‘Is it proof you want?’ he asked. ‘Is that what’s holding you back? I’ll get your proof for you. Proof enough to convince twelve good men and true and to hang him as high as Haman. Only when you’ve got it see that you act quickly.’
A footstep sounded outside. Hammond stopped.
‘We don’t want the world to hear us,’ he said. ‘I hope we understand each other.’
He gave Mordecai Tremaine one final, comprehensive stare, and then turned on his heel. Tremaine stared after him. His mouth opened, but he closed it again without producing any words. It had been Philip Hammond’s manner which had overwhelmed him. It had been his matter-of-fact efficiency, his calm announcement of Martin Vaughan’s guilt which had bereft him of speech.
Mechanically he walked towards the door. Because of Karen Hammond’s agitation, because of the way in which she had followed him from ‘Roseland’, he had expected developments from the direction of her husband. But not quite such a development as that which had just occurred.
As he reached the outer dressing-room someone came through the doorway from the main hall. It was Howard Shannon. The plump man saw him and halted in his stride. A look of fear leaped to his eyes.
‘I’m not going to answer any questions,’ he said breathlessly. ‘You can’t make me! You’re not anybody official. You’ve no right to go asking people questions. I’m not going to say anything, d’you hear?’
He regained control over his limbs. He lurched forward. He fumbled vainly with the handle for a second and then pulled open the door leading to the open air at the rear of the building. His plump figure pushed unsteadily through. The door banged behind him.
Mordecai Tremaine adjusted his pince-nez. He drew a deep breath. Undoubtedly it had been a night of surprises.
9
THE HOUR WAS 6.30 a.m. Mordecai Euripides Tremaine, clad in his pyjama trousers and baring his chest to the morning air, was performing his exercises in front of the open window. It had been his practice for many years to indulge in a ten-minute course of exercises, winter and summer, on waking in the morning. He would have been the first to admit that the physical effect was very small, but the psychological value was enormous.
This morning, however, he was aware that he was losing some of the benefits attendant upon this daily ritual. He was not concentrating as he should upon the fact that he was drawing fresh, health-giving air into his lungs. His mind was wandering. He was not in his bedroom at all. He was in Dalmering village hall, reliving the events of the previous night.
He shaved and dressed in a preoccupied manner. Until he had classified Philip Hammond and Howard Shannon and had placed them, duly labelled, in their respective compartments, he knew that he was unlikely to be allowed much mental peace. He was certain that those two gentlemen were men of mystery.
What he was not certain of was the precise nature of the mystery in each case and whether it had any direct bearing upon the murder of Lydia Dare.
Jean Russell gave him a curious glance when he sat down at the breakfast-table.
‘You’ve cut yourself, Mordecai. . . .’
He fingered his chin self-consciously.
‘Yes. It was my own fault. I was too busy thinking—not paying sufficient attention to what I was doing.’
‘You look as though you’re still deep in thought,’ observed Russell banteringly. ‘It seems to me that our rehearsal last night gave you plenty to think about.’
‘The rehearsal—and other things,’ returned Tremaine.
It was obvious that the doctor would have liked to ask questions, but having succeeded in his object of persuading his visitor to take an active interest in the murder he had adopted the policy of not attempting to press him for information and he did not make any comment.
‘Paul told me that you were impressed with the play,’ said Jean, pouring his tea.
‘Yes.’ Tremaine nodded. ‘Yes, I found it very—’ he searched for a word ‘—very compelling. I’d like to read it—study it more closely. I wonder if you have a copy I could borrow?’
‘Certainly,’ Russell told him. ‘Jean and I both have a copy. When we decided to do the play we had a number typed.’
‘Typed? It hasn’t been printed?’
‘Apparently not. According to Vaughan we couldn’t get it in book form so we had it typed by some people in Kings-hampton—friends of Edith Lorrington, as a matter of fact. If you remember, she mentioned them yesterday morning. They have a bookshop and typing agency in the town.’
‘Yes, I remember. You must have been very keen to do this particular play.’
