by John Bude
“Hardly a beauty, is she?” said Fenton. “Seen better days, I should say. It's a marvel to me how these old cars stand up to it. You can't wear ’em out. Bad look-out for us, you know.”
The Inspector agreed, but it was obvious that he was not paying any attention to Fenton's rigmarole. His practised eyes were straying over the car, above which burnt a single, naked bulb. The hood, torn in two places, was still raised and a little pool of water had gathered in a fold at the top. The mudguards and bonnet-sides were thick with splashes and the wheels themselves encrusted with dried mud. It was obvious that the car had been driven at a reckless speed along the Boscawen–Greystoke road.
With methodical precision the Inspector went through the pockets, looked under the seats, searched the tool-box, even probed the upholstery in the hope of unearthing some clue which would verify his lately expounded theory. But he drew a blank. All the usual clutter which succeeds in finding its way into the nooks and crannies of a car—maps, spare plugs, rags, old gloves, pocket-torch and a couple of A.A. books—but beyond that, nothing which might be of any use in elucidating his ideas. He then, with equal precision, examined the outside of the car. But there again he found nothing unusual—even the licence was in order. As he concluded his examination, during which Fenton had stood by in respectful silence, the Inspector pointed to the spare wheel.
“What d'you make of that, Fenton?” he asked. “Careless chap, eh?”
Fenton took a closer look at the worn tread of the tyre and whistled.
“Some burst! Bet that caused him a moment's panic! These old high-pressure tyres are the very devil when a front-wheel blows off. Can't quite see the point of him travelling with a wheel like that though, Inspector, it's not the slightest use to him if one of the other tyres goes. He ought to have had it replaced.”
“Exactly,” said the Inspector. “As I remarked—a careless chap.” Adding as they walked toward the door of the main garage, “Can we go into your office a minute, Fenton? There are one or two questions I want to ask you. Nothing sensational. The usual formal stuff about identification. We can? Good! Then lead on.”
And with the taking of Fenton's evidence the Inspector decided to bring his day's work to a close. He was well satisfied as to the progress of his investigations. The mists were slowly clearing. In a couple of days the arrests might be made. Yes—as the Superintendent had said—he had every reason to congratulate himself. Damn the experts!
CHAPTER X
THE SINGLE SHOT
ON Wednesday morning Inspector Bigswell looked out of his bedroom window to find a thick sea-mist enveloping the town. It was chill and damp and miserable, and this meteorological development threatened to be a hampering factor in the day's investigations.
Nevertheless, after an early breakfast, he set off briskly for headquarters, where Grimmet had been ordered to have the car in readiness. The chauffeur seemed a trifle dubious about the Boscawen journey, and put forward a tentative suggestion that they might wait for a time to see if the mist thinned. But the Inspector wouldn't hear of it. After the Superintendent's somewhat favourable reception of his theory he felt keen and eager to push his investigations to a definite conclusion. He was scheduled to meet Mrs. Mullion at half-past nine at Grouch's office, and he had an idea that she might possibly have seen or heard something on the Monday night. She must have passed Greylings within fifteen minutes either side of the estimated time of the murder. She might have heard the shots fired. It seemed almost certain that she must have heard them fired if she had left Towan Cove before the murder was committed. And as far as he could see, the woman would scarcely have passed by the bottom of the garden without noticing the figures in the uncurtained window. If she had passed after Grouch arrived on the scene, she must have guessed something was the matter. But so far she had not come forward. It was curious. The only explanation was that she knew nothing, so far, of Tregarthan's death.
The car crawled through the almost deserted streets of the town and nosed its cautious way onto the Boscawen road. At a higher level the bleak moorland was almost destitute of mist and Grimmet, taking advantage of a clear stretch, sent the speedometer up to fifty and held it there. Nearing the coast, however, the visibility grew gradually worse and it was at a snail's pace that the car ground down the final hill in second-gear.
