In At The Death

by Francis Duncan

  Hardene had been called out late at night, apparently to one of his patients who hadn’t so far been traced. That seemed reasonable enough; what wasn’t so easy to understand was why he’d thought it necessary to take a revolver with him and why he’d been found in an empty house.

  Was it still possible that he’d made a mistake in the dark with the address and been killed in a moment of panic by a tramp whom he’d disturbed?

  No, it wasn’t. Tremaine shook his head with a regretful sound that made Boyce glance up from his work. It would certainly be a nice, neat solution that would avoid uncovering all sorts of unpleasantnesses, but it just wouldn’t fit. It wouldn’t explain, for instance, why Hardene had been carrying a gun that had killed a man.

  The unpleasantnesses were there and pretending they weren’t wouldn’t help in the long run. It was going to be necessary to dig them all out, and some of the digging was likely to be distasteful.

  Not all they would find would be of direct assistance. There were always all kinds of other threads mixed up with the one main thread you were trying to trace in affairs like this; the tricky job was to decide which was the one that really mattered and go after it never mind what it cost.

  Determinedly he returned to his task of checking the members of the cast he had encountered thus far.

  There was Martin Slade. One of Hardene’s patients, sometimes at loggerheads with him, but crippled and in pain—a great many things could therefore be forgiven him that might appear as graver faults in other men.

  Anything against him? Only the fact that he’d been a little too anxious to admit to his near-rows with Hardene. He’d visited the surgery for a perfectly normal reason—to see the doctor by appointment—and Margaret Royman had confirmed that he’d left his house before she could warn him by telephone not to come.

  Tremaine frowned as a memory crept naggingly into his mind, a memory of Slade’s clumsily moving figure stopping for a moment or two as he’d been about to climb into his car. He wondered whether Hardene had been an efficient doctor and whether Slade had been satisfied with the treatment he had been given.

  Who next? Obviously, Fenn, the seaman who had arrived at the house just after Slade’s car had been driven off.

  A sailor looking for a shore job who’d come to Hardene because he’d heard that Hardene would very likely give him a helping hand? Well, why not? It was sound enough; plenty of tramps, sailors, and down-and-outs had apparently been known to go to Hardene.

  It seemed to have been part of his stock-in-trade, to put the lowest valuation on it. He’d been setting himself up as the champion of the oppressed, although that kind of thing was getting a bit out of date. The real oppressed in these days usually wore neat if shabby suits and struggled to keep up an appearance of respectability under the weight of a mortgage and a frustrating degree of education acquired in easier times.

  Anything to be noted about Fenn? Rather an ugly-looking chap, accent from the other side of the Atlantic—otherwise little that was worth putting down.

  His attitude had been antagonistic, although he’d answered Jonathan’s questions. Had he been hiding anything? Or had his manner been due to the fact that he didn’t believe in being on good terms with the police on principle?

  On the face of it there was nothing against him. He hadn’t reached the house until long after Hardene’s death and the news of it had appeared to surprise him.

  But Fenn was a seaman. And Patrick Marton had been a seaman. And Patrick Marton was dead.

  Oh, well. Tremaine gave it up and passed on to Mrs. Colver. At first she’d been rattled but she’d settled down all right and she’d appeared to talk openly enough even if she hadn’t been exactly brimming with speech. Seemed to have looked after Hardene on the domestic side but she’d had little to do with his private life.

  Unless, of course, she knew more about the intriguing Elaine than she’d said.

  Elaine. Just what kind of woman had been attracted by Hardene to the extent of deceiving her husband? It was annoying that there was so little to go upon; it might have thrown a useful light upon Hardene’s character to have had a description of Elaine.

  Who else had there been? Ah, yes, Jerome Masters. There was an interesting development, at least. So far Masters held the major role as the person who appeared to have possessed the greatest dislike for Hardene—and with good reason. He had given himself an alibi for the time of the murder, but it was an alibi that had folded up under the first examination.