‘Well, Vaughan was. And as it seemed to be the sort of thing which could be put over fairly easily we decided to make our own arrangements about obtaining enough copies.’
Tremaine nodded, and relapsed into silence for a while, busying himself with his bacon and egg. And then:
‘How long has Howard Shannon been in Dalmering?’ he asked.
The doctor looked surprised at his change of topic.
‘About five or six years, I should think,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t be dogmatic about it, though. I’m speaking from a rather hazy memory.’
‘I believe you said that nothing very much is known about him. Does he work for a living?’
Russell laid down his knife and fork. He shrugged.
‘Sorry, Mordecai,’ he said, ‘I just don’t know. If he does he spends quite a lot of time here in the village, so obviously he doesn’t work very hard. He seems well supplied with money. At least, I’ve never heard of his refusing a subscription to any of the local charities or claiming to be hard up. Wasn’t he on the same train when you came down? I believe we mentioned then that he was our man of mystery.’
‘Yes,’ said Tremaine, ‘he was. And so you did.’
After breakfast he smoked his routine cigarette—he decided against risking a pipe—and settled down to read the copy of Romantic Stories he had brought with him. It was a sign that he was restless, unable to think clearly. He turned to Romantic Stories as another man might turn to whisky. In its sentimental, harmless pages he invariably tried to find solace when he was troubled.
Only this morning the solace was not there. The magic would not work. After half an hour he gave up, and with a brief explanation to Jean that he was going out for a stroll he walked slowly down the road.
His destination was the Admiral. He had not seen Jonathan Boyce since their meeting on the previous afternoon, and he was aware that the time for a talk with the Yard man was long overdue. Boyce had said that he knew that the weapon with which the crime had been committed belonged to Martin Vaughan, but no steps appeared to have been taken to arrest him.
Why was Boyce holding back? Tremaine had an uncomfortable suspicion that he knew the answer and that he had certain responsibilities in the matter.
The Yard man was still searching for a motive. It was probable that as yet he did not know that Martin Vaughan had been in love with Lydia Dare. It was certain that he had not had the fact put to him as plainly as Sandra Borne had put it, even if he had begun to suspect.
Tremaine tried to find excuses but he did not succeed in hiding from himself the knowledge that he should have told Boyce what had passed at ‘Roseland’. He should have made known what Sandra Borne had told him. In itself it might not be evidence but Boyce would know what to do in order to make it so.
The side door of the Admiral was open. There seemed to be no one from whom to ask permission, so Tremaine stepped inside and, pushing open another nearby door which stood invitingly ajar, he found himself in a pleasant, sun-filled room provided with armchairs and having the comfortable air of a lounge.
The only occupant was standing with his back towards him, gazing out through a deep bay window fitted with the small, leaded panes which were typical of Dalmering and which gave the village its attractively old-fashioned appearance. He did not hear Tremaine’s approach, for he did not turn, and his unsuspected visitor, as he drew nearer, was able to see what it was which was
holding the other’s attention.
The bay window overlooked the fields at the back of the inn, and walking at a brisk pace along a public footpath which traversed them was a figure Tremaine recognized. It was that of the ferrety gentleman who seemed to be displaying such an interest in Karen Hammond.
A moment or two longer Tremaine stood without speaking, until a turn in the path took the man from sight. And:
‘A rather curious person, don’t you think?’ he observed gently.
The man at the window spun round. He was in the thirties—a well-built, keen-faced individual with questing eyes. Those eyes surveyed Mordecai Tremaine searchingly.
‘What makes you think so?’ he asked.
‘You’re Mr. Barry Anston, aren’t you?’ said Mordecai Tremaine, side-stepping the question. ‘Barry Anston, of the Daily Record.’
‘Suppose,’ said the other, ‘that I am?’
‘You’re down here to cover the story of the murder,’ went on Tremaine, ignoring the unfriendly note in his tone. ‘I know who you are because I saw you yesterday and I made enquiries about you.’
