figure muffled in a thick coat with a high, fur collar came swiftly out of the bushes, hesitated a moment and crept on light toes across the crunchy gravel and slipped into the porch. They heard the front door being opened with a latchkey—the minutest scrape of the key against the lock—then a pause, as if the prowling figure was making certain that nobody in the house had overheard. But before the door could be as silently closed, Inspector Bigswell sprang from his hiding-place and thrust his toe into the shutting door.
There was a stifled cry from the other side, the door swung open and Inspector Bigswell found himself face to face with a wide-eyed and speechless young lady.
At the sound of the girl's involuntary cry, Grouch lumbered out of the sitting-room, where he had been running over his notes.
“Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “Miss Tregarthan!”
It was the Inspector's turn to show astonishment.
“Ruth Tregarthan!”
“That's right, sir. I'd no idea——”
“All right, Grouch.” He moved into the hall and shut the door. “Allow me to introduce myself, Miss Tregarthan—Inspector Bigswell of the Greystoke Division, County Constabulary.”
Ruth inclined her head but made no effort to reply. She seemed bewildered and shaken by this sudden encounter. Her eyes, still reddened by recently shed tears, moved this way and that with the helpless anxiety of a trapped animal.
Taking her arm the Inspector, followed by Grouch, led the way into the dining-room. He indicated the arm-chair where Ruth had already sat when answering the Constable's catechism.
“Now, Miss Tregarthan,” said the Inspector sternly. “Can yo
u give me some explanation as to why you left the house to-night when you had been expressly warned by the Constable not to do so? You understand of course that I'm bound to take a serious view of your action?”
Ruth nodded.
“I quite understand.”
“And you quite understood the Constable's order?”
“Yes.”
“And yet you left the house?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I couldn't sleep. I tried. But the horrible vision of my uncle as I found him to-night kept on floating before my eyes. I tried to shut away the picture. But I couldn't. I turned on the light.”
“When?”
“About ten minutes ago.”
“You were in the sitting-room then, sir,” interpolated Grouch.
The Inspector swung round smartly.
“All right, Grouch—I'll manage this.” He turned back to the girl. “You turned on the light—what then?”
“I felt restless. I felt I couldn't stay in the house a moment longer. So I slipped on a coat over my night-things and crept down the stairs.”
“Turning out the light?”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“I heard voices in the sitting-room, and knowing the Constable had orders not to let anybody leave the house, I crept across the hall and let myself out of the side-door.”
“Why?”
“I've told you! Don't you understand? I couldn't bear to be in the house any longer. My uncle lying there ...”
For a moment Ruth, burying her face in her hands, was unable to go on. Exhausted and shocked by all she had been through that night, her nerves gave way, utterly, and she began to sob.
The Inspector waited in silence until the girl gained control of her hysteria.
“And then?” he asked—adding in kinder tones: “I'm sorry to have to question you like this—but you understand, miss?”
Ruth looked up and nodded. In a whisper she went on: “Outside I turned down to the cliff-path, intending to go for a walk. But somehow—out there!—in the moonlight my fears returned. I kept seeing people lurking in the shadows. For a time I stayed quite still—not daring to move—then I walked round to the end of the garden to see if you had moved from the sitting-room.”
“And found we hadn't, eh?”
“Yes. So I returned along the other track and came on to the drive through the laurel bushes. And then——”
“And then we jumped out on you, Miss Tregarthan, and gave you the fright of your life.”
“Yes.”
“You realise,” said the Inspector gravely, “that you were very wrong in disobeying the Constable's orders?”
“I do—now. Yes. It was foolish of me, I know, but I was overwrought. I still am. You don't understand, Inspector!”
“I think I do,” said the Inspector quietly, taking the girl's hand. “And now I want you to go to your room and get some sleep.” He smiled. “To please me, Miss Tregarthan.” He helped the trembling girl to the door. “And mind,” he concluded, “this time no escapades. Promise?”
Ruth summoned up the ghost of a smile.
“I promise,” she said.
When her door had closed in the passage above, the Inspector turned on Grouch and shrugged his shoulders. Grouch tilted his helmet and scratched his head with the end of his pencil.
“Well I'll be blowed, sir!”
“You may well be, Grouch.” He lowered his voice. “I don't like it. I don't like it at all. Granted she's overwrought. But that story—a bit thin, eh?—to say the least of it!”
Grouch delivered himself of an oracle.
“It's to my mind, sir, that there's more in this case than meets the eyes.”
Inspector Bigswell nodded. It seemed as if he were about to speak, when he changed his mind, motioned to Grimmet and went out to the car.
