Mordecai Tremaine shook his head reprovingly and sorrowfully, one half of himself a source of pitying regret to the other. Despite all he should have known, despite all that his previous experience should have told him, he had been behaving like an uninformed amateur, meandering thoughtlessly towards disaster.
There was less spring in his step as he continued on his way. A cold doubt had begun to paralyse his mind. It was true that he had played a part in the solution of two murder mysteries. It was true that in doing so he had won (so he had reason to believe) the esteem both of Inspector Rich of the Westport and District Constabulary and of Inspector Boyce of Scotland Yard.
It was true that his friendship with the Scotland Yard man had been continued, both by correspondence and by an occasional meeting, ever since the conclusion of the first case in which he had been involved and in the course of which he had encountered Boyce. It was true that Inspector Rich for his part had thought so highly of him that he had taken the trouble to write to Boyce singing his praises, therefore increasing that gentleman’s already high regard for him.
But these things did not make him persona grata with every police force in Britain. They did not open all official doors to him. They did not mean that he could assume himself to be possessed of the powers to carry out investigations where he chose.
Besides, even if he could rely upon Inspector Boyce to back him in his actions, it would be of no avail here. Scotland Yard’s writ did not run in Dalmering—or would not run until the local police had called in the Yard’s assistance.
The copse lay between the house the Russells occupied and the village, and in a very few more moments he had drawn level with it. A little wooden gateway gave on to the road and there was a path beyond it, leading through the trees.
There was no other human being in sight. He had seen no one during the short time it had taken him to walk down from the house. The village appeared to be deserted. He was aware of a feeling of surprise, and he realized subconsciously that he had been expecting to find the neighbourhood of the crime barricaded off and guarded by burly and uncompromising policemen.
He peered over the gate. The path ran between ash, elm and hazel for perhaps five or six yards and then took a sharp turn to the right so that its course was not visible from the road.
Its very emptiness was inviting. Mordecai Tremaine was conscious of a wild desire to go through the gateway and see whence the path led. Swayed by some new, exciting emotion, he felt his indecision drop from him. His hand went out to the wooden latch.
And then he heard a cough—a warning, official cough, which was deliberately produced and not the involuntary result of any medical condition. His eyes became aware of the presence among the trees and bracken of a pair of boots which seemed to be planted into the ground with an authoritative solidity. From the boots his startled glance travelled towards a pair of grey serge trousers, and from the trousers to the face of their owner.
There it remained fixed. Recognition opened his mouth incredulously. Standing regarding him, as though his thoughts of a few moments previously had conjured him out of space and time, was the stocky, bullet-headed figure of Inspector Boyce of Scotland Yard!
3
BOYCE STOOD WITHOUT moving for an instant or two longer, the shrewd eyes in his expressionless official face devoid of any readable emotion.
And then:
‘Are you man or ghoul?’ he asked.
And when Mordecai Tremaine still gaped at him, unable yet to divine whether he was dealing with friend or foe, he added:
‘They should call you the murder magnet.’ His voice seemed to hold a sorrowful regret. ‘You appear to attract crime. Whenever anyone gets killed you either find the body or else you’re somewhere near at hand. How do you manage it? I’ve been a policeman for twenty years and in all that time I’ve never been the first person to find a body nor even lived in the same place as a murderer.’
Mordecai Tremaine made a strenuous mental effort and compelled his mind to belabour his vocal chords into activity.
‘I’ve only just come here,’ he said defensively. ‘I was in London when it happened. The murder was all over before I arrived.’
Boyce smiled disbelievingly and infuriatingly.
‘I suppose you had a telepathic message that there’d been a murder here and came straight down like a homing pigeon?’
But by now Tremaine had recovered from his surprise and he went over to the offensive.
‘What are you doing here, anyway?’ he asked. ‘I thought Scotland Yard didn’t handle these cases unless it was called in officially.’
‘It has been called in,’ said Boyce gently.
