The Cornish Coast Murder (British Library Crime Classics) (24 page)

One thing puzzled him. If the Vicar's assumption was correct, how was it that the gravel under the window corresponded with the gravel on the Greylings drive? If the stuff had been thrown against the window by the man in the boat, then he must have collected a sample of this particular gravel beforehand. Was this another cunning attempt on the part of the criminal to shift suspicion from the sea on to the land? It was possible. On the other hand mightn't it argue an accomplice? Hardy, perhaps? Ruth Tregarthan? Even Cowper? If the man in the boat had flung the gravel, then it was quite possible that the remnants of the heap would still be lying in the bottom of the boat. He hadn't thought of that!

He returned, therefore, and made a further examination of the Boscawen boats, but again he drew a blank. He made a mental note, however, to re-examine the six boats over at Towan Cove. A single grain of that particular gravel in any one of the boats would, he realised, be sufficient evidence to drive home the crime to a particular individual.

As fate would have it, the Inspector was not destined to return to Towan Cove that morning. As he and the Constable breasted the short rise from the shore level, Grimmet appeared running smartly towards them.

“What is it?”

“You're wanted on the phone, sir. Greystoke headquarters. Urgent, sir.”

Hurrying to the Constable's office, Bigswell took up the receiver.

“Hullo? Yes, sir. Bigswell speaking. You've what? Good heavens!—when, sir? Five minutes ago? Walked in, you say? No. No. I'll come over right away.” He hung up and swung round on Grimmet. “We're going over to Greystoke at once.” He noticed Grouch's ill-concealed look of enquiry. “Good news, Grouch. Hardy's given himself up. He's just walked into H.Q.”

“A confession, sir?”

“Can't say yet. He's made no statement. I may be over later to-day. In the meantime get that list of boat-owners ready. I may want it.”

The car shot off up the hill and disappeared over the rise of the naked common, heading swiftly for Greystoke.

The Superintendent, obviously excited, was waiting for Bigswell in his office.

“I've taken no statement as yet, Inspector. He's your pigeon. Looks as if things are going to move at last, eh?”

“I hope so, sir,” replied Bigswell fervently. “Can we have him in right away?” The Superintendent nodded and gave an order to an attendant Constable. “You say he walked in, sir. What about the Yard?”

“They must have missed him. As far as I can make out, Hardy came down by train in the normal way and reported here without delay. Said he'd seen his photo in the papers in connection with the Greylings murder and wished to make a statement. Further than that I don't know.”

“What I can't make out——” began the Inspector, but a warning hiss from the Superintendent cut him short, as the door opened and Ronald Hardy was ushered into the room.

Bigswell was struck at once by the man's appearance. He looked pale and haggard. His overcoat seemed to hang loosely from his slim and rather boney frame. His movements were those of a man in the throes of a violent nervous strain. In one hand he crushed a soft felt hat, in the other he grasped a pair of driving-gauntlets which he tapped incessantly against his thigh.

The Superintendent motioned the young man to a chair. With a faint smile of thanks he sat down, placing his hat and gloves beside him, and plunged his hands deeply into his overcoat pockets.

“This is Inspector Bigswell, Mr. Hardy,” explained the Superintendent. “He's investigating the case you've come to see us about.”

The Inspector saluted and Hardy acknowledged the introduction with a curt nod.

“Well, it's like this,” he said without further preliminary. “I haven't opened a single newspaper since Monday until this morning. You can imagine the shock I received when I saw my own face staring at me from the front page. When I read of Mr. Tregarthan's murder I was more than shocked—I was horrified. You see, I'd known the Tregarthans for some time. In fact, I'd seen Mr. Tregarthan only an hour or so before he was murdered. Naturally, when I saw that I was wanted in connection with the crime, I dashed off to the station and caught the first train down. And here I am.”

“It's a great pity, Mr. Hardy, that you didn't show up sooner,” said the Inspector. “You realise that a lot of valuable time has been wasted in efforts to trace your whereabouts.”

“No—I hadn't realised that,” replied Hardy with complete frankness. “Why should I have done? I knew nothing about Tregarthan's death until this morning. I've told you that already.”

