It was not the name by which she had been known in those days, but despite the blurring of memory Tremaine was certain that she was the same woman. Some of the press photographs had been extremely clear.
Armitage, then, was Alan Creed, released from prison and trying to settle down under another name with the woman who had stood by him and for whom he had betrayed his companions.
And Marfield, the ringleader of the gang, known to be a desperate man, and proving it by the fact of his escape from prison, was probably in the neighbourhood—leading the life of a fugitive and doubtless with the bitterness of hate and the desire for revenge in his heart.
It sharpened the drama to a point at which it seemed inevitable that there should be another grim climax.
If Marfield knew about Creed or Armitage; and Creed knew in turn of Marfield’s presence on the island, then sooner or later the paths of the two would cross.
But there were still pieces of the puzzle lacking. Why had Latinam linked himself with Marfield? And why hadn’t Marfield done anything about Creed? He must have had ample opportunities of taking his revenge undetected.
Tremaine wrinkled his brows, concentrating upon the problem. At the time of the trial there had been a mention of the large sum of money the gang had been known to have accumulated.
Was that the solution? Was it possible that Armitage’s repentance had not been as genuine as it had seemed? Had the whole thing been engineered with the woman who was now known as Valerie Creed to enable them to make off with the spoils?
It would explain many things. It would explain, for instance, where Latinam came into the picture.
He had known about the affair from the beginning. He had discovered the whereabouts of Armitage and his wife and had promptly followed them and bought the Rohane hotel as a cover for his real intentions. Then he had managed to get in touch with Marfield and had had a hand in the man’s escape from the moment of his breaking clear of the prison buildings. It was the help a man received outside the walls which was the most important in ensuring that he stayed at large.
But why had Latinam called in Marfield at all? Judging by that conversation among the rocks he had already been demanding blackmail from Creed. Why had he not kept matters in his own hands and gone on with his extortion as long as the money had been there to collect?
Creed would have paid. He would have paid for the sake of the woman if for no other reason.
Tremaine thought he knew the answer. Latinam had been afraid. He had known that one day Marfield would be released and that when that day came he would require his share of the money he had helped to accumulate.
Merely to have blackmailed Creed would have given Latinam a steady income, but it would have been an uneasy one, over-shadowed by the fear of what would happen when Marfield found out. But with Marfield as an ally—with Marfield, in fact, in his debt because of his having connived at his escape—that fear would be removed.
Tremaine drew a deep breath. So far so good. The puzzle was involved, but at least it was possible to make some kind of coherent pattern out of it.
But what about the murders? Had it been Marfield who had killed Latinam? Either accidentally in the course of a quarrel, or deliberately because he had realized that it lay in Latinam’s power to hand him back to the police and because Latinam had given him reason to think such a thing might happen? Or—had it been Creed, stung into fury by the realization that Latinam had launched Marfield into his paradise, who had struck the fatal blow?
In which case, where did Le Mazon come into it?
‘Are you any nearer a solution?’
He looked up with a start to find himself facing Nicola Paston.
‘You look as though you’re up against it,’ she went on, smiling. ‘Can I help you out?’
The sight of her fair hair gleaming in the sunlight overthrew the careful edifice of supposition he had been erecting and left it scattered around him.
Behold a fair woman . . .
‘Perhaps,’ he said, trying to gather his thoughts. ‘Perhaps. I was wondering who might have killed Mr. Latinam and Gaston Le Mazon.’
‘Oh.’ The monosyllable had a flat sound. ‘Oh. I see. In that case I’m afraid there isn’t anything I can do.’
‘But I think there is something you can do,’ he corrected her. ‘In an affair of this kind there are always a great many loose ends. It’s highly important to see that they’re gathered up.’
‘Loose ends?’ she echoed. She was unsure of herself but trying not to let him see it. ‘You mean they haven’t really anything to do with the case at all?’
