The Cornish Coast Murder (British Library Crime Classics) (10 page)

Bigswell reckoned he had about three minutes in which to act. The moment Mrs. Peewit's footsteps had receded up the stone-floored passage, he went briskly to the desk and began to pull out the drawers. They were in two tiers each side of the spacious knee-hole—about eight drawers in all. The top ones were locked. With extreme deftness and alacrity he worked down the left-hand side, turning over papers, lifting files, groping here and there among a diversity of oddments. It was not until he came to the third drawer down in the right-hand bank that he found exactly what he was looking for. It had been a shot in the dark but the bullet had found its billet. Wedged between a double pile of blue exercise books was a leather holster. The flap was undone and if, as the Inspector reckoned, that holster had once held a revolver—well,
the revolver was no longer there!
Somebody, as he saw at a glance, had removed it recently, for the accumulated dust both on the holster and the exercise books had been disturbed by the brush of a hand or glove.

Closing the drawer, he was just in time to stroll away to the fire-place, when Mrs. Peewit entered with the tea. Gulping it down as quickly as politeness allowed, the Inspector thanked the woman and, warning her that she might be summoned as a witness at the inquest on Thursday, he hurried down the path to the car.

Grouch was waiting for him, sitting beside Grimmet on the front seat. On seeing his superior he sprang out and touched his helmet.

“I've seen Charlie Fox, sir. It's all right. There's a fair sized room at the back. He'll have everything ready by two o'clock Thursday. I phoned through to Greystoke as you said, sir.”

“Good!”

Grouch drew himself up with pardonable pride, considering the importance of the news which he was bursting to deliver.

“And that's not all, sir. I took the liberty of asking Fox a few questions. He knows most everybody in the village and there's always plenty of talk running free in the bar at nights.”

“Well, Grouch?”

“That chap with the gaiters, sir—I've got a line on him, I think.”

“You know who it is?”

“As near as dammit, sir! Ned Salter, the black sheep of the Boscawen flock, as I've heard the Doctor call him. Poaching's his line. Been before the Bench on more than one occasion. Caught him red-handed myself working the burrows up near the Grange. A shifty sort of customer at the best of times. Fox noticed his gaiters the other night in the pub. Some of the chaps was chipping Ned about it, saying he pinched ’em off a dossing keeper. That's as maybe, but there's something more to it than that, sir.”

“Well?”

“Mr. Tregarthan was, as perhaps you know, chairman of the local Bench until a few months ago when he resigned. It seems that the last time Ned was hauled up before the magistrates, Mr. Tregarthan gave him three months without the option.”

“And he probably deserved it,” commented Inspector Bigswell, who was wondering impatiently where this rigmarole was leading.

Grouch agreed.

“But it seemed a bit hard on the poor devil when Mr. Tregarthan turned his wife and three kids out of their cottage, because they couldn't pay the rent. He owns the property and Ned being in no position to earn, him being over at Greystoke prison, there was nothing for the poor woman to do but to clear out. Well, Fox says that ever since Ned came out, sir, he's been swearing to get even with Mr. Tregarthan. Drinking like a fish, too, and saying things in his cups which he may well be sorry for.”

“You mean he went so far as to threaten to——”

“Exactly,” said Grouch. “Number of the regular customers down at the ‘Ship’ would be ready to swear to his words, so Charlie says.” Grouch shook his head sagaciously. “It looks black, sir. Very black. That's my humble opinion anyhow.”

The Inspector whistled. He couldn't see the wood for the trees. Ruth Tregarthan? Ronald Hardy? Ned Salter? Which? They were all under suspicion. They all had a motive for the murder. They had all quarrelled with Tregarthan a few hours before his death. The puzzle was assuming gargantuan proportions. No sooner had the Inspector assembled a few bits to his satisfaction, when the puzzle altered shape, with all the startling inconsequence of a landscape in
Alice in Wonderland
.

