Murder has a Motive

by Francis Duncan

  Paul Russell had looked at him enquiringly.

  ‘Entertaining Scotland Yard, Martin?’ he had asked, and Vaughan had waved a big hand carelessly.

  ‘I’ve had a visit from the Yard detective who’s in charge of the case. Routine, I suppose.’

  And then he had looked round, and there had been an odd note in his voice as he had added:

  ‘His name’s Boyce—Inspector Boyce. For when your turns come along.’

  He had not waited to observe the effect of his words, but his big frame had loomed its way across the room through a suddenly awkward silence.

  As though there had been nothing of significance in his tone, he had found himself a seat on a small folding stool which had been tactfully ignored by the others as offering too cramped a resting place. It had disappeared incongruously beneath his bulk so that he had appeared to be sitting on air.

  Sandra Borne had been his neighbour. As he had greeted her his massive hands had temporarily engulfed her tiny ones in an enveloping but sympathetic grasp, and Tremaine fancied that the hardness in the big man’s grey eyes had softened.

  ‘How are you, Sandy?’

  Sandra Borne had smiled and used Vaughan’s Christian name in her reply. But somehow there had been a hint of insincerity in her voice. It was almost, Tremaine had thought, as though there had been a trace of repugnance in her attitude.

  And yet, Paul Russell had told him, Martin Vaughan and Sandra Borne were good friends. Had he been mistaken in thinking that he had sensed hostility on the part of the eager little woman who had been Lydia Dare’s closest companion? Had he misinterpreted something much simpler and more easily explained? Or had he indeed been presented with a brief clue to yet another of the secret feuds which lay beneath the falsely peaceful surface of the village community?

  Mordecai Tremaine listened subconsciously to the quietly echoing sound of his own footfalls as he crossed the open space in the centre of the old Dalmering, passed the dark and shuttered Admiral, and went on up the road towards his rendezvous. It was like listening to the measured pad of insistent facts across his mind—facts which marched in a steady circle, so that although they lured him to follow them, they led him nowhere.

  Howard Shannon had joined Karen Hammond among the people who had left him facing a question mark. The plump-faced man in the crumpled blue suit whom he had seen in the train had been a negative quantity at the side of Vaughan’s aggressiveness. He had not attempted to thrust himself into the limelight as Vaughan had tended to do. As Geoffrey Manning had forecast that he would, he had agreed without argument to the decision to continue with the production of the play. He had seemed anxious not to become involved too deeply in the conversation lest he should be called upon to answer questions.

  Or was that conclusion fair? Tremaine considered the matter as dispassionately as he was able. Yes, Shannon had displayed a certain nervousness; he had shown a certain inclination to withdraw into his shell of silence when questions had been in the air.

  On the other hand he had seemed over eager to explain that he had not been in Dalmering at the time when Lydia Dare must have been killed.

  ‘I had to go to town yesterday,’ he had said. ‘On business. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t keen but it was a chance I couldn’t miss. Fellow I’ve been trying to get in touch with for weeks happened to be in London with an hour or two to spare. I stayed overnight—didn’t get back until this afternoon.’

  ‘There was a pretty bad storm last evening so I’m told,’ Vaughan had put in casually. ‘I was talking to a friend of mine in Kingshampton who happened to be in town and was caught in it. He told me he was soaked in a few minutes—he hadn’t expected it, didn’t have his raincoat or an umbrella with him. That’s the worst of these unexpected English summers of ours. You never know what’s likely to happen for five minutes at a time. I hope you weren’t one of the unlucky ones, Shannon?’

  ‘No,’ the plump man had replied, hesitantly. ‘No, I—I took a taxi from the station and missed the worst of it.’

  And then his eyes had alighted upon Mordecai Tremaine. He had stared at him, obviously not quite certain, and then, when he had convinced himself that he had made no mistake, a smile had spread over his podgy features. It had been like the incredulous, unutterably relieved smile of a man who had been encompassed about with perils and who had suddenly been shown an avenue to safety.

  ‘Why—didn’t we share the same compartment coming down from Victoria today, Mr.—er—Mr. Tremaine?’