“But a murder of this sort—it's on every newspaper placard. Everybody talks about it. You disappeared on Monday night, Mr. Hardy—to-day's Friday. That's a lapse of nearly four days. Do you mean to tell me that you have been out and about in London for nearly four days without hearing a word about the murder?”

“But I haven't been out and about. That's just it. I arrived in London late on Monday night. I had made no arrangements as to where I was going to stay, so I took a taxi out to Hampstead. Some years ago I had rooms there in Fellows Road and I knew the landlady was an obliging sort—so I knocked her up and got her to take me in. From that moment until this morning I have not left the house. Mrs. Wittels, that's the landlady, served all my meals in my room. I ordered no newspaper. Mrs. Wittels apparently doesn't read a newspaper, else otherwise she must have seen my photo and drawn my attention to it.” Adding wryly: “Or at any rate ... Scotland Yard's!”

“Is it a custom of yours, Mr. Hardy, to keep to your room for days on end?”

“Quite often I do—yes. Perhaps, as you know, I'm a novelist. Well sometimes, due to the actuation of a peculiar influence, I'm blessed, in common with others of the species, with what is called inspiration. As it happened, when I arrived in London, I was working on the final chapters of a novel and I settled down there and then, after a night's sleep, to finish it. This morning I did finish it. But it meant three days of continuous writing. In the circumstances it was quite natural that I should know nothing of Tregarthan's death. You see, Inspector?”

“You realise,” said Bigswell weightily, “that your sudden disappearance had placed you in a somewhat precarious position. You may be able to offer a satisfactory explanation, Mr. Hardy—but until you do I'm bound to view your movements with suspicion. You see why?”

“Of course. I quite understand that from the official point of view I may be a suspect. That's why I wish to make a full statement.”

“Before you do that,” put in the Inspector quickly, “let's divide the statement into three parts. Firstly, I would like to know exactly what you did after you reached London on Monday night until you arrived down here to-day. Secondly I want to know exactly what transpired at Cove Cottage between the hours of seven-thirty and eight-forty-five on Monday evening. And thirdly——what were your exact movements, Mr. Hardy, from eight-forty-five until you boarded the train here that same night. Now let's deal with them in order.”

“Well, the first point I have already more or less cleared up. I took a taxi out to Hampstead and knocked up Mrs. Wittels. As luck would have it, she had a large bed-sitting-room vacant and I moved in there and then.”

“And the address?” queried the Inspector.

“Plane House, Fellows Road, Hampstead, N.W.”

The Inspector made a note of this so that he could easily verify the truth of Hardy's statements, if necessary, later on.

“For reasons which I will explain later,” went on Hardy, “I slept badly that night, but the next morning, despite my lack of sleep, I got out the MS. of my novel and started to work on it. I explained to Mrs. Wittels that I wanted all my meals served in my bedroom and that I did not wish to be interrupted.”

“You had packed the manuscript, I take it? You intended to work on it when you left Boscawen on Monday night, Mr. Hardy?”

“No, as a matter of fact, I didn't. I hadn't packed anything. When I left Cove Cottage I had no intention then of going to London at all.” He smiled a trifle grimly. “My actual intentions were a little less commonplace, Inspector. But that again I must explain in due course. When I say I had the manuscript—it's not quite accurate. I had
part
of the manuscript in my pocket—the last few chapters that I had been working on the day before. I'd been out for a walk, you see, on Monday morning, and, as I like to read my work aloud, I'd gone down on to the shore by the cove and later stuffed the papers into my coat pocket. It was pure chance that they should be with me in London. A lucky chance, I admit. I explained, of course, to Mrs. Wittels that I'd left in a hurry and got her to run out on Tuesday morning with a list of the few articles that I wanted. All Tuesday I wrote. That night I slept soundly, and the next day, finding the mood was still on me, I continued writing. The same thing happened on Wednesday and Thursday. I had all my meals in my room. Save for the exchange of a few trite remarks with my landlady, I neither saw nor spoke to anybody. Late Thursday night I finished the novel and, utterly exhausted, fell asleep in an arm-chair. Early this morning, before breakfast, I went out for a constitutional on Primrose Hill. On my way back I called at a newsagent's to replenish my stock of tobacco. I also bought a couple of newspapers. The first thing I noticed when I opened the paper was a photo of myself, in uniform, below which was a caption demanding information as to my whereabouts. In an adjacent column was an account of the police's progress in the unravelling of what was called ‘The Cornish Coast Murder.’ That was the first I knew about Tregarthan's death. I was shocked and horrified. I had good reason to be.” Again Hardy smiled—a wry and rather tortured smile. “You see, Inspector, I may as well be quite frank with you—Miss Tregarthan and I had been friends for some time. Intimate friends in fact. I realised what a terrible shock it must have been for her. I realised, too, from the newspaper reports that, on account of a series of unfortunate coincidences, I was suspected of having a hand in the crime. I repeat—Miss Tregarthan and I had been great friends. It was natural that I should wish to clear myself in her eyes. I rushed off to the station and caught the first train down to Greystoke. Fearing I might be recognised on the way, I muffled my face in my overcoat and pulled down my hat well over my eyes. That's all, Inspector. I think that explains all you want to know about that part of my doings.”

