In At The Death

by Francis Duncan

  ‘We met on the downs,’ Slade said. ‘She wouldn’t come any nearer than six feet,’ he added, with a dry, reminiscent chuckle. ‘Very wise of her. She put it very cleverly. If I paid up and didn’t try any funny business she’d keep her mouth shut. Of course, I agreed—at the time. I didn’t have any choice.’

  He had begun to move restlessly. His eyes were constantly searching the still empty path, flickering over to the gorge that lay beyond the low railing. Tremaine said quickly:

  ‘There isn’t much more. When you came to the house on the morning after the murder—you couldn’t very well not keep the appointment that had been arranged and in any case you wanted to come, so that you could find out what was happening—you saw Fenn. I imagine that he saw you. It certainly startled you. At first I thought your hesitation was due to the fact that you were crippled, but when Fenn appeared a moment or two later and then it seemed that he had some connection with the murder, I began to wonder. It was only a small point, but all the small points add up to something significant.’

  ‘You surprise me,’ Slade said sarcastically. He rose to his feet, no longer a bowed figure but towering menacingly over Tremaine. ‘I’ve listened to you because it amused me but the comedy’s over now. Why, you dim-witted old fool, do you think you’re going to get away with this? You were in trouble. You thought I might be able to help you. Well, I’ve talked. I’ve talked because I knew you wouldn’t be taking it any further. There are only two of us up here and nobody’s ever gone over that cliff and lived to tell the world about it!’

  His face was contorted now with passion. Tremaine took off his pince-nez and polished them.

  ‘I suppose,’ he said mildly, ‘that when you admitted that you and Hardene had often had arguments it was part of the build-up?’

  ‘What else do you think it was? I knew that if I told you we’d been up against each other, and then you found out that I’d told everybody what a good doctor he was, you’d write me off as some harmless crank who’d gone into a panic but hadn’t really done anything worth bothering about.’

  ‘And then, when you thought you’d managed that successfully, you scraped up an acquaintance with me so that I could keep you informed about everything that was going on.’

  ‘Of course. I spent a couple of hours running around the district so that I could come across you by accident.’ There was contempt in the last two words. ‘Sage thought I was mad, but it paid dividends.’

  ‘I thought that is what you must have done. You looked for me until you found me—just as I looked for you this morning.’

  Something in Tremaine’s voice penetrated Slade’s fury. The angry lines of his face settled into a cold mask of awareness.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m not quite such a dim-witted old fool,’ Tremaine said, gently. ‘Knowing what you’d done—and what you might still do—I didn’t come up here without taking precautions. When I cleaned my pince-nez just now it was a signal. Take a look around you.’

  Reluctantly, slowly, Martin Slade turned his head. Fifty yards along the path to his left Jonathan Boyce was standing. Slade faced in the other direction, with a sudden, angry hiss. Down the path to the right was Inspector Parkin.

  ‘There are more detectives with them and some right behind me,’ Tremaine said. ‘I’m afraid it’s no good, you know. You’re completely surrounded.’

  Fear and fury flamed together in the man’s face. He was still gripping one of his sticks in his right hand and he swung it high above his head.

  ‘You—–’

  The stick came down viciously. Tremaine flung himself aside, his heart thumping. The stick missed his head and crashed upon the back of the seat with a violence that must have jarred Slade’s arm.

  Both Parkin and Boyce were on the move now. Slade glared at them, took a step towards the seat, saw that the way there, too, was barred, and swung around.

  The railings were only a few yards away. He leaped towards them, caught the top rail and vaulted over.

  Boyce flung himself forward but his outstretched hand missed by several feet.

  ‘Come back, you fool! You’ll break your neck!’

  Parkin reached the railings. His face was white.

  ‘He’ll never make it. The drop’s sheer.’

  Shakily Tremaine picked himself from the seat where he was still huddled and walked across to Boyce’s side. Below him he could hear the desperate man’s frantic progress down the bush-studded upper portion of the cliff face.

  He leaned over the railings. It was just possible to see the top of Slade’s head and his upthrust hands as he searched for fresh holds.

  Boyce called again but the man paid no attention. All his energies were being thrust into his fierce effort to climb down the cliff surface to the roadway.

  It was hopeless from the start. A dozen yards from the top the bushes thinned out to the bare, relentless rock. They saw Slade’s hold slip as a bush gave way at the roots, saw him reach for another and then put all his strength into reaching for the next as that, too, began to fail him.

  Only this time there was nothing to grasp.

  ‘Come on!’ Boyce said, tight-lipped.

  He began to run down the path. Parkin, following him, called out instructions to his subordinates.

  Afraid of what he might be going to see and yet unable to hold back, Tremaine went after them.

  Oddly, it was not Martin Slade who was chiefly in his mind as he made the journey down the roadway, but Sir Robert Dennell.

  He knew now what a bitter burden it was the Chief Constable had been carrying. It had not been fear for himself that had driven him, but a dread that his wife might have committed some rash act. That was why he had called in the Yard so quickly. When he had learned that it had been Graham Hardene who had died there had been nothing else he could do.