  Paul Russell had introduced them when Shannon had entered the room, but the plump man had been so evidently preoccupied, that he had given no sign of recognition. His words of greeting had been quite mechanical and his mind had clearly been elsewhere.

  ‘Quite right, Mr. Shannon,’ Tremaine had replied. ‘A pity neither of us knew the other’s destination! When I saw you get out at Dalmering I asked Paul if you and he were neighbours.’

  The other had seemed taken aback at that. A plump hand had nervously and ineffectually made a pretence at smoothing the creases from his rumpled clothes.

  ‘Oh—yes, yes, of course. Paul and I are quite old neighbours now.’

  That had been all. There had been nothing to startle, nothing to afford sensation. And yet Tremaine had been aware of a feeling that there was something wrong.

  It was odd that Shannon should have seemed so ill-at-ease, odd that he should have leaped so obviously at the opportunity of supporting his alibi with an independent witness.

  If he had left Dalmering for London long before Lydia Dare had been killed, and had not returned until the following afternoon, then obviously he had nothing to fear. If he had left . . .

  Tremaine pulled his mental wanderings to a halt. This was undoubted romancing, the kind of idle weaving of baseless theories which would call down the wrath of Jonathan Boyce upon his head.

  He quickened his pace determinedly, and, just ahead of him, in the deep shadow of the hedgerow opposite the village hall, he saw the red pin-point of a cigar.

  ‘Is that you, Jonathan?’

  The pin-point moved.

  ‘It is,’ came the Yard man’s voice in reply.

  The end of Boyce’s cigar glowed brightly as he took a step forward out of the darkness of the hedgerow, bringing with him a rich aroma of tobacco leaf.

  ‘I’m a fool for being here,’ he said morosely. ‘I’m breaking all the rules and laying myself open to a dishonourable discharge. I’m throwing away the prospect of a perfectly good pension. What do you suppose the Commissioner would say if he knew I was meeting you like this for the purpose of giving away official information?’

  ‘I expect,’ said Mordecai Tremaine mildly, ‘that he would decide that you were showing outstanding initiative and would mark you down for the next Superintendent’s vacancy. You’ve been brooding again, Jonathan—upsetting your nerves. Don’t forget you’ve already told the Commissioner about me. In one of your letters you said that you’d had a chance to mention my name to him when he was in a good mood, and that provided I kept out of the way and didn’t try to gain any publicity he didn’t mind my having a look around with you sometimes—if you wanted it and on a purely unofficial basis. You said that he was enterprising and unorthodox and that he wasn’t afraid to go outside the regulations if he considered it would be worth while.’

  ‘Did I say all that?’ Boyce shook his head in mock dismay. ‘The trouble with you, Mordecai, is that you remember too much.’

  ‘Did Vaughan tell you anything?’ asked Tremaine.

  The detective’s stocky figure stiffened warily.

  ‘What makes you think I’ve seen him?’

  ‘He’s been along to the Russells tonight,’ returned Tremaine. ‘He told us that you’d been to see him.’

  ‘I didn’t get very far,’ said Boyce. ‘Lydia Dare arrived somewhere between seven o’clock and half past—he wasn’t sure of the exact time—and left round about eleven. He wanted to accompany her back to her cottage but sh
e insisted on going alone. He said good night to her at the door of “Home Lodge” and that was the last he saw of her.’

  ‘Did Vaughan say whether she made any mention of what time she’d promised Sandra Borne she would be back?’

  ‘Yes. According to his story she left in rather a hurry because she said that she’d promised Miss Borne that she’d be back by eleven.’

  ‘H’m.’

  It was an indeterminate grunting sound. It might have served to cloak something significant. The Yard man eyed his companion suspiciously.

  ‘Anything special about that?’ he demanded.

  ‘I don’t know,’ returned Tremaine.

  Briefly he told Boyce of the suspicions which had come into his mind when Sandra Borne had told her story. The detective listened to him carefully. His eyes were thoughtful and he made no attempt at interruption until the recital was finished.

