‘But,’ Tremaine said, ‘Fenn wasn’t so easy to deal with. Is that what you think?’
‘He wasn’t willing to kiss and be friends, sir. Not just like that. Maybe Hardene didn’t offer enough or maybe it was Fenn who was in an ugly mood. They got to arguing and Fenn picked up that piece of rock and landed him with it. We know about the tie-up between Hardene and Lacey; we know that Fenn signed off his ship when she docked; and we know that he hasn’t an alibi for the time of the murder. It all seems to me to hang together.’
‘On the face of it—yes. But it still might have been a tramp who did the actual murder,’ Tremaine put in diffidently, ‘and not Fenn at all. Suppose they did arrange to meet. Suppose Hardene was a few minutes early and Fenn was a few minutes late—he might easily have been in a strange city. Suppose Hardene disturbed a tramp who was using the house as a resting place for the night. There might have been an argument and an unlucky blow, and Hardene might have already been dead when Fenn turned up. As soon as he realized what had happened Fenn got out again in a hurry. All the facts still fit—but they don’t make Fenn the murderer.’
Parkin opened his mouth to say something and then closed it helplessly. He looked at Jonathan Boyce.
‘Don’t make it more difficult, Mordecai,’ the Yard man said wryly. ‘Circumstantial evidence is as much as we’re likely to get.’
Tremaine made an apologetic gesture.
‘I’m sorry to sound awkward, Jonathan.’
Boyce did not make the reply that was on his tongue, for at that moment the door opened and the Chief Constable came in.
‘No, don’t get up.’ He put out a restraining hand as they instinctively began to rise, and crossing the room joined them at the table. He seemed in a high good humour. ‘Well, Parkin, they tell me your reports are through?’
‘Yes, sir. I’ve just been giving the Chief Inspector and Mr. Tremaine the main facts.’
Briefly the inspector recounted what he had already told his earlier companions and the Chief Constable leaned back in his chair, beaming broadly.
‘Couldn’t ask for much more, could we! The whole thing ties up. Hardene a crook, eh? That’ll make the tongues wag. Suppose I shouldn’t be surprised at it, though, after finding out about that gun.’
‘There’s still some clearing up to be done, sir,’ Boyce put in, and the other nodded.
‘Quite, quite. A business like this always produces all sorts of loose ends that turn out to have nothing to do with the real job at all. Sort of thing you expect. But you won’t find me asking questions about every small detail that’s come to light. My concern is to see the murder question settled and as long as that’s done I’ll be satisfied. Between ourselves, the less mud that’s stirred up the better.’
The Chief Constable cleared his throat with just a trace of self-consciousness and turned towards Parkin.
‘Now, Parkin, that fellow’s got to be found. As soon as Fenn’s safely inside we can go ahead and let the newspapers have the story. I want every available man on the job.’
His tone was authoritative but without rancour. Parkin was clearly relieved.
‘I’ll get in touch with you the moment we find him, sir.’
There was a knock at the door and the constable who had previously acted as a messenger came in and spoke to the Chief Constable. Sir Robert Dennell brought the palm of his hand down upon the table.
‘Bless my soul, I’d forgotten him! All right, Taylor, have him sent up.’
As the messenger went out on his errand the Chief Constable glanced at his companions, a smile on his lips, like a man who nursed a secret he knew would produce at least a mild sensation.
‘I had a message from Masters this morning,’ he announced. ‘Rang me up at my house. Said he wanted to come and see me. You three had better wait and see what it’s all about.’
‘Masters, sir!’ Parkin ejaculated. ‘Wonder what he wants?’
‘Probably wants to complain about being persecuted,’ Boyce remarked. ‘He didn’t appreciate my call yesterday.’
The Chief Constable shook his head.
‘No, it didn’t sound to me as though he wanted to make a complaint. More as though he had something he wanted to get off his chest.’ He made a rueful grimace as a thought occurred to him. ‘Hope it isn’t a confession he wants to make. That would put the cat among the pigeons again, wouldn’t it!’
