Paul Russell watched her hands. They were twisting nervously and she was unaware of the fact.
‘Why don’t you get away from that cottage, Sandy?’ he said quietly.
He was faintly surprised by her answer.
‘I think I will, Paul. I thought I would be able to go on living there in spite of what’s happened. But I—I can’t. It’s nerves, I suppose—the reaction from it all. But tonight I found myself listening to every little sound. I’ve got to admit it. I’m—I’m afraid. . . .’ Her voice trailed away, and then her head went up and she smiled. ‘Now I’m being stupid. It’s funny, isn’t it? I know that it’s only my nerves and that it’s absurd to be frightened. I know exactly what’s happening to me. And yet I can’t do anything to stop it.’
The doctor leaned forward.
‘Look here, Sandy, you know our invitation’s always open. Why don’t you come over here with us? There’s plenty of room for you.’
She was frankly relieved at the offer. She gave Tremaine the impression that although she had not intended to ask for it, she had been hoping that the invitation would be given to her. Something of the tension passed from her face.
Gradually it faded completely. Long experience had given Jean and Paul Russell a sure grip upon such situations and under their tactful handling the conversation became free and light-hearted. Temporarily, even some of their apprehension regarding Tremaine was removed. Time went by imperceptibly but rapidly, stimulated by the atmosphere of friendly talk. It was with a feeling of surprise that Mordecai Tremaine saw that it was ten minutes past eleven. The others, too, suddenly became aware of the hour.
‘It’s time I made some coffee,’ said Jean, rising to her feet.
She was on her way to the kitchenette when the door-bell startled them with its clamour. It rang with a shrill, insistent note. Paul Russell’s lips shaped a noiseless ‘Damn!’
‘All right,’ said Tremaine, calling to Jean, ‘I’ll see who it is.’
He went into the hallway, switching on the light as he did so, and opened the door. The visitor’s finger was already on the bell again, ringing demandingly, imperiously.
It was Jonathan Boyce. As he stood framed in the lighted doorway Tremaine saw that the inspector’s stocky figure was taut with a barely controlled emotion and that his face was stonily rigid.
‘What’s the matter, Jonathan?’ he said, alarmed.
Boyce stepped over the threshold.
‘When you spoke about a third murder, Mordecai,’ he said, his words clipped and almost devoid of expression, ‘what did you know?’
Tremaine could only gape at him, taken aback by the intensity of his manner.
‘Why, what do you mean?’ he managed to get out at last.
‘I mean,’ said Boyce, ‘that we’ve just found Edith Lorrington. Dead. Murdered.’
If Mordecai Tremaine had seemed bewildered before, now he was like a man who had received a devastating blow. He stared at the inspector. His eyes were incredulous, horrified.
‘Edith Lorrington?’ he said in a whisper. ‘Edith Lorrington! No, it isn’t possible! It’s wrong—wrong!’
15
INSPECTOR BOYCE STOOD motionless in the doorway, the grimness of his features emphasized by the light cast by the shaded electric globe in the hall.
‘It may be wrong but it’s a fact,’ he said. ‘Edith Lorrington is dead. Someone beat her to death with a heavy brass poker and left her body lying on the floor of her dining-room. We probably wouldn’t have known anything about it until tomorrow, but one of the villagers who’d promised to do some baking for her called at the house, couldn’t get a reply, looked in because the back door was open, and found her body.’
Tremaine was still staring, as though even yet he could not believe what he had heard.
‘You’re sure—you’re quite sure there’s no mistake?’ he said, and his voice was hesitant and unreal.
Jonathan Boyce spoke sharply.
‘I’ve seen her,’ he said. ‘You don’t make mistakes like that.’ A hint of accusation came into his tones. ‘What’s the matter with you, Mordecai? You’ve been giving me the impression that you were expecting something to happen. That’s why I’m here—to find out just what you were expecting.’
‘Not this,’ said Tremaine. ‘Not this.’