‘Sometimes they haven’t. Sometimes, though, things you thought were loose ends turn out to be very important indeed.’ He hesitated. ‘I don’t want to touch on a subject which may be painful to you, but I’ve been wondering lately what your name was—before you became Mrs Paston.’
She stared at him for a long while, without speaking, and he prompted her.
‘Was it, by any chance—Summerfold?’
The colour went slowly from her face.
‘Yes,’ she said reluctantly. ‘Yes, it was.’
22
THE CLUE IN THE CHURCH
MORDECAI TREMAINE WAS aware of a sense of urgency. Matters were hurrying to a climax, and he did not want it to be a climax of the wrong kind.
The day was Sunday. He had made up his mind to go to church but it was too early yet for the morning service and he was walking along by the beach. It would help him to calm his thoughts before he entered the little grey church whose tower rose above Moulin d’Or.
Alan and Valerie Creed, Marfield—the dark, brooding Marfield whom he had never seen—and Nicola Paston were inextricably mixed in his mind. The pattern was alternately clear and clouded with mystery.
It was Ruth Latinam who was the cause. He was not sure of her. He was not sure of her motives or of what was going on behind her sombre, haunted eyes.
He did not want to meet any of the people from the Rohane hotel, but it was perhaps inevitable that on such a fine morning he should do so. Near the kiosk, the shutters of which were just being taken down, he encountered Ivan Holt.
The other’s face still bore the expression of aggressive wariness that had marked him since Latinam’s death. He eyed Tremaine morosely.
‘Your police friends don’t seem to be getting very far.’
‘Sometimes it’s necessary for the police to make a great many enquiries before they’re in a position to make an open move,’ Tremaine returned evenly. ‘But when they do move they’ve made sure of their facts.’ He saw the darkening of Holt’s face and decided that there was an advantage that might be pressed. ‘How did you get on with your own enquiries?’
‘What enquiries?’ Holt rejoined, so sharply that Tremaine knew that his ranging shot had reached its mark.
‘You went to the mainland some days ago. A business trip, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, that’s right. A business trip.’
‘Rather a pity you had to break into your holiday. But you’ve had quite a long holiday over here so I don’t suppose it went too much against the grain.’
Holt’s expression was grimmer than ever.
‘You seem to be taking a great interest in my affairs.’
‘No greater than the police are doing,’ Tremaine returned. His air did not suggest that he found anything outrageous in the comment. ‘Murder tends to produce an interest in the affairs of anybody who might possibly have been concerned in it.’
He did not wait for Holt to reply but went quickly on in the same conversational tone. He looked harmless and quite benevolent. So much so that it was clear that the younger man was undecided what attitude to adopt.
‘The air services are so convenient in these days. It’s remarkable how far one can travel even in a comparatively short time. It would be possible to get as far, say, as Yorkshire, do one’s business and return here all in the space of a day or two.’
‘What makes you mention York
shire?’ Holt said.
The question appeared to be dragged from him. Tremaine faced him gravely, no longer either harmless or benevolent.
‘Because that’s where you went, isn’t it, Mr. Holt? What did you find out?’
‘Nothing,’ Holt said, between his teeth. ‘Nothing!’
Tremaine did not lower his gaze but he seemed abruptly to lose interest in that particular topic.
‘How is Miss Latinam this morning?’
Holt shifted his feet. He leaned backwards slightly, like a boxer who had changed his stance to meet some new form of attack from his adversary.
‘She buried her brother the other day. How should she be?’
‘She hasn’t been looking well, to me,’ Tremaine said. ‘Quite thin and pale in fact. I think she’s been feeling the strain.’
The words sounded innocuous enough but it was clearly not the construction Holt put upon them. His fists clenched.
‘Don’t you worry about Ruth,’ he said tensely. ‘Just leave her alone. You hear me! Leave her alone!’
Tremaine stepped back a pace. He looked disconcerted.