Grouch, like a sensible man, had come out on foot to meet the Inspector and it was the flashing of his pocket-torch which first reassured Bigswell that they had arrived at the outskirts of the village. Guided by Grouch, who rode on the running-board, the car at length drew up outside the Constable's office.
Inside the office, a barely furnished room with a high desk and a stool, a cheerful fire was crackling in the grate. The Inspector threw off his cloak and got down to business without delay.
“Well, did you arrange with Mrs. Mullion last night, Grouch?”
“Yes, sir.” The Constable glanced up at the plain-faced clock on the varnished wall. “She should be along at any minute now. She's got something to tell us, I think. Something pretty lively, sir. It was all I could do to prevent her from making a statement last night. But I pointed out that she may as well save her breath to cool her porridge because she'd have to repeat it all to you this morning.”
“If it was important,” said the Inspector testily, “then why the devil didn't she come forward before she set out for Porth yesterday morning?”
“She hadn't heard the news then. First she knew of the murder, sir, was when she came home last night. Seemed properly upset.”
There was a scrunching on the gritty road outside, followed by a timid knock on the door.
The Inspector nodded toward the inner room.
“You and Grimmet had better slip in there and read up the case in the daily papers. You may learn something you didn't know!”
As his grinning subordinates went into the Constable's parlour the Inspector opened the outer door and admitted the midwife.
“Mrs. Mullion?” he enquired.
“That's right, sir. The Constable said that you wanted to see me about this dreadful happening up at poor Mr. Tregarthan's.”
“Quite right, Mrs. Mullion. Come in and take a chair by the fire.”
He hoisted himself onto the high stool.
“I thought perhaps you might be able to help us with our enquiries, Mrs. Mullion. I understand from Doctor Pendrill that you were attending a case on Monday night over at Towan Cove. You returned to Boscawen by the cliff-path, didn't you?”
“Yes, sir. It's a short cut between the two coves, and I started home rather later than I intended.”
“Have you any idea what time it was when you left—let's see—” he consulted his note-book, “Mrs. Wither's cottage at Towan Cove?”
“About nine o'clock or thereabouts, sir.”
“You're more or less certain about the time?”
“Within five minutes one way or the other I am. I remember looking at the clock at ten to nine and I left the cottage shortly after, sir.”
“You came straight along the cliff-path, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir, as fast as I could. The storm was still hanging about and it was pitch-dark so I had to be careful. Besides, a heel had come off my shoe getting out of the Doctor's car earlier in the evening. It didn't make walking any the easier.”
“You had a pocket-torch?”
“A lantern, sir. But when I was half-way along the cliff between Towan Cove and Mr. Tregarthan's house the wind blew the candle out. Mr. Withers had lit the lantern for me before I left his cottage and I hadn't any matches. Luckily, after I'd been walking for about ten minutes, the last of the storm blew over and the moon came out.”
“How near were you to Greylings then, Mrs. Mullion? Could you see the house?”
“I could see a light coming from a lower window—but I couldn't see much else, sir.”
“And you don't think anybody, say, standing in the garden of the house, could have seen you?”
“No,
sir, I'm certain they couldn't. As a matter of fact it wasn't until I was within a stone's-throw of the garden myself that I noticed Miss Ruth.”
“Miss Ruth Tregarthan!” exclaimed the Inspector. “You're quite certain about that?”
“Positive. She was standing on the cliff-path at the bottom of the garden and the light from the window was shining straight onto her face.”
“Did she see you?”
“No, sir—she didn't. There's a clump of furze bushes just beside the path before you come to the garden wall, and when I saw what she had in her hand, I was so surprised that I stopped dead and sort of drew back into the shadow of the bushes.”
“Something in her hand?” The Inspector had the greatest difficulty in concealing his excitement and elation. “What exactly do you mean by that, Mrs. Mullion?”
“A revolver, sir. She was turning it over in her hand and looking at it.”
The Inspector's elation increased. Mrs. Mullion's evidence, if it was accurate—and there was little reason to doubt the truth of her statement—fitted in perfectly with his theory. This was exactly what he had expected. Ronald Hardy had dropped the revolver on the cliff-path and the girl had picked it up.
