The Cornish Coast Murder (British Library Crime Classics)

by John Bude

  When the Inspector reached Greystoke, he ordered Grimmet to drop him at the top of Castle Street and take the car back to the police garage. He did not want to advertise his arrival at the outfitters. Although a few of the shop windows still displayed a blaze of light, the majority, and among them Crooks, were closed. The shutters were up and only the glimmer of a by-pass showed through the fanlight of the shop-door. Adjoining the shop, however, was the tailor's private entrance, which gave by means of a narrow staircase on to the rooms above the emporium. The Inspector rang and, after a few minutes the door was opened by a young, fresh-looking girl, who was a trifle taken aback on seeing the Inspector's uniform.

  “Good evening, miss. Is Mr. Jeremy Crook in?”

  “No—I'm afraid he's not at the moment. He's just gone out—to a meeting of some sort, I believe. Can I give him a message?”

  “I'd rather wait and see him later. D'you know what time he'll be back, miss?”

  The girl thought about nine, but she was not certain.

  “You're his daughter, I take it?”

  “Yes—that's right.”

  “Then before I see your father, perhaps I might have a few words with you?”

  The girl offered no objection and the Inspector followed her up a dingy, ill-lit stairway into a cramped, over-furnished little sitting-room where a pale fire was flickering. After they were seated and the Inspector had whipped out his note-book, he began a guarded cross-examination. He was anxious not to alarm the girl in any way, seeing that she was already very nervous, and made no mention, therefore, of the murder.

  “Now, Miss Crook, I understand from the Constable at Boscawen that your father owns a boat over at Towan Cove.”

  “That's right—the Nancy.”

  “And he's in the habit, I believe, of running over during the week-end for a bit of fishing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does he ever do any night fishing?”

  “Not as far as I know—though he sometimes gets back here fairly late at night.”

  “I ask this, Miss Crook, because we believe that there is some smuggling going on along that bit of coast. I wondered if your father might be able to supply us with any information. On Monday night, for example—was your father over at Towan Cove that night?”

  “Oh, I'm sure he wasn't. He left the house about seven. He told me he was going down to the billiard-hall. It's his great hobby in the winter.”

  “I see. And what time did he return?”

  “Latish, I know, because I was in bed when he came in. After eleven I should think.”

  “Did you see him when he returned?”

  “No.”

  “Does he usually return as late as that from the billiard-hall?”

  “No. He's usually home by ten or even earlier.”

  “And he gave you no explanation the next morning?”

  “None.”

  “I see. And this billiard-hall—where is it?”

  “In Queen Street.”

  “I know. Charlie Hawkins's place.” The Inspector closed his note-book. “Well, that's all I wanted to find out, Miss Crook. It's pretty obvious your father can't help us with regard to Monday night, but I'll call back later on the off-chance that he may have noticed something some other time.”

  Leaving Castle Street, Bigswell made his way quickly to Charlie Hawkins's place in Queen Street. It was a respectable, well-run place, mainly patronised by elderly tradesmen, who looked upon it as a sort of home from home. The Inspector found the proprietor polishing glasses behind the bar, an annex to the billiard-hall.

  “Evening, Mr. Bigswell. Anything I can do?”

  “Just a little matter,” said the Inspector in an undertone, glancing meaningly at the little group chatting at the bar.

  Hawkins jerked his thumb toward a tiny glass-fronted cubby-hole behind the bar, the chief decoration of which was racing almanacs and various local tradesmen's calendars. When the proprietor had closed the door, Bigswell asked:

  “Know a chap called Jeremy Crook, Charlie?” The proprietor nodded. “Come here often?”

  “Yes—regular customer in the winter. Outfitter, y'know, in Castle Street. Little monkey of a chap. Deacon of his chapel. Teetotaller. Nothing against ‘im, surely?”

  “Oh, just a little routine matter,” said the Inspector lightly. “Was he in here on Monday evening?”