A great load lifted itself from Mordecai Tremaine’s soul and went careering away into the abyss of troubles past.
‘You mean,’ he said, ‘that you’re in charge?’
The exultation in his tone brought a wary look into the Yard man’s face.
‘Suppose I am,’ he said suspiciously. ‘Where does that take us?’
‘You mean where does it take me?’ said Mordecai Tremaine. ‘I want to help you find the person who killed Lydia Dare.’
‘What,’ said Boyce quietly, ‘do you know about Lydia Dare?’
‘I know that she was killed within a few feet of where we’re standing; that the murderer used a sharp-bladed weapon—probably about nine or ten inches long—which hasn’t so far been found; that death must have been instantaneous, and that it occurred before midnight last night. I know that the last person to see her alive was Martin Vaughan, who lives in a house about ten minutes’ walk away. I know that she had no obvious enemies and that the police look like having a difficult job on their hands.’
A frown appeared between the Yard man’s eyes.
‘Where did you learn all this?’ he demanded.
‘From the doctor who was called in to examine the body,’ returned Tremaine, dropping his bombshell with a nice accuracy upon the centre of the Yard man’s official armour.
‘The devil you did!’ Boyce took a quick, angry step forward, so that now he was facing the older man across the wooden gate. ‘I’ll see that that talkative numbskull gets his knuckles rapped! Has he been opening his stupid mouth all over the village?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Tremaine mildly. ‘Nor,’ he went on, ‘do I think you will find it necessary to rap his knuckles when I explain why he told me. Dr. Russell is a friend of mine. I’m staying with him. He told me what he knows because he’s aware of my—interest—in these things.’
‘It’s irregular,’ grumbled Boyce, but it was clear now that he was mollified.
Had Mordecai Tremaine been any ordinary visitor to Dalmering his wrath would have remained unassuaged. But he knew that he could never remain out of temper for long with the retired tobacconist who looked so inoffensive and yet who could reveal the tenacity of the tougher breed of bulldog. Besides, Tremaine wasn’t simply a vulgarly, morbid snooper of the type who made a nuisance of himself by perpetually getting in the way; he had a genuinely professional interest in crime. And in addition, Boyce told himself a little wryly, he had a habit of being infernally right when it came to arriving at the solution of murder mysteries.
By which it may be seen that, despite his somewhat frigid reception of him, Inspector Boyce had a warm corner in his heart for Mordecai Euripides Tremaine, and no small appreciation of his capabilities.
‘I suppose,’ he added sarcastically, ‘you imagine that now I’m going to tell you all I know?’
Deliberately blind to the sarcasm Tremaine pretended to take him literally.
‘After all,’ he responded mildly, ‘it will certainly make things so much easier if we’re frank with each other. We both want to get at the truth—you because it’s your job to do so, and I because I want to help my friends. They were very fond of Lydia Dare and this is a bad business. She was going to be married, you know.’
Boyce was well aware of the incurably romantic streak in his friend’s natur
e. He gave him a shrewd, understanding glance.
‘So that’s one of the things which have got your back up, is it?’
Mordecai Tremaine considered the position for a moment or two. He was, he thought, on safe ground now.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve had time to get down to any enquiries,’ he said reflectively. ‘I may be able to pass on some useful information to you. Paul Russell gave me a pretty comprehensive account of things in general. He’s lived here for some years and as the local doctor there isn’t much he doesn’t know about the neighbourhood.’
‘You don’t,’ said Boyce, ‘have to use so much camouflage. You know that although it’s strictly against the regulations and that I’m a fool for doing it, I’m going to let you take a hand and look around if you want to. But for Heaven’s sake be careful. Don’t let any of the locals suspect that I’m aiding and abetting you or else you’ll have the Chief Constable coming down on me, and letters written in vitriol will be going up to the Yard complaining that I’m allowing unauthorized persons to interfere in police matters.’
