The Cornish Coast Murder (British Library Crime Classics)

by John Bude

  “But I'm not! I'm not!” declared Ruth in a tortured voice. “It's impossible that Ronald has done this thing. The Inspector has no right, no reason to suspect him. Oh, I know he's got to make out a case against somebody, but it's absurd trying to incriminate Ronald!”

  “But it's not only Ronald whom he suspects,” went on the Vicar in a quiet voice. “As much as I hate to put such an idea into words, my dear, he suspects you.” The Vicar, on seeing Ruth's look of mingled resentment and amazement, went on hurriedly. “Oh, I know it's nonsense! I told the Inspector so. We know, of course, that you had nothing to do with this terrible thing, but somehow we've got to persuade the Inspector to take the same view. Why did you leave Greylings last night when the Constable had given you strict orders not to do so? Don't you think, my dear, that it was a rather foolhardy action?”

  “But I told the Inspector—I wanted to get clear of the house and breathe. I couldn't stand the atmosphere a moment longer. It was stifling me.”

  “And there was no other reason?”

  Ruth glanced at the Vicar and looked down guiltily at the fire.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You weren't attempting to get in touch with Ronald, for instance? To warn him about something?”

  “But I swear to you,” cried Ruth, “that I did not see Ronald at all last night. I went along to his cottage, but he had gone out. I haven't seen him since. I'd no idea that he had disappeared until you told me a few minutes ago.”

  The Vicar sighed. He realised that Ruth could or would not help him to clarify the events of the previous night.

  “Why did you suddenly stop on the path, look in at the sitting-room and then run into the house?” asked the Vicar. “You didn't know then that your uncle was dead.”

  “How do you know——?”

  “Oh, I know, my dear. I used these eyes which God has been kind enough to grant me. But why did you do that?”

  “I—I wanted to get in out of the rain,” said Ruth glibly. “I saw the fire-light and the lamps burning and suddenly realised how wet I was. So I naturally ran the rest of the way. There was nothing odd about that, was there?”

  “Nothing at all,” agreed the Vicar with haste. “I merely asked you the question, my dear, because I wanted to know.”

  “It seems that everybody wants to ask me questions,” said Ruth with a long sigh. “First Grouch, then the Inspector, now you. Shall I ever be able to forget this horrible nightmare?”

  The Vicar rose, and, sitting on the arm of Ruth's chair, he took her hand.

  “My dear child,” he said. “You may be sure that I should not ask these questions unless I thought them essential. I want to find out things, analyse all the evidence, use my imagination, seek and find out. From now on I'm determined not to rest until I've persuaded the Inspector that you and Ronald have absolutely nothing to do with this dastardly crime. And having done that, I want to be in a position to tell him exactly who did have something to do with it.”

  “You've found out something?” asked Ruth with intense anxiety.

  The Vicar shook his head.

  “So far I've found out nothing. I know far less about the facts of this case than Inspector Bigswell. But you see, I have a method. I call it the intuition method of investigation—which may prove in the long run to be a very present help in a time of trouble. Shall we leave it at that, Ruth?”

  CHAPTER IX

  COLLABORATION?

  INSPECTOR BIGSWELL after having put through his call to the Superintendent at Greystoke decided not to remain in Boscawen, as he had originally planned, to cross-examine Mrs. Mullion when she returned from Porth. In all probability the midwife had had an unadventurous journey back from Towan Cove, certainly an uncomfortable one. It was no easy matter to walk with one heel missing. If she had anything of importance to tell she would, thought the Inspector, have imparted it to Grouch before setting off for Porth that morning. It seemed certain, considering the swiftness with which the news of Tregarthan's murder had travelled, that she could not have left Boscawen ignorant of his death. Time enough to question her on the morrow, Wednesday, since the inquest was not until the day after. He left instructions, therefore, with Grouch, that he was to cycle up to her cottage later on and arrange for Mrs. Mullion to meet him at the Constable's office early next morning.