“She had it in her hand you say? You didn't by any chance see if she had picked it up off the path?”
“She might have done,” acknowledged Mrs. Mullion. “But when I first noticed her she had it in her hand. I can tell you, Sergeant”—the Inspector smiled—“it gave me quite a turn when I saw what it was!”
“What happened then, Mrs. Mullion?”
“Well, Miss Ruth had a quick look round, sort of frightened like, and ran round the corner of the wall and let herself into the house by the side door.”
The Inspector nodded. The little bits were dovetailing together with commendable neatness. He was growing more and more certain in his mind that Ronald Hardy had killed Tregarthan, and that Ruth Tregarthan was his accomplice in the crime. Mrs. Mullion's evidence seemed to exclude, finally, the supposition that Ruth Tregarthan was innocent of any complicity. If she were innocent, then why hadn't she come forward at once with information about her discovery of the revolver on the cliff-path? She must have realised that it was the weapon which had discharged the fatal shots and yet she had said nothing about it. It was possible, of course, that she recognised it as Ronald Hardy's revolver and, without having anything to do with the crime herself, had decided to conceal the weapon to shield him from suspicion. Foolish, without a doubt. Dangerous, too. But there it was—a woman in love was always a foolhardy and unreasonable creature, though not devoid, as the Inspector realised, of a certain inspired cunning.
He felt that it was imperative, considering how much depended on the midwife's evidence, to make sure that she had not been mistaken.
“I must warn you, Mrs. Mullion, to be very, very careful on this point,” he said with deliberate solemnity. “You were quite sure at the time that it was a revolver? What I am getting at is this—last night when you returned from Porth you learnt for the first time that Mr. Tregarthan, whilst standing in the sitting-room window, had been shot through the head. On Monday night you saw Miss Tregarthan standing on the cliff-path with something in her hand. Now I want your assurance that the suggestion that this object might be a revolver didn't occur to you after you knew Mr. Tregarthan had been murdered. The association of ideas, you see?”
Mrs. Mullion's reply was blunt and emphatic.
“No, sir. I knew it was a revolver at once, long before I knew anything about this awful tragedy up at Greylings. I'll swear to that.”
“Well, Mrs. Mullion,” went on the Inspector after a moment's silence, “what you've told me is of the utmost importance. I must ask you to keep this information to yourself. I'm afraid it means you'll receive an official summons to attend the inquest to-morrow. I'm very glad that you've seen fit to come forward and I don't think I need trouble you any further.” As Mrs. Mullion rose from her seat at the fire, the Inspector added: “Oh, just one other point. When you were coming along the cliff from Towan Cove, did you hear any unusual sounds—any revolver shots, for example?”
“No, sir. I heard nothing—except the thunder. There were one or two very loud cracks right over my head just after I'd left the cove—but I didn't hear anything else.”
The Inspector got down from the high stool and ushered Mrs. Mullion out of the Constable's office.
He was more than pleased with the result of the interview. It was going to be easier than he had first anticipated to back up his theory with the necessary circumstantial evidence. If only it were possible to ascertain the exact time Tregarthan had been shot, his confidence would have been even greater. But so far nobody seemed to have heard the shots fired. There was, he realised, a feasible explanation of this fact. If the revolver had been discharged—the three shots in rapid succession—at the same moment as a loud burst of thunder, it was more than probable that the reports had been covered by the major explosion. Mrs. Mullion had commented upon the fact that several loud thunder-cracks had greeted her ears when she first left Towan Cove. According to his estimate one of these thunder-cracks might easily have muffled the revolver shots.
He summoned Grouch and gave him a brief account of Mrs. Mullion's evidence. He also ran over the points of his pet theory with the Constable, who manifested an undisguised admiration for his superior's astuteness.
“There's just one thing, sir. Them hurdles.”
“What about them?”