“One thing, Mr. Hardy. You say you and Miss Tregarthan
had
been great friends. Why the past tense?”

“Simply that on Monday evening I learnt that she no longer wished to have anything further to do with me. As a proof of this I received a bundle of letters which I had written to her at various times. I burnt them and destroyed at the same time, Inspector, the finest memories of the last two years of my life.”

CHAPTER XVIII

PERFECT ALIBI

“A
ND
now,” said Ronald Hardy, taking a deep breath, “let me deal with the second division of this statement—what transpired in Cove Cottage between seven-thirty and eight-forty-five on Monday night. I see, Inspector, that you've already found out that something
did
transpire. I'll be as brief and as clear as I can. I was sitting at my desk when Mrs. Peewit—I don't doubt that you've already made her acquaintance—came in and told me that Mr. Tregarthan wished to speak to me. I was tremendously surprised. He had never gone out of his way to speak to me or visit me—the opposite, in fact! For some strange reason he had always resented my friendship with his niece. I had never been invited to Greylings, though I had occasionally seen Ruth there when her uncle was safely out of the way. This unexpected visit was, therefore, a bit of a surprise. He hadn't been two minutes in the room, however, before I realised what had brought him to Cove Cottage. He came as an emissary from Miss Tregarthan. She had sent him, apparently not having the courage to come herself, to say that she no longer wished to see me. No reason given—understand? Just that. I was on no account to speak to her again. I was, of course, unable to conceal my emotions for I had been deeply in love with Ruth Tregarthan for some months. Tregarthan was quick to notice my dismay and for him it was doubtless a moment of triumph. I argued. I demanded an explanation of this sudden change in his niece's attitude towards me. He refused to speak further. I regret to say that I lost my temper then. I swore that it was his doing. He had influenced his niece and engineered the whole business. Tregarthan responded with an equal show of anger and we had a regular set-to. The result was that he banged down the bundle of letters on my desk and, still raving, stamped out of the room.

“I was left staring at the letters, trembling and bewildered. It had all been so sudden. I was plunged into the darkness of absolute despair. What was left of the future? What was there left to live for? All that I had been striving for seemed to have been shattered in the wink of an eye. My work, my ambition—what did I care about my career? A curious mood assailed me. I fell into a sort of trance—mind you, my brain was working with absolute clearness—but my sense of reasoning seemed to be paralysed.

“I got to work quite mechanically. First I burnt the letters, one by one, in the fire. Then I tidied up my desk, sorted out all Ruth's letters from my correspondence and, in turn, destroyed them. This done, for a long time I sat at my window staring with blank eyes at the storm, which was approaching slowly across the sea. I knew exactly what I had to do. There were no doubts in my mind as to the sanity of my scheme. It was like an inevitable duty, an army order that had to be carried out.

“I opened the drawer in my desk where I kept my old service revolver. I slipped it out of its holster and put it in my pocket. Very vaguely I realised that Mrs. Peewit had previously come into the room and set my supper on the table. I left it untouched.

“What time I left the cottage I can't rightly say.”

“Section three,” put in the Inspector.

Hardy nodded absently, as if he did not fully realise the meaning of the Inspector's interpolation.