Murder has a Motive

by Francis Duncan

  ‘I didn’t say I suspected anybody,’ returned Tremaine quickly. ‘I’m just asking a lot of questions in case some of the answers turn out to be useful.’ He changed the subject quickly without allowing the other to pose any further queries. ‘I’d like to meet Philip Hammond some time, Paul. When would be the best opportunity?’

  ‘That’s easily arranged,’ said Russell. ‘There’s a rehearsal tonight. Why don’t you come along? You’ll meet everybody there—including Philip. At least, you will if he’s down here. He isn’t always at rehearsals. It’s awkward sometimes when he can’t turn up, but his business keeps him in London quite a lot. He usually rings Karen up in the afternoon when he can’t get away.’

  They had begun to pace together along the garden path as they talked. The doctor seemed to have forgotten his intention of persevering with the weeding of the flower-beds.

  ‘How’s the play going?’ asked Tremaine. ‘Are you satisfied with results so far? Murder Has a Motive—I don’t recollect the title. It hasn’t been put on in the West End, has it?’

  ‘To be perfectly honest I’m not certain,’ confessed Russell. ‘Vaughan could probably tell you more about it.’

  ‘Vaughan? He’s playing a part in it, is he?’

  ‘Yes. Playing it well, too. It was his suggestion that we should tackle the production. He thought it would be a good idea to do something in that line to benefit the orphanage and we all agreed. He produced the play from somewhere. We formed a committee, allocated the various parts—and that was that.’

  They had reached the end of the path now and were within a few yards of the roadway. They were about to retrace their steps when a voice called to them.

  ‘Good morning, Paul.’

  The doctor looked up.

  ‘Oh, hullo, Edith. Good morning.’

  Edith Lorrington gave a smile and a friendly nod in Mordecai Tremaine’s direction, and that gentleman smiled back.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Lorrington. I see you’re out enjoying the sunshine.’

  ‘Yes, it is beautiful, isn’t it? I’m just going along to see if I can catch Sandra. I’ve just finished a novel I feel sure she’d like to read. I get them from friends of mine in Kingshampton, you know. They keep a bookshop and they always let me know when anything really special comes in.’

  Mordecai Tremaine wondered just what Edith Lorrington meant by the phrase ‘really special’. She gave him the impression that her reading choice would be a very narrow one.

  ‘How did you sleep last night?’ put in Russell.

  ‘Much better,’ she told him. ‘That medicine you gave me yesterday was splendid—not like the tablets I had before. They never seemed to do me much good. I slept for seven hours right off, and yet the night before I had to get up and go out for a walk before I could get off to sleep. It was nearly twelve o’clock before I went indoors.’

  ‘You’ll have to take care, Edith,’ said the doctor seriously. ‘I don’t think it will be wise to go wandering around on your own so late at night in the future.’

  ‘Who would want to molest an old woman like me?’ she said lightly. ‘Anyway, it isn’t so lonely. People don’t go to bed as early as you think. Mr. Galeski was still up. So was Mrs. Hammond. And so was Sandra, of course. She was waiting for Lydia and listening to the wireless—they were playing swing music. It always seems to me to be so late for that sort of thing.’

  Quite suddenly Mordecai Tremaine became aware what it was she was saying. Edith Lorrington had been walking calmly about the neighbourhood at the very time when Lydia Dare had been murdered!

  ‘Did you see anyone whilst you were out, Miss Lorrington?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh no,’ she said simply. ‘It was very quiet—like it always is, you know.’ She looked brightly from Tremaine back to Russell. ‘Now I really must be getting along. I missed Sandra the last time I called, and then all this terrible affair over poor Lydia drove it out of my mind.’

  She nodded and smiled again. They watched her walk down the road, primly correct.

  ‘What,’ said Mordecai Tremaine, ‘do you know about that?’

  Paul Russell shrugged.

