The Cornish Coast Murder (British Library Crime Classics) (27 page)

Suddenly the Vicar, who was craning over the blunt prow, uttered a sharp and excited exclamation.

“Well?” queried the Inspector.

The Vicar pointed to the painter which lay in a small coil on the boat's bottom. In the hollow centre of that coil was a little scattering of gravel. Not much. Just a few grains, but sufficient to justify the assumption that if the murderer had used a boat, then this dinghy was the boat in question.

The Inspector collected a few tiny stones in the palm of his hand and examined them closely under the light of his electric-torch.

“No mistake about it, Mr. Dodd. It's gravel right enough. Seems that we've found exactly what we were looking for.” He turned to Grouch. “Got that list of owners on you, Grouch?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then look up the name and address of the chap who owns the
Nancy
. Strikes me that when we've had an interview with that gentleman we'll be well on our way to solving this infernal problem. Well, Grouch?”

“Belongs to a Mr. Jeremy Crook, sir.”

“Umph—Crook sounds promising! And the address?”

“Not a local one exactly, sir. A Greystoke address.”

“Good heavens! Not Crooks the outfitters in Castle Street?”

“That's it, sir. Now I come to think of it, Jack Withers mentioned he was a tailor or something of the sort. Appears that he's a keen fisherman and comes over week-ends to try his luck, sir. I've seen him about myself, sir, once or twice—little chap with a big moustache and glasses. Mild-mannered I should call him—chatty sort of chap, too.”

“Maybe, Grouch. But that doesn't alter the facts. As far as I can see it, Tregarthan was shot by a man in this boat, and as the boat belongs to Jeremy Crook we've every right to suppose that the man in the boat
was
Jeremy Crook. Unless he's got an alibi for Monday night of course.”

“Which means?” inquired the Vicar, mildly.

“That I'm going back to Greystoke without delay, Mr. Dodd. It looks to me as if your—that is
our
theory is the right one. The more so since Mr. Hardy has been cleared of all suspicion.”

“Ronald cleared?”

“Oh, I was forgetting. Of course you don't know. Yes—he walked into Greystoke headquarters this morning and made a statement.”

Very briefly the Inspector explained what had taken place in the Superintendent's office and, later, in the study at the Vicarage.

“I'm delighted! Delighted!” exclaimed the Vicar. “I wondered why Ruth didn't show up at tea-time. I thought she was resting. This is splendid news, Inspector. Splendid!”

“And a triumph for your intuition principle of deduction, eh, Mr. Dodd?” The Inspector saluted and after a hearty “Good night!” walked off briskly up the hill to where Grimmet was waiting with the car.

He did not know quite what to make of Jeremy Crook's entry into the arena. He knew the man by sight and reputation—an undeveloped, rather wizened little man, with an inoffensive, though somewhat servile manner; a teetotaller and the secretary of the Greystoke Bowls Club. The Inspector had never heard anything against him. But, for that matter, he had never heard anything
for
him. He was just one of those mild, moderately efficient, middling sort of men who never get talked about. Against his knowledge of the tailor's character was set the clue of the gravel in the boat. Whether or not Crook had used the
Nancy
on Monday night, it was essential that he should be questioned. If he had an alibi, well and good. If not—then it would be necessary to investigate further and unearth, if possible, a motive for Crook's assumed murder of Julius Tregarthan.

When the Inspector reached Greystoke, he ordered Grimmet to drop him at the top of Castle Street and take the car back to the police garage. He did not want to advertise his arrival at the outfitters. Although a few of the shop windows still displayed a blaze of light, the majority, and among them Crooks, were closed. The shutters were up and only the glimmer of a by-pass showed through the fanlight of the shop-door. Adjoining the shop, however, was the tailor's private entrance, which gave by means of a narrow staircase on to the rooms above the emporium. The Inspector rang and, after a few minutes the door was opened by a young, fresh-looking girl, who was a trifle taken aback on seeing the Inspector's uniform.

“Good evening, miss. Is Mr. Jeremy Crook in?”

“No—I'm afraid he's not at the moment. He's just gone out—to a meeting of some sort, I believe. Can I give him a message?”

“I'd rather wait and see him later. D'you know what time he'll be back, miss?”

The girl thought about nine, but she was not certain.