  ‘You seem to have had a pretty full evening,’ he observed. ‘I mean from the point of view of learning about the people who live round about here. Suppose you give me an account of what was said and who said it.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ said Tremaine. ‘I’ll give you the essence of it, anyway, although I can’t swear to the exact words.’

  As well as he was able he gave the other a summary of the conversation which had taken place at ‘Roseland’. He added his personal observations. He made a special point of describing with as much detail as he could remember the outwardly polite but secretly fiery exchanges between Karen Hammond and Pauline Conroy. He laid emphasis on Karen Hammond’s undoubted state of nerves.

  But despite his subtle underlining of the part the two women had played in the evening’s minor drama, it was Martin Vaughan in whom Boyce seemed most interested.

  ‘When Vaughan came into the room,’ he said, ‘what sort of mood was he in?’

  ‘He seemed—aggressive. Almost as though he thought he was under suspicion and was trying to brazen his way out of it.

  Boyce gave a little murmur of satisfaction.

  ‘Like his attitude when we saw him down the road and when I called on him at his house this evening. He answered all the questions I put to him without making any fuss, but he gave me the impression that he was on his guard all the time, and trying to hide it by taking the offensive.’

  ‘Did he offer any proof of his story?’ asked Tremaine.

  ‘Not directly. But he pointed out—as though he didn’t want me to overlook it—that he has a manservant living with him.’

  ‘Sounds like the build-up to an alibi,’ observed Tremaine, and Boyce nodded.

  ‘That,’ he remarked, ‘is what I thought. I questioned Blenkinson—that’s the fellow’s name—and he said that he saw Miss Dare leave the house—alone.’

  ‘Definitely an alibi.’ Tremaine sniffed gently at his companion’s cigar, as though he fancied that its fragrance could soothe his mental processes. ‘Did you ask Blenkinson whether his master went out at any time after Lydia Dare had left?’

  ‘As far as he knows,’ said Boyce slowly, ‘Vaughan didn’t leave the house.’

  ‘But,’ prompted Tremaine, ‘he can’t swear to it because he didn’t actually see him. Is that it?’

  Boyce carefully removed an inch of ash from the end of his cigar. He eyed his companion thoughtfully.

  ‘Blenkinson’s story is that he remained downstairs—“tidying up” as he expressed it. Vaughan went to his study and Blenkinson didn’t see him again until about half an hour later, when he came out, said good night and went up to bed.’

  ‘Is the study on the ground floor?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the Yard man, in the tone of one who knew what was coming.

  ‘So that Vaughan could have left the room by the window, could have made his way to the copse—either by overtaking Lydia Dare along the path over the common, or by doubling round by the roadway and reaching it ahead of her—could have killed her and been back in the house in well under half an hour—all without Blenkinson knowing anything about it and believing him, in fact, to be still in the study.’

  ‘Could be,’ said Boyce. And added, ‘But there’s no proof.’

  ‘Yet,’ said Mordecai Tremaine.

  He sensed that the other was on the point of putting a pertinent question, and was only hesitating whilst he found the words in which to frame it. He went on hastily:

  ‘Any other alibis?’

  ‘Two,’ said Boyce unwillingly. ‘Three if you count the Hammonds’ alibi as two. I’ve not been able to consolidate the enquiries yet—this is just a sort of preliminary look around. Mr. and Mrs. Hammond didn’t go out at all last night. Mrs. says that Mr. was tired—had been working hard at the office. They went to bed early, because he had to leave first thing this morning.’

  ‘That was what she said in the house just now,’ observed Tremaine. ‘There seems to be that feud I mentioned going on under the surface between Karen Hammond and Pauline Conroy, and Pauline didn’t look too convinced.’

  ‘She’s my other alibi,’ remarked Boyce. ‘Newland checked up on her. She stayed indoors, too. Must have been a sort of holiday-at-home here last night. Her maid corroborated her story. According to Newland—’

  He broke off. He stared up and down the road in the darkness.

  ‘Did you hear anything?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’ Tremaine shook his head. ‘I was concentrating on what you were saying. Why? What was it?’

  Boyce stood in a listening attitude for a few moments longer. They heard the telephone wires humming softly above them. A long way off a car hooted once, twice. The faintest of breezes rustled the leaves in the hedgerows. The detective relaxed.

