‘Howard Shannon and the mysterious Hornsby have been holding a conference on the sands. Shannon saw us watching him and it obviously upset him.’
‘Did he speak to you?’
‘No. On the contrary, he did his best to get away from us before there was any danger of our being able to have a word or two with him. There’s something very odd about Mr. Howard Shannon. Have you verified his alibi?’
The inspector consulted a small note-book.
‘He left Dalmering on the 3.45 p.m. London train on the afternoon before the murder. The ticket examiner and the stationmaster both remember seeing him. He came back the following afternoon by the 3.30 p.m. from Victoria. You’re a witness to that yourself.’
Tremaine abstractedly took another cake.
‘So far so good. But what about the time in between? Are you sure he was in London?’
‘Why?’ demanded Boyce bluntly.
‘Because,’ said Tremaine, ‘I don’t believe he was there.’
‘What makes you think so?’
‘When Martin Vaughan asked him whether he’d been caught in a heavy storm in London that day he said that he’d managed to escape it as he’d taken a taxi from the station. I dare say you were in town yourself that day and you know that there was no storm—not even a slight shower, in fact. If Shannon had really been in London he would have denied all knowledge of a storm. At the very least he would have looked puzzled and asked a question or two about it. But if he hadn’t been there it would have placed him in an awkward position. He would have been forced to ask himself quickly what answer he should give and he would most probably have done exactly what he did do—taken the fact that there had been a storm for granted and given some explanation or other of his whereabouts at the time. Obviously, for a man who hadn’t been on the spot at all and didn’t know what had happened it was the safest course to follow—provided Vaughan wasn’t trying to trap him.’
The inspector was interested now.
‘What’s your opinion?’ he asked. ‘Do you think Vaughan was after him?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Tremaine slowly. ‘At the time he seemed casual enough. The fact of Shannon’s having been in London had come up and Vaughan remarked that a friend of his in Kingshampton had been caught in one of the unexpected summer storms which go with our uncertain climate. He said that he hoped Shannon hadn’t been so unlucky. It all seemed perfectly innocent and conversational, but now I’m beginning to wonder whether there was anything more behind it. I’m beginning to wonder just what is wrong with Shannon and how much Vaughan knows about it.’
He sipped his tea reflectively, and then looked questioningly across the table at the inspector.
‘What account of his London visit did Shannon give you?’ he asked. ‘His story when I heard it was that he’d made the trip in order to see someone—a business associate I believe—who was going to be there but who wouldn’t be available for more than a limited period and whom he was anxious to meet.’
Boyce consulted his note-book again.
‘His statement was that he’d gone up to see a man named Millward, who is a partner in a firm of shipping agents. Millward was staying overnight at the Regency hotel. Shannon says that they didn’t meet at the hotel but arranged a rendezvous at the Corner House at the Marble Arch.’
‘Did he say why he wanted to meet this Millward?’
‘Yes—he was quite frank about it. Shannon has an interest in a small firm of furniture manufacturers just outside London. Millward’s ships do a good deal of coastal traffic and Shannon wanted to talk over the possibilities of a contract to bring occasional consignments of timber down from Liverpool on one of the coasters making a regular run. The stuff is coming into Liverpool because it’s being carried along with bigger cargoes and the rates are much cheaper than charting a special freighter. He hinted that the firm was only just keeping its head above water and that it was essential to limit expenses wherever possible. He wanted to see Millward personally because he knows him slightly and he thought he might be able to obtain better terms than by merely writing to the firm.’
‘Has Millward corroborated all this?’
Boyce shook his head.
‘No. Not by word of mouth, anyway. We’ve checked up on him at the Regency hotel He certainly stayed there on that particular night. He left for Holland on one of his own line’s ships the next morning. He isn’t expected back until next week.’
‘That supports Shannon’s statement that he had only a limited opportunity of meeting him, anyway,’ observed Tremaine. ‘The whole thing fits together so well on the face of it,’ he added, ‘that I don’t suppose you’ve troubled to take any steps to locate Millward?’