“You're his daughter, I take it?”

“Yes—that's right.”

“Then before I see your father, perhaps I might have a few words with you?”

The girl offered no objection and the Inspector followed her up a dingy, ill-lit stairway into a cramped, over-furnished little sitting-room where a pale fire was flickering. After they were seated and the Inspector had whipped out his note-book, he began a guarded cross-examination. He was anxious not to alarm the girl in any way, seeing that she was already very nervous, and made no mention, therefore, of the murder.

“Now, Miss Crook, I understand from the Constable at Boscawen that your father owns a boat over at Towan Cove.”

“That's right—the
Nancy
.”

“And he's in the habit, I believe, of running over during the week-end for a bit of fishing?”

“Yes.”

“Does he ever do any night fishing?”

“Not as far as I know—though he sometimes gets back here fairly late at night.”

“I ask this, Miss Crook, because we believe that there is some smuggling going on along that bit of coast. I wondered if your father might be able to supply us with any information. On Monday night, for example—was your father over at Towan Cove that night?”

“Oh, I'm sure he wasn't. He left the house about seven. He told me he was going down to the billiard-hall. It's his great hobby in the winter.”

“I see. And what time did he return?”

“Latish, I know, because I was in bed when he came in. After eleven I should think.”

“Did you see him when he returned?”

“No.”

“Does he usually return as late as that from the billiard-hall?”

“No. He's usually home by ten or even earlier.”

“And he gave you no explanation the next morning?”

“None.”

“I see. And this billiard-hall—where is it?”

“In Queen Street.”

“I know. Charlie Hawkins's place.” The Inspector closed his note-book. “Well, that's all I wanted to find out, Miss Crook. It's pretty obvious your father can't help us with regard to Monday night, but I'll call back later on the off-chance that he may have noticed something some other time.”

Leaving Castle Street, Bigswell made his way quickly to Charlie Hawkins's place in Queen Street. It was a respectable, well-run place, mainly patronised by elderly tradesmen, who looked upon it as a sort of home from home. The Inspector found the proprietor polishing glasses behind the bar, an annex to the billiard-hall.

“Evening, Mr. Bigswell. Anything I can do?”

“Just a little matter,” said the Inspector in an undertone, glancing meaningly at the little group chatting at the bar.

Hawkins jerked his thumb toward a tiny glass-fronted cubby-hole behind the bar, the chief decoration of which was racing almanacs and various local tradesmen's calendars. When the proprietor had closed the door, Bigswell asked:

“Know a chap called Jeremy Crook, Charlie?” The proprietor nodded. “Come here often?”

“Yes—regular customer in the winter. Outfitter, y'know, in Castle Street. Little monkey of a chap. Deacon of his chapel. Teetotaller. Nothing against ‘
im
, surely?”

“Oh, just a little routine matter,” said the Inspector lightly. “Was he in here on Monday evening?”

“Monday? Monday? Let's see?” Charlie Hawkins scratched his chin with a toothpick and expectorated into the fire-place. “That was the night of the murder, wasn't it? No—’e wasn't in ’ere that night. Sure of it. Couldn't have missed ’im if ’e was. I always make a good dozen rounds of the billard-room of an evening, just to keep an eye on things. But Jeremy Crook didn't show up on Monday night. Surprising, too, since it's ’is regular night.”

“Thanks. That's all I was after, Charlie.”

“Drink before you go, Mr. Bigswell?”

Hawkins beamed expansively. He believed in keeping on the right side of the police. The Inspector refused.

“No time now, Charlie. Some of us have to work for a living. ‘Night.”

He went out into the street profoundly puzzled. He realised that he was once more up against a problem. The girl said her father had gone to the billiard-hall on Monday night. Charlie was certain he had not turned up. Where, then, had Mr. Jeremy Crook spent the evening? And why had he deliberately lied to his daughter?

Still pondering these questions, Bigswell returned home, where his wife, always uncertain of her husband's erratic comings and goings, hastily prepared his dinner. Punctually at nine, however, relinquishing the comfort of a fireside pipe and a little light music on the wireless, the Inspector buttoned up his cape and returned to Castle Street.

