by John Bude
Nearing the village the Inspector ordered Grimmet to slow up, whilst he took a good look at the general topography of the district. As the car topped the little rise at the end of the undulating road, Boscawen itself came suddenly into view—a scattered collection of grey-walled, green-tiled cottages clustering about a rocky cove, which was edged with a glorious carpet of smooth, silvery sand. Looking back, Greylings now appeared as an isolated little fort, standing well out on the broad ness, linked by the tiny thread of the cliff-path to the cove below.
The car came to a fork in the road—the metalled surface drove straight on down into the hollow, whilst a rough and slatey by-road dipped to the left and appeared to run directly into the sea. Grouch lent forward.
“If you drop me here, sir, I'll slip down and fix up with Charlie Fox about the room. You take the road here to the left and Cove Cottage lies on your right, about a hundred yards round the corner.”
“Right! When you've seen the landlord, Grouch, put a call through to Greystoke if it's O.K. They'll be anxious to fix things up with the Coroner. Then meet me up at Cove Cottage.”
Grouch saluted, got out of the car and trudged off down to the village. The car swung left and descended steeply toward the sea.
Cove Cottage proved to be a small, detached building, standing back, behind a tidy garden, from the road, surrounded by a few wind-swept crab-apple trees. Picturesque enough, but nothing out of the ordinary, obviously inhabited by a woman who believed in tidiness and utility.
Leaving Grimmet in the car, the Inspector went up the short path and finding no bell or knocker, tapped smartly on the well-weathered door. After a pause, footsteps approached within and the door was opened to reveal a straight, bright-eyed woman of about forty with slightly greying hair. On seeing a uniformed Inspector on her doorstep she started back.
“Good morning, ma'am,” said the Inspector, with a quick salute. “Might I ask if you're Mrs. Peewit—the owner of the cottage?”
“That's right,” said Mrs. Peewit with a puzzled air. “Is it me you're wishing to see?”
“Just a little matter I want to speak to you about,” replied the Inspector reassuringly. “I won't take up much of your time.”
“Then come in, please.”
The Inspector followed Mrs. Peewit along the tiny hall and thus into a surprisingly large sitting-room, plainly but comfortably furnished, which Bigswell realised in a moment must belong to Ronald Hardy, the novelist. Under the window, which overlooked the Atlantic and part of Boscawen Cove, was a big desk littered with papers and all the usual paraphernalia of writing. A long row of reference books, dictionaries and other standard works stood on the desk between two book-ends fashioned in the shape of galleons. On a table under a smaller window stood a head and shoulder portrait of Ruth Tregarthan in a thin, silver frame.
“Now, Mrs. Peewit,” said the Inspector, taking out his note-book. “I believe you're in a position to help me with a few enquiries I'm making.”
Mrs. Peewit asked in a tremulous voice: “It's about poor Mr. Tregarthan, I've no doubt. I heard about it only an hour ago, sir. It's fairly upset me—me knowing Miss Ruth so well. It's all over the village about him being found murdered last night in his sitting-room. Shot through the head, they say.”
The Inspector smiled. He knew how swiftly news travelled in small villages like Boscawen. Doubtless the milkman and the postman had been well primed with the facts of the crime by the Cowpers. Not that it mattered. The reverse in fact, since it might bring forward voluntary information from anybody who had seen or heard anything unusual the night before.
“They say right for once, Mrs. Peewit—and I'm down here investigating the case, see?”
Impressed by the somewhat lurid situation in which she found herself, Mrs. Peewit promised to do all she could to bring, as she said, the criminal to justice. She was emphatic in assuring the Inspector that such a thing had never, as far as she knew, happened in Boscawen before.
“Now, Mrs. Peewit, I want you to try and remember all that happened when Miss Tregarthan called on you last night.” Mrs. Peewit looked surprised. “Oh, I know she did,” added the Inspector. “She told me herself. You needn't fear to tell me the truth. I know a good deal as to what took place already.”
“Well, sir,” said Mrs. Peewit, “Miss Ruth called last night and asked if Mr. Hardy was in. Mr. Hardy, as perhaps I should explain, is——”
“Yes, I know all about that,” cut in the Inspector. “He's lodging here. An author. What time was it when Miss Tregarthan called?”