‘No,’ agreed Boyce, ‘we haven’t. There was no definite suspicion against Shannon and what we were able to check against his story seemed to confirm what he’d told us. But if your belief that he didn’t go to London is justified then the situation is very different. We’ve witnesses who saw him go, we’ve witnesses who saw him come back, and we’ve proof that the man he said he went to meet did stay at the Regency. But we’ve no proof that the meeting actually did take place. The Corner House, of course, is hopeless. So many people make use of it that it’s highly unlikely that we’d be able to get any worth-while evidence as to whether two men answering to the descriptions of Shannon and Millward were there on that particular day.’
There was a pause. And then:
‘I’ve a feeling,’ said Mordecai Tremaine, ‘that Barry Anston is going to ask you a few questions about me.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Boyce, a little sharply.
‘When I was talking to him just now I let him see that I was interested in Hornsby and Shannon. I think he’ll be asking you who I am and why I seem to be so curious about those two gentlemen.’ He leaned forward, lowering his voice to what was almost a conspiratorial whisper. ‘There’s a link between Shannon and Hornsby, Jonathan, and if Anston doesn’t exactly know what that link is I think he could make a pretty shrewd guess. I’d like to know what he suspects.’
‘I see. And I’m to use my authority to prevail upon Anston to tell me so that I can tell you.’
Boyce stirred his tea in order to absorb the last grains of sugar, drank appreciatively, and then leaned back to survey his companion, his dark eyes speculative beneath his wiry eyebrows.
‘You know, Mordecai,’ he said shrewdly, ‘I believe you’re beginning to take the bit between your teeth. So far you’ve been wandering around giving everyone the impression that you’re quite helpless and the last person in the world to start solving a murder problem, but now you’re showing every symptom of preparing to leap into action.’
‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that,’ said Tremaine deprecatingly. ‘You can’t go straight into an investigation and lay your hand on the guilty person without hesitation. You have to look about you for a while. You have to sort things out and try to put people in their right places. That’s what I’ve been doing—I’ve been absorbing the atmosphere, trying to get the feel of things. And now it’s beginning to sort itself out. It’s as though when you want something to tie up a parcel you pick up a handful of pieces of string all jumbled together. At first it’s just a chaotic tangle, and then, gradually, you sort out the different pieces and take away all those you don’t need one by one until you’ve got the particular piece you’re looking for which suits your parcel.’
‘Only in this case,’ said Boyce, ‘the piece of string is a stout rope and the parcel is someone’s neck.’
‘Yes,’ said Tremaine quietly. ‘It’s someone’s neck.’ He looked across the table at his companion. He asked: ‘Have I seemed to be fumbling a good deal just lately? I mean have I acted like a—like a—well, like a doddering old fool who didn’t seem to be able to grasp things?’
‘You haven’t,’ said Boyce carefully, ‘appeared to make a great deal of progress.’
‘There’s no need to break it gently, Jonathan,’ said Tremaine ruefully. He added
, after a moment or two: ‘Do you remember what Vaughan said when we first met him? He said that there was something wrong with Dalmering—that something evil and corrupt had crept in. He said that Lydia Dare had felt it, too. I’ve heard the same thing from other people—from Sandra Borne and from Jean and Paul. There is something wrong with Dalmering. I’ve felt it myself. It’s hard to explain. It’s a sort of cloying, suffocating evil in the very air. You’re a policeman, Jonathan. As you told me the other day, you have to stick to hard facts. You can’t allow yourself to be influenced by atmosphere. But I’m not bound by the same rules and I’ve sensed the evil in the place.’
‘I wouldn’t,’ said Boyce drily, ‘care to have to offer your psychic reactions as proof in court.’
‘Of course not. But you might be able to use them as a basis upon which to build up the facts you could produce. The trouble with me is that I’ve rather allowed myself to be overwhelmed by the atmosphere. I’ve gone too much the other way. But I’m getting over the anaesthetic now and I’m not certain that it wasn’t a good thing, after all. It’s like coming out of a fog into a brightly-lit room. Perhaps it’s the effect of listening to the formal account at the inquest but I feel now that the whole thing is clear.’
