‘From what you said a few moments ago, Mrs. Hammond,’ said Boyce, ‘I gather that you didn’t believe the excuses your husband gave you to explain his absences?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘I didn’t believe them.’
‘Did you take any action?’
It was several moments before she replied.
‘Not for a long time,’ she said at last, and went on: ‘I know that you’re going to ask me why I didn’t. I’m not certain. I suppose—I suppose it was partly because I was still in love with Philip. I—I was afraid of losing him completely. Besides, I thought that there was a hope that he might get over what I took to be his infatuation for someone else, and that if I could hold out for long enough he might forget her and everything would go back as it was.’
‘But he didn’t forget her,’ said Boyce quietly.
‘No,’ she said in a low voice, ‘he didn’t forget her. I realized that it was more serious than I’d imagined at first. I think that it was then my own attitude changed. I found that I’d stopped loving Philip—or at least, that it didn’t hurt any more. I began to think about divorce. . . .’
The inspector gave her a sudden glance of interrogation.
‘Your husband had never asked you to consider giving him a divorce?’
‘I knew that he wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t. The scandal would have done him too much harm. It might even have ruined him. He was in a position where he had to be above reproach.’ Her eyes travelled uncertainly to each of them in turn, as if she expected to see unbelief in their faces: ‘And I think—I think that there was another reason, too. We’d been happy in the early years and I think he remembered that. He didn’t want to hurt me. That was why he took such pains to deceive me. He didn’t want me to know what was happening because he still cared a little.’
‘You don’t think he suspected that you knew?’ queried Boyce.
‘I’m not sure of that but I don’t think he did. He would have betrayed it if he had guessed. Philip was a strange person,’ she said, and there was a sudden note of tenderness in her voice. ‘He was weak, but he could be very lovable. I don’t think he could have had a very quiet mind torn between the two of us—between his new love and his old love for me. Perhaps it’s just because I’m getting sentimental over him now that he’s dead that I’m talking like this. If he was still alive I might still have been making preparations to divorce him—whatever happened to his career.’
‘You were making preparations then?’ said the inspector.
‘Yes. I went to a private enquiry agent. I told him that I was certain that my husband was being unfaithful and that I wanted evidence.’
‘Hornsby,’ interjected Mordecai Tremaine, and she turned towards him.
‘You know?’ she asked, and Tremaine looked a little embarrassed.
‘I suspected,’ he said, ‘but please go on, Mrs. Hammond. I didn’t mean to interrupt your story.’
‘I don’t think there’s anything else to say,’ she told him. ‘I knew that Hornsby had traced Philip to a village named Dalmering, where he was living with a woman who called herself his wife. When I saw the report in the newspapers about a Philip Hammond having been murdered I was stunned. I—I didn’t know quite what to do. I felt certain that it must be Philip but I knew that if I came down here and announced myself as Mrs. Hammond the whole story would have to come out. There would be a scandal which would be printed in all the newspapers and Philip’s reputation would be torn to shreds. And then I had a message from Mr. Anston here.’ She indicated the journalist. ‘He told me that it was my duty to come forward and tell you everything. Of course, I knew that he was right. That was why I came.’
‘It was the wisest thing you could have done, Mrs. Hammond,’ said Boyce. ‘You’ve been exceedingly frank and helpful and I know that it hasn’t been easy for you.’
She looked at him with an expression of appeal which reminded the watching Tremaine for a fleeting instant of Karen Hammond, although there was no physical resemblance.
‘You won’t rake everything up, Inspector?’ she said pleadingly. ‘You won’t let them make everything public?’
‘I can’t give you a promise to conceal anything,’ returned the inspector. ‘You see, what you’ve just told me may have an important bearing on your husband’s murder, and you may be required to give it as evidence. But you have my assurance that everything possible will be done to spare you pain. No more facts than those which are essential to the case will be required.’
‘Thank you, Inspector,’ she said gratefully. ‘Is there anything else you wish me to tell you?’