“I can't say exactly, I'm afraid. It hadn't struck nine— I know that much. I should say it was about ten minutes to nine or thereabouts.”
“I see. Yes—go on, Mrs. Peewit.”
“Well, sir, I don't mind saying that I was a bit surprised seeing Miss Ruth at that time of the evening—particularly as there was a storm on, as you may remember. It's not been her custom to call on Mr. Hardy at such hours. She looked ill, too, downright ill, I thought—looked as if she had been upset over something. Of course I didn't make any mention of it, but I asked her to step into Mr. Hardy's room, seeing that she was so wet and that it was still raining cats and dogs. Mr. Hardy as it happened was out. He'd taken his car out a bit before Miss Ruth turned up and gone off somewhere in a hurry.”
“Did Miss Tregarthan wait at all?”
“Yes, for a bit she did. I offered to dry her wet mac in front of the kitchen range, but she said she'd rather sit in here for a bit and just dry her feet at the fire.”
“This I take it is Mr. Hardy's room?”
“That's right. This is where he writes. Wonderful books, so they say, though I'm not given to reading much myself—the newspapers being as much as I can manage in my spare time.”
“How long did Miss Tregarthan stay in here alone?”
“Till just after nine. I remember the clock striking just before she called out that she wouldn't stay any longer, as she thought Mr. Hardy might be down at the Men's Club. So I opened the front door to her and promised to let Mr. Hardy know that she'd called.”
“So she was alone in here,” said the Inspector more to himself than to Mrs. Peewit, “for about ten minutes—perhaps a bit longer.” He looked up suddenly.
“What time did Mr. Hardy come in last night, Mrs. Peewit?”
The woman's attitude changed immediately. She seemed to lose her growing self-confidence, whilst her features were illuminated with a mingled look of agitation and bewilderment.
“That's just it!” she blurted out. “That's just what worries me, sir! Mr. Hardy didn't come in last night!”
“What's that?” demanded the Inspector curtly.
“He didn't come in and what's more when I went up to take him his early cup of tea this morning his bed hadn't been slept in. He didn't turn up to breakfast neither! Since he left the house last night, about a quarter to nine, I haven't set eyes on him again, sir. I'm fair worried, I can tell you. He's a highly strung sort of young gentleman, due to shell-shock in the war, they say, and I'm wondering if anything's happened to him!”
“He left no message to say where he was going, I suppose?” Mrs. Peewit shook her head. “Did he take anything with him—I mean any luggage?”
“No, sir. He just put on his overcoat in the hall and called that he was going out. He seemed anxious not to waste time with a lot of explainings, if you see how I mean. I was worried about him then, sir, because he hadn't touched a morsel of his supper, which I took in to him the moment Mr. Tregarthan left the house.”
“Tregarthan!” exclaimed the Inspector. “Was he here yesterday?”
“He called in to see Mr. Hardy about seven-thirty. I opened the door to him myself, but I never thought then that in a few hours the poor man would be lying dead in his own sitting-room with his head in a pool of blood.”
It was evident that the Cowpers had broadcast a pretty sensational description of the crime at Greylings. The rush of yesterday's events when compared with the usu
al placid routine of Cove Cottage had, by their very strangeness, impressed themselves upon Mrs. Peewit's mind. The Inspector's few questions had served to stimulate the flow of these recollections.