  ‘Edith suffers from insomnia. It’s quite usual for her to go out for a walk at night when she can’t sleep. She’s a strange mixture,’ he went on ruminatively. ‘Sometimes she seems as trusting and as innocent as a child, and then she’ll come out with some shrewd observation that makes you wonder just what is going on inside her mind. This business of walking around the neighbourhood late at night, for instance. Most women would be as nervous as kittens alone on these dark roads, but it doesn’t seem to trouble her for a moment. I met her once when I was coming back from a late call—that’s how I got to know of her habit of going out—and she was as unconcerned as if she was taking a stroll in broad daylight down the main street of Kingshampton.’

  Tremaine gazed thoughtfully after the slight, old-fashioned figure which was now nearly out of sight.

  ‘Have you been treating her for insomnia for long?’

  ‘Off and on for months,’ said Russell casually. ‘There isn’t really a great deal one can do with these cases.’

  ‘Do you think,’ said his companion carefully, ‘she really did sleep a good deal better last night? I know a doctor isn’t supposed to discuss his patients,’ he added hastily. ‘I don’t want to put you in a false position.’

  ‘Under the circumstances I don’t think it could be called an indiscretion,’ returned Russell, smilingly. ‘It’s very probable that she did sleep well. Until yesterday I’d been giving her barbitone tablets and the trouble with barbiturates is that they’re habit-forming and that people get used to them.’

  ‘So yesterday you tried something different?’

  ‘Yes. I gave her chloral hydrate. It has a very unpleasant taste.’

  ‘And it’s a common belief that the more horrible medicine tastes the more good it’s likely to do.’ There was a twinkle in Mordecai Tremaine’s eyes. ‘You think that psychology sent her to sleep?’

  ‘Well, it has happened,’ said Russell diplomatically.

  They strolled back through the garden and when they reached the flower-bed where he had left his trowel, the doctor stooped to retrieve it and replaced it in the tool shed.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s the end of my exercise for this morning, Mordecai. I’ve several calls to make before lunch.’

  Tremaine nodded understandingly.

  ‘There was a time when I had to work for a living,’ he observed.

  He spent the rest of the morning undisturbed in the garden, but he went in to lunch with a vague feeling of dissatisfaction with himself. He felt that he had accomplished nothing; that valuable hours had slipped irritatingly through his fingers.

  But that was only the conscious side of his mind. Deep inside him he knew that the morning had not really been scattered unproductively. Although he had achieved no definite result, the fact that his mind had been actively working upon the problems set by the death of Lydia Dare would sooner or later prove of value. Sooner or later—in all probability when he was thinking of something entirely different—the fruits of his labours would be delivered.

  Over lunch Jean had an item of information to pass on.

  ‘Gerald Farrant’s here,’ she announced.

  Tremaine looked up quickly from his salad.

  ‘The fiancé?’

  ‘The fiancé,’ she agreed. ‘He’s staying at the Admiral. He came down today.’

  ‘I take it,’ said her husband, reaching for the salad dressing, ‘that this titbit of gossip is the result of your visit to the village this morning?’

  ‘It is,’ she told him, and added shamelessly, ‘To pick up any gossip I could was the reason why I went out.’

  ‘I’ve been wondering about Farrant,’ said Tremaine. ‘I was thinking this morning that it was odd he hadn’t shown up. After all, the wedding was to have been quite soon, wasn’t it?’

  ‘There’s a simple explanation,’ she t
old him. ‘He was in Scotland when the telegram reached him yesterday. His home’s at Stirling—or just near it. He came down by the night train from Edinburgh and reached King’s Cross early this morning. You can tell that he didn’t lose any time getting here.’

  ‘Is he—feeling it?’ asked Russell.

  Jean’s eyes clouded sympathetically.

  ‘I’m afraid he is. I caught a glimpse of him. Poor lad . . .’ She hesitated. ‘He’s hardly that, of course—he’s a grown man, nearly forty. But he looks so young that you think of him as being so. He was here with Lydia less than a fortnight ago and he seemed full of high spirits, just like a boy. It was obvious that he was head over heels in love with her. Now—I don’t think I would have known him. He’s changed so much.’

  ‘It’s a tragedy for him,’ said Tremaine quietly. ‘I can understand how he must be feeling.’

  During his reflections of the morning he had been considering the murder dispassionately, in the light of an abstract problem to be solved according to certain rules. Mention of Farrant had suddenly recalled him to the other side of it—the side which had to be computed in terms of human agony and suffering. All his sentimentalism had been called into play.