Tremaine’s eyes flickered towards Inspector Parkin. The local man was regarding his chief in a somewhat doubtful fashion, almost as though he disapproved of his air of levity.
A moment or two later and the door opened again and the burly figure of Jerome Masters appeared in the entrance. The builder advanced into the room and then he hesitated and his expression changed as he saw that the Chief Constable was not alone.
‘It’s all right, Masters, I think you’ve already met these three anyway. Come in and sit down.’
Reluctantly Masters did as he was invited.
‘I was hoping, Sir Robert,’ he said awkwardly, with none of his earlier arrogance, ‘I’d find you alone.’
‘I take it,’ the Chief Constable said, ‘that you’ve come about the Hardene affair? That was the impression you gave me on the telephone, anyway.’
‘Yes—that’s why I wanted to see you.’
‘In that case you can speak quite freely. These gentlemen are conducting the investigation, so they’ll naturally be interested in anything you can say that will throw new light on things.’
Masters sat silent. He licked his lips and his gaze wandered away to the window. He looked very unhappy.
Mordecai Tremaine said quietly:
‘I rather fancy that Mr. Masters has come here, Sir Robert, because he felt that what he had to say would be said easier here than at his home. You see, it’s difficult for him to have visitors without his wife being aware of them.’
The Chief Constable looked blank, but Masters turned a suddenly grateful glance in Tremaine’s direction.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, that’s right.’ He took a deep breath and then the words came quickly. ‘I know what you’re thinking, Sir Robert. You’re thinking I had something to do with killing Hardene. That’s why I’ve come—to tell you that you’re wrong. I know I’ve been a fool—made things difficult for myself—but I swear I had nothing to do with it.’
The Chief Constable cleared his throat with an official sound. It was obviously a mannerism he employed when he wanted to gain time to phrase what he intended to say.
‘Glad to hear you say so, naturally, Masters. I mean, a man in your position in the city. Don’t want any scandal if it can be avoided—doesn’t do any good to any of us. But things don’t look too well, you know.’
‘I know.’ Masters sounded like a small boy caught out in some misdeed and ready to express penitence. ‘I said I was at the Venturers’ Club that night. I can see now that it was a stupid thing to have done.’
Jonathan Boyce leaned forward.
‘Do I take it, Mr. Masters, that you’re willing to admit that you didn’t go to the club?’
Masters nodded glumly and the Chief Constable made a sound denoting exasperation.
‘Then devil take it, man, what was the point in lying?’ he said sharply. ‘Surely you must have realized what the consequences would be! You must have known that you were bound to come under suspicion once you’d been found out.’
‘I—I knew I had to have an alibi,’ Masters said. ‘Everybody had heard about Hardene and me being on different sides of the fence. When the Chief Inspector came to see me I said the first thing that came into my head and afterwards it was too late to take it back.’
Sir Robert Dennell frowned.
‘The situation is then, Masters, that you haven’t an alibi, after all?’
‘No, I don’t mean that,’ Masters said, still more unhappily. ‘I can prove I wasn’t anywhere near the place where Hardene was killed that night.’
‘Then what’s all the mystery and argument ab
out?’ The Chief Constable’s exasperation deepened. ‘Why not say where you were and have done with it?’
‘Perhaps,’ Tremaine interposed quietly, ‘Mrs. Masters is the key to the matter.’
Once again Masters gave him a glance of gratitude.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It was Sibyl—my wife. I couldn’t risk her finding out where I’d really been.’
He was making very heavy weather now. Tremaine could not avoid a feeling of sympathy for the man. It was evident that it had cost him an effort to come.
Sir Robert Dennell was proving obtuse—whether wilfully or otherwise it was difficult to assess—and Masters was forced to elaborate his story in halting phrases.
It was a story that came oddly from the big man’s lips; the story of the self-made builder, outwardly strong and ruthless, who was completely under the will of his frail-looking wife. It was Sibyl Masters who ruled, and the arrogant business man who dealt so hardly with his rivals deferred to her wishes.