  “Monday? Monday? Let's see?” Charlie Hawkins scratched his chin with a toothpick and expectorated into the fire-place. “That was the night of the murder, wasn't it? No—’e wasn't in ’ere that night. Sure of it. Couldn't have missed ’im if ’e was. I always make a good dozen rounds of the billard-room of an evening, just to keep an eye on things. But Jeremy Crook didn't show up on Monday night. Surprising, too, since it's ’is regular night.”

  “Thanks. That's all I was after, Charlie.”

  “Drink before you go, Mr. Bigswell?”

  Hawkins beamed expansively. He believed in keeping on the right side of the police. The Inspector refused.

  “No time now, Charlie. Some of us have to work for a living. ‘Night.”

  He went out into the street profoundly puzzled. He realised that he was once more up against a problem. The girl said her father had gone to the billiard-hall on Monday night. Charlie was certain he had not turned up. Where, then, had Mr. Jeremy Crook spent the evening? And why had he deliberately lied to his daughter?

  Still pondering these questions, Bigswell returned home, where his wife, always uncertain of her husband's erratic comings and goings, hastily prepared his dinner. Punctually at nine, however, relinquishing the comfort of a fireside pipe and a little light music on the wireless, the Inspector buttoned up his cape and returned to Castle Street.

  Mr. Jeremy Crook was in. He was seated in an arm-chair by the fire, sipping a glass of hot milk. When the Inspector entered he rose jerkily and motioned his daughter out of the room. He bowed the Inspector into a second chair with the obsequiousness of a born shop-walker and politely inquired the reason for his visit.

  “Surely your daughter has mentioned my previous visit here?” said the Inspector sagaciously.

  “Yes—she did tell me something,” acknowledged the tailor. “You wondered if I could give you any information about some smuggling down at Towan Cove on Monday, she said. Well, I'm sorry—I can't. I didn't go over to the Cove on Monday.”

  “Where exactly did you go, Mr. Crook?”

  “As my daughter told you—to Hawkins's billiard-hall in Queen Street.”

  “Arriving there?”

  “Oh, soon after seven, I imagine. I really can't say.” The little man seemed anxious to avoid any further reference to his doings on Monday night. He kept on glancing at the closed door as if suspecting that his daughter was listening in to the conversation. He seemed, in fact, watchful and ill-at-ease. “You see, Inspector, I really can't help you much. In fact, I haven't been out in the Nancy for some months.”

  “Look here, Mr. Crook,” said the Inspector, leaning forward and looking searchingly into the man's uneasy eyes, “you're not telling me the truth! You may as well confess to it. I know, as well as you do, that you did not visit the billiard-hall on Monday evening. You told your daughter that you were going to Queen Street. But you didn't. Why did you lie to her?”

  “I can't see why I should answer all these questions,” protested Mr. Crook in a squeaky, petulant voice. “I've told you all you want to know. I wasn't over at the Cove on Monday.”

  “But this matter's more serious than you realise,” said Bigswell. “I haven't been quite frank with you, I admit. When I interviewed your daughter, I had no wish to alarm her. Understand? I'm not investigating a case of smuggling, but a case of murder. The Tregarthan murder. Certain facts lead me to believe that you may know something about the matter. It's essential that I should know exactly where you were on Monday evening between the hours of seven and eleven. If you can give me a satisfactory explanation ... well and good. I shan't trouble you further, Mr. C
rook. I'm asking you these questions for your own good. Well, Mr. Crook, where were you on Monday night?”

  The little man glanced curiously at the Inspector, jerked suddenly to his feet and walked across to the door. He flung it open. The dimly lit landing was empty. Having satisfied himself that his daughter was not eavesdropping, the tailor carefully closed the door, returned to his chair and sat down.