‘I’ve certainly no wish to cause her distress. I realize what a very difficult time she’s been having. If there’s anything I can do to help—’
Holt relaxed. He lost his air of menace.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, making a visible effort to control himself. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately. Feeling the strain a bit myself, I suppose. I’ve been talking like an ass, haven’t I? Please forgive me.’
‘Of course,’ Tremaine said. ‘I know how unpleasant the situation has been. I think we shall all be glad when the police take some definite step.’
‘Yes,’ Holt said. ‘Yes, we shall.’
But the words were insincere. Tremaine watched him go off across the dunes. There was still something that didn’t fit; something that lay behind Ivan Holt’s jumpiness and the fear that was in his heart.
Holt was in love with Ruth Latinam and he had heard the girl confess that she was in love with him in return. Where, then, was the obstacle?
Had it been Latinam? Not on the surface at least. He had always seemed well disposed towards the prospect of such a union; if his sense of humour had been a little obvious and strained at times he had certainly shown no hostility towards Holt.
Unless that jovial attitude had been a cloak for something unpleasant; something, in fact, frankly antagonistic. Was that the reason for Ruth Latinam’s reluctance to be drawn into any discussion and for her cool, distant air?
It was a possibility, but on the other hand if she was really in love with Holt she would surely have stood up to her brother over such an intimate matter?
And there was Holt himself to be considered. He wasn’t a weak young man who would give up the girl he wanted without a struggle. It wasn’t easy to imagine him giving way to Latinam.
Suppose he had stood up to Latinam? Suppose there’d been an argument and in the course of it Latinam had been killed?
No wonder Holt might now be showing signs of panic and Ruth Latinam carrying dread in her face!
Gaston Le Mazon might have suspected what had happened. He might have gone to the Rohane hotel with the idea of confronting Holt, and Holt, in desperation, might have become a murderer for the second time in order to avoid detection.
There was a certain plausibility about the theory and yet it didn’t wholly meet the case. Surely it would have been quite sufficient for Holt to have taken Ruth Latinam away from the island and left her brother to snap his fingers in impotent rage! There had been no need for violence. Besides, it didn’t explain what the girl had been doing near the gun emplacement.
Tremaine turned to retrace his steps in the direction of the church and found himself walking towards Geoffrey Bendall and Nicola Paston.
Since his meeting with her on the previous day Nicola had done her best to avoid him. He thought that she was nervous now; she was clinging to Bendall’s arm as if for support.
‘So the wires have been humming, eh?’ Bendall said, as they approached. ‘The tireless sleuths have been busy while the rest of us have been sleeping!’
It seemed, Tremaine reflected, that he was anxious to go straight for the point.
‘You’ve seen the Chief Officer?’
‘No. But you saw Nicola yesterday.’ Bendall disengaged his arm from her hold and slipped it around her waist. It was clearly meant to indicate that they stood together. ‘I’m afraid you rather upset her.’
‘In what way?’
‘By discovering our dark secret,’ Bendall said boldly.
‘I imagine,’ Tremaine said, ‘that what you’re trying to tell me is that you also are one of the late Mr. Summerfold’s relatives?’
‘Nicola and I are the only two. My mother was Christopher Summerfold’s younger sister. Nicola’s father was the son of his cousin. We’re the last limbs of the tree.’ Bendall’s lips twisted. ‘War and natural causes have lopped the branches of what was never a particularly sturdy oak.’
‘But for Hedley Latinam you and Mrs. Paston would have shared your uncle’s fortune?’
‘That’s the answer,’ Bendall agreed. ‘I didn’t see much of my uncle. He was a queer old bird in lots of ways. His ideas weren’t mine and he didn’t give my mother the help he might have done when she needed it. But he was my uncle. I didn’t see why his money should go outside the family.’
‘So in spite of the will you decided to try and do something about it?’
‘I looked up Nicola and she agreed that the thing was worth trying. If we were cut out of the will, anyway, we could hardly lose.’
‘I take it that you didn’t embark on such a plan without believing there might be something you could do. What gave you such a thought?’