CHAPTER VII

CONVERSATION AT THE VICARAGE

T
HE
Reverend Dodd, after a fairly exhaustive search of Tregarthan's desk, set aside those papers which he felt were relevant to the visit of the family solicitor. Although he was, by nature of his profession, a man with a spiritual mission, the Vicar was by no means a fool in practical and business matters. By the exercise of a certain amount of justifiable low cunning and the milder forms of sharp practice the affairs of St. Michaels-on-the-Cliff had been placed on a sound business footing. It was said of him in Boscawen that he knew equally well how to save a soul or a sixpence, and more than one harassed villager in the throes of some domestic or economic nightmare had reason to bless the Reverend Dodd for his perspicacity. It came natural, therefore, for Ruth to hand over the material matters resulting from her uncle's death to her very old and very paternal friend, the Vicar. It was Dodd who had got in touch with Ramsey, the solicitor; Dodd who was making arrangements for the funeral; Dodd who had got in touch, at Ruth's suggestion, with Tregarthan's only brother in London and broken the tragic news to him with tact and understanding. With a grateful sigh Ruth abandoned herself to his care and allowed him free rein in the management of her financial affairs. It thus devolved upon the Vicar to go through the private papers and effects of the dead man.

There was not a great deal to cope with. Tregarthan had been a tidy man at his desk and nearly all his papers were neatly filed and labelled. The Inspector's hope that there might be some personal correspondence which might prove incriminating to the sender, was doomed to disappointment. Save for a few invitation cards and begging letters from charitable organisations there was nothing of a private nature in the desk. At least that was the Vicar's first impression. It was not until he had tidied the last drawer, when he noticed a small piece of common, ruled paper behind the drawer itself. It was more through instinct than curiosity that he turned the scrap of paper over and read the brief message written on the back of it. It ran, simply, in an uneducated hand:

I'm not wanting your money. I shall hold my tongue not for your sake but for his. I've no wish to hear further about this—M.L
.

Although the note puzzled the Vicar he attached little importance to it. The paper itself was already a bit yellowed with age and the very fact that it had slipped behind the drawer seemed to indicate that it had been written and sent to Tregarthan a considerable time back. Probably there had been some slight indiscretion on Tregarthan's part in the past and he had attempted, rather foolishly perhaps, to hush up the affair with a five pound note. Such momentary weaknesses of the flesh were not uncommon in middle-aged men and Tregarthan had doubtless been sorry for his actions the moment he had sat down to consider them. Certainly there was nothing in the note to suggest that it was in any way linked up with the crime. Although the Vicar was dubious of its value as evidence, he thought it would be as well for the Inspector to see it. He might have some ideas as to its purport and origin. He thrust it, therefore, into his waistcoat pocket and, collecting the pile of papers which he had set aside for Ramsey's perusal, he set off for the Vicarage.

His sister, Ethel, had arrived and the three of them sat down to lunch. By common consent no mention was made of the subject which was uppermost in their minds. As the Reverend Dodd explained to his sister, Ruth must be nursed back to a more healthy outlook by the exercise of strict verbal discretion. She had suffered a great shock and was still faced with the Coroner's inquest on Thursday and her uncle's funeral.

Soon after lunch Ramsey arrived, looked over the papers supplied by the Vicar and after a few words of consolation with Ruth, returned to Greystoke. He had arranged for the will to be read after the funeral, which with the Coroner's consent was to take place at St. Michael's on Friday. Tregarthan's brother and only surviving relative had sent Ramsey a message to say that pressure of business prevented him from travelling down at once to Cornwall. He left the solicitor to wind up his brother's estate and to let him know when the funeral was to take place. To Ruth he sent a brief message of sympathy. But it was obvious from his somewhat casual acceptance of Julius’ death that there had been no love lost between the brothers.

Hardly had Ramsey left the Vicarage and the Vicar settled at his desk in the study, when Inspector Bigswell drove up and asked for an interview. The Vicar was surprised by Bigswell's look of dejection. A great deal of the man's enthusiasm seemed to have deserted him and his forehead was wrinkled in a perpetual frown. No sooner was he seated at the cheerful fire, opposite the Vicar, when he plunged into the reason for his visit.

“Look here, sir—I don't mind telling you that the accumulating facts of this case fit one another about as neatly as the proverbial square peg into the proverbial round hole. Candidly I'm at a complete loss. First I'm inclined to veer one way and then another. I've collected a good deal of data since I saw you this morning, but it doesn't get us any further. The latest and most puzzling bit of information, which Mrs. Peewit was kind enough to hand out to me, is that Mr. Hardy left Boscawen last night in his car and has not returned since!”

