‘You mean that Vaughan was in love with Lydia Dare?’
Mordecai Tremaine stopped in the roadway. Over the top of his pince-nez he eyed his friend reprovingly.
‘You know then?’
‘I suspect,’ corrected Boyce carefully. ‘It isn’t quite the same thing as knowing—or proving.’
The time had obviously arrived for confession.
‘I’m sorry, Jonathan,’ said Tremaine haltingly. ‘I know that I should have told you this sooner, but I’ve been trying to make up my mind which would be the best way to do it and be fair to all the people concerned. Sandra Borne called at “Roseland” yesterday afternoon. You were right when you said that you thought you’d scared her and that it would produce results.’
He told his companion exactly what he himself had been told, omitting nothing. They had reached a convenient stile and Boyce leaned against it, apparently staring into vacancy but missing no detail of the recital.
‘Interesting,’ he commented. ‘Very interesting. D’you think she’d tell the same story in court?’
Tremaine nodded.
‘I think she would.’
‘H’m. It’s all circumstantial, of course. If only we could find someone who actually saw Vaughan out that night.’
The inspector relapsed into a thoughtful silence. Tremaine waited for what he considered to be a suitable interval. And then:
‘I was at the rehearsal last night,’ he observed.
‘Rehearsal? Oh, you mean that play they’re doing. Anything happen worth noting?’
‘Well, our friend Vaughan was in the limelight.’
Tremaine described what had transpired. He mentioned the plot of the play in so far as it explained Vaughan’s part in it, but the Yard man appeared more interested in the attitude of the various people concerned rather than in the characters they were portraying.
‘It looks as though relations are getting rather strained,’ he observed. ‘There doesn’t seem much doubt that they think he’s guilty. Of course, if he really was in love with Lydia Dare someone in the village must have had a suspicion of it. There must have been some whisper or other about them.’
‘I rather imagine that there was,’ agreed Tremaine. He hesitated. ‘By the way, Jonathan, what’s your impression of Geoffrey Manning?’
‘Seems a nice young fellow—from what little I’ve seen of him.’
‘And Phyllis Galway?’
‘Seems a nice girl,’ said Boyce, with slightly more enthusiasm.
‘You don’t think—you don’t suspect that they’re mixed up in the murder in any way?’
‘Just what are you getting at?’ said Boyce. And then his face cleared. ‘Oh! Old man Cupid’s been at work again. Is that it?’
Mordecai Tremaine had the grace to look embarrassed.
‘Well, they’re a well-matched young couple. I wouldn’t like to think that anything was going to interfere with the—er—with the wedding-bells.’ In an attempt to save himself from further questions—he could see the wicked gleam in the inspector’s eye—he changed the subject hurriedly. ‘There’s something decidedly odd about both Howard Shannon and Philip Hammond,’ he said. ‘I saw them both at the rehearsal. Shannon went into a panic when I happened to bump into him on his own. Said that he wasn’t going to answer any questions and that I couldn’t make him. It was pretty obvious that he was afraid of me because he’d learned about my knowing you.’
‘What about Hammond? Was he jittery too?’
Tremaine shook his head.
‘No. As a matter of fact he seemed cold-bloodedly sure of himself. He said that Vaughan was the killer and that we knew it. He wanted to know why we didn’t arrest him. He said that if it was proof we wanted he’d see that we got it.’
‘Did he?’
There was no disputing the undercurrent of excitement in Boyce’s tone. Tremaine gave him a sharp glance.
‘You sound as though you’re on to something, Jonathan. What is it?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said the inspector slowly. ‘I’m not sure. I saw Mrs. Hammond this morning. I asked her if her husband was here and she said that she thought he’d gone to London.’
‘She said she thought he’d gone?’ queried Tremaine, accenting in his turn the word his companion had emphasized.
‘Yes. I couldn’t quite make her out. She seemed in a near panic about something, and yet as though she was afraid to tell me what was on her mind.’
Inspector Boyce lifted himself from the stile. He thrust his hands deep into his trousers pockets and faced Mordecai Tremaine squarely.