  He had discovered later that it had not been his wife’s hand that had struck Hardene down—no doubt he had been able to check her alibi—but there had been the constant danger that her liaison with the man would be discovered. That was why, Tremaine knew, he had been so irritated at the suggestion that enquiries should be made about Mrs. Masters; he had not been concerned for her but he had not wanted too much additional probing to be done. That was why, also, he had been put out at the mention of the unknown prowler who had been seen at Hardene’s house.

  Well, there was no reason now why any of it should come out. It could serve in any case no useful purpose. Parkin would be glad of that. Parkin had not been certain, but he had suspected. And his suspicions had caused him more than a little anxiety; loyalty to his chief had been struggling with the duty he owed to Jonathan Boyce.

  The ambulance drew up at the side of the road as Tremaine came level with the place where Boyce and Parkin were kneeling among the bushes at the foot of the cliff. He went towards them. Boyce heard him coming and stood up.

  ‘I don’t think I’d come any closer,’ he said quietly. ‘There isn’t anything we can do.’ He added: ‘Perhaps it was as well. It saves a lot of bother this way.’

  He looked at Parkin. The inspector knew what was in his mind and he nodded gravely.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it saves a lot of bother. I’m—glad.’

  Tremaine was glad that all he could see of Martin Slade was a piece of cloth beyond the bushes. He turned away. His legs were feeling weak. He forced himself to think of Margaret Royman.

  That was where one’s thoughts should be. Not upon wasteful, violent death, but upon beauty and goodness and hope for the future. She would, he felt, be very happy with her reporter.

  The ambulance men passed him, carrying a stretcher. He regained the road, where a small crowd was beginning to gather, even in this unfrequented spot, and sat down to wait for Jonathan Boyce.

  Well, it was over. There was routine still to be gone through, but the main task was done. The Chief Inspector could collect his bag again and go home.

  THE END

  Murder Has a Motive<
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  When Mordecai Tremaine emerges from the little train station, murder is the last thing on his mind. But then again, he has never been able to resist anything in the nature of a mystery – and a mystery is precisely what awaits him in the village of Dalmering.

  Rehearsals for the local amateur dramatic production are in full swing – but as Mordecai discovers all too soon, the real tragedy is unfolding offstage. The star of the show has been found dead, and the spotlight is soon on Mordecai, whose reputation in the field of crime-solving precedes him.

  With a murderer waiting in the wings, it’s up to Mordecai to derail the killer’s performance . . . before it’s curtains for another victim.

  Murder for Christmas

  ‘Kept guessing to the end, I am left wondering why it has taken so long to discover Francis Duncan . . . With some 20 crime novels to his credit, a relaunch seems long overdue’

  Daily Mail

  Mordecai Tremaine, former tobacconist and perennial lover of romance novels, has been invited to spend Christmas in the sleepy village of Sherbroome at the country retreat of one Benedict Grame.

  Arriving on Christmas Eve, he finds that the revelries are in full flow – but so too are tensions amongst the assortment of guests.

  Midnight strikes and the party-goers discover that it’s not just presents nestling under the tree . . . there’s a dead body too. A dead body that bears a striking resemblance to Father Christmas.

  With the snow falling and the suspicions flying, it’s up to Mordecai to sniff out the culprit – and prevent someone else from getting murder for Christmas.

  ‘The book nods towards Agatha Christie but retains a crackling atmosphere of dread and horror that will chill the heart however warm your fireside’

  Metro

  So Pretty a Problem

  Adrian Carthallow, enfant terrible of the art world, is no stranger to controversy. But this time it’s not his paintings that have provoked a blaze of publicity – it’s the fact that his career has been suddenly terminated by a bullet to the head. Not only that, but his wife has confessed to firing the fatal shot.

  Inspector Penross of the town constabulary is, however, less than convinced by Helen Carthallow’s story – but has no other explanation for the incident that occurred when the couple were alone in their clifftop house.

  Luckily for the Inspector, amateur criminologist Mordecai Tremaine has an uncanny habit of being in the near neighbourhood whenever sudden death makes its appearance. Investigating the killing, Tremaine is quick to realise that however handsome a couple the Carthallows were, and however extravagant a life they led, beneath the surface there’s a pretty devil’s brew . . .

  Behold a Fair Woman

  Mordecai Tremaine’s hobby of choice – crime detection – has left him in need of a holiday. A break away from that gruesome business of murder will be just the ticket, and the picturesque island of Moulin d’Or seems to be just the destination.

  Amid the sunshine and the sea air, Mordecai falls in with a band of fellow holidaymakers and tries to forget that such a thing as foul play exists. He should have been wiser, of course, because before too long villainy rears its head and a dead body is discovered.

  With a killer stalking the sand dunes, it falls to Mordecai to piece together the truth about just who has smuggled murder on to the island idyll . . .

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

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  Copyright © Francis Duncan 1952

  Francis Duncan has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  First published by Vintage in 2016

  First published in Great Britain by John Long in 1952

  penguin.co.uk/vintage

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9781784704834

  penguin.co.uk/vintage