‘Not for the moment. I take it that we can easily get in touch with you should it be necessary?’
‘I’ve arranged for her to stay in Mereham,’ said Anston. ‘There’s a car waiting to take her over. I thought it would be better for her there than here in Dalmering under everybody’s eyes.’
Mereham was a village about five miles away. Boyce nodded his agreement with what the journalist had said and watched silently as Anston escorted Philip Hammond’s widow from the room.
And when the door had closed behind them:
‘Well, Mordecai,’ he said soberly, ‘it’s a bad business.’
‘You’re right, Jonathan,’ agreed that gentleman. ‘I wonder if we know just how bad it is.’
Jonathan Boyce gave him a shrewd glance.
‘At least,’ he observed, ‘it removes Karen Hammond’s motive. She isn’t the wife who killed her unfaithful husband. She’s the Other Woman.’
‘Does it mean that she didn’t kill Philip Hammond?’ said Tremaine. ‘Or does it merely mean that she didn’t kill him for the reason we originally thought she might have had?’
‘She had everything to lose by his death. A woman who lives with another woman’s husband isn’t in a very happy position if anything happens to him.’
‘On the other hand, a woman who has flouted convention to the extent of living with a man to whom she isn’t married isn’t likely to think along normal lines. She’s liable to act first and ask questions afterwards. Suppose she had reason to think that Philip Hammond was getting tired of her and was contemplating going back to his wife—do you think she might have killed him then?’
‘There’s no evidence to suggest that he intended to do that. In fact, all that we’ve heard tonight supports the theory that so far from leaving her he was actually seeing more of her.’
‘I didn’t say that there was any evidence,’ remarked Tremaine. ‘I was just pointing out that we aren’t in any position yet to clear Karen Hammond—I’ll still call her that since we don’t know her real name.’
There was a touch of exasperation in the inspector’s voice.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘all right. So we still don’t know where we are.’
Mordecai Tremaine was in a sober mood as he walked back from the Admiral. He never liked to see romance shattered, and shattered irretrievably it had been tonight.
There was an explanation now for Karen Hammond’s attitude during the past few days—an explanation for her appeal to him on that first night. She had wanted the mystery of Lydia Dare’s death to be solved as quickly as possible because she had feared publicity. She had wanted the murderer found quickly so that enquiries would not proceed too far in other directions.
Explained, too, was her fear of the ferrety Hornsby. If his legal wife was to be believed, Philip Hammond had done his best to conceal from her the fact that he had a mistress, but had his mistress—Tremaine found himself using the word in spite of himself; there was, after all, no other he could use—known of the existence of a wife? If she had known, then in her knowledge lay the reason for her fear. She may not have been certain of Hornsby’s intentions but it was probable that she had suspected them.
There was even, now, a feasible explanation for her failure to notify Philip Hammond’s non-appearance over a period of forty-eight hours. She had been used to his absences, and she had had no means of bein
g certain that he had not gone back to his wife for some reason. She had been waiting hour by hour for some word from him.
Her position had been an unenviable one. Torn with anxiety regarding the whereabouts of the man she loved, and at the same time shrinking from instituting any enquiries lest they should lead to a public scandal which would ruin him, she had not known which course it would be best to adopt.
It had to be admitted, of course, that there was another possibility—that Philip Hammond had deceived her just as he had deceived his wife. Suppose Karen Hammond had suddenly stumbled upon the truth? Suppose, in a storm of jealousy, she had killed the man who had wronged her? Her gradual realization of Hammond’s duplicity could explain her nervous, tense uncertainty before his murder, and her knowledge of her guilt could explain her strange attitude after it.
Mordecai Tremaine shook his head sadly. It was a tragic, unhappy situation, whatever might be the truth behind it. It was still weighing upon his mind when he reached the house and went up to his bedroom. There was no pleasure for him in Romantic Stories when he tried to read that sentiment-laden magazine before going to sleep. He turned off his light and lay for a long time in the darkness, his thoughts allowing him no peace.