  “All right,” he said in an undertone. “I'll tell you the exact truth, Inspector. You're quite right—I didn't go along to Hawkins's on Monday. I had an appointment with a lady. As you may know, my wife died some ten years ago. Well, the fact of the matter is, I sometimes feel very lonely here now. My daughter is a good enough girl, but she's young and likes to get out and about. I don't blame her. It's only natural. But I'm a family man by nature. I miss the companionship of an older woman in the house. Lately I've struck up an intimacy with a lady whom I have known for a considerable number of years. She's still, I'm glad to say, unmarried. I'm telling you this in strict confidence, Inspector—even my daughter is unaware of my relationship with this lady. I've been in the habit of visiting her of an evening. She's lonely, too, and somehow we have found a great deal of happiness in being together. Unfortunately, I know my daughter would be opposed to this friendship. She's loyal to her mother's memory. So I've had to keep this intimacy secret. That's why I lied to her about Monday. I was not intending to go to the billiard-hall, but to see this lady. You understand?

  “Perfectly,” said the Inspector. “But you realise that it's necessary for me to have this lady's address so that I can corroborate your story? All in the strictest confidence, of course.

  The little tailor, after a moment's hesitation, gave the required name and address, adding:

  “I'm happy to say, Inspector, that on Monday night I—er—proposed to the lady in question and she accepted me. I'm only waiting a favourable opportunity to tell my daughter, before making our engagement public.”

  The Inspector offered his congratulations and the wizened little tailor pulled heavily at his long moustaches, beamed with pleasure and took a long sip at his hot milk.

  “One other thing,” said the Inspector. “You say you have not been out in the Nancy for some months. When did you last take a look at the boat?”

  “Last Wednesday. It's early-closing day, and I cycled over to see how the boat was standing up to the weather. Between ourselves, Inspector, I wasn't satisfied with her condition. It's my idea that somebody has been using the boat ... recently.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “For one thing, I always leave the boat keel upward in the winter. She was right side up. What's more, she was full of water—salt water, mind you. There was a rime of salt on her bows. I didn't have time to set matters right then as it was getting dark and I had no lamp with me. But she's been tampered with, right enough. Somebody's been out in her. No mistake about it!”

  “Any idea as to who it is?’

  “None. All the chaps in Towan Cove own their own boats.’

  “I see. Well, I'll look into the matter and let you know if I find out anything. In the meantime, I'll slip along to this address.” The Inspector rose. “By the way, have you a telephone here?”

  “Yes—in the shop.”

  “And this lady—is she on the phone?”

  “No.”

  The Inspector, satisfied that Jeremy Crook would be unable to put the woman wise before his cross-examination, shook hands with the tailor at the bottom of the dingy stairs and went off up the street.

  He had no difficulty in finding No. 8 Laburnam Grove. The lady was in and quite ready to do all she could to help the Inspector. Yes, Mr. Crook had arrived there about seven-fifteen on Monday night and left shortly after eleven. He had not been out between those hours. Yes, it was true that they were now engaged, though the engagement had not yet been publicly announced. It was kind of the Inspector to offer his congratulations—the first she had received. At this, the brief interview terminated.

  “So,” thought Bigswell, as he trudged back to headquarters, dispirited, “it's a blind-alley line of investigation after all! Somebody else used the boat. That's obvious. But who?”

  He realised that when he had found the answer to that question he would have answered the even more vital question—who murdered Julius Tregarthan? The search, at any rate, was narrowing down. The sign-posts were all converging on one point. Good!

  But the vital question remained—who?

  CHAPTER XXI

  THE MYSTERY SOLVED

  ON Saturday morning Inspector Bigswell proceeded, at once, to the Boscawen Vicarage. He had two reasons for this visit. He had good news for Ruth Tregarthan and bad news for the Vicar. Overnight he had put in his report at Greystoke headquarters, with the result that he was called in to interview the Chief Constable. The Chief, in view of the circumstances which had prompted Ruth to conceal information at the inquest, was inclined toward leniency. She was prompted to commit perjury from a motive which, although it formed no excuse in itself, was quite understandable. She wished to shield the man she loved from suspicion. As luck would have it, twenty-four hours after she had committed perjury, the young man had cleared himself of suspicion, thus enabling the girl to make a true statement of the facts. The Chief's attitude was that Ruth Tregarthan had not maliciously withheld information from the police. She had acted wrongly and, according to the letter of the law, criminally. But taking all the circumstances into consideration he decided that the police need take no further action in the matter. No charge would be brought against her.