As was perhaps inevitable he had sought for compensations—secretly, after the manner of a man who was not permitted to indulge his desires openly. His vices proved to have been simple enough—drinking and gambling parties with a group of male associates—but to Sibyl Masters, coming of a family rooted in the worst prejudices of the Free Churches, they would have been unpardonable.
The night of Graham Hardene’s murder, unluckily for Masters, had been also the night of a particularly convivial gathering in a private room at a well-known bar in the city. To lie to the police had seemed to him in the first moment of panic easier than to risk his wife discovering where he had really spent his time.
The fact that he had lied in such a manner now provided paradoxical proof of his innocence of the murder. As far as Hardene’s death had been concerned, his conscience had been clear; he had not imagined that serious enquiries would be made about him and he had failed to appreciate that to the police the fact that he was not the murderer was not self-evident but required to be established by careful proofs.
When the sorry recital was over Masters was huddled in his chair, his bombast utterly gone and in his face the drawn expectancy of a man who was waiting for the next blow to fall. Even Sir Robert Dennell’s irritation had died.
‘All right, man,’ he growled, hiding his embarrassment with a roughness of tone. ‘There’s no need to look so doleful about it. We’ll have to check what you’ve told us, but unless you’ve been making it all up again you won’t hear any more of it.’
Masters lifted his head.
‘You won’t—you’ll not let Sibyl know?’
‘As long as she isn’t mixed up in anything criminal, what your wife thinks or does isn’t any of our concern and we aren’t likely to go taking her into our confidence.’
‘I—I’ll appreciate anything you can do to keep things quiet, Sir Robert. She’s—she’s been very upset just lately because of all these enquiries.’
‘All right. Well, if that’s all you have to tell us——’
The Chief Constable half rose from his chair in an indication that the interview was over, and Masters followed suit. It was Mordecai Tremaine who introduced the jarring note.
‘There’s just one more matter,’ he observed, ‘that Mr. Masters may be able to clear up for us before he leaves.’
Masters turned towards him, an almost pathetic eagerness in his manner; he had clearly been regarding the benevolent-looking elderly man who was with the policemen as an unexpected friend.
‘What I was wondering, Mr. Masters, is whether you can tell us what your wife was doing on that particular night. I mean the night of Doctor Hardene’s murder.’
‘My wife?’ Masters stared at him, clearly at a loss. ‘She was at home.’
‘Are you certain of that?’
‘Of course I am,’ Masters said. And then he stopped, the doubt visible in his face. ‘Well, no,’ he admitted, ‘I’m not certain. I wasn’t there myself to see her. But I’m sure she would have said if she’d been out.’
He waited, expecting further questions, but Tremaine merely peered at him over his pince-nez, pushed them back into position, and smiled benevolently.
‘That’s all, Mr. Masters, thank you.’
Unwillingly, with a backward glance at the Chief Constable, Masters went out. As the door closed behind him three pairs of eyes turned upon Tremaine.
‘What was all that about Mrs. Masters?’ Sir Robert Dennell demanded.
Tremaine put the tips of his fingers together. He was wearing his most harmless expression.
‘She gave me the impression of being a woman of strong character,’ he observed. ‘I’m not surprised to hear that Masters was dominated by her. She knew all about the trouble with Doctor Hardene and she wasn’t afraid to make her opinion known. A woman like that can do surprising things. It might be interesting to find out whether she was at home on the night of the murder, and if she wasn’t, just where she did spend her time.’
On Jonathan Boyce’s face was the faint, surprised expression of a man who wasn’t quite certain whether he had heard correctly; but it was the Chief Constable who seemed most affected. He made no comment but his fingers were drumming a tattoo on the arm of his chair. His irritation seemed to be a good deal more intense than was justified by such an apparently simple observation.
18
COFFEE WITH CONFIDENCES
WHEN MORDECAI TREMAINE arrived at the Elm Tree, a minute or so late for his appointment, Margaret Royman and Rex Linton were already waiting for him.