‘Do you mean that you know who killed her?’ demanded Boyce.
‘Not,’ said Tremaine, ‘exactly that. But I can see which are the available roads. And at the end of one of them I shall find the murderer. More tea?’ he asked.
The inspector nodded mechanically, and allowed his companion to pour him out another cup.
‘Now,’ said Tremaine, replacing the teapot, ‘let’s get down to business. It was obvious from the inquest that all you wanted was a nice tidy verdict so that you could go ahead and produce the murderer in due course without having your hand forced beforehand, so I didn’t learn anything from that. But what about the will? You’ve seen Lydia Dare’s solicitors, of course. Dereford and Something, wasn’t it? These fellows always seem to operate in twos or threes. Perhaps they think there’s safety in numbers!’
‘Dereford, Burgess and Dereford,’ said Boyce. ‘The funeral is tomorrow morning—there was a slight delay in arranging things—and the will is to be made public afterwards.’
‘But you know its provisions?’
‘Yes. She had quite a comfortable little sum—apparently she had a legacy from an uncle some years ago. She left somewhere in the region of three thousand pounds in shares of various kinds—that’s after allowing for duty—together with a half share in the cottage in which she lived with Miss Borne, and various personal effects. Her share in the cottage and all her personal things go to Miss Borne, together with five hundred pounds. Another five hundred pounds goes to Miss Edith Lorrington.’
‘Edith Lorrington?’ Tremaine raised his eyebrows. ‘They must have been on fairly close terms then. Who are the other legatees?’
The inspector did not reply for a moment or two. He regarded Mordecai Tremaine from eyes which had narrowed a trifle warily.
‘There’s only one other,’ he said slowly. ‘All the remainder, amounting to about two thousand pounds, goes to Dr. Russell.’
‘Paul!’ Mordecai Tremaine sat up very straight in his chair. ‘Are you certain?’
‘I don’t think Dereford, Burgess and Dereford were making any mistake,’ said Boyce levelly. ‘ “All the residue of my estate I leave to my dear friend Paul Russell, in recognition of the many kindnesses he and his wife have shown to me and in order to give him some little opportunity of devoting himself to the work of medical research upon which I know he has set his heart”—that’s more or less how it goes.’
‘I’m sure that Paul had no idea—he’ll be amazed when he hears of it.’ Tremaine was looking as though he was even more surprised than he expected his friend to be. ‘He didn’t dream of anything like this. He’s always been keen on research work, of course, but he’s been so generous and open-handed all through his career—giving his services for nothing on so many occasions—that he’s had to abandon all hope of being able to spend any more than a very little spare time on any medical work outside his practice. He’s never given me the idea that he and Lydia Dare were so well acquainted. I thought they were merely village neighbours—certainly he never hinted that there was any prospect of her leaving him a substantial legacy.’
‘It’s possible,’ said Boyce, ‘that he didn’t think that there was such a prospect. But I imagine that Dr. Russell is a man who has done a great deal of good without saying very much about it and it’s surprising how often people take notice of such things and remember them.’
But despite his words there was a strange note in his voice—a note which found its echo in Mordecai Tremaine’s mind. He tried to dismiss it from his thoughts.
‘Is there any mention of Farrant?’ he asked.
‘No. The solicitors told me that Miss Dare mentioned to them a couple of months ago that she intended to make a new will, but she never actually did so. She probably intended to include Gerald Farrant in it, but she delayed matters too long. Fortunately,’ added Boyce, ‘for your friend the doctor. He would most likely have lost his two thousand.’
‘It isn’t really a large sum,’ said Tremaine, searching for a straw to which to cling.
‘No, but it’s a very useful one,’ said Boyce. He pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, Mordecai, I’ve got to get away. I arranged to have a word or two with the coroner before going back to Dalmering.’ He hesitated, and then his hand dropped to his companion’s shoulder. ‘I know that Dr. Russell is a friend of yours,’ he said quietly. ‘But my job still has to go on—no matter who may become involved. You will understand that, Mordecai—won’t you?’
