Tremaine did not keep him in suspense.
‘I believe,’ he said quietly, ‘that you and Philip Hammond were on bad terms.’
Manning started. For a brief instant there was alarm in his face.
‘Who told you that?’ he demanded.
‘The source of my information doesn’t matter,’ said Tremaine. ‘What I’m concerned with at the moment is whether or not it’s true.’
He looked Manning straight in the face. The other’s eyes flickered uneasily away, and then came back to his own.
‘All right—you probably know, anyway, so I may as well admit it. We did have an argument. But I thought it had all been forgotten. Hammond didn’t refer to it again and I certainly didn’t intend to.’
‘What was the subject of your . . . er . . . argument?’
‘I’ve told you it was all over,’ said Manning.
There was a note of anger—and dismay—in his voice, and Mordecai Tremaine knew that he was trying to hide something.
‘What was it about?’ he persisted gently.
‘Why should I answer your questions?’ broke out Manning. ‘You’ve no right to cross-examine me!’
‘Of course I haven’t,’ agreed Tremaine. ‘But I think you would be wise to tell me all you can. I might be more sympathetic than some people—the police, for instance.’
‘I met Hammond several months ago in London,’ said Manning unwillingly.
‘That doesn’t seem important enough to start a quarrel between you.’
‘I didn’t think so either. But when I mentioned it casually in the village just afterwards he lost his temper over it—accused me of spying on him and threatened to knock my head off if I didn’t stop. Of course, I wasn’t going to stand for that. I told him what I thought.’
‘I take it that you hadn’t seen Hammond in London on any other occasion?’
‘No.’
‘Had anyone else in the village seen him?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Have you any idea why he seemed so put out because of your meeting him?’
‘Yes,’ returned Manning. ‘I have. He was with a woman. It wasn’t his wife.’
Tremaine was silent. There was no doubt that the other was speaking the truth. He had the look of a man who knew that he had applied a spark to the gunpowder and was half-afraid of what he had done. After a moment or two Manning said:
‘Look, I don’t think anyone else knows about it. I haven’t breathed a word to a soul—not even to Phyllis. I don’t think Mrs. Hammond knows.’
His meaning was obvious. So patently obvious that it was almost pathetic.
Philip Hammond had very often been away from his home, and during those absences he had been having an affaire with another woman. In itself the fact that he had been seen on one occasion with someone who was not his wife could not be classed as important. There might be a dozen quite simple explanations. But the damning factor was Hammond’s reaction. He had behaved like a guilty man; a man who knew that he had something to hide.
That was what Manning meant. He meant that he knew that Hammond had been leading a double life. And he was desperately anxious that the police should believe that Karen Hammond had not known. Because if she had been aware of it, then something else became obvious—she had had a motive for killing her husband.
Tremaine found his voice.
‘You can rely on me not to broadcast what you’ve told me,’ he said. ‘But you appreciate its importance, of course. You realize that Inspector Boyce must be informed?’
‘Yes,’ said Manning, ‘I realize that.’
Mordecai Tremaine was conscious as he walked on towards ‘Roseland’ that Geoffrey Manning’s troubled eyes were following him. It was not until he had turned into the gateway of the house that he ceased to be aware of the other’s fixed stare.
It was Jean who let him in and he greeted her cheerfully.
‘I hope I’m in time for tea. I’ve a thirst like a camel who’s exhausted his reservoirs. And none of the pubs are open yet.’
‘You’ll be trying to make me believe you really like drinking beer next,’ she told him. ‘You know you’ve never been able to acquire a taste for it.’
‘You’re quite right,’ he admitted. ‘As a practised beer-drinker holding a foaming tankard I’m a dismal failure. Is Paul in?’
‘He’s in the surgery—but he’ll be out in a moment or two; he’s only looking over some case notes.’
‘A busy day?’ he asked.
‘About the usual.’
‘Routine calls, I suppose? He hasn’t been anywhere off the beaten track?’
Jean looked at him with a suddenly guarded expression.
‘No. He’s either been in the surgery here or making his normal round.’