“If they'd been laid flat on the mud, wouldn't they have left an impression on the ground? We didn't notice that on Monday night, did we, sir?”
“The same point occurred to me, Grouch. But remember—they were wattle hurdles and after their removal it rained pretty heavily. The impressions would be shallow in any case and the rain, in my opinion, would soon flatten out any indentations. When Hardy walked over them the weight would be spread, not concentrated as in a footprint. There is one thing, though,” added the Inspector after a moment's thought, “there might be mud on the first three or four hurdles in the pile. It's worth satisfying ourselves upon that point. Of course, the rain may have diddled us again, but I think we'll slip up to Greylings now and make sure.”
He called for Grimmet, and the three of them got into the car. The mist was still thicker and it was only by the exercise of extreme care and a great deal of patience that they climbed the twisting hill out of Boscawen and thus up on to the open road. Leaving the car on the roadside near the Greylings drive-gate, Grouch and the Inspector walked down the sloping common towards the cliff. The hurdles were still piled against the north wall of the garden.
“What about these?” asked the Inspector, pointing to the hurdles which Grouch had used as barriers to the cliff-path. “You took them off the top of the pile, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir. The first two.”
The Inspector went over the wattled surfaces with the greatest care, then returned to the little stack and examined the hurdles one by one. He was disappointed in the result of his search. There was no trace of mud on the wattle-work, nor was there any suggestion of an imprint left on the muddy surface at the corner of the wall. In this particular instance there was, he realised, no direct evidence to back up his theory.
Walking along the cliff-path, however, he came to the point where Ruth Tregarthan had stopped and looked towards the sitting-room window. Crouching low, he made a minute examination of the spot where he estimated Ronald Hardy had dropped the revolver from the wall. This time he gave a grunt of satisfaction and drew the Constable's attention to a curious indent in the soft mud, which Ruth Tregarthan's footprints, by a stroke of luck, had not obliterated.
“Well, Grouch, what d'you make of that?”
“I can't rightly say, sir. It looks as if something heavy's been dropped there. There's a sort of outline.”
The Inspector agreed.
“The outline of a revolver, if you ask me! See—there's the curve of the butt. No mistake about th
at. And this looks like the ribbing of the magazine. I doubt if the barrel would leave much of an impression because the magazine-wheel of a Webley projects a good bit beyond it.”
He took out a small, pliable, steel rule and measured up the width and breadth of the impressions, entering the measurements in his note-book. It would be an easy matter to verify his suspicions as to the nature of these impressions later on. If his measurements coincided with those of a Webley, he would be justified in supposing that Ronald Hardy had accidentally let slip the revolver and that Ruth (later seen by Mrs. Mullion) had picked it up. He felt rather annoyed with himself for not having spotted this rather obvious clue before. On Monday night, of course, he had not expected to find an impression of the revolver on the path, because he had not then formed his theory. It was easy to find a clue when one expected it to be there, and easier still to overlook it when one did not! Still, it was a reprehensible oversight. He had wasted much valuable time in trailing after wrong explanations.
On their way back to the car, a tall, hulking figure with a dog at his heel loomed up unexpectedly out of the mist. On seeing the Constable he called out and cut across to meet him.
“I've been looking for you, Mr. Grouch,” he said. “I reckon I may be able to tell you a thing or two about Monday night.”
“That's good,” said Grouch. “This is Inspector Bigswell from Greystoke. This is Mr. Bedruthen, sir. He runs the sheep on the common here.”
The two men shook hands.
“You want to make a statement, is that it, Mr. Bedruthen?” asked the Inspector.
“Aye—that's about it, sir. What I have to tell you may not be worth your while listening to. On the other hand——”
“It may,” cut in the Inspector quickly. “Well, if you can spare us a moment now we'll get down to the Constable's office. It's a bit chilly to hold a conference out here, eh?”
The three men climbed into the car and Grimmet drove them back to the village. Once more in the cheerful atmosphere of the little bare-faced office, the Inspector began to cross-question the new witness.