‘That’s all right,’ Tremaine told him. ‘I realize how you must have been feeling.’
‘That’s just it,’ Slade returned with a sigh. ‘I doubt whether you do. I’ve been wondering ever since what you must have thought of me.’
Tremaine automatically readjusted his pince-nez. It was an instinctive prelude to his posing a leading question.
‘What I did wonder,’ he observed, ‘was why you were so anxious to make it known that you and Doctor Hardene didn’t always get on together.’
There was no hesitation in the other’s reply.
‘Panic,’ he said shortly. ‘Sheer, stupid panic. You see, I didn’t know anything then about where Hardene had been killed or when it had happened. If I’d stopped to think I’d have realized that there couldn’t be any question of my coming under suspicion. Once I’m at home I’m a fixture unless I get Sage to come for me. But when the thing was thrust at me without warning I suppose I just lost my head. I knew that you’d find out sooner or later that we’d had arguments that were a bit heated and I wanted to get my say in first.’
‘And now,’ Tremaine said with a smile, ‘you’ve had time to cool off and think it over, and you can see that all you did was to make matters worse. Is that it?’
‘Well, I’ve been able to find out one or two things I didn’t know at that time. When I discovered that Hardene had been found in an empty house facing the downs and that he’d been killed somewhere round about half past ten I realized what an idiot I’d been.’
‘People often do lose their heads on such occasions,’ Tremaine said, with the worldly air of one of wide experience in matters of the kind. ‘I suppose your mention of Jerome Masters was another of the symptoms of your—er—distress?’
‘That was my attempt to find a scapegoat,’ Slade admitted frankly.
‘I suppose you must have had a reason for picking on that scapegoat in particular?’
Slade looked at him in surprise.
‘I thought you’d have discovered it by now. I certainly did have a reason. Hardene and Masters were at each other’s throats. If anybody had a motive for the murder it was Masters. Not that I really thought he’d done it—any more than I do now. Masters wouldn’t have been such a fool.’
But his glance was speculative, and somehow it belied his words.
Tremaine affected not to have noticed it. It was no part of his duties to allow Martin Slade to share the knowledge that Jerome Masters had put forward an alibi with a large-sized hole in it.
‘In that case,’ he observed, ‘what is your theory? Somebody undoubtedly did kill Doctor Hardene, and if it wasn’t Masters who did do it?’
Slade became diffident.
‘It’s only a theory, of course. I haven’t as much knowledge of the facts as you have so I’m not in a position to have any hard and fast opinions. But it seems to me that the most likely thing is that he was killed by some tramp.’
Tremaine nodded.
‘I understand there have been a number of tramps in the neighbourhood lately. The Chief Constable mentioned it.’
‘At one time they increased the patrols around here, but I suppose the shortage of men made them give it up when nothing happened for a long while. The Courier report said that Hardene was hit on the head with a piece of rock that must have been lying somewhere near the house. I’m no policeman but it seems to me that there’s proof enough that the thing wasn’t premeditated.’
‘What do you imagine happened?’
‘Hardene was unlucky enough to disturb a tramp who’d broken into the house for shelter. There was a bit of a rumpus —Hardene was inclined to be a hasty sort of chap—and the fellow lost his head and picked up that piece of rock and hit him with it. I don’t suppose he meant to kill but in his panic he struck a bit too hard. When he realized what he’d done he made himself scarce.’
‘It’s certainly a sound enough theory,’ Tremaine remarked. ‘But there’s still the question of the house to be settled. What made Hardene go there in the first place?’
Slade lifted his shoulders.
‘Made a mistake in the dark and picked the wrong house. Easy enough to do.’
‘But what was he doing out at that time in any case?’
The other looked surprised. He raised his eyebrows.
‘He had his bag with him, didn’t he? I’d say that he’d been called out to see a patient. Haven’t the police checked on that? I’d have thought it was one of the obvious things.’