The next morning the air of constraint which had crept into their relationship was still in evidence between Jean and Paul Russell and their guest. Tremaine sensed the suspicion in their eyes as he entered the dining-room and sat down to breakfast. Their conversation was normal; outwardly nothing had changed in their attitude towards him. But he knew that they were on their guard.
‘By the way, Paul,’ he said casually, as the meal was nearing its conclusion, ‘I wonder whether you’d have any objection to my going with you on your rounds today?’
The doctor gave him a look of surprise.
‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘Come by all means. I’m afraid you’ll find it rather boring though.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Tremaine. ‘I feel in the mood for being driven around somehow. And I don’t suppose you’ll spend a great deal of time over each call.’
‘That’s true enough,’ admitted Russell. ‘I’ve the surgery to get through, of course, before we start.’
‘That’s fine,’ said his guest, with every appearance of enthusiasm. ‘As a matter of fact, I’d like to slip down to the village first.’
The doctor clearly did not know what to make of his attitude. Tremaine saw him glance at his wife, and he saw, too, the doubt in Jean’s eyes.
His business in the village was merely the purchase of an ounce of tobacco. The session at the Admiral on the previous evening had made considerable inroads upon the contents of his pouch. As he came out of the little general store in the village square he caught sight of a feminine figure walking briskly up the road which led to Kingshampton. He recognized the trim back and somewhat ostentatiously swaying hips as those of Millicent Silwell. He had seen her once or twice in the neighbourhood of the village and knew that she was Pauline Conroy’s maid. The girl was obviously influenced by her mistress. She was like a smaller, more subdued edition of the intense Pauline, a reproduction pictorially accurate but without quite the same vivid personality to back it.
Acting upon a sudden impulse Tremaine hurried after her. She heard the sound of his hasty footsteps and turned enquiringly. When she saw whom he was a shadow crossed her face and she adopted the slightly defensive attitude to which he had grown accustomed.
‘I believe you’re Millicent Silwell, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘Miss Conroy’s maid.’
She looked him up and down.
‘That’s right,’ she said, a trace of defiance in her tone.
It was that note of antagonism which decided Mordecai Tremaine to take the plunge. If she had smiled at him or appeared willing to talk, his resolve might have weakened. But he saw that she believed she had something to hide and his feelings hardened. He adopted an air of sternness.
‘I want to talk to you,’ he told her. ‘And I want the truth.’
She could not hold his glance.
‘The truth?’ she said falteringly. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
He pressed home his advantage.
‘You told the police that on the night Lydia Dare was killed Miss Conroy never left her house. You lied—didn’t you?’
The quick fear she could not hide from her eyes gave her away and made it impossible for her to maintain any pretence with him.
‘You did lie,’ he said. ‘Don’t you think you would be wiser to admit it? You may find yourself in a very dangerous position if you persist in your story. Obstructing the police is a very serious matter.’
‘All right,’ she told him. ‘I’ll admit it. I don’t want to get into any trouble. She wanted me to say it—she said it wouldn’t do any harm. She wasn’t in the house. She—she was with Mr. Galeski.’
Mordecai Tremaine did not reveal whether or not the information had surprised him. He said:
‘Perhaps you hadn’t realized that giving false evidence could render you liable to be classed as an accessory to a very grave crime?’
Her eyes dilated at that.
‘You don’t mean—you can’t think that she did it?’
‘I didn’t say so.’
‘But that was what you meant. Oh, no—she couldn’t have. . . .’
‘When you say that Miss Conroy was with Mr. Galeski, do you mean that she was at his cottage?’
She nodded, held by his gaze.
‘Yes—she’s often there.’
‘You may have seen her leave the house. She may have told you that that was where she was going. But can you prove that she was there? Did you actually see her there?’