‘Is he going out tonight?’
Tremaine’s voice was casual, but there was a faint undercurrent of sharpness in her reply.
‘No,’ she told him. ‘We’re both staying home. It isn’t often we go very far. What is it, Mordecai? Why are you asking these questions?’
‘It’s nothing,’ he said hastily. ‘Nothing at all. I was just wondering whether you had anything planned. It’s only that I’m going along to have a chat with Boyce and I didn’t want to put you out in any way.’
All through the tea meal there was a feeling of constraint in the room. Several times Tremaine caught Jean’s eyes upon him and once he intercepted a significant glance between her and Paul. Neither of them made any reference to his visit to London. They seemed afraid of what they might hear; anxious to keep the conversation as innocuous as possible.
It was a relief when he was able to make his excuses and go down to the village again. Although he had said that he intended to see Jonathan Boyce, he was not at all certain that the inspector would be able to talk to him. His duties might be keeping him fully engaged.
However, his mind was soon reassured on that particular score, although he was given fresh cause for meditation. The Yard man was on the watch for him and came to meet him as he walked down the roadway towards the Admiral Inn.
‘Glad I’ve seen you, Mordecai,’ he announced. ‘Anston wants you and I to meet him tonight. In his room at the pub.’
‘Anston?’ Tremaine’s voice revealed his surprise. ‘What’s it all about?’
‘I don’t know,’ returned Boyce. ‘He wouldn’t say anything except that it was important and that he’d tell me the whole story at the right time. He wants us to meet him there at nine o’clock.’
‘You’re going?’
Boyce nodded.
‘Why not? We’re both staying in the same place and anyway I know Anston. If he says it’s important he means it. He wants you to come along, too—thinks you’ll be interested. He seems to regard you as one of the family now,’ he added.
‘All right, I’ll be there,’ said Mordecai Tremaine. ‘Perhaps our friend Anston is going to surprise us.’
He did not say anything to the inspector, but it was Howard Shannon who was in his mind.
At five minutes to nine he was on his way once again to the Admiral. Outside the main door he saw the tall figure of the journalist and next to it the stocky one of Jonathan Boyce. Anston gave him a nod of welcome which seemed to hold at the same time a hint of mingled amusement and triumph, and led the way to the little bedroom he occupied at the back of the inn. He had obviously been making it ready to receive his visitors, for it had been crowded by the addition of three easy chairs and there were glasses standing upon a bedside table.
‘Make yourself at home, gentlemen,’ said the newspaperman.
Tremaine sat down and produced his pipe. He proffered his pouch to Jonathan Boyce, knowing the other’s love of his much-bitten briar, and the inspector stared at him.
‘A pipe! So you’ve managed it at last, Mordecai.’
Tremaine glanced up at Anston, who was watching the little scene with a puzzled smile.
‘Jonathan here thought I’d never succeed in bre
aking myself in to a pipe,’ he explained. ‘It was always upsetting my stomach. But I’ve reached the stage now where I can even risk a smoke in public. And I thought,’ he added meaningly, ‘that a pipe atmosphere would be the one most suitable for this little conference.’
‘It would,’ agreed the other. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll dig into your tobacco myself.’
In a few moments all three of them were leaning back comfortably in their chairs and the smoke clouds were ascending towards the ancient, unshapen beams supporting the roof of the inn. Boyce looked expectantly at the journalist.
‘It’s your party, Anston. What’s your big surprise?’
‘Did I say it was a big surprise?’ countered the other. ‘As a matter of fact I have got something to tell you which I think you will find was worth your visit, but first of all I thought we might have a general chat and swap ideas. After all, I’m a reporter and my editor expects me to report.’
‘It wouldn’t,’ said Boyce, ‘be blackmail, would it?’
‘Now would it?’ said Anston disarmingly. ‘You know me, Inspector. I believe in working with you and not against you. But at the same time I’ve a job to consider and I’d like to know all that you think I can print. Let’s see if we can induce the right social mood. Beer?’