‘I’m playing the innocent abroad,’ Tremaine said hastily, sensing troubled waters ahead. ‘I just wanted to see how it struck someone on the outside.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Slade’s face cleared. ‘Well, that’s my view—based on what little I know.’
‘The weak point,’ Tremaine said slowly, ‘is how he came to make a mistake over the house. After all, you’d expect him to be familiar with where his patients lived.’
‘His practice covered a lot of ground. And maybe it wasn’t one of his usual patients. He might have had an emergency call from somebody he hadn’t seen before. It wouldn’t have been difficult to go to the wrong house in the dark.’
Tremaine pursed his lips. His companion regarded him with a hint of a twinkle.
‘I know it’s full of holes, but fortunately it isn’t my job to work out a solution. I can do it for exercise and it doesn’t matter if I’m wrong. I can see plenty of difficulties right enough. For one thing, you’d think that even if it wasn’t one of his regular patients who rang him up, whoever it was ought to have come forward by now. Although,’ he added, as another thought occurred to him, ‘they might have called in another doctor when Hardene didn’t turn up, and I suppose it’s possible that if there was something badly wrong—a person seriously ill, for instance—they might not be aware of all this business in the newspapers. And if they didn’t say anything to the doctor about having tried to get Hardene he naturally wouldn’t see any connection.’
‘It may not be your job to work out a solution,’ Tremaine said, ‘but you seem to be putting things together admirably.’
For a few moments they went on in silence. Slade stumbled on an uneven section of the path. Tremaine instinctively put out a hand to assist him, realized the other’s dislike of having attention brought to his infirmity, and sought for a topic that would occupy his mind.
‘By the way, Mr. Slade,’ he observed, ‘I understand you live over on the other side of the river. It looks rather an attractive spot from this part of the downs. I must try and get over there before I leave Bridgton.’
‘It’s pleasant enough,’ Slade agreed. He added, ‘Look here, if you’re thinking about crossing the bridge some time why not drop in at my place?’
‘I’d be delighted. Let me see, Red Gables, isn’t it?’
‘That’s it. You can’t mistake it. Detached place, about half a mile down the road from the bridge on the right. Name’s on the gate.’
‘You must find it a rather lonely spot—especially at this time of the year.’
‘It’s well enough. I’m not the type who likes noise and people fussing around anyway.’
They had almost reached the point where the path joined the roadway. The black saloon was parked ahead of them, the chauffeur sitting at the wheel, a book in his hands. He glanced up as they approached, and climbed down to open the rear door for his employer.
‘Can I drop you anywhere?’ Slade enquired.
‘I was going back to Doctor Hardene’s house. If that wouldn’t be out of your way—–’
‘Not at all. We’ve got to pass the end of the road in any case. In you get. Don’t worry about me. Sage’ll give me a hand.’
Tremaine seated himself in the rear of the saloon, and Slade, aided by the chauffeur, clambered pantingly in at his side.
‘Now, this visit of yours,’ Slade said, as they moved off. ‘When is it to be?’
His tone made it plain that he was not merely being polite. Tremaine reflected for a moment or two and
then made up his mind.
‘Would this afternoon be inconvenient?’
‘Capital. I’ll send the car for you. Where would you like to be picked up?’
‘No, don’t do that,’ Tremaine said. ‘I’m a little uncertain what time I’ll be able to get away and I’d rather make my own way over—gives me more opportunity to get to know places.’
Slade did not demur and a few minutes later they had turned away from the downs and were running smoothly down the road in which Hardene’s house was situated.
15
THE LADY IS INDIGNANT
TREMAINE PUSHED OPEN the entrance gate and walked up the short path towards the house, self-consciously aware of the big car as it moved off.
‘I see,’ Jonathan Boyce said, as he opened the door, ‘that you’re beginning to make the acquaintance of the local inhabitants.’
‘That was Martin Slade,’ Tremaine said defensively. ‘You remember he was here the other morning. Cripple, one of Hardene’s patients.’
‘I remember,’ Boyce said. ‘I’ve seen his car running around the neighbourhood this morning. Anything interesting come of it?’