‘Latinam,’ Bendall said bluntly. ‘I knew the whole thing was phoney. The way he got in touch with my uncle by making it look as though he’d saved his life—he probably hired the driver of the car to do it; I’ve never heard that he was ever traced—and the way he tried to keep on his right side. It seemed to me that anybody who was ready to play that kind of game had most likely been up to shady tricks before and that it would be worthwhile keeping a watch on him. Sooner or later he might put a foot wrong and then we might come in.’
Tremaine gave him a speculative glance.
‘Do you think Latinam suspected you?’
‘I’m not sure. Sometimes I think he may have done. I used to try and get him off his guard by referring to schemes like the one he’d carried out to see if he’d lose his temper and let something slip. I came pretty much into the open once or twice and Latinam wasn’t a fool—even if he was a large-sized crook!’
‘I could tell that there was some kind of duel going on between you and I used to wonder what was behind it. You were after your revenge and you amused yourself by trying to—well, twist Latinam’s tail.’
‘I suppose you could call it that. It didn’t seem to get very far with him, though.’
‘Didn’t it? Thank you for being frank with me, anyway,’ Tremaine said. ‘I suppose you are being frank?’
‘Of course,’ Bendall said elaborately. ‘What makes you think I’m not?’
‘I dare say it’s my suspicious mind. It leads me to all kinds of queer thoughts. Why didn’t you speak of all this before? It would have made things so much easier.’
‘Would it? Before Latinam was murdered,’ Bendall said practically, ‘there wasn’t any point. Nicola and I were playing our own game in our own way; we didn’t want to invite outsiders into it. And after he was murdered—well, it seemed to be asking for trouble to say anything then.’
‘What you mean,’ Tremaine observed, ‘is that it might have provided you with a motive for having killed him and could therefore have made things awkward for you with the police.’
‘I suppose I do,’ Bendall admitted. ‘But put yourself in our position. There was nothing to connect us with Latinam or with the old man called Su
mmerfold who’d left him his money. My mother changed her name, of course, when she married, and Nicola is a widow; that’s why we thought we were safe in the first place in coming after Latinam. He’d never have cause to suspect us from our names. There wasn’t any purpose in starting up a lot of scandal that didn’t have any bearing on the case.’
‘Is it certain that it wouldn’t have had any bearing?’ Tremaine studied them both gravely. ‘You didn’t have anything to do with the murder?’
‘Don’t be absurd!’ Bendall protested. ‘What did we have to gain by killing Latinam. That wasn’t likely to get us the money. Even if we could have been certain that he hadn’t made a will it wouldn’t have brought the money back in our direction.’
‘You might have thought more of revenge than of the money.’
Bendall’s lips curled.
‘I’m not such a fool,’ he said curtly. ‘Neither is Nicola. Anyway, Latinam wasn’t the only one to get himself murdered. Why should either of us have wanted to kill Le Mazon?’
There was, Tremaine thought, quite a sound answer to that, even if Bendall wasn’t going to admit that he knew it. Latinam had suspected enough and had been ruthless enough to have been prepared to dispose of both Bendall and his companion. Le Mazon was to have been his instrument; the operation could conceivably have gone into reverse if Bendall had been aware of the plan.
He held Bendall’s gaze for a moment or two, and then glanced at his watch.
‘Dear me, I must hurry. I’ve made up my mind to attend service this morning and I hadn’t realized it was so late.’
‘Time goes quickly,’ Bendall said, with a sarcasm he could not restrain, ‘when you’re hot on the trail.’
Nicola Paston gave him a look of entreaty.
‘I think we should be going, Geoffrey. We don’t want to detain Mr. Tremaine.’
‘No, that’s right,’ Bendall said. ‘We don’t.’
On his way to the church in the village Tremaine’s thoughts, far from being suitably calm, were once more in a turmoil.
It was plain why Bendall had admitted his interest in Latinam. He had known that it was about to be discovered anyway and he had decided to get his confession in first.
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