‘Yes, please,’ said the Yard man. ‘If I’m going to talk I’m going to get thirsty.’
‘For me,’ remarked Tremaine, ‘cider. If there is any.’
‘There is,’ said Anston. ‘I found out from the inspector that you’d prefer cider to the local beer.’
Tremaine smiled.
‘You’re putting it tactfully.’
Jonathan Boyce leaned forward. He took a long drink and then leaned back again. It was obvious that his verbal fencing had been merely camouflage. If he had been unwilling to discuss the case upon which he was engaged he would not have visited Barry Anston’s room. He knew the journalist and he knew that his confidences would be respected.
‘Well,’ he remarked, ‘you’re both waiting for it, so you may as well know. I’m still trying to make up my mind whether to plump for Vaughan or not.’
‘I imagine your case against him is pretty strong,’ said Anston.
‘It’s strong enough,’ agreed Boyce. ‘But there are too many loose ends lying around for my piece of mind. What I’d like to know, Mordecai,’ he said, addressing Tremaine, ‘is what motive you think Pauline Conroy could have had. My fellows are watching her but so far she hasn’t put a foot wrong.’
‘I didn’t say that she did have a motive,’ returned Tremaine, ‘but if you like I’ll suggest one. She’s an actress. She’s waiting for a chance to make her name and to break into the West End productions. In fact, she’s more than just waiting. She’s consumed by ambition. Have you ever considered to just what lengths a woman like that will go?’
‘You mean that the murders are a publicity stunt—just to get her name in the headlines so that the London producers will go after her?’ Boyce shook her head. ‘No, I can’t swallow that. It’s too far-fetched.’
‘There’s Galeski as well, you know. He could be in on it, too.’
‘Even with Galeski it doesn’t make sense. People get hanged for murder. You get the publicity all right, but it doesn’t do you any good.’
‘I didn’t say that it was like that,’ remarked Tremaine. ‘I was only pointing out that there could be such a motive for our glamorous Pauline.’
‘But you told me to watch her—’
‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘I told you to watch her.’
Mordecai Tremaine leaned back. He puffed carefully at his pipe.
‘ “The Play’s the thing”,’ he quoted softly, ‘ “wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.” ’
‘So we’re going to amuse ourselves with riddles, are we?’ said Boyce. ‘I know that it’s Shakespeare. I know that it comes from Hamlet. We’re not all illiterates because we happen to be policemen. But just what are you getting at?’
Tremaine sat up, and now his pipe was forgotten.
‘I’m not telling you that this is what I think,’ he said. ‘I’m merely pointing it out to you because it seems to me to be an interesting theory. You’re working on the possibility that Vaughan killed Philip Hammond because Hammond knew that he’d killed Lydia Dare. In other words, you’re assuming that both murders are connected. But suppose they aren’t connected, after all. Suppose, in fact, that they’re two entirely separate crimes. Where do we stand then?’
Barry Anston was looking at him intently, his attention suddenly gripped.
‘Go on,’ he said, ‘what are you suggesting?’
‘I’m suggesting in the first place that it’s possible that Martin Vaughan killed Lydia Dare because he was in love with her and she was going to marry another man. And I’m suggesting in the second place that Karen Hammond killed her husband because he was having a love affair with another woman!’
Jonathan Boyce did not display the sharp reaction Tremaine had been expecting.
‘I’ve been trying not to think it,’ he said reluctantly. ‘But her story wouldn’t stand up for five minutes in the witness-box once the prosecution started working on it. The only straw I can cling to is that there’s no evidence that she and her husband weren’t a devoted couple.’
‘That’s just the point,’ said Tremaine. ‘There is such evidence. I’ve been speaking to Geoffrey Manning. Several months ago he saw Philip Hammond in London with a woman. Hammond didn’t like being seen—accused Manning of spying on him and went so far as to threaten him. In short, he behaved like a man who had something to hide.’
Now the inspector certainly was reacting. He was sitting forward in his chair, his pipe unheeded in his hand.
‘Do you think Manning was speaking the truth?’