  Odd, that. After all, Masters wasn’t a fool, even if he was a blusterer. He must have known that enquiries would be made at the Venturers’ Club to test his story, and that as soon as that happened his lie would be obvious.

  Why had he behaved so stupidly? Was it because he had panicked and said the first thing that had come into his head without giving himself time to think out a convincing story that would stand up under pressure?

  But if he had killed Hardene he had had long enough to decide what he intended to do. Jonathan Boyce hadn’t paid his call until more than twelve hours after the discovery of the murder; surely that had been time enough for Masters to have rigged up a more substantial alibi?

  After all, his enmity with Hardene had been open enough to do away with any hope that his movements wouldn’t be questioned. He must have known he’d have to face enquiries. His wife had certainly made no secret of the feud.

  His wife. Tremaine stared at the steady flame of the gas-fire. A woman of character, undoubtedly. He wondered whether there was much that Masters did without consulting her.

  The thought brought a queer little doubt to his mind. Had he dismissed her too lightly? Had she played a much more important part than he had imagined? She wasn’t the kind of woman to wait unobtrusively in the background when there were grave issues at stake. She was too strong a personality to be overlooked, despite her frailness of form; Masters himself had given them evidence of that.

  That was it. That was the complete list. Except, of course, for Margaret Royman and Rex Linton—and he’d purposely left those two out of the running. He wanted to know a little more about them; he didn’t want to go rushing to any rash conclusions.

  And then he frowned. No, that wasn’t the complete record, after all. He’d forgotten something. Somewhere, during the day, he’d seen someone, or heard something, that was important.

  He was sure of that. But he’d forgotten it. He’d allowed it to slip out of his mind and out of his reach. He concentrated, trying to recall what it was, but persistently it eluded him, although it came near enough to tantalize him with the sensation that he had almost recaptured it.

  Deliberately then he gave up the attempt. It was no good trying to force it. He might end by destroying the moment of intuition and remembering the wrong thing altogether.

  Better by far to put effort aside and wait for it to return freely in its own good time. Because it would come back.

  10

  THE LADY RECEIVES A LEGACY

  JONATHAN BOYCE HAD a long list of things it was essential to do. He looked down at it and shrugged resignedly.

  ‘We’re going to have a busy day. Come on, let’s face it.’

  But despite the Yard man’s doleful air Tremaine knew that he was not really depressed. Boyce was at grips with a problem, and if he was faced with a mountain of work, with a solution to the murder nowhere in sight, he was nevertheless a contented man.

  The first task was to ring Inspector Parkin, find out whether he had any further news for them, tell him their own immediate plans, and arrange to confer with him later. The next step was to visit the offices of Messrs. Cunnam, Cunnam, and Darymple, Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths.

  A narrow street, running from the accepted city centre, was the scene of Bridgton’s banking and legal life. The main branches of the leading banks were scattered along both sides, in company with stock-broking firms, insurance offices, and a liberal sprinkling of solicitors.

  ‘It looks,’ Boyce commente
d drily, ‘as though everybody here is either busy taking in other people’s money or is drawing a living from seeing that it’s all done lawfully.’

  Cunnam, Cunnam, and Darymple had their entrance in a somewhat dingy lane leading off the street in the shadow of one of the banks.

  Boyce climbed the steep and dark flight of stairs to the rabbit warren of offices in which clerks and typists worked in what appeared to be an impossible confusion of files, conveyances, and ledgers, some so dusty and neglected that it seemed unlikely they were ever consulted, and presented his card. Almost at once they were shown into an inner room in which Mr. Horace Cunnam, the senior partner in the firm, was seated.

  He rose from his chair as they came in and held out his hand in greeting.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen. Your chairs are ready for you.’

  Boyce gave him a glance of enquiry.

  ‘So you were expecting us, Mr. Cunnam?’

  The solicitor, an elderly, grey-haired man with a wrinkled and humorous face that appeared to have little in common with the forbiddingly titled and soberly bound legal text-books on the shelves behind him, gave a smile.

