by W E Johns
“Such as?”
“Trelawny took her in some fish. Mrs. Payne sent her a basket of strawberries—”
Captain Gower’s eyes narrowed. “Strawberries, eh. The devil she did. That wouldn’t surprise me, either.”
“What wouldn’t surprise you?”
“If those strawberries had been tinkered with.”
“How can you say that? Why?”
“Between you and me I’ve thought more than once that Payne had his eye on that gal. You can always see the way the wind’s blowing by the way two people look at each other.”
“You don’t miss much, do you? What’s Payne got to do with it?”
“If Mrs. Payne had spotted what was going on she might—”
Gower broke off as the Major appeared suddenly.
“Did I hear my wife’s name mentioned?” he inquired.
Biggles answered. “Gower’s convinced that Vera was poisoned. I said in that case everything