‘Where was Philip Hammond on the night Lydia Dare was murdered?’ he asked.
‘At home—with his wife.’
‘That’s where he said he was,’ observed Boyce. ‘And where his wife said he was. But he wasn’t anywhere near Dalmering. I’ve been making a few enquiries about Mr. Philip Hammond. I can produce two people from his London office who are prepared to swear that he spent the night in town.’
Tremaine stared at him.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’ve had a report from one of my most reliable men. He isn’t likely to have made a mistake—not that sort of mistake, anyway.’
‘But it’s absurd! If he was in London why doesn’t he say so? It would clear him of all suspicion of the murder.’
‘Precisely. But if he admits that he was in London,’ said Boyce, ‘then it’s obvious that he can’t swear that his wife didn’t leave the house. Which means that Karen Hammond will no longer have an alibi. Had that occurred to you?’
Mordecai Tremaine’s eyes widened. He shook his head.
‘No,’ he said. ‘No. It hadn’t.’
10
AS JONATHAN BOYCE had forecast, the inquest on Lydia Dare did not produce any surprises. The evidence taken was purely formal and the expected verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons unknown was returned with due celerity by a jury quite satisfied that their conclusions were incontestable.
It was obvious that it was merely a routine operation which necessarily had to be performed in order to allow the development of something far greater. There was an air of subdued drama in the little room in which the inquest was held. There was a subtle suggestion in the atmosphere that the police had not told all they knew and that important events were being shaped behind the scenes.
The coroner hinted delicately that such was the case. It was very possible, he said, that in the near future the authorities would be in possession of valuable evidence. He had every faith in the abilities of the police. Investigations were proceeding. Very soon, no doubt, the guilty person or persons would be arrested and brought to trial.
No suspicion was directed against Martin Vaughan. He gave evidence but the cross-examination touched no vital matters and there was no attempt made to fasten an accusation of guilt upon him.
Mordecai Tremaine thought that the big man was surprised by the apparent lack of interest in him. His attitude when he had begun to give his evidence had been his usual truculent one, but in the almost friendly atmosphere of the courtroom and before the sympathetic manner in which the questions had been put to him, he had lost his defensiveness. He had become more responsive, more like a sociable human being than Tremaine had so far known him. He had returned to his seat like a man who was puzzled but from whose mind a weight had been lifted.
Tremaine watched him as he sat with folded arms, listening to the proceedings. He tried to read the expressions on Vaughan’s face, and fancied that he saw strained expectancy change gradually to relief and then to confidence—or something very near it.
A number of the colony were present. Tremaine saw Karen Hammond—although not her husband. She was leaning forward most of the time, her blonde head resting upon her hand, following closely all that took place. Sandra Borne was there. And the Russells—Paul had managed to snatch a few hours from his busy day—and behind them Geoffrey Manning and Phyllis Galway.
At the back of the room
Gerald Farrant was sitting. There were black shadows under his eyes. He looked like a man who had not slept and who was tortured by his thoughts. Tremaine could understand what those thoughts were.
Several times he observed Farrant studying Martin Vaughan. Studying him not casually but with a terrible intentness, and with hate in his drawn features. There was no doubt that in his mind he had accepted the other’s guilt, even if, as it seemed, the coroner and the police had not.
When the inquest was over and he stood outside on the pavement in the sunlight, Mordecai Tremaine felt unreality flooding his soul. It couldn’t be true that he had been listening to a calm, official explanation of the violent death of a human being and that it was very probable that among his companions there had been another human being whose conscience was heavy with guilty knowledge.
All murderers were tormented by conscience. Tremaine was sure of that. No matter how callously unmoved a man—or a woman—might appear, at some time, in the secret places of their hearts, they knew the agony of self judgment.
He looked around him. The Russells had followed him from the court-room. Paul had turned to speak to Sandra Borne.
‘How about a cup of tea, Sandy?’ he had asked her. ‘Would you care to come along to the Pier? We could give you a lift back afterwards—we brought the car over.’