Mr. Jeremy Crook was in. He was seated in an arm-chair by the fire, sipping a glass of hot milk. When the Inspector entered he rose jerkily and motioned his daughter out of the room. He bowed the Inspector into a second chair with the obsequiousness of a born shop-walker and politely inquired the reason for his visit.

“Surely your daughter has mentioned my previous visit here?” said the Inspector sagaciously.

“Yes—she did tell me something,” acknowledged the tailor. “You wondered if I could give you any information about some smuggling down at Towan Cove on Monday, she said. Well, I'm sorry—I can't. I didn't go over to the Cove on Monday.”

“Where exactly did you go, Mr. Crook?”

“As my daughter told you—to Hawkins's billiard-hall in Queen Street.”

“Arriving there?”

“Oh, soon after seven, I imagine. I really can't say.” The little man seemed anxious to avoid any further reference to his doings on Monday night. He kept on glancing at the closed door as if suspecting that his daughter was listening in to the conversation. He seemed, in fact, watchful and ill-at-ease. “You see, Inspector, I really can't help you much. In fact, I haven't been out in the
Nancy
for some months.”

“Look here, Mr. Crook,” said the Inspector, leaning forward and looking searchingly into the man's uneasy eyes, “you're not telling me the truth! You may as well confess to it. I know, as well as you do, that you did
not
visit the billiard-hall on Monday evening. You told your daughter that you were going to Queen Street. But you didn't. Why did you lie to her?”

“I can't see why I should answer all these questions,” protested Mr. Crook in a squeaky, petulant voice. “I've told you all you want to know. I wasn't over at the Cove on Monday.”

“But this matter's more serious than you realise,” said Bigswell. “I haven't been quite frank with you, I admit. When I interviewed your daughter, I had no wish to alarm her. Understand? I'm not investigating a case of smuggling, but a case of murder. The Tregarthan murder. Certain facts lead me to believe that you may know something about the matter. It's essential that I should know exactly where you were on Monday evening between the hours of seven and eleven. If you can give me a satisfactory explanation ... well and good. I shan't trouble you further, Mr. Crook. I'm asking you these questions for your own good. Well, Mr. Crook,
where were you on Monday night?
”

The little man glanced curiously at the Inspector, jerked suddenly to his feet and walked across to the door. He flung it open. The dimly lit landing was empty. Having satisfied himself that his daughter was not eavesdropping, the tailor carefully closed the door, returned to his chair and sat down.

“All right,” he said in an undertone. “I'll tell you the exact truth, Inspector. You're quite right—I didn't go along to Hawkins's on Monday. I had an appointment with a lady. As you may know, my wife died some ten years ago. Well, the fact of the matter is, I sometimes feel very lonely here now. My daughter is a good enough girl, but she's young and likes to get out and about. I don't blame her. It's only natural. But I'm a family man by nature. I miss the companionship of an older woman in the house. Lately I've struck up an intimacy with a lady whom I have known for a considerable number of years. She's still, I'm glad to say, unmarried. I'm telling you this in strict confidence, Inspector—even my daughter is unaware of my relationship with this lady. I've been in the habit of visiting her of an evening. She's lonely, too, and somehow we have found a great deal of happiness in being together. Unfortunately, I know my daughter would be opposed to this friendship. She's loyal to her mother's memory. So I've had to keep this intimacy secret. That's why I lied to her about Monday. I was not intending to go to the billiard-hall, but to see this lady. You understand?

“Perfectly,” said the Inspector. “But you realise that it's necessary for me to have this lady's address so that I can corroborate your story? All in the strictest confidence, of course.

The little tailor, after a moment's hesitation, gave the required name and address, adding:

“I'm happy to say, Inspector, that on Monday night I—er—proposed to the lady in question and she accepted me. I'm only waiting a favourable opportunity to tell my daughter, before making our engagement public.”

The Inspector offered his congratulations and the wizened little tailor pulled heavily at his long moustaches, beamed with pleasure and took a long sip at his hot milk.

“One other thing,” said the Inspector. “You say you have not been out in the
Nancy
for some months. When did you last take a look at the boat?”

“Last Wednesday. It's early-closing day, and I cycled over to see how the boat was standing up to the weather. Between ourselves, Inspector, I wasn't satisfied with her condition. It's my idea that somebody has been using the boat ...
recently
.”