  ‘I’ve been expecting you ever since I read the news in yesterday’s Courier. As a matter of fact, I rang up the house in case you might wish to get in touch with us—but no doubt you’ve been informed of that.’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Cunnam, the message was passed on to me. It was extremely thoughtful of you. This is Mr. Tremaine, by the way. He is accompanying me during my investigations.’

  Cunnam darted a quick glance at Tremaine, clearly intrigued but hesitating to ask questions.

  ‘I trust you had no difficulty in finding us? I’m afraid we solicitors have a reputation for hiding ourselves away, especially here in Bridgton.’

  ‘Well, I won’t say you aren’t a bit off the beaten track, Mr. Cunnam,’ Boyce observed, and the solicitor smiled.

  ‘It wasn’t always the case, you know,’ he said, and it was clear that he was seizing the opportunity to ride his hobby. ‘At one time the boundary of the ancient city ran through here. The lane outside actually follows the line of the wall of the Middle Ages. Sometimes—particularly when I’m looking through an old lease—I can feel ghosts at my shoulder.’

  ‘Not always a comfortable business, sir,’ Boyce returned, with an answering smile. He cleared his throat as a sign that the preliminaries were over. ‘Since you’ve been waiting for my visit there’s evidently no need for me to do any explaining. You acted as Doctor Graham Hardene’s solicitors, I believe.’

  ‘Yes, that is correct.’

  ‘Did you carry out much work for him?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, very little.’

  ‘How did he happen to come to you?’

  ‘We’ve acted for Doctor Reedley for many years—it was Doctor Reedley from whom Doctor Hardene bought his house and the practice, as you may know. Hardene had no objection to using the same solicitor as the vendor and we acted for both parties. After that, I suppose, he came to us as a matter of habit. I advised him about one or two investments, acted for him in a quite trivial matter concerning a right of way at the back of his house—actually it was a matter left over from Doctor Reedley’s time—and drew up his will. Beyond that we had no contact with each other.’

  ‘Ah yes, his will. I take it you have a note of the provisions, Mr. Cunnam?’

  ‘I have the will itself,’ the solicitor replied. ‘That is, unless you happen to have come across a later one at his house, which I’m inclined to doubt. He had no near relatives and he was quite unconcerned about what happened to his property after his death.’ He picked up a blue document from a pile lying on the side of his desk and opened it out. ‘Here we are. A bequest of a thousand pounds to Miss Margaret Royman, his receptionist, if still in his employ, and the residue to various local charities which are enumerated. Shall I read them to you?’

  ‘Any unusual ones mentioned?’

  The solicitor shook his head.

  ‘No, they’re all perfectly sound charities and well respected in the city.’

  ‘And that’s all?’

  ‘That,’ said the solicitor, closing and refolding the will, ‘is all, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘H’m. Not very exciting, is it?’

  ‘As you say, not a very exciting will. Except, of course, from the point of view of Miss Royman who will, I imagine, have rather a pleasant surprise.’

  Boyce shot him a glance from under his bushy eyebrows, looking for any significance in the other’s face.

  ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘No. I never had any occasion to visit his house and on the rare calls he made here he didn’t speak very much either about himself or his staff. Even when the will was drawn up he was quite off-hand about it as if he didn’t really care one way or the other.’ The solicitor tapped the document in question enquiringly. ‘Do you wish to take it with you?’

  ‘No, thank you, Mr. Cunnam,’ Boyce said, rising. ‘Clearing up Doctor Hardene’s estate is going to be your job. Mine is to find out who killed him.’

  ‘I’ll wish you luck, Chief Inspector. I liked what I saw of him. It’s a dreadful business. I hope that you and Mr. Tremaine here are soon able to get to the bottom of it.’

  ‘We’ll do our best,’ Boyce told him. ‘I’m obliged to you for your help.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  Cunnam shook hands with them and a few seconds later they were going back down the narrow stairs.