“Mr. Hardy gone? You mean disappeared without leaving any address—without telling anybody where he was going?”

“Without telling anybody
that
he was going,” corrected the Inspector. “In other words he's bolted. Mrs. Peewit naturally thought he was just going out for the evening. He often did, apparently. But it's more than that. He's left the district. I'm certain of it. Everybody knows him and his car in the village, and Grouch has made pretty exhaustive enquiries since lunch, and nobody's seen him since yesterday afternoon. I don't know what you think about it, but to my mind, the fact that he's bolted, looks pretty suspicious. He left Cove Cottage about an hour after he had had a violent quarrel with Tregarthan, but before the probable time that Tregarthan was shot. What I want to know is—where did Mr. Hardy go directly after he left Cove Cottage and what's happened to him since?”

“You're surely not suggesting that Ronald Hardy murdered poor Tregarthan and that his disappearance is connected with the crime?”

“That's exactly what I am suggesting. He had motive. A very strong motive. Mr. Tregarthan was opposed, strongly opposed to his friendship with his niece. They had, in fact, had violent words about this matter a few hours before Tregarthan was found shot.”

“But the footprints,” put in the Vicar with a mild air of censure. “Surely you haven't forgotten about those three tracks, Inspector?”

“No, I haven't! I wish I could. You see how I'm up against it? Conflicting evidence at every turn. If I am to believe the evidence of those footprints—and at the moment I see no reason why I shouldn't—Tregarthan must have been shot either by his niece or Mrs. Mullion.”

“Impossible!” contested the Vicar. “Utterly impossible, Inspector. With your undoubted ability to judge human nature do you really believe, in your heart of hearts, that Ruth Tregarthan could have committed such a dreadful crime? Come, Inspector—frankly now! You can't suspect her!”

“And if I don't,” said Bigswell sullenly, “we are left with Mrs. Mullion. And as much as I disbelieve Miss Tregarthan capable of murder, I see yet less reason to suspect Mrs. Mullion. Mind you, I haven't seen her yet. She's cycled over to Porth Harbour, so I was told at her cottage, and won't be back till late this evening. She may be able to help us clear up the mystery, but I doubt it. There's so much that's obscure. But this much I don't mind telling you—all the evidence to hand at the moment points to either Ruth Tregarthan or Ronald Hardy as the guilty party. It's not my job to rule out certain individuals because my heart tells me they're innocent. I
must
deal in facts and facts alone. You see my difficulty, Mr. Dodd? Sentiment's no good in a case like this.”

“That's just where I must part company with you, Inspector,” said the Vicar with a gentle smile. “I'm rather a voracious reader of mystery stories, and it's always struck me that the detective in fiction is inclined to underrate the value of intuition. Now if I had to solve a problem like this, I should first dismiss all those people who, like Cæsar's wife, were above suspicion, merely because my intuition refused to let me think otherwise. Then I should set to work on what remained and hope for the best!”

The Inspector laughed.

“It's certainly an original method of criminal investigation, Mr. Dodd. But I doubt if it would work out satisfactorily when you came to apply it to an actual case. This case, for instance.”

“Oh, I daresay not,” agreed the Vicar hastily. “I'm not trying to teach you your job, Inspector. I hope you realise that. Dear me, no! Far be it from me to disagree with your very excellent and efficient methods of investigation. You
know
. I don't.”

“Exactly,” said the Inspector. “Only in this case, to be brutally frank with you, I'm supposed to know and I don't. This Mr. Hardy, for example, how does your intuition react to him? Is he in the same class, sir, as Cæsar's wife?”

“At the top of the class!” said the Vicar emphatically. “I've met that young man on countless occasions and I flatter myself that I've translated his character fairly accurately. Moody, temperamental, perhaps headstrong—but not criminal, Inspector. After all, what had he to gain by Tregarthan's death?”

“The girl,” put in the Inspector bluntly.

“Oh, nonsense! Nonsense! You surely don't think that Ruth is the sort of girl who would marry the man who had killed her uncle? A murderer?”

“But if she didn't know?”

“What are the criminal's chances of getting away with a murder?—if you'll excuse the Americanism!”