  Ruth was naturally delighted when Bigswell informed her of the Chief's decision. Not that she had really given much thought to the matter. It was quite obvious that she was far too absorbed in her reconciliation with Ronald, to worry her head about extraneous affairs. No sooner had she had a few words with Inspector Bigswell than she left the Vicarage post-haste for Cove Cottage. Every minute spent away from Ronald was, to her way of thinking, a minute wasted!

  The Inspector then settled down to have a chat with the Reverend Dodd, whose intellect and deductive abilities he was beginning to admire. The Vicar, he realised, had imagination coupled with a fine sense of the practical.

  “Well,” said the Vicar as they settled into their respective arm-chairs. “Were you barking up the wrong tree?”

  “We were!” acknowledged the Inspector. “Nothing doing, sir. A blind-alley line of investigation. Mr. Jeremy Crook has established his alibi all right. Cast-iron. No doubt about it. But the fact remains that his boat was used on Monday night. Crook hadn't taken it out for months. So the question we've got to answer is, who did borrow the Nancy on the twenty-third, and why did he borrow it?”

  “As I see it,” said the Vicar, “there are three reasons why the boat was borrowed. Any one of these three reasons may be the correct one. Firstly, it may have been borrowed because the murderer had no boat of his own. Secondly, because the murderer's boat was under repair. Thirdly, because the Nancy was a less cumbersome boat to manage than the boat which we are justified in supposing was owned by the murderer. I say justified, advisedly, because it seems to me, Inspector, that whoever handled the Nancy on Monday must have been an extraordinarily good seaman. He must have owned his own boat or at least had the use of a boat lying over at Towan Cove. According to the Constable's list all the boat-owners are accounted for. As far as we know, nobody at Towan Cove relies on another man's boat when he wants to fish or anything of the sort. There are six boats in the cove. These boats are owned, as I happen to know, by Jack Withers, Parkins, Staunton, Burdon, Haskell and our friend Jeremy Crook. To my knowledge there is nobody else living in the cove who can handle a boat. Haskell's son, I believe, is a fairly proficient oarsman, but scarcely capable of undertaking the sort of trip which the Nancy took on Monday night. To my mind then, Inspector, we can dismiss the first reason as to why the murderer needed the Nancy. And we can go further—we can safely say that the man we are looking for
is on our list of the Towan Cove boat-owners. Jeremy Crook we can dismiss. That leaves us with Jack Withers, Parkins, Staunton, Burdon and Haskell. Withers, I think, has an alibi. You may remember that Mrs. Mullion was returning on Monday night from the Withers’ cottage. Jack Withers was present when the midwife left the cove.”

  “Quite right,” put in the Inspector. “Mrs. Mullion mentioned the fact that Withers lit her lantern before she set off along the cliff-path.”

  “Exactly! Which means that he would not have had time to put off in the boat and murder Tregarthan before Mrs. Mullion saw Ruth on the cliff-path at Greylings. That leaves us, therefore, with Parkins, Staunton, Burdon and Haskell. Now we come to the other reasons for the murderer's need to borrow the Nancy. Was his own boat under repair? Was his own boat too cumbersome for the job? Now I dare say, Inspector, that among the six boats which we examined last night one of them was considerably larger than the others. That's the Towan Belle—Haskell's boat. Is Haskell the man we want? That's one question we've got to answer. On the other hand you may also remember that the boat we used was freshly painted. That was Joe Burdon's boat. Is Burdon the man we want? That's another question we've got to answer. Assuming that we've exhausted all the plausible reasons why the murderer borrowed the Nancy, you see how we have narrowed down our search? Haskell or Burdon. Which?”