  Jean Russell saw the look on his face and did not say what she had been on the point of saying—that she hoped that for Gerald Farrant’s sake the murderer would be brought to justice. The resolve was already there—in Mordecai Tremaine’s taut features, in the haunted depths of his eyes.

  After lunch Tremaine did not return to his chair in the garden. It was hot now—almost too hot. The sun was overhead, pouring down upon the village. Little ripples of heat were rising shimmeringly from the slowly melting tar on the roads. But nevertheless he settled his battered old panama upon his head and set out from the house.

  He had to walk; had to walk quickly, though the perspiration might run from him; had to walk so that his thoughts would go faster, faster . . . so that he could begin to see things more clearly.

  He did not walk in the direction of the village. He did not want to meet people. He did not want to talk idly, to make conversation whilst his real thoughts were wandering tortured through space and time.

  Something of horror had come upon him. Something of the secret horror of Dalmering was lying heavily over his soul, enveloping it, blanketing it, like some monstrous evil shadow.

  He knew that it was his imagination. He knew that it was because Jean Russell had spoken of Gerald Farrant and the tragedy which had swept so suddenly down upon him, and because the revulsion against the monstrous villainy which had taken place had come flooding upon the tide of romantic sentiment which had its source within him.

  But although he knew—or thought he knew—the mechanics of his psychology, his will was not enough to stifle his instinctive reactions. Always he could see a still, pitiful figure lying murdered in the darkness, and could see the ruin of high hopes. Always he could see ruin and destruction and human sorrow.

  White for a wedding his thoughts ran, incoherently and yet with a painful, throbbing significance. White for a wedding—white all besmirched and bedraggled with black. . . .

  He walked faster. The perspiration was glistening down from the rim of his panama where it lay against his forehead. His pince-nez, always seemingly precarious, became so in earnest; he felt them slipping and put them back into position with a shaking hand.

  The sun was a molten fury. It was glaring in the sky and beating fiercely down upon him. And it was indescribably evil. He could feel unmentionable horror all about him, suffusing the atmosphere, gradually, inevitably, submerging him . . .

  An arm came urgently around him as he staggered.

  ‘What’s wrong, Mordecai? Aren’t you well?’

  He knew that it was Boyce. Inspector Boyce of Scotland Yard. Solid Boyce. Dependable Boyce.

  The other’s voice beat slowly through the fog of evil which was encompassing him. He stood swaying, trying to understand what the words meant. And then the horror had gone and he was standing in the sunshine and the world was normal again.

  ‘What’s wrong, man?’ repeated Boyce in concern. ‘You look as though you’ve come back from the dead!’

  ‘I think I have,’ said Mordecai Tremaine.

  Boyce regarded him curiously—saw the unhealthy pallor of his face, unnaturally taut skin stretched tight over prominent bones and oddly streaked with perspiration; the pince-nez all askew; the still semi-fixed stare.

  ‘You’d better sit down and rest for a moment,’ he said decisively. ‘You look just about finished.’

  Tremaine allowed himself to be seated on the grassy bank at the side of the road. He moved a little to allow his companion to join him.

  ‘It’s all right, Jonathan. It’s over now.’

  ‘What happened? You look ghastly.’

  ‘Too much sun,’ said Tremaine, still shakily. ‘Too much thinking and too much sun.’ He gave Jonathan Boyce a long, intent stare, drew a deep breath. ‘Jonathan,’ he said, ‘do you find anything strange about this place—about Dalmering?’

  ‘In what way?’

  Tremaine searched for words.

  ‘Do you feel evil in the air? Do you feel hate, and horror, and murder all around?’

  Inspector Boyce uttered a sudden exclamation.

  ‘Don’t,’ he said, ‘tell me that now you’re going to start!’

  Mordecai Tremaine smiled. He looked apologetic.

  ‘Sorry, Jonathan,’ he said. ‘It does sound a little fantastic. But just for a moment, coming along the road, I had the feeling that the whole place was running with evil—just as Vaughan told us that Lydia Dare said it was. There’s something here that isn’t normal—something wicked.’