He put a hand to his forehead. He was striving to think, striving to see where he had been wrong, striving to see reason in the chaos and the terror.
By now the sound of their voices had attracted the attention of the others. Paul Russell had come out into the hallway.
‘What’s wrong, Inspector?’ he asked.
Boyce looked at him. Beyond the doctor he saw the drawn but enquiring face of Sandra Borne. And from the open door of the kitchenette he saw Jean peering curiously at him.
‘I’m afraid I’ve some bad news,’ he said quietly. ‘Miss Lorrington is dead.’
Russell gave a start.
‘Edith? But you can’t mean it, Inspector! I gave her a thorough overhaul only last week and I’d have guaranteed her another twenty years!’
‘Your guarantee wouldn’t have covered a violent assault with a heavy weapon, Doctor,’ said Boyce levelly. ‘Miss Lorrington didn’t die naturally. She was murdered.’
‘Murdered!’ The word hissed involuntarily through Russell’s lips. ‘Not—not another! . . .’
‘Another,’ said Boyce.
Tremaine saw horror dilate Sandra Borne’s eyes. She staggered and he was only just in time to save her from a fall. She leaned against him, her hand searching for his arm to support her.
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t say that Edith—’
‘I’m sorry, Miss Borne,’ said Boyce. ‘I’m afraid it’s true.’
Deep in the mists of confusion which were encompassing Mordecai Tremaine’s brain, half-knowledge glimmered like a feeble flame a great way off. He struggled gropingly towards it through enveloping clouds. The glimmer strengthened. And then the half-knowledge became certainty and burst blindingly through the mists, shredding them into nothing and leaving him amazed that he had taken so long to realize the truth . . . and bitterly angered with himself that he had not seen it in time to save Edith Lorrington.
‘What a fool!’ he burst out, groaningly. ‘What a stupid, blind fool!’
Boyce gave him a sharp glance.
‘Over what?’ he asked.
Tremaine did not reply. He seemed, in fact, not to have heard the question.
‘I should have saved her,’ he said. ‘I should have known.’
The inspector looked as though he was going to say something further. And then, instead, he turned to Paul Russell.
‘You’ve been here all the evening, Doctor?’
‘Yes,’ nodded the other.
The news the detective had brought seemed to have stunned him. He uttered the word mechanically.
Boyce was apparently satisfied with his answer.
‘I thought you might have had something to tell me, Mordecai,’ he said, addressing Tremaine once more. ‘Perhaps you will in the morning.’ There was a significant note in his voice. ‘I’ll see you then,’ he added. ‘Good night all.’
After the door had closed behind the inspector, Tremaine still stood in the hallway. It was clear from his face that his thoughts were still occupying him to the exclusion of his surroundings.
The others watched him. The horror behind Jonathan Boyce’s visit was beginning to impress itself upon them. They were beginning to realize what it meant. Their eyes were haunted and fearful, fixed upon Mordecai Tremaine as if they were waiting for a lead from him before they dared to move or speak.
‘Poor Edith,’ said Jean. ‘Poor Edith. . . .’
Her trembling, too highly pitched voice ended the paralysis. Sandra Borne’s white face turned jerkily towards her as she spoke.
‘I can’t believe it,’ she said. ‘First Lydia—then Philip—now Edith. What does it mean? What is happening to us all?’
Mordecai Tremaine drew a deep breath. He turned towards the doctor.
‘I’ve got to go out, Paul.’
The doctor was startled.
‘At this time of night?’
‘You’re not serious, Mordecai?’ broke in Jean. ‘After all, there’s nothing—there’s nothing you can do—’
‘But there is,’ he told her. ‘There is.’ He added quickly: ‘Don’t wait up for me, Jean. I don’t know how long I’ll be.’
Almost before they had realized his intention and certainly before they could make any move to dissuade him, he had gone. They were staring at a door which had banged shut behind him.