  Grimmet then drove the Inspector back to Greylings, where a sprinkling of morbid sightseers was hanging about the drive entrance and the surrounding common. He found the burly Constable in charge, besieged by a couple of avid reporters, and after helping them out with a few guarded details of the affair, he arranged for the Constable to stay the night. He warned him not to let anybody into the house and to keep his mouth shut if questioned by any enterprising journalists. Then with a word to Grimmet to “step on it,” he was speeded back, thinking hard, to Greystoke.

  On arrival he learnt that the Superintendent wanted to see him without delay. He went through at once to the office. The Superintendent, a bullet-headed, grey-haired man of about fifty, was sitting at his desk writing. When the Inspector entered he looked up, nodded, pushed away his work and motioned Bigswell into a chair.

  “Look here, Bigswell,” he said without preliminary, “I'd better tell you straight that the Chief is getting a bit rattled over this business. I know you're not expected to get results in a day, but for heaven's sake, man, if you've got the first glimmerings of a theory, then trot it out. We don't want to bring the Yard into this. You know the Chief's motto—‘Give ’em a chance and they'll take two.’ And them, in this case, means you and me and the rest of the crowd here. You know as well as I do that if you've got no definite line of investigation to work on, it means letting in the experts.”

  Inspector Bigswell grinned.

  “I like that, sir. The experts!”

  “Well, that's what it amounts to. Criminal investigation is, in a manner of speaking, a sideline for the County Police. You know that. There's enough routine work to keep us busy, without sparing a man for any fancy business. See what I'm getting at?”

  “You mean that the Chief will have to call in the Yard unless I can prove to him that I'm following up a definite line of enquiry?”

  “Bluntly—that's what it amounts to. Well, what about it, Bigswell—any theory?”

  For a moment the Inspector hesitated, then taking a deep breath he pulled out his note-book and flipped it open.

  “Yes—I think I've got a really workable theory at last. You're acquainted with the main facts of the case, aren't you, sir?”

  “I read your report of last night,” said the Superintendent, slowly filling his pipe. “And I suppose your phone call this afternoon more or less posted me up to date with regard to to-day's investigations?”

  “That's it, sir. Well, I've been doing some pretty stiff thinking on my way back from Boscawen and, as I see it now, the facts of the case are something like this. Ruth Tregarthan and Ronald Hardy were in collaboration. They had been planning this murder for some time, deliberately and efficiently. Tregarthan was violently opposed to their friendship. What hold he had over them, I can't as yet fathom. It may be that he knew something about Hardy's past life, something disreputable, and threatened to divulge this if they took matters into their own hands and ran away. As to the reason why he was so violent in his opposition to the girl's marriage—well that to me is pretty obvious. Money. Some arrangement, I dare say, in which the girl was to come into a packet of her father's money when she married, but which Tregarthan had a free hand with until she did. You see how I mean, sir? Now, as I see it, the murder was fixed for last night. Hardy was to creep along the cliff-path at the scheduled time and the girl was to absent herself while the business was being done. This would obviate any risk of her being tripped up if any awkward questions were asked. As luck would have it, Tregarthan quarrelled with her at dinner that evening—she seized the opportunity and dashed out, using the quarrel as her excuse. You see, sir, there was that storm. It would have looked
a bit odd if she'd gone out in the middle of it. She may even have provoked her uncle to quarrel, to make her exit look more natural. That's as maybe. Well, now we come to the puzzle of the footprints. The three tracks. The girl's going both ways and Mrs. Mullion's going from Towan Cove to Boscawen. I confess I was puzzled at first. I didn't quite see how Hardy entered into the scheme of things, seeing that he couldn't have walked along the cliff-path without leaving some impression behind him. Yet as soon as I heard he'd disappeared, I felt certain that he'd had a hand in Tregarthan's murder.” The Inspector paused and added with a deceiving air of nonchalance. “Well, sir, I think I've cleared that little difficulty away.”

  It was obvious that he really felt rather pleased with himself over the solving of what, at first sight, seemed an insoluble puzzle. The Superintendent puffed vigorously at his pipe.

  “Well, go on, Bigswell,” he said eagerly. “Let's have it!”