‘Indeed?’ Anston moved away from the window and came into the centre of the room. He said pointedly: ‘Did you wish to see me?’
‘I didn’t exactly call to see you,’ said Tremaine carefully, ‘but it’s possible that you may be able to help me. You seemed to be very interested in the man who went across the fields just now, and as it happens I’m interested in him, too.’
Anston gave him an intent, prolonged stare, but before he could make any reply the door opened again and Boyce came into the room.
‘Hullo, Anston,’ he said cheerfully, and then saw Mordecai Tremaine. ‘Hullo, Mordecai—do you two know each other?’
‘Not yet,’ returned Tremaine. ‘But I have hopes.’
The newspaper reporter looked inquiringly from one to the other of them.
‘A friend of yours, Inspector?’
Boyce did not betray himself by any hesitation.
‘Yes,’ he replied easily. ‘He’s staying in Dalmering—by a coincidence. He has friends in the village.’
‘The name is Tremaine,’ remarked that gentleman. ‘Mordecai Tremaine.’
‘Sorry,’ interjected the Yard man. ‘I thought you’d both introduced yourselves.’
‘We were just leading up to it when you came in, Jonathan.’ Tremaine glanced in the newspaperman’s direction. ‘I saw Mr. Anston looking out of the window,’ he went on. ‘He was watching someone walk along a footpath across the fields. I must confess I felt rather curious about it because it was a man who stopped me and spoke to me the other night. He’s a stranger to the village, but he’s been seen in the neighbourhood several times lately. People have been wondering just who he is.’
The inspector caught, as he was intended to, the significance in Mordecai Tremaine’s tone. He looked at Anston and raised an eyebrow.
‘Do you know him?’
The other nodded. If he had been cautious in his attitude to the mild-looking man with the pince-nez, whom he did not know, he certainly had no objection to talking to Jonathan Boyce, of Scotland Yard, who might prove a useful source of information.
‘His name’s Hornsby. He runs a private-enquiry agency. That side of it’s aboveboard but I’ve an idea that he hasn’t any objection to combining a little blackmail with his normal business.’
‘Hornsby?’ Boyce reflected, his brow crinkled. ‘The name’s familiar, although I’ve not met him before.’
‘I ran across him when I was covering a story several months ago,’ explained Anston. ‘That’s how I came to suspect the possibility of a sideline in blackmail.’
‘It is only a suspicion?’
‘So far, anyway,’ said the reporter. ‘I imagine that if it was any more than that it would have come into your province, Inspector.’
‘Anston has a remarkable memory for criminal facts and faces,’ said Boyce, by way of explanation to Mordecai Tremaine. ‘They call him the Criminal Record Office of Fleet Street.’
‘It isn’t quite as wonderful as the inspector is making it sound,’ said Anston deprecatingly, also addressing himself to Tremaine. ‘It’s a matter of habit. I’ve been crime reporting for so long that it’s second nature to remember odd scraps of knowledge.’
Tremaine regarded him with respect—not untinged with envy.
‘It must be a very useful attribute,’ he observed. He glanced at the Yard man. ‘I really came to see you, Jonathan,’ he said. ‘It’s a glorious morning. I was thinking that if you weren’t too tied down by your investigations you might like a stroll.’
It was necessary to explain his presence at the Admiral since Anston was there, and for the same reason he did not wish to say anything which would compromise Boyce. He hoped he did not sound as lame to the other two men as he sounded to himself as he made his statement.
‘I think I can spare an hour,’ said the inspector cheerfully, showing no sign of having been disconcerted. ‘It will probably do me good to get away from thinking about the murder for a while, anyway—it may help to get rid of some of the cobwebs.’
Despite the Yard man’s easy manner, however, the reporter did not look as though he had been convinced. There was a slightly puzzled expression in his eyes.
‘Anything—new, Inspector?’ he asked.
‘Not yet.’
‘Are there likely to be any surprises at the inquest?’ Anston persisted quietly.
Boyce shook his head.