‘I can see no reason why he should have lied,’ countered Tremaine.
‘I can,’ said Boyce. ‘I’ve learned that Manning had what was a pretty violent quarrel with Hammond. The fact that there was a quarrel is well known, so Manning can hardly deny that it took place. But the cause of it doesn’t seem to be such general knowledge. Manning now says that it was because he saw Hammond in London—so you’ve just told me—and that Hammond made a great fuss about it. It sounds credible, but suppose the quarrel wasn’t over that at all and that the real explanation of the bad blood between them is one that gives Manning a motive for the killing. What of his story, then? It could be a clever fake, designed to bring suspicion on Karen Hammond and to take away the limelight from himself.’
‘I suppose it could,’ admitted Tremaine. ‘Of course, I can’t prove whether Manning was lying or not.’
‘I think,’ interjected Barry Anston, ‘that this is where I come in.’ For some moments he had been listening to his companions without offering any comment. He stood up, and looked from one to the other of them. ‘The situation appears to be,’ he went on, ‘that Philip Hammond may have been a philanderer; that all the time he was supposed to be living as a happily married man here in Dalmering he had a mistress in London. Further, that Karen Hammond may have found him out and killed him in jealousy. Am I right?’
‘What,’ said Boyce, ‘are you leading up to?’
‘This,’ said Anston. ‘Mrs. Hammond is here. Perhaps she can help us. No—don’t get up,’ he added quickly, as the inspector made a movement. ‘I asked you to come here because I knew that she was also going to be here. She’s waiting in the next room.’
He walked across to a door which had been concealed in the shadows of the far wall and pulled it open.
‘Would you mind coming in now, Mrs. Hammond?’ he said.
There was a moment’s pause, and then a woman came into the room. Mordecai Tremaine looked up at her curiously and then found himself staring, for he had never seen her before. Certainly her dark hair and eyes and her rather tired-looking features bore no resemblance to Karen Hammond’s blonde loveliness.
Inspector Boyce had half risen from his seat.
‘What game are you playing, Anston?’ he demanded, a touch of anger in his voice. ‘I thought you said you had Mrs. Hammond here!’
The woman betrayed no resentment at his outburst. She might, indeed, have been expecting it. She came into the centre of the room.
‘I am Mrs. Hammond,’ she said. ‘The real Mrs. Hammond.’
14
IT WAS ANSTON who took command of the situation.
‘Mrs. Hammond is my surprise, Inspector,’ he said. ‘I asked you to come here in order to meet her.’
Boyce had recovered his self-possession. He was once more the impersonal police machine, ready to absorb new facts and fit them into place.
‘So Philip Hammond was a bigamist,’ he said slowly.
The woman who had described herself as ‘Mrs. Hammond’ shook her head.
‘No,’ she said, ‘he wasn’t a bigamist. He wasn’t married to—to the other.’ Her voice trembled. She broke off. And then she added more firmly, ‘It isn’t any good trying to hide anything—you’ll have to know it all so I may as well be frank.’
‘I appreciate that this must be a very painful situation for you, Mrs. Hammond,’ said Boyce.
‘It would have been painful—once,’ she told him. ‘Now—I’m not sure. Philip and I had been gradually drifting apart for a long time. We’d been married almost ten years when I first realized that he was beginning to change. He began to stay away for longer periods; to make excuses about the amount of work he had to do. Then I became certain that there was someone else. You can’t live with a man and not learn to know him—not—not if you love him.’
She hesitated again and none of the men who were listening to her story tried to press her to continue. They allowed her to choose her own time.
‘We live—lived—at Harford Row. It’s a village about ten miles north of London. To begin with Philip used to travel backwards and forwards every day, and then, after his time for coming home had been getting more and more uncertain for some months, he said that the journey was becoming too much for him and that he thought it would be better if he stayed in London when his busy periods made it necessary for him to work late. At first it was only an occasional night—perhaps once a week—but gradually he stayed away more frequently. It reached the point where he was away far more often than he was at home.’
Murder has a Motive Page 20