There was determination in Mordecai Tremaine’s manner as he walked quickly down the darkened road towards the village. He hesitated as he drew near the entrance to the copse, but it was only for an instant or two and then he strode on as vigorously as before. He would reach Martin Vaughan’s house a few minutes sooner if he used the pathway over the common, but he could find no enthusiasm to carry him through the darkness of that fatal copse. The black shadow of murder still brooded over it.
His mind was still trying to assimilate the shock of Edith Lorrington’s death. This third murder must inevitably bring with it a desperate urgency. Tomorrow the village of Dalmering would be the most-talked-of spot in the country. Everything that took place in it would take place in the blinding glare of a frightening publicity. For the police there would be scorn, accusation, bitter criticism.
No one was more aware of that than Jonathan Boyce. It was that knowledge which had lain behind his manner at ‘Roseland’. Tremaine knew as he walked breathlessly on that if he was to help his friend he must help him soon.
To his first ring at the door of ‘Home Lodge’ there was no reply. Tremaine rang again. There was still no response. He placed his finger firmly on the bell and held it there. He heard the summons go shrilling through the house unceasingly.
This time he did produce a reaction. A sound above him revealed the opening of a window. He looked up to see a man’s head and shoulders framed in the opening.
‘Who the devil’s there?’ demanded an exasperated voice.
It was Vaughan himself. There was no mistaking the big man’s harshly threatening tones. Tremaine stepped back from the doorway.
‘It’s Tremaine,’ he called.
There was a muttered exclamation.
‘What the blazes do you want?’
‘To talk to you,’ said Tremaine. ‘It’s important.’
Vaughan’s bulk remained blocking the window for a second or two longer. It seemed that he was on the point of shutting it again without replying. And then:
‘Wait there,’ he said shortly. ‘I’ll come down.’
In a few moments his dressing-gowned figure was leading the way into the house. He pushed open the door of a room adjoining the hall and switched on the light. As the other drew together the heavy curtains, Tremaine glanced curiously around him. It was clear from the well-filled bookshelves and the desk, with its reading-lamp held in the hand of a carved wooden figure with an Egyptian flavour, that this must be Vaughan’s study. The figure, several bronze statuettes, and what appeared to be reproductions of examples of ancient pottery work revealed the big man’s interest in archæology. On the walls were many photographs showing work in progress at several excavation sites—some of them were signed, as though they possessed a personal significance.
‘I’m sorry I dragged you out of bed,’ said Tremaine, feeling that some sort of apology was needed. ‘I thought your man Blenkinson might still have been up.’
‘Blenkinson’s away,’ retorted Vaughan, unmollified. ‘He’s gone to Mereham. His sister’s ill. I sent him off this afternoon. Was it him you wanted to see?’
‘Oh no,’ said his visitor quickly. ‘I came to see you.’
Vaughan pulled forward a big leather-covered armchair and motioned him to be seated.
‘Now,’ he said, the note of challenge still in his voice, ‘suppose you tell me the reason for this late call. I hope you haven’t dragged me out of bed for nothing.’
‘I haven’t,’ said Tremaine, dropping his air of apology and returning the challenge with an equal sharpness. ‘Edith Lorrington was murdered tonight.’
Vaughan’s features suddenly froze and his powerful fingers stiffened upon the back of the chair against which he was standing.
‘Where did it happen?’ he said, and there was nothing in his voice to suggest that he was talking of murder.
‘At her home.’
‘How was it done?’
‘She was beaten to death. The murderer attacked her with a heavy brass poker.’
‘Do the police know who did it?’
‘No.’
Vaughan gave a long sigh. His fingers slipped from the chair, as though the nervous pressure which had been holding them there had been suddenly relaxed. And then:
‘Why have you come to me?’ he demanded.
Mordecai Tremaine looked him full in the face.
‘I want to know whether you’ve been out this evening,’ he said deliberately.
A dull red began to spread from the big man’s thick neck. A vein at his left temple became suddenly prominent.
‘That’s a damned impertinent question!’