“Yes—it would be about seven-thirty, perhaps later, when Mr. Tregarthan knocked at the door and enquired for Mr. Hardy. Mr. Hardy was sitting in here writing at that very desk which you see over there, sir. He didn't like me to interrupt him when he was working. But I knew he and Miss Ruth were tidy close friends, and I thought that Mr. Tregarthan had brought him a message from her. So I plucked up courage enough to rap on his door and ask if he'd see Mr. Tregarthan. Mr. Hardy seemed surprised by the visit, but he asked me to show Mr. Tregarthan in. For a long time I heard the murmur of voices. I was sitting in the kitchen, and although the door of Mr. Hardy's room was closed, I couldn't help hearing a bit of what was going on inside. This isn't a big house as you can see. Well, later, sir, I heard Mr. Tregarthan raise his voice, sharp-like, as if he were dressing Mr. Hardy down. Mr. Hardy didn't seem to like the tone of Mr. Tregarthan's voice and he started arguing, too, at the top of his voice. There was a fair set-to—in fact, I don't mind telling you that I heard Miss Ruth's name mentioned more than once. It seemed that her uncle was objecting to the young man having anything more to do with his niece. Presently Mr. Tregarthan came out into the hall, looking a bit ruffled and red in the face. When I made as if to open the door for him, he waved me away. ‘It's all right,’ he said, ‘I know my way out without your help!’ And that was the last I saw of him. The last I shall ever see of him as it happens. He walked straight from this very door to his death! Poor man! Dreadful how sudden it comes, sir—just when you least expect it!”
But Inspector Bigswell had heard more than enough. Mrs. Peewit had loaded him with such a sackful of information that he wanted a moment's quiet in which to sort the wheat from the chaff. There was just one other thing he wanted to find out before he left Cove Cottage and he racked his brains for an intelligent means by which this information could be obtained without Mrs. Peewit's knowledge. Inspiration came to him. He removed his peaked cap, mopped his brow, coughed raspingly once or twice and remarked, casually, that it was thirsty work asking questions. Could Mrs. Peewit oblige him with such a thing as a cup of tea? He was sure Mrs. Peewit knew how to make a cup of tea for a thirsty man—strong, not too much milk and three lumps of sugar. Flattered by this unexpected request Mrs. Peewit subsided, at once, to a more normal frame of mind and bustled out to attend to the Inspector's needs.
Bigswell reckoned he had about three minutes in which to act. The moment Mrs. Peewit's footsteps had receded up the stone-floored passage, he went briskly to the desk and began to pull out the drawers. They were in two tiers each side of the spacious knee-hole—about eight drawers in all. The top ones were locked. With extreme deftness and alacrity he worked down the left-hand side, turning over papers, lifting files, groping here and there among a diversity of oddments. It was not until he came to the third drawer down in the right-hand bank that he found exactly what he was looking for. It had been a shot in the dark but the bullet had found its billet. Wedged between a double pile of blue exercise books was a leather holster. The flap was undone and if, as the Inspector reckoned, that holster had once held a revolver—well, the revolver was no longer there! Somebody, as he saw at a glance, had removed it recently, for the accumulated dust both on the holster and the exercise books had been disturbed by the brush of a hand or glove.
Closing the drawer, he was just in time to stroll away to the fire-place, when Mrs. Peewit entered with the tea. Gulping it down as quickly as politeness allowed, the Inspector thanked the woman and, warning her that she might be summoned as a witness at the inquest on Thursday, he hurried down the path to the car.
Grouch was waiting for him, sitting beside Grimmet on the front seat. On seeing his superior he sprang out and touched his helmet.
“I've seen Charlie Fox, sir. It's all right. There's a fair sized room at the back. He'll have everything ready by two o'clock Thursday. I phoned through to Greystoke as you said, sir.”
“Good!”
Grouch drew himself up with pardonable pride, considering the importance of the news which he was bursting to deliver.
“And that's not all, sir. I took the liberty of asking Fox a few questions. He knows most everybody in the village and there's always plenty of talk running free in the bar at nights.”
“Well, Grouch?”
“That chap with the gaiters, sir—I've got a line on him, I think.”
“You know who it is?”
“As near as dammit, sir! Ned Salter, the black sheep of the Boscawen flock, as I've heard the Doctor call him. Poaching's his line. Been before the Bench on more than one occasion. Caught him red-handed myself working the burrows up near the Grange. A shifty sort of customer at the best of times. Fox noticed his gaiters the other night in the pub. Some of the chaps was chipping Ned about it, saying he pinched ’em off a dossing keeper. That's as maybe, but there's something more to it than that, sir.”
“Well?”
“Mr. Tregarthan was, as perhaps you know, chairman of the local Bench until a few months ago when he resigned. It seems that the last time Ned was hauled up before the magistrates, Mr. Tregarthan gave him three months without the option.”