CHAPTER V
THE INSPECTOR FORMS A THEORY
BEFORE Bigswell motored over to Boscawen on the Tuesday morning he had managed to get in a fair amount of work at headquarters. The evening before, on his return, despite the lateness of the hour he had got in touch with Major Farnham, the Chief Constable, and put in a report of the affair at Greylings. The Chief Constable, who had been up late playing bridge, hurried over at once to headquarters and had a conference with the Inspector. They returned to their respective homes shortly after 2 a.m., having come to one or two conclusions in the meantime. For the moment, at any rate, the Chief Constable was against calling in the help of Scotland Yard. He knew the value of a well-oiled, delicately organised machine such as the Criminal Investigation Department of the Metropolitan Police, but he had an unswerving faith in the efficiency of his own men. His motto was—“Give ’em a chance and they'll take two”—and in this case he was quite ready to give Inspector Bigswell an opportunity to prove his intelligence.
Nor was he against the Inspector's suggestion that a guarded report of the crime should be sent to one or two of the big News Agencies. The Chief Constable did not underrate the value of the Press in bringing forward witnesses and he realised, anyway, that it would only be a matter of hours before the news leaked out and resulted in a grand trek of local reporters and special correspondents to the scene of the crime. As to the case itself, he expressed no opinion. It was, to his cautious way of looking at things, too early in the day to form even the vaguest theory as to how Julius Tregarthan had met his death. The Inspector knew better than to contradict his superior and left the conference rather pleased with himself and life in general, because the Major had decided against appealing for help at the Yard. It was a chance for him and the solving of the problem would be a feather in his cap.
Shortly after eight on the Tuesday morning, a fine, windless day full of the white sunlight of early spring, a police car swung out of Greystoke H.Q. and headed over the bleak, undulating uplands toward Boscawen. The Inspector sat in front with Grimmet, whilst a burly Constable occupied a considerable portion of the double-seat at the back. Bigswell, who abominated a moment's inaction, jotted down a few notes as a rough guide to his programme for the day.
First, a re-examination of Miss Tregarthan and the Cowpers. The instigation of a further search for clues round about the house. Another look (and this time he thanked heaven by daylight!) at the footprints on the cliff-path. The cross-examination of the village midwife, Mrs. Mullion. Then enquiries in any direction as to anybody who had been near Greylings on the previous night. Enquiries as to the identity of the Man with the Gaiters. An exhaustive search among Tregarthan's effects, in the hope of unearthing some documentary evidence which would point a finger toward the murderer.
These notes formed a rough plan of his intended activities, though he realised that any sudden twist in the case might send him hurrying off at a tangent, to pursue any unexpected line of enquiry which seemed profitable.
Grouch met him at the door of Greylings and reported that, so far, nothing further had transpired during the Inspector's absence.
“I took the liberty, sir, early this morning to shut off the cliff-path at the bottom of the garden with a couple of hurdles.”
“Good, Grouch. Had breakfast?”
The Constable grinned.
“Mrs. Cowper, sir——”
“Very well. You can go off duty now if you like. Want some sleep, I dare say?”
“Well, sir——”
“All right, Grouch. Back here by twelve. Everybody up in the house?”
“Miss Tregarthan's having breakfast now, sir.”
The Inspector went into the house and Grouch, mounting his bicycle, pedalled off slowly up the drive.
The sun was now well above the sea and the morning was full of that sweet tang which is, invariably, the aftermath of rain. A few sea-gulls, pivoting white against the sun, sped and circled over the grey rocks of the coast. Their mournful cries mingled with the tinkle of a sheep-bell, where a scattered flock was feeding on the rising common behind the church. Beyond the sombr
e, box-like contours of Greylings, the Atlantic ran out to a far horizon like a glinting sheet of lead, whilst nearer in the slow swell glittered with thousands of tiny diamonds and broke into long advancing lines of dazzling white foam.
Ruth Tregarthan stood by the window of the dining-room, staring across the green slope of the cliff-edge to where the village lay nestling in the unseen cove. At the Inspector's knock she started, turned sharply on her heel and braced herself for the coming ordeal.
Bigswell came in with an apologetic air and at once excused himself for breaking into Miss Tregarthan's privacy at so early an hour. Then without more ado he settled down to business.
The first part of his examination, save for a few additional questions, went over the ground which the Constable had already covered. Ruth described again her discovery of the body and her subsequent actions, giving her estimate of the time that she had found her uncle dead. Then, without appearing to set much store by his questions, the Inspector switched over to another line of cross-examination. He began to ask the girl about her actions before she discovered the crime at 9.20.
“You went out I take it, Miss Tregarthan, after dinner? Or rather——” He consulted his notes of the night before. “You went out half-way through dinner. You left your uncle at the table. Why did you do that?”
“We'd had a disagreement and as we were both getting rather heated I thought it would be better not to prolong the argument.”
“You'd quarrelled with your uncle? Or perhaps he had quarrelled with you—is that it?”
“Yes—I suppose you could put it like that.”
“What was the quarrel about?”