‘Thank you, Jonathan,’ said Tremaine, and the fact that he made use of the Christian name was significant in that it revealed that he considered now that all doubts had been cleared away. ‘You know you can rely on me to use discretion. I know your position is a difficult one.’
Made bold by his new feeling of security he ventured to put a question which had been puzzling him.
‘Just now you were accusing me of being a murder magnet,’ he said. ‘But how did you come to be here so quickly? I didn’t think that the murder was discovered until this morning.’
‘It wasn’t,’ returned Boyce. ‘But Major Rennolds, the local Chief Constable, is a man of good sense. He called in the Yard at once instead of waiting until the scent had grown cold and everything had been thoroughly messed up.’
‘You mean that it didn’t take him long to come to the conclusion that his men were up against a problem they wouldn’t be able to cope with?’
‘Not exactly. This place, as you probably know since you’ve obviously been busy since you’ve been here,’ said the Yard man, unable to resist the dig, ‘has a semi-permanent population, whose interests are in London and who spend a good deal of their time there. And since Lydia Dare’s friends were largely drawn from the London “colony” Major Rennolds decided that it was a crime for which he would probably need the Yard’s assistance anyway. He called us in at once.’
‘A very wise step,’ said Tremaine approvingly. And added, after a pause, ‘Do you think I might take a walk along the path with you?’
‘You don’t lose any time, do you?’ grumbled Boyce, but there was a twinkle in his eyes as he said it, and he opened the gate to allow his companion to go through.
The Yard man led the way along the narrow path until they came to a point about half a dozen yards beyond the right-angled turn. It was quiet and cool and so screened by trees that no exit from the copse was visible.
Tremaine looked enquiringly at his companion.
‘Here?’
‘Here,’ agreed Boyce. ‘To be precise—here.’
He indicated a spot at the side of the path where the crushed bracken revealed that something had lain. Tremaine looked curiously about him.
‘By now, of course, you’ll have given the ground a good comb-over. Did you find anything?’
‘Little enough,’ returned Boyce. ‘Whoever did it must have waited behind this bush until his victim came along.’ He gestured towards a clump of bramble bordering the path. ‘There was a cigarette-end lying there—or rather, half a cigarette. It had been pinched out, as though someone had stopped smoking it in a hurry before they’d had time to finish it. It wasn’t squashed flat or stubbed out against the ground.’
‘Any footprints?’
‘You can see for yourself that the ground’s too hard to give much away. But we did find a couple of prints.’ The Yard man drew aside a straggling length of bramble and pointed. ‘There’s a patch of softer ground—must hold the water longer. You can see two heel-marks. It’s not much but at least it’s something.’
Tremaine bent to examine the indentations which were just visible in the earth. There seemed to be a limited patch of ground with a swampy tendency a foot or so beyond the bush, and it was possible to make out the imprints of a pair of heels. They were much deeper at the back than at the front and the soles had left no impression at all.
‘Looks as though they were made by a man,’ he observed, straightening. He waved a hand to take in the immediate surroundings. ‘Judging by the signs it must have been over very quickly. There doesn’t seem to have been much of a struggle.’
‘She couldn’t have had a chance to offer any resistance,’ said Boyce. ‘Whoever did it must have taken her completely by surprise and struck before she knew what was happening.’
Tremaine glanced about him, peering among the trees and up and down the path.
‘I expected to find policemen everywhere. Hasn’t the path been closed to the public?’
‘Temporarily—yes,’ nodded Boyce. ‘Although we’ve got what we want in the way of photographs and measurements. I’ve a man watching the point where it joins the common. I’ve sent the man I had posted at the roadway end off to get his tea. As a matter of fact I’ve taken over from him.’
‘Oh.’ Tremaine regarded his friend searchingly. ‘So that’s why you were standing there when I came along. You were on the watch for anyone trying to use the path—but without allowing them to see you until they’d made their intention obvious.’