  “It was Grouch—the local Constable, by the way—who first put the idea into my head. He'd railed off the cliff-path at the bottom of the garden with a couple of hurdles. Sensible chap, Grouch. I saw, at once, where he'd got them from—there was a pile of about half a dozen leaning against the garden wall. At the time I didn't think anything of it. But later, on my way back here in fact, I realised that in that innocent-looking pile of hurdles lay the solution to the mystery of the footprints! You take me, sir?”

  The Superintendent refused to commit himself.

  “Go ahead, Bigswell.”

  “Well, sir—it struck me that Ruth Tregarthan, on leaving the house by the side-door, went along the path at the bottom of the garden until she came to the pile of hurdles leaning against the north wall. That's the wall on the Boscawen side of the garden. All she had to do then was to place the hurdles on end to cover the soft patch of mud which borders the north track for a distance of about fifteen feet. These hurdles—wattled ones, by the way—are about six foot long. She had then formed a perfect track between the wall and the firmer, unspoiled grass of the common. She then goes back and picks up her track at the corner of the wall and starts off along the cliff-path to let Hardy know that the stage is set.”

  “You think it was her idea—those hurdles?” asked the Superintendent dubiously.

  “No—his. He'd seen a few duck-boards in his time, I daresay. He probably arranged for the girl to have them planted by the wall for some reason or other and given her proper instructions as to what she was to do.”

  “I see. Go on.”

  “Well, now I come to something which I don't quite understand. Why did Hardy use his car? It looked as if he'd decided on his vanishing trick at the last moment, doesn't it? Actually he'd arranged to meet the girl on the cliff-path and get the O.K. from her about the hurdles. Then on account of last-minute wind-up he took out his car, so as to make a quick get-away, and approached Greylings by the road. That's how he missed the girl. Gave her a bit of a shock, I daresay, when she reached Cove Cottage and found he'd gone. Daresay she wondered if things had gone a trifle crooked at the critical moment. You'll notice she didn't wait long at his cottage. When, after a few minutes, he didn't turn up, she hurried off along the cliff-path to get those hurdles back into position. Natural, wasn't it?”

  The Superintendent agreed.

  “That's all very well, but from what I hear about the three shots, they must have been fired from the cliff-path. There were no hurdles on the path, remember.”

  “Tregarthan wasn't shot from the path,” said the Inspector emphatically. “He was shot from the wall. Hardy got to the wall over the hurdles, probably in his stockinged feet, climbed along the wall, threw the gravel—supplied by the girl—against the window and fired the three shots. Simple, eh? He then went back the way he'd come, put on his boots, cut up over the common to the road, where his car was parked, hopped in and drove hell-for-leather to Fenton's garage.”

  “And the girl?”

  “Returned along the cliff-path. Walked out along the hurdles. Picked ’em up one by one and stacked ’em against the wall. Found her returning track and continued along the cliff-path to the side-door. More than that, sir—you'll remember that I noticed she'd stopped, looked in at the window and then run to the side-door?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, if she knew nothing about the crime, why did she suddenly run like that? Answer—because she did know about the crime. She did know that the deed was a ... a ...”

  “A fait accompli,” suggested the Superintendent.

  “That's the idea, sir. And the reason she knew it was a ... a ... what you've just said, sir, was because the curtains of the sitting-room were undrawn! She may even have noticed the shot-stars in the glass if she'd been expecting them.” The Inspector stretched himself, picked up his notebook and stuck it back in his pocket. “Well, sir, that's my theory. It all seems to fit in pretty well, doesn't it? It doesn't leave much to be explained.”

  “No. It all sounds pretty conclusive, Bigswell. Looks like a smart piece of deduction,” agreed the Superintendent. “There's just one thing—what about the girl's little escapade after the murder?”