  ‘Thought I heard someone moving about,’ he said. ‘Must have been mistaken. What was I talking about? Oh, yes— according to Newland this Miss Conroy is an overpowering young lady.’

  ‘She’s an actress,’ said Mordecai Tremaine, as if that explained all.

  ‘Talking about actresses,’ said Boyce, ‘maybe it’s a good idea from our point of view that they’ve all decided to carry on with the play over there.’ He jerked an expressive thumb in the direction of the darkened village hall on the opposite side of the road. ‘Keeps everybody together. We’ll know where to find them if we should want them in a hurry.’

  ‘There’s something in what you say, Jonathan.’ Tremaine’s voice was exasperatingly non-committal. ‘By the way,’ he went on, as a scrap of the conversation to which he had listened at ‘Roseland’ came back into his mind, ‘have you had any dealings with anyone called Galeski yet?’

  ‘Galeski?’ Boyce frowned. ‘Can’t recall the name. It isn’t one you’d be likely to forget if you’d heard it. Who is he?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ returned Tremaine cheerfully. ‘Beyond the fact that he has some connection with Pauline Conroy. I dare say we’ll come across him sooner or later.’ He moved away from the shadow of the hedgerow into the roadway. ‘That seems to be about all we can cover tonight, Jonathan. I’m supposed to be taking a quiet stroll for a breath of fresh air before turning in. I’d better get back before Paul starts sending out a search party to make sure I’ve not become Dalmering’s second victim!’

  ‘The doctor and his wife don’t know you’ve come out to have a talk with me?’

  ‘No. They know that I write to you, and Vaughan mentioned your name tonight when he said that you’d been to question him. But they didn’t make any comment, so they may not have noticed it.’

  ‘They will soon,’ said Boyce. ‘You’ll have to give them the tip not to spread it around the village, otherwise all these new acquaintances of yours will be shutting up like clams.’

  ‘Don’t worry about Jean and Paul. They’re safe enough. Well, I’ll be on my way, Jonathan.’

  They said good night, and Tremaine set off down the road, walking at a brisk pace. Although he had learned nothing new during his conversation with Jonathan Boyce, with the exception of what he had been told of Martin Vaughan’s statements, he felt that he had
cleared the air. He had been enabled to marshal what facts he had so far gleaned into some sort of sequence. He had been enabled to sort out and label his impressions of the people he had encountered. He felt that even if he had not succeeded in fitting the oddly-shaped pieces of the puzzle into their correct places he had at least prevented them from wandering haphazardly into the wrong ones. They had all been firmly pinned down where he could examine them at his leisure.

  He had walked about a hundred yards, engrossed in his thoughts, when he became aware of a flurry of movement among the deep shadows bordering the road. A figure detached itself from the gloom. He heard the quick sound of footsteps.

  ‘Mr. Tremaine!’

  The voice, although edged with urgency, was a soft, huskily feminine one. Mordecai Tremaine felt his heart slide back into its normal position. He turned.

  ‘Why—Mrs. Hammond!’

  His tone revealed his surprise as he recognized her. She took a step towards him.

  ‘I had to see you,’ she said, hurrying her words as though she feared he would not otherwise listen. ‘I’ve got to talk to you. I heard you tell Jean before everybody left that you were going for a stroll later on, and I waited outside the house until you came out and then followed you.’

  Tremaine peered at her, trying to read the expression on her face.

  ‘But why didn’t you speak to me when you saw me leave the house?’

  Karen Hammond did not make a direct reply to the question.

  ‘You’re a friend of Inspector Boyce, aren’t you?’ she said quickly. ‘The detective from Scotland Yard. You’ve just been talking to him.’

  Mordecai Tremaine experienced a sudden cold dismay.

  ‘What makes you think I know Inspector Boyce?’ he asked.

  ‘Jean used to talk about you. She said that you knew a Scotland Yard detective whose name was Boyce and that you had helped to solve several murders. And when you came today and then Martin said that a detective called Boyce had been to question him I knew that it must be the same man. You were talking to him along the road just now. I—I wanted to see if you were going to meet him.’