  ‘One of your fans, Mordecai,’ Boyce observed, as they reached the street. ‘I was expecting any moment that he was going to start asking questions. If he hadn’t been a solicitor and naturally cagey he’d have opened up before. Your fame is spreading abroad.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Jonathan,’ Tremaine said contritely. ‘I don’t want to make things difficult for you with the Commissioner—especially now, with your promotion due. If you think I ought to go back to town—–’

  He looked downcast. He, too, had noticed the solicitor’s inner excitement and had been expecting some open comment on his presence.

  And it would be upsetting if there was any unfortunate publicity to put Jonathan in an unfavourable light. For this case was important to him. He was in line for promotion to superintendent’s rank; if all went well the news might be through on their return.

  But Boyce did not seem to find any cause for alarm in the situation. He gave his companion a reassuring clap on the shoulder.

  ‘Nonsense! You don’t suppose the Commissioner didn’t realize that people were going to recognize you after all the headlines you’ve had! Provided the newspapers don’t make too much of a song—and you’re not the fellow to encourage them to do it—he won’t worry. Nor,’ Boyce added, ‘shall I. It’s a relief to think that you’ll be somewhere around if I get to feeling that I’m butting at a brick wall with the case!’

  ‘The newspapers,’ Tremaine said slowly. ‘Yes, we’ll have to see they don’t print anything that might be embarrassing.’ A harder expression came into his usually benevolent face. ‘I think,’ he went on, after a moment or two, ‘I can see a way of doing that. In fact, I’m sure I can.’

  They strolled slowly down the street in the direction of the police headquarters building where they were to meet Inspector Parkin.

  ‘What did you think of the will?’ Boyce remarked. ‘Pretty dead end, eh?’

  There was a significant note in his voice. Tremaine looked uncomfortable.

  ‘I know what you mean, Jonathan. Except for Miss Royman. Very well, I’ll agree. You’re right.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘She might have known about it. And if she did it gives her a useful motive. A thousand pounds is big enough bait for anyone in her position, even in these days.’

  ‘Especially,’ Boyce put it, ‘if she wants to get married. I must admit I can’t quite see her picking up that rock and letting drive at her employer’s head. But—–’

  ‘I know. Rex Linton. She could have told him. And he
’s a reporter, used I daresay to being in tough places. They could have been in it together.’

  Boyce made no further comment and they finished their journey in silence. Inspector Parkin was waiting for them. So, too, was the Chief Constable.

  ‘You seem to have got things moving pretty fast already, Chief Inspector,’ Sir Robert Dennell said. ‘Good work. Are you going after Masters this morning?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Boyce said. ‘I see it this way, sir,’ he went on, as he met the Chief Constable’s stare of surprise. ‘We’ve got Masters where we want him at the moment. We know his story’s a phoney one but he doesn’t know we know, and as far as he’s aware there’s no reason to go doing anything silly like making a dash for it. I’d like to let him ride for a little while. I agree that it’s looking pretty black against him, but there are a lot of things I’d like to get cleared up before I make a definite move in his direction.’

  The Chief Constable clearly did not relish what he had been told. There was a cold, set look in his face. It was a look both of disappointment and of suppressed anger.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, in clipped tones. ‘I promised you a completely free hand and I don’t propose to go back on my word. But I must confess I find your attitude a little difficult to understand. I trust you have an adequate reason for it.’

  He went out of the room, disapproval in the rigid lines of his soldier’s back. Boyce grimaced at Parkin.

  ‘Seems off-colour this morning. What’s eating into him?’

  The inspector made a deprecating movement of his shoulders. He hesitated for an instant or two.

  ‘It’s nothing to worry about. He’s been overworking a good deal lately,’ he said loyally. ‘He’s bound to be feeling the strain a bit. Besides—’

  He broke off. Tremaine looked at him.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Oh—nothing,’ Parkin said. ‘There’s quite a bit of news to pass on to you,’ he went on, just a trace of hurriedness in his manner. ‘I suppose I’d better get down to it.’ He pulled a sheaf of papers towards him. ‘Here’s the full report on Masters—daresay you’ll want to go through it yourself. And this is what we’ve been able to dig up about Fenn so far.’