‘No—it’ll be just routine. But don’t lose heart. I may have something for you very soon that will enable you to satisfy your thirsting public.’
He spoke lightly but there was an undercurrent of seriousness in his voice. Anston seemed to appreciate what he meant, for he smiled.
‘I think I may have something for you,’ he said.
The inspector gave him a questioning look, but the other would not be drawn further.
‘I’m not sure about it yet so I won’t go making any rash statements,’ he remarked.
‘Is the inquest definitely being held today?’ queried Tremaine. ‘It’s at Kingshampton, isn’t it?’
‘The answer is yes to both questions,’ said Boyce. And added, ‘If you want that walk, Mordecai, let’s make a start before work begins to rear its ugly head and prevents my going.’
When they were in the roadway and out of the reporter’s range of hearing:
‘Sorry I butted in at the wrong moment, Jonathan,’ said Tremaine. ‘I hope I didn’t make it awkward for you.’
‘Of course not. Everybody in Dalmering is aware by now that we know each other, and Anston would have found it out sooner or later.’
‘But he’s a reporter. Won’t he make things difficult for you if he starts linking you up with me and starts dropping hints about it in his newspaper?’
‘Barry Anston and I know each other,’ said Boyce confidently. ‘He won’t do a thing to embarrass me. Reporting the murder is his job and I’m handling the case. He knows that if he keeps on good terms with me I can make things a good deal easier for him.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Mordecai Tremaine. ‘A quid pro quo.’
‘Call it live and let live,’ said Boyce.
They walked on up the roadway. It was very pleasant in the morning sunshine. Tremaine felt that it was all wrong that they should be discussing murder and its attendant horror and guilty fear in such an atmosphere. But:
‘Why haven’t you arrested Vaughan?’ he asked.
Boyce did not look at him. He kept up his unhurried stride.
‘Why should I arrest him?’
‘Don’t you think he is guilty?’
‘I think he might be,’ said Boyce carefully.
Tremaine had the depressing feeling that he was battering at a brick wall, but he persisted in his efforts.
‘You told me yesterday that you’d found the weapon and that you knew that it belonged to Vaughan. What makes you certain of that?’
‘Becau
se,’ the inspector stated calmly, ‘I showed it to him and he admitted that it was his.’
Tremaine assimilated this somewhat startling item of information.
‘What made you show it to him?’
‘I thought,’ remarked Boyce, ‘that the purpose of coming upon this stroll was to take my mind off such questions.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Mordecai Tremaine frankly. ‘That was obviously merely an excuse for Anston. I came along to see you because there are several things I want to talk to you about.’
Boyce gave a chuckle.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘I give in. Vaughan’s an archæologist. His house is full of curios of various kinds. The knife was obviously an unusual one and Vaughan seemed to me to be the most likely man in the neighbourhood to know something about it, so I decided to get straight to the point. I took it to him and asked him whether he’d ever seen it before. He recognized it at once.’
‘And told you it was his?’
‘And told me it was his,’ agreed Boyce.
‘Did he seem surprised?’
‘Very,’ said the Yard man drily. ‘In fact, for a moment at least, stunned would be the more suitable word to describe it.’
‘But you’re not going to arrest him?’
‘No, I’m not going to arrest him—yet.’ Boyce’s tone became more serious. ‘He didn’t admit that he knew any more than that the knife was his, of course. He said that he hadn’t realized that it was missing and that he had no idea how it had come to be in the murderer’s hands. I know it’s pretty feeble and that the case is building up against him, but I’m not anxious to commit myself too soon.
‘There’s no reason why I should. He’ll be here when—and if—I want him. If he should be foolish enough to try to make a break for it he won’t get far. My men are keeping a watchful eye on him. You see, Mordecai,’ he finished, ‘when you arrest a man you take a drastic step, and I’m not satisfied that such a step would be justified.’
‘Meaning that you haven’t yet established a motive sufficiently strong?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Suppose,’ said Tremaine slowly, ‘that I could give you such a motive?’
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