‘My apologies,’ he told them. ‘I’m afraid I was detained with the Chief Constable a little longer than I expected.’
At his mention of the Chief Constable, Linton’s eyebrows drew together in a sudden frown. He made no reference to it, however.
‘We thought you might like to sample the coffee in the Canyon,’ he observed.
‘The Canyon?’ Tremaine regarded his companions quizzically. ‘It sounds rather like the Wild West.’
‘You won’t find it very wild,’ Margaret Royman said, smiling. ‘Except in the children’s playground, and I don’t suppose there will be many of them there at this time in the morning.’
The Canyon proved to be a natural valley in the rocks that lay on the far side of the main road running along the edge of the downs at this point. It was an attractive spot, with its harsh outlines softened by trees and undergrowth. An enterprising caterer had laid out the floor of the valley with flower gardens, a children’s pleasure ground, and a restaurant.
The sun was out and was striking down with a stimulating warmth that was the more inviting after the cold air of the previous two days. They chose a table in the open and Linton went off to obtain the coffee.
There were few customers—no doubt the real season was now over as far as the Canyon was concerned—and he was back within a very short time. He set down the tray with a certain air of challenge.
‘Now, Mr. Tremaine,’ he began, ‘let’s get right down to it. Why did you want to see us this morning?’
Tremaine dropped a lump of sugar into his cup and stirred his coffee thoughtfully.
‘I like young people. I think that’s a good enough reason, don’t you?’
‘No,’ Linton said bluntly, ‘I don’t. Let’s cut out the pleasantries, shall we?’
‘Rex is right, Mr. Tremaine,’ Margaret Royman said. ‘We both know what you’re thinking. It’s only fair to us to tell us what you’re going to do.’
‘That’s easy enough to answer. I’m going to do my best to clear the innocent.’
He looked at the girl as he spoke. She wore no hat and the sunlight was glinting in her hair. She was obviously puzzled by his reply and the frown that wrinkled her forehead gave her an air of appeal that his sentimental soul found irresistible.
Linton seemed unimpressed.
‘Does that mean,’ he said calmly, ‘that you’ve come to the conclusion that whoever killed Hardene, neither Margaret nor I had anything to do with it?’<
br />
‘Precisely.’
‘Rather sudden, isn’t it? After all, I thought we were obvious suspects. Margaret’s legacy gives us a really sound motive for wanting to get rid of Hardene before he could change his mind about his will. And if the legacy isn’t good enough there’s a version of the eternal triangle to put in its place. I didn’t like Hardene’s attitude to Margaret and knocked him on the head to prove it. Neither of us has a proper alibi. We say we went to the cinema, but if we were in it together we’d naturally stand by each other.’
Mordecai Tremaine took off his pince-nez, polished them carefully and put them on again.
‘I like you, young man. I knew I wasn’t wrong. You’re inclined to be a little—ah—aggressive, but in a newspaper reporter I suppose that’s rather a good thing. I don’t think you killed Doctor Hardene for two reasons—one is that I’m a sentimentalist and it would upset my philosophy if two nice young people like you had stooped to such a sordid thing as murder.’
He stopped, regarding them benevolently.
Linton said:
‘And the other reason?’
‘I’m beginning to understand who did kill him.’
‘This,’ Linton said, ‘is interesting. Who was it?’
Tremaine reached for his spoon and stirred his coffee for the second time, unnecessarily.
‘I appreciate your anxiety as a newspaper reporter, young man, but for the time being I think it would be better to keep my theories to myself.’
Linton looked disappointed, and Tremaine smiled.
‘You’ll hear the news in good time. If I’m right, that is. In the meantime what I’m interested in is clearing up loose ends.’
‘What is it you want to know about us?’ Margaret Royman said, a little anxiously.
‘Nothing that you can’t clear up very quickly,’ he told her. ‘Let’s get the unpleasantness over, shall we? On the morning after Doctor Hardene’s murder certain things happened when you arrived at the surgery and I just want to make sure that I’ve found the right explanation for them.’
In At The Death Page 18