“And he probably deserved it,” commented Inspector Bigswell, who was wondering impatiently where this rigmarole was leading.
Grouch agreed.
“But it seemed a bit hard on the poor devil when Mr. Tregarthan turned his wife and three kids out of their cottage, because they couldn't pay the rent. He owns the property and Ned being in no position to earn, him being over at Greystoke prison, there was nothing for the poor woman to do but to clear out. Well, Fox says that ever since Ned came out, sir, he's been swearing to get even with Mr. Tregarthan. Drinking like a fish, too, and saying things in his cups which he may well be sorry for.”
“You mean he went so far as to threaten to——”
“Exactly,” said Grouch. “Number of the regular customers down at the ‘Ship’ would be ready to swear to his words, so Charlie says.” Grouch shook his head sagaciously. “It looks black, sir. Very black. That's my humble opinion anyhow.”
The Inspector whistled. He couldn't see the wood for the trees. Ruth Tregarthan? Ronald Hardy? Ned Salter? Which? They were all under suspicion. They all had a motive for the murder. They had all quarrelled with Tregarthan a few hours before his death. The puzzle was assuming gargantuan proportions. No sooner had the Inspector assembled a few bits to his satisfaction, when the puzzle altered shape, with all the startling inconsequence of a landscape in Alice in Wonderland.
CHAPTER VII
CONVERSATION AT THE VICARAGE
THE Reverend Dodd, after a fairly exhaustive search of Tregarthan's desk, set aside those papers which he felt were relevant to the visit of the family solicitor. Although he was, by nature of his profession, a man with a spiritual mission, the Vicar was by no means a fool in practical and business matters. By the exercise of a certain amount of justifiable low cunning and the milder forms of sharp practice the affairs of St. Michaels-on-the-Cliff had been placed on a sound business footing. It was said of him in Boscawen that he knew equally well how to save a soul or a sixpence, and more than one harassed villager in the throes of some domestic or economic nightmare had reason to bless the Reverend Dodd for his perspicacity. It came natural, therefore, for Ruth to hand over the material matters resulting from her uncle's death to her very old and very paternal friend, the Vicar. It was Dodd who had got in touch with Ramsey, the solicitor; Dodd who was making arrangements for the funeral; Dodd who had got in touch, at Ruth's suggestion, with Tregarthan's only brother in London and broken the tragic news to him with tact and understanding. With a grateful sigh Ruth abandoned herself to his care and allowed him free rein in the management of her financial affairs. It thus devolved upon the Vicar to go through the private papers and effects of the dead man.
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p; There was not a great deal to cope with. Tregarthan had been a tidy man at his desk and nearly all his papers were neatly filed and labelled. The Inspector's hope that there might be some personal correspondence which might prove incriminating to the sender, was doomed to disappointment. Save for a few invitation cards and begging letters from charitable organisations there was nothing of a private nature in the desk. At least that was the Vicar's first impression. It was not until he had tidied the last drawer, when he noticed a small piece of common, ruled paper behind the drawer itself. It was more through instinct than curiosity that he turned the scrap of paper over and read the brief message written on the back of it. It ran, simply, in an uneducated hand:
I'm not wanting your money. I shall hold my tongue not for your sake but for his. I've no wish to hear further about this—M.L.
Although the note puzzled the Vicar he attached little importance to it. The paper itself was already a bit yellowed with age and the very fact that it had slipped behind the drawer seemed to indicate that it had been written and sent to Tregarthan a considerable time back. Probably there had been some slight indiscretion on Tregarthan's part in the past and he had attempted, rather foolishly perhaps, to hush up the affair with a five pound note. Such momentary weaknesses of the flesh were not uncommon in middle-aged men and Tregarthan had doubtless been sorry for his actions the moment he had sat down to consider them. Certainly there was nothing in the note to suggest that it was in any way linked up with the crime. Although the Vicar was dubious of its value as evidence, he thought it would be as well for the Inspector to see it. He might have some ideas as to its purport and origin. He thrust it, therefore, into his waistcoat pocket and, collecting the pile of papers which he had set aside for Ramsey's perusal, he set off for the Vicarage.