‘No, but—’
‘What you think she did or didn’t do,’ said Tremaine, an echo of Jonathan Boyce in his mind, ‘isn’t evidence. All that you really know is that she wasn’t at the house with you that night. Isn’t that correct?’
‘I didn’t mean to do anything wrong,’ she said, on the verge of tears, and he hastened to adopt a softer tone.
‘Perhaps there won’t be any serious harm done. You can go along now. But don’t say anything to your mistress about what you’ve told me. Inspector Boyce may send for you or come to see you, but until then don’t say a word to anyone. You understand?’
‘I won’t say anything,’ she said, and was obviously relieved at being allowed to go.
Tremaine watched her with a faint pang of remorse. Despite her appearance of sophistication, so evidently copied from her mistress, Millicent Silwell was a simple soul. He guessed that her conscience had already been worrying her. The two murders in the village had been preying upon her mind and she had been troubled about her own position, which was, no doubt, the reason for her quick collapse. She would probably soon be feeling greatly relieved that she had been given an opportunity of confession. On his way back Tremaine kept a watch for Jonathan Boyce’s stocky figure, but the inspector did not appear to be anywhere in the neighbourhood and he could not afford the time to go in search of him. He knew that the surgery must be almost finished by now and he did not wish to keep Paul waiting for him—nor did he wish the doctor to go without him.
As it happened he arrived with ten minutes to spare and he spent the remainder of the morning in the hard working saloon car in which Russell did his rounds. When they returned at lunch-time the doctor gave him a peculiar glance.
‘Satisfied, Mordecai?’ he asked.
‘Completely,’ he returned, as though he had noticed nothing strange in the other’s manner. ‘It’s been a change—and I’ve enjoyed your items of local gossip on the way, Paul.’
After lunch the doctor was once more engaged and Tremaine took the opportunity of going into the village again in search of Inspector Boyce. This time he found him without difficulty and the Yard man listened attentively to his story of his encounter with Millicent Silwell.
‘Pauline Conroy seems to be coming into the front of the picture,’ he observed. ‘
So she wasn’t safely accounted for in her own house on the night of the first murder, after all. And whether she really was at Galeski’s cottage isn’t going to be easy to check. If they were in the killing together each of them will support the other’s alibi.’
‘The job of the professional policeman,’ said Mordecai Tremaine, ‘is to break down false alibis. I leave the routine details to you, Jonathan,’ he added, and left the other staring after him.
For the rest of the day Paul Russell was conscious that his visitor was never very far from his side. Wherever he went the benevolent-looking figure with the mild eyes peering from behind the pince-nez somehow happened to be there—as unobtrusive as a shadow but just as inescapable.
When the evening’s surgery was completed the doctor came into the lounge where his wife and Tremaine were already seated.
‘Anything on tonight, dear?’ he asked.
‘No—we’re just Darby and Joan tonight,’ Jean told him, and he made a little grimace.
‘Darby and Joan—and the shadow.’
‘The shadow?’ she said, puzzled, and then she caught his significant glance and was silently embarrassed.
Mordecai Tremaine said nothing.
It was beginning to grow dark when a ring came at the door, and Jean opened it to find Sandra Borne on the threshold.
‘You don’t mind, Jean?’ she said. ‘I’m an awful nuisance at such a time but I’ve been in the house all the evening and I was beginning to get the shivers.’
‘You’re welcome any time, Sandy,’ called the doctor. ‘Come along in.’
Sandra Borne nodded to Mordecai Tremaine as she entered.
‘Hullo,’ she said. ‘You haven’t caught our murderer yet?’
‘Or murderers,’ he returned, accenting the plural. ‘No, not yet, Miss Borne.’
He saw, as she sat down and he was able to observe her closely, that she was not as light-hearted as her tone had implied. He had thought as she had spoken that her remark had had a forced, unnatural sound; there had been a faint ring of hysteria in it. Her face still possessed its peaked look of strain.
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