‘Will you say the same thing when the police ask you? They will ask.’ Tremaine did not wait to see the effect of his statement. He said: ‘Why were you so anxious that Murder Has a Motive should be chosen as the play for your production here?’
His abrupt change of subject acted as a curb to Vaughan’s rising anger. He hesitated.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean why did you press for that particular play more than any other?’
The big man had recovered himself now and he was back on his guard.
‘That’s my business,’ he said.
‘It may be the jury’s,’ said Tremaine. His tone became sharper. ‘You’re in a very dangerous position, Mr. Vaughan—perhaps you don’t realize just how dangerous. Why did you want that play to be produced?’
‘If that’s all you’ve come for you’re wasting your time. I’ve no intention of discussing it with you.’
‘Was it because someone else asked you? Was it because Miss Dare wanted it?’
There were danger lights in Martin Vaughan’s eyes.
‘Leave Miss Dare’s name out of it,’ he said tensely.
‘What reason did she have?’ went on Tremaine, as though he was unaware of the warning which was being given him. ‘Why did she want that play above all others?’
Vaughan took a step towards him. His great shoulders were hunched. His big hands, slowly clenching and unclenching at his side, were full of a dreadful menace.
‘I’ve listened to enough!’ he said thickly. ‘Get out of here, Mr. Paul Pry! I’m warning you—don’t drive me too far!’
Mordecai Tremaine’s heart had begun to beat uncomfortably. But he managed to stare back with an air of calmness into the threatening features which were thrust towards his own.
‘Yesterday, Inspector Boyce couldn’t make up his mind whether or not to arrest you,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow his mind will probably be made up for him. You haven’t much time.’
‘Are you trying to threaten me?’ said Vaughan, and there was a vibrant note of danger in his voice. ‘I’ve watched you on your prying ways about the village. I’ve heard you asking questions, trying to find out other people’s business. Turn your attentions to someone else, d’you hear me? Try watching some of the others. That little scoundrel Hornsby, for instance. Why don’t you try and find out what he wants? And Shannon—try your detective methods on him. Ask him what he was doing in Colminster when he was supposed to be in London!’
‘It’s you I’m dealing with at the moment,’ said Tremaine, trying to keep his voice steady. ‘You were in love with Lydia Dare. You had a motive for killing her and you had the opportunity, too. Philip Hammond believed that you had killed her. You could quit
e easily have killed him to stop him from talking and to save your neck. There again you had the motive and the opportunity.’
‘I suppose I killed Edith Lorrington as well?’ sneered Vaughan, and Tremaine nodded.
‘Perhaps a motive could be found,’ he said.
He was not prepared for what happened. Vaughan’s great bulk towered above him. The big man’s hands swept out. He found himself held in a terrible grip that swung him back across the room and against the wall. The other’s distorted face glared into his own with the frightening air of madness.
‘You interfering little rat!’ he snarled. ‘You won’t carry any more tales to your precious detective friends!’
It was then that Mordecai Tremaine began to realize the extent of his danger and fear was plain in his eyes.
‘Stop playing the fool, man!’ he said gaspingly. ‘You’re choking me!’
‘Am I?’ said Vaughan, mockingly, and the pressure of his hands increased.
Tremaine reached up his own hands, trying to free himself from the remorseless grip which was slowly strangling him, but he was helpless against Vaughan’s massive strength. He could only grapple with a furious despair with the steel bands which were about his throat.
He opened his mouth and tried to shout, but only a hoarse, croaking sound came out. Vaughan grinned and relaxed his grip a little.
‘Why don’t you call for help?’ he taunted him. ‘Why don’t you shout for your policemen?’
Falling waters were beginning to roar in Mordecai Tremaine’s ears. The room was no longer stable and motionless. The electric light had begun to move mistily and the bookcases which he could see dimly beyond it were advancing and receding in uneasy waves.
Now that it was too late he realized what a fool he had been to come to ‘Home Lodge’ alone and without telling anyone of his intentions. He should have known the type of man with whom he was dealing. He should have been aware of the danger in which he would be placing himself.
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