‘That,’ agreed Boyce, ‘was the idea. The news is all over the village now, of course, and it’s common knowledge that we’re here, but there’s always the hope of picking up something. Lucky for you I happened to be there,’ he added. ‘Otherwise you’d have been facing a cross-examination from Newland—he’s the chap who’s been on the watch there—and he’d have sent you away with a flea in your ear.’
‘I was born,’ said Mordecai Tremaine complacently, ‘under a lucky star.’
He prised an old-fashioned pocket-watch, not without difficulty, out of the depths of his waistcoat, and opened the case.
‘I’ll have to be getting back to the house. I said I wouldn’t be much more than half an hour.’ He replaced the watch and glanced enquiringly at his companion. ‘Are you staying in the village, Jonathan?’
‘Yes. I’ve a room at the Admiral. Pub down the road. But don’t come asking for me there,’ added the Yard man warningly. ‘Partly because it won’t do for us to be seen together in case the locals kick up a fuss, and partly because if you’re not suspected of being a friend of mine you’ll stand a better chance of getting to learn things. People are likely to tell you all sorts of village gossip that they wouldn’t think of passing on to me.’
‘So I’m to be your sounding board,’ said Tremaine. ‘All right, Barkis is willin’. I’ll keep my ears open. But there’s a price, of course.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Boyce. ‘You’ll be told if there are any developments. We’ll need a meeting-place, though. Any suggestions?’
Tremaine considered for a moment, and he recalled the low, red-brick building just beyond the village, outside which he had seen the advertisement for a play. He described the place and Boyce nodded.
‘I know it—the village hall. I’ll see you there at eleven. We’ll compare notes. Now I’d better see if the coast is clear.’
He led the way back down the pathway in the direction of the road. Tremaine kept well in the rear, and it was as well that he did so, for he was able to slip out of sight among the trees at his companion’s hasty signal and Boyce’s deliberately noisy progress served to cover the slight sound he made.
The reason for going to ground became obvious a moment later. Tremaine heard a new voice. A somewhat imperious voice with an underlying note of harshness.
‘You the fellow from Scotland Yard?’
‘I am from Scotland Yard,’ agreed Boyce qui
etly.
‘Good. Heard you were here. My name’s Vaughan.’
The voice stopped—expectantly, as though the speaker was waiting for some reaction. If he was he was disappointed. Boyce remained silent, obviously leaving it to him to do the talking.
Cautiously Tremaine peered out from the shelter of the trees and undergrowth. Boyce was standing by the gate now, facing the man who had addressed him.
Fortunately the newcomer’s entire attention was focused upon the detective and he did not give a glance in Tremaine’s direction, which afforded that gentleman an opportunity of studying him in comparative safety.
As the last person to see Lydia Dare alive, Martin Vaughan was evidently destined to play an important part in the case. He would, therefore, well repay close observation.
Paul Russell’s description of a powerfully-built man of middle age, above the average height and looking as though he could still, if he chose, be physically a tough customer, was accurate enough. To that somewhat vague outline Tremaine added a pugnacious jaw which spoke of a forceful, determined character, a straight nose with just a hint of undue breadth about the nostrils which gave his whole face a slightly ruthless appearance, and eyes which, beneath bushy eyebrows already inclining to grey, were regarding Jonathan Boyce with a challenging stare.
‘I’m Vaughan,’ the big man repeated, as though he believed that since the inspector had made no response to his first statement he could not have heard it. ‘I was the last person to see Miss Dare alive.’
‘So I understand,’ said Boyce quietly.
‘Well?’ The word was sharp. ‘Don’t you want to ask me any questions.’
Boyce stirred at that. His voice took on a deprecating quality.
‘All in good time, Mr. Vaughan,’ he returned. ‘We like to take these things in order.’
‘I would have thought,’ said the other, and it seemed that he was keeping his tone level only with an effort, ‘that in that case one of your first actions would have been to question me in an attempt to narrow down the circumstances surrounding the crime.’
Murder has a Motive Page 4