Tremaine described his meeting of a short while before and Boyce gave a little nod.
‘Sounds as though he’s had second thoughts. I had an idea he might be trying to undo that first impression and give us a more flattering edition.’
‘It sounded logical enough, Jonathan,’ Tremaine said.
There was no doubt that Slade had been in a much more friendly mood. He had been altogether less prickly—even, in fact, ready to make the approaches.
Tremaine followed Boyce into the house. Margaret Royman had arrived and was working in her room. He greeted her as he passed the open doorway. She returned his good-morning pleasantly but her eyes went down almost immediately to her task; she clearly did not wish to be drawn into conversation.
He saw that she was very pale and that the hand resting upon the papers on her desk was not quite steady.
When they were out of earshot he looked at Boyce.
‘Has she heard?’
‘About the legacy? Yes. Seems to have shaken her. She’s been very off-colour this morning.’
‘Good,’ Tremaine said cheerfully, and the Yard man eyed him in surprise.
‘What, no romance in the air today?’
‘If she’s upset it sounds as though she didn’t know anything about that thousand pounds. And if she didn’t know anything about it where’s the motive?’
‘There have been accomplished actresses,’ Boyce rejoined, a trifle morosely, but Tremaine did not take up the challenge.
The late Doctor Hardene’s residence was not remarkable for its air of cheerfulness. If Margaret Royman was reluctant to talk, the housekeeper proved to be even less willing to indulge in conversation.
Tremaine found her disapproving and tight-lipped, ostentatiously busying herself with tasks in the kitchen which even his untutored eye could see were unnecessary. He wondered what, indeed, she had to do now that her employer was no longer in existence to give his orders.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you again, Mrs. Colver,’ he began mildly, ‘but I know how willing you are to help clear up this dreadful affair.’
‘I’ve told you all I can,’ she said frigidly. ‘You and the Chief Inspector.’
‘I’m quite sure you have,’ he told her conciliatorily. ‘It’s just that sometimes—quite inadvertently—things slip one’s memory. I’m wondering whether there is any further way in which you can help to throw some light on what happened to Doctor Hardene. What I’m chiefly concerned with at the moment,’ he went on, before she could voice an objection, ‘is the doctor’s social work.’
She relaxed at that, as though she had been on her guard against something quite different.
‘His social work? You mean his politics?’
‘Well, not quite. Politics and social work don’t always mean the same thing. No, I mean the interest he took in helping people who came to see him when they were in difficulties. I believe he was especially interested in helping seafaring men, wasn’t he?’
Her guard was back again now, unmistakably.
‘I don’t know anything about that,’ she told him. ‘He never said anything to me about what he was doing and I didn’t ask him. It wasn’t my place.’
‘But I expect you saw the people who came to the house?’
‘Not always.’ There was a sullen, obstinate note in her voice. ‘If I was working in the kitchen I might not see them.’
‘You mean Doctor Hardene would have answered the door himself?’
She saw the trap and drew back from it.
‘Miss Royman might. Like she sometimes did for patients. I wouldn’t see who it was calling then.’
‘Oh, I see. It’s a pity. I was hoping you might have been able to throw some light on things. Still, it can’t be helped.’
Tremaine was wandering about the kitchen, peering at the cupboards lining it, as if his mind was not really on what he was saying at all.
‘I suppose you’ll have made up your mind now about what to do,’ he observed casually. ‘Will you be leaving Bridgton altogether?’
‘No,’ she said shortly. ‘Why should I?’
‘I must say it’s a pleasant city,’ Tremaine agreed. ‘Very pleasant indeed. But I thought you might have been going to live nearer your son.’
It was a shot in the dark but it went home. She gripped the edge of the table.
‘My—son?’ she said falteringly.
‘I happened to see his photograph in your room. He’s in hospital, isn’t he?’
‘How—how did you know?’
‘The background of the photograph looked like a hospital or a sanatorium building, and he was in a wheeled chair. Has he been a patient long?’