She gave him a grateful smile but shook her head.
‘No, thanks, Paul,’ she told him. ‘It’s very nice of you and Jean but I’ve promised to have tea with Edith and her friends.’
The doctor nodded understandingly.
‘That reminds me,’ he observed. ‘I didn’t see Edith inside.’
Sandra Borne hesitated.
‘No—she told me that she didn’t think she would be going to the inquest. She said she thought she would find it too—too painful. Edith doesn’t say a great deal but she’s taken it to heart. She—she was very fond of Lydia.’
‘It’s natural enough that she should want to stay away,’ agreed Russell. He said it as though he realized that it was the conventional reply but was not entirely convinced that it was true. ‘We’ll see you later then, Sandy.’
Sandra Borne gave a nod which was both agreement and parting and which included Mordecai Tremaine, and they saw her trim, business-like little figure go quickly along the pavement. Russell turned inquiringly.
‘What about you, Mordecai? Does a cup of tea appeal to you?’
‘Don’t worry about me, Paul,’ he returned. ‘I’m staying over here for a little while. I’ve arranged to meet Jonathan. I know you’re a busy man so don’t trouble to wait about for me. I’ll be going back on the bus.’
‘I am rather rushed,’ admitted the doctor. ‘I only suggested taking Sandy along to the Pier because I thought it might cheer her up.’
‘In that case then,’ said Tremaine, ‘you and Jean go along back. I don’t suppose I’ll be more than a couple of hours behind you, but don’t be alarmed if I should happen to be a little late.’
When his friends had driven off in the hard-working saloon which had carried them all to Kingshampton, Tremaine made his way towards the promenade and the Pier pavilion. It was at the Pier that he had promised to meet Inspector Boyce.
He enjoyed his unhurried stroll. Kingshampton was not one of the bigger and more popular seaside resorts; it seemed to have been sandwiched in between its more prosperous—and more flamboyant—neighbours, and had become somewhat overlooked in the process. Not, thought Tremaine, that it was any the worse for that. On the contrary, it had escaped some of the more unpleasant manifestations of a trippers paradise. Its long promenade was sedate without being forbidding. It commanded an uninterrupted view of a beach which did not suffer from a rash of ice-cream stalls and abandoned bottles and newspapers. The hotels which lined it were invitingly gay with coloured awnings and yet possessed of a calm dignity.
It must be confessed that deep in Mordecai Tremaine’s soul there dwelt a streak of good honest vulgarity. He enjoyed noisy crowds, and children with buckets and spades, and cockle-stalls and all the carnival atmosphere of a slightly rowdy bank holiday. But there were also times when he realized that he was growing older and that it was pleasant to sit back in the sunshine and watch the glimmer of the water and hear it swishing musically upon the pebbles, and to be undisturbed by the virile gaiety of the multitude. Kingshampton, he told himself, would be an ideal place in which to spend his leisure hours.
He was within a hundred yards of the Pier Pavilion—the ‘pier’ was hardly big enough to justify that proud description, being no more than a bulge in the promenade upon which was located a combined restaurant and concert-hall—when, leaning over the railings and gazing down at the beach, he saw a figure he recognized. It was Anston. He took up a position at the reporter’s side.
‘A penny for your thoughts,’ he said, without originality but hopefully.
Anston glanced in the direction from which the voice had come.
‘Oh, hullo,’ he said, recognizing the mild-looking man with the pince-nez whom he had met at the Admiral and who seemed to be on good terms with Inspector Boyce, of Scotland Yard. ‘Been to the inquest?’
‘Would that be termed a leading question?’ asked Tremaine.
Anston smiled.
‘Not really. I was just making conversation. As a matter of fact I saw you there.’
‘In that case,’ said Tremaine, ‘I was there.’
He looked curiously over the railings, searching for the reason for the absorption which had been so evident in the other’s attitude when he had approached him. Anston saw the action. He reflected for a moment or two, and then, as if he had come to a decision:
‘I was doing what I was doing when we met at the Admiral this morning,’ he said. ‘Watching our mutual acquaintance Hornsby.’