His fingers gave a slight pressure and then he was gone, leaving Mordecai Tremaine sitting in his chair, oblivious of the hum of conversation and the rattle of crockery in the busy restaurant.
When he had told Jonathan Boyce that the problem of the murder seemed to be spread before him, clearly illuminated and with the various roads which might lead to a solution plainly marked, he had been speaking the truth. But he had not visualized the name of Paul Russell as a signpost pointing along one of those roads.
Lydia Dare had left Paul two thousand pounds in a will which she had expressed her intention of altering—almost undoubtedly to his disfavour. But she had died before she could carry out that intention, so that Paul would still receive the legacy.
Lucky Paul. Even a few more days might have made all the difference to him. And what if he had known what was in that will?
Mordecai Tremaine fought against the deductions the reason he had trained was making for him. He was being disloyal. He was being false to his friend. He could not—must not—think that way of Paul.
11
THE SILENCE, WHICH seemed to have been intensified rather than interrupted by the busy click of Edith Lorrington’s knitting needles, was sharply broken by the shrill sound of the door-bell. With a mock gesture of resignation Paul Russell lowered the copy of the British Medical Journal at which he had been glancing.
‘Don’t,’ he said, ‘tell me that someone has decided to get born tonight!’
‘You can relax, Paul,’ said his wife consolingly, ruffling his thick if greying hair fondly as she passed him. ‘It wasn’t the surgery bell. And anyway it wasn’t agitated enough to be that sort of ring. It’s a visitor not a customer.’
They heard her voice in greeting in the hall and in a few moments she was back with Karen Hammond.
‘Paul thought you were an anxious would-be parent come to drag him away from his comfortable armchair, Karen,’ Jean was saying as they came in.
‘I wasn’t expecting a call until next week,’ put in Russell, with a smile, ‘but in these uncertain times you can’t rely on things.’
Mordecai Tremaine thought, as he studied her, that an ethereal quality had crept into Karen Hammond’s beauty. Her blonde loveliness had acquired an appearance of fragil
ity and a hint of poignancy lay in her blue eyes. It was as though some strange sorrow had placed gently insistent fingers upon her charms and had moulded them into a form which possessed the illusion of belonging to the realm of the insubstantial.
‘I hope I’m not interrupting, Paul,’ she said diffidently.
‘Of course you’re not,’ he told her. ‘You’re always a welcome visitor, Karen. Come along and sit down.’
‘I—I was lonely,’ she said, and Tremaine thought that her voice held the echo both of loneliness and of fear. ‘I felt that I had to come out and talk to someone.’
‘You did the wisest thing by coming over,’ said Russell cheerfully. ‘There are very few nights when you won’t find anyone here. Jean and I like to keep open house.’
The drawing-room of ‘Roseland’ was radiating its usual inviting air of comfort and friendliness. On a settee next to the easy chair in which Edith Lorrington’s prim figure was sitting, her knitting needles steadily evolving a gay winter jumper from the supply of wool on her lap, Sandra Borne’s trim little form was cosily curled up in a ball as she turned the pages of a fashion magazine. Paul Russell scanning his Medical Journal, Mordecai Tremaine pretending to play patience at a side table, and Jean presiding over them all like a benevolent hen proudly watching her brood, completed the picture.
Karen Hammond seated herself gratefully.
‘Philip not down tonight?’ asked Russell.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Not tonight.’
‘I suppose he rang you up this afternoon and told you that he’d be busy working on the firm’s accounts or something! You’ll have to watch that husband of yours, Karen. He’s probably running around with a red-haired siren. You know what deceivers we men are!’
That Karen and Philip Hammond were very much in love with each other was well known in the village, and it was obvious that Russell was speaking jokingly, in an attempt to bring a smile to her face. But no smile came. Tremaine saw her wince, in fact, at the remark, as though it had pained her.
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