‘Five years,’ she said. She had recovered a little now, although she had still not regained her former attitude of rigid defence. ‘It was an accident—his spine was injured. The doctors say that he’ll always have to have treatment and that he’ll never be able to work.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Tremaine said quietly. ‘It must make matters very difficult for you.’
‘I manage,’ she said, hard-voiced, and he knew that the armour was back in position, even more forbidding now because of her chagrin at her brief, involuntary weakness.
The arrival of Jonathan Boyce extricated Tremaine from what was becoming an uncomfortable situation. The Yard man put his head around the door.
‘Oh, there are you. Like to come?’
Tremaine, grateful at the rescue, did not ask questions until the door had closed behind them.
‘Masters,’ Boyce said, in response to the enquiry he made when they were outside. ‘It’s time we asked him to explain that shaky alibi. He’s sure to know that we’ve been checking on him and he’ll have had time to make up his mind whether he’s going to come across with the truth or not.’
‘Does he know you’re on the way?’
‘No. But Parkin’s been keeping an eye on him. He’s been avoiding his office—found that too many people were asking awkward questions apparently. We’ll find him at home all right.’
The police car which had been placed permanently at their disposal took them across the downs and into the select neighbourhood in which Jerome Masters lived. Boyce gave his name to the maid who answered his ring and they were shown into a lounge overlooking the trim lawns that ran down to the roadway.
They were not kept waiting long.
‘Mr. Masters is in his study,’ the maid said to Boyce as she returned. ‘Will you come this way, sir.’
There was an undercurrent of excitement in her manner. Boyce glanced significantly at Tremaine as they followed her out of the lounge.
Jerome Masters was seated at the desk where they had seen him on their earlier visit. He raised his head as they were shown in and they saw that his eyes were bloodshot and that his big form was sagging; evidently he had been enduring no quiet time
in the interval.
‘I’ve been expecting you back before,’ he told them, without preliminary. ‘You’ve been long enough in coming.’
His tone was ungracious. Boyce, appraising the situation, saw that the man had decided upon attack and his own manner hardened.
‘Why should we have come back at all, Mr. Masters? I believe I made it quite clear the other day that our visit was purely a routine one.’
‘You did,’ Masters growled. ‘Maybe that’s why your confounded plain-clothes men have been going around asking questions about me ever since.’
‘You must realize, sir,’ Boyce said imperturbably, ‘that all statements made have to be checked before they can be accepted. It’s a matter of course.’
‘What I want to know,’ Masters almost snarled, ‘is when it’s going to stop! The whole place is talking. I’ve had to give up going to my office and stay here like a monk because I can’t put a foot out of doors without some fool wanting to ask questions.’
‘I’m sorry if you’ve been inconvenienced, sir.’
‘Inconvenienced! I tell you, Chief Inspector, I’m tired of it and I don’t propose to put up with it much longer. We’ll see whether the Chief Constable can do anything about it. Your attitude’s been infernally high-handed.’
‘The Chief Constable, sir? You don’t appear to have seen him yet,’ Boyce observed gently.
Masters put his elbows on the desk and leaned forward threateningly, his jaw thrust out.
‘What d’you mean by that?’
‘I mean that it’s time we got down to business, Mr. Masters,’ Boyce said quietly. ‘You haven’t been to Sir Robert Dennell with any complaints so far, nor are you likely to go to him—and for a reason we both know very well.’
The glare left the other’s eyes. He sat back, the truculence oozing out of him, like a boxer who had just taken a shrewd, scientifically aimed blow to the body that had turned his legs to water.
‘What—reason?’ he got out reluctantly.
‘You told me, sir,’ Boyce said dispassionately, ‘that on the night of Doctor Hardene’s death you were at the Venturers’ Club in the city and that you didn’t leave until late in the evening—some time not far short of eleven o’clock, to be precise. You’re quite right about enquiries being made, but I’m afraid they haven’t been very satisfactory from your point of view—or from mine. We haven’t been able to find anyone who remembers seeing you in the club at all on that particular night.’
In At The Death Page 15