He pointed. Tremaine followed the direction of his finger and for the first time he noticed that two men were standing on the sands between the steel supports upon which the pavilion was erected. They were close under the wall, which was why he had not observed them before. One of them was the ferrety Mr. Hornsby. And the other was Howard Shannon.
They were deep in conversation. They were too far away for it to be possible to hear what they were saying, but whatever it was there was no doubt that it was engrossing the plump man’s attention. He was in an intent attitude, leaning rigidly towards his companion.
‘Do you know who the fellow with Hornsby is?’ asked Tremaine.
The reporter nodded.
‘Yes. His name’s Shannon. He lives in Dalmering, doesn’t he?’
‘That’s right.’ Tremaine was looking over the wall of the promenade, apparently staring at the water. ‘When you told Inspector Boyce that you might have something for him,’ he went on, in the same impassive tone, ‘was it Shannon who was in your mind?’
‘When I told Inspector Boyce that,’ said Anston, ‘I also told him that I didn’t wish to make any statement until I was sure of my facts.’
‘But it was Shannon?’ persisted Tremaine gently.
Anston gave him a sharp glance.
‘Perhaps.’
At that moment, their conversation over, the two men on the sands drew apart. As they moved away from each other Shannon glanced up. They saw him start as he recognized them. He hesitated, and then, making an obvious effort to appear unconcerned and as though he had changed his mind for a reason which had nothing to do with their presence, he turned and walked off along the sands in the opposite direction.
‘Frightened,’ observed Tremaine pleasantly. ‘Definitely frightened. I wonder why?’ He moved away from the wall and took out his big pocket watch. ‘I’m late,’ he announced. ‘I’m supposed to be having tea with Inspector Boyce. Good bye, Mr. Anston. No doubt we’ll be seeing each other again very soon.’
He nodded and strolled away along the promenade towards the Pier Pavilion, leaving Anston staring after him.
The newspaperman’s face bore a puzzled expression. Mordecai Tremaine was inc
lined to have a somewhat exasperating effect upon people at times. With his benevolent appearance, his undisciplined pince-nez and his general air of needing someone to look after him, he gave the impression that he was a harmless, even a somewhat simple soul, of whom no one need be in any dread. But sometimes his voice would become firmer, his whole manner more assured, and his eyes would hold a steady, probing quality which would give the lie to the façade of ineffectiveness and would leave the person who witnessed the phenomenon with the uncertain—and often slightly resentful—feeling of having walked suddenly and without warning into deep water.
Tremaine, of course, was well aware of the minor sensations he caused. It must be confessed, indeed, that inwardly he delighted in them. He was chuckling now as he walked along the promenade. He could imagine some of the questions Barry Anston must be asking himself.
He was still chuckling as he entered the Pier Pavilion. The restaurant was crowded, but a glance around revealed the stocky figure of Jonathan Boyce beckoning to him from a table for two in a moderately secluded corner overlooking the sea.
‘Hullo, Jonathan. Sorry I’m late. This is very nice.’ Tremaine looked approvingly through the window at the long stretch of beach it commanded and at the waves washing lazily in against the pebbles. ‘I like having my tea in a place like this where you can overlook the sea.’
‘You sound very pleased with yourself,’ observed the Yard man. ‘What’ve you been up to?’
‘The worst of being a policeman,’ said Mordecai Tremaine, helping himself to the bread and butter and cakes which his companion had already ordered, ‘is that you develop such a suspicious nature. Haven’t I mentioned that to you before? I’ve merely been talking to the Press in the person of Mr. Barry Anston. As a matter of fact, that’s why I’m a little late.’
‘What have you been telling him?’
‘Not a great deal, Jonathan, not a great deal. But I’ve hopes of his telling you something before long.’
‘You sound,’ said Boyce, ‘as though you’re in one of your cryptic moods again. Well, I’m listening. What’s it all about?’
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