  ‘I’ll agree with you there,’ said Boyce practically. ‘It sounds a fair description of murder. But—’

  ‘But you’re only interested in facts and my psychiatric ravings haven’t any value in a law court. I know.’ Tremaine eyed his friend quizzically. He had fully recovered now. ‘Did you know that Gerald Farrant was here?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. I saw him this morning. I suppose he will be helping to clear up Miss Dare’s affairs. It was a great shock to him—naturally.’

  ‘Naturally. Did he offer any theories as to who might have been responsible?’

  Boyce shook his head.

  ‘No. He seemed stunned by it. He told me that he couldn’t think of anyone who could have had any reason for killing her.’

  He was silent for a moment or two. And then he added, in a matter-of-fact voice:

  ‘You seem to have had a few social engagements after you left me last night.’

  ‘Oh—you mean Mrs. Hammond and the fellow who stopped me and asked for a light?’

  ‘Is that what he wanted? I wasn’t close enough to hear what was going on.’

  ‘That’s what he said he wanted,’ returned Tremaine. ‘What he really wanted was to see what I looked like because he’d been following Mrs. Hammond and he’d just seen her speaking to me. I’ve been wondering whether you saw what happened.’

  ‘I wasn’t far behind you,’ said Boyce. ‘But I kept out of sight when Mrs. Hammond stopped you. What did she want?’

  ‘She wanted me to find out who killed Lydia Dare.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Just like that,’ agreed Tremaine. ‘She wanted me to find out quickly.’

  He told his companion of Karen Hammond’s agitation; told him how she had left him with those few broken words and hurried into the darkness.

  ‘I agree,’ said Boyce, as he finished. ‘It doesn’t make sense. If her husband was with her she knows that he couldn’t have had anything to do with it and so there’s no reason for her to be alarmed.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Tremaine. ‘If he was with her.’

  The Yard man pulled idly at a tuft of long grass growing near the spot where his left hand had been resting.

  ‘I saw Sandra Borne today,’ he announced. ‘Had quite a chat with her.’<
br />
  ‘What’s your opinion?’

  ‘You’re quite right. She’s hiding something. Her story won’t stand up to hard questioning. Why didn’t she become alarmed when Miss Dare didn’t return? Why didn’t she at least ring up Vaughan’s house and find out whether her friend was all right? Her cottage and Vaughan’s house are both on the telephone. Did you know that?’

  ‘No. I hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘She’s only telling part of the truth. There’s more to come—perhaps the most important part. She didn’t just go unconcernedly to bed without bothering about Lydia Dare and leaving her to let herself in. But I think I’ve scared her. I let her see that I didn’t believe her. I’ve a feeling that before very long it will produce results.’

  ‘Well, you certainly haven’t been wasting your time, Jonathan.’

  ‘We’ve been plodding,’ said Boyce. ‘Just like policemen do.’ He added, ‘We’ve found the weapon.’

  He spoke so casually and so quietly that at first Mordecai Tremaine did not realize what he had said. And then he sat up suddenly.

  ‘Where was it?’ he demanded eagerly. ‘And what was it?’

  ‘It was lying hidden in the undergrowth not many yards from the spot where the murder was committed. The killer seems to have kept it long enough to wipe off any fingerprints and then just dumped it in the bushes. Naturally, I’ve been having the copse thoroughly searched and my men found it early this morning. It’s a long-bladed, very sharp knife—just the sort of thing we were expecting. It appears to be some sort of curio.’

  ‘Now you are getting somewhere,’ said Tremaine, the excitement plain in his voice. ‘Find the owner and you can say that you’re practically there!’

  ‘We have found the owner.’

  Mordecai Tremaine sat up even straighter. He gave his companion a prolonged, searching look.

  ‘You know something. I should have guessed it before. The symptoms are plain enough now. Who does own that knife?’

  ‘It belongs to Martin Vaughan,’ said Jonathan Boyce dispassionately.

  7

  THERE WAS NO doubt that Martin Vaughan had taken a dangerous leap into the position of Suspect No. 1. Mordecai Tremaine found himself weighing the evidence against him as he walked back towards the village after having left Inspector Boyce.