  “You mean why did she sneak out of the house, sir? Yes, I'm glad you've asked that. I couldn't quite fit that in at first. It puzzled me no end. Of course, the obvious explanation was that she had an incriminating bit of evidence that she wanted to get rid of. But what? The revolver? I couldn't quite see why Hardy should leave his revolver lying about, when he could have easily tossed it over the cliff into deep water. But then it struck me—he didn't intend to leave it lying about. It was an accident. Suppose it had slipped out of his hand and fallen on to the cliff-path? What then? He was in a fix, eh? He couldn't reach it from the wall. He daren't walk along the path to pick it up. He daren't stay there a second after the murder had been committed for fear that anybody had heard the shots. He knew the girl was scheduled to come back along the cliff-path to pick up the hurdles, so he left the revolver where it was. She came along. Saw it. Picked it up. Hid it in her mackintosh pocket, smuggled it into her bedroom and later threw it into the sea. You see how it all fits in, sir? I don't think we shall have to call in the experts this time. After all, it would look bad for us if we fetched the Yard men down here under false pretences. To my mind when we can lay our hands on Ronald Hardy we've got the murderer of Julius Tregarthan!”

  “And the girl?”

  “Well, sir, what do you think?” asked the Inspector tactfully. “I suppose we might say that I've made out a strong enough case against her sufficient to warrant her arrest on suspicion. But I've an idea that it would be better to hold back for a while.”

  The Superintendent agreed.

  “Far better. Your hypothesis may be sound, but it's not cast-iron. We can't afford to make a mistake. Besides, if the girl is safe in Boscawen there's always the chance that Hardy may give us a line on his whereabouts by trying to get in touch with her. You never know. The intelligent type of criminal so often commits the most obvious and elementary blunders. The girl's at the Vicarage, you say?”

  The Inspector nodded.

  “What about the post? Still delivered at Greylings?”

  “Probably. But I can find out.”

  “Do. Make a note if any suspicious-looking document turns up. The postmark may enable us to narrow the search. No detail's too small to be neglected, Bigswell. Mind you, he's probably read the papers by now and knows that he's wanted in connection with the murder. His photo will be in all the later editions of the evening papers to-night. Still, there's just a chance that he may take the risk and let the girl know where he is. He'll guess she's worried. Particularly as they didn't meet according to arrangement last night.”

  “And the Chief?” asked the Inspector anxiously.

  “Oh, I'll square him,” grinned the Superintendent affably. “After all, your theory does seem to hold water. He can't deny that. Looks to me as if it's a mere case of routine work now—a thorough comb-out of the metropolitan area by the London police—bless ’e
m! I think you can congratulate yourself, Bigswell, on a pretty slick bit of work.”

  The Inspector left the Superintendent's office with a somewhat lighter heart than when he had entered it. He had propounded his theory in the nick of time. If he had not evolved his line of enquiry on his way back from Boscawen that evening, by now the Chief would have, doubtless, been through to Scotland Yard, arranging for a couple of experts to be put on the case.

  Outside the Police Station he dismissed Grimmet, who was waiting with the car, and turning left along Marston Street he made his way to Fenton's Quick Service Garage.

  Fenton himself, in greasy dungarees, with a cigarette-stub behind his ear, hurried up as the Inspector entered the garage. Fenton and Bigswell were old friends, for since the car had entered more and more into criminal activities, police and garage-owners were in constant touch with each other. Over Fenton's desk in the little glass-windowed cubby-hole which served as his office, there was more often than not pinned a list, giving the numbers of “wanted” cars.

  “Evening, Inspector. Come about the car in the Tregarthan murder case, eh?” asked Fenton in what he considered a voice of official secrecy. “Gave me a bit of a jolt, I can tell you, when I knew we'd had that chap in here. It's this way,” he added in an undertone. “Nothing's been meddled with.”

  It was obvious that the garage-proprietor was considerably impressed and excited to be connected, even in a remote way, with a sensation which had flung black headlines across the evening Press.

  He guided the Inspector through a maze of dismantled cars, engine parts, tools and empty petrol cans, to where a sliding door gave on to a smaller garage behind the general workshop. Only a few cars were in—a sleek, high-chassised Daimler, a Trojan van, a couple of baby Austins and in the far corner a mud-spattered, rather sorry-looking Morris, with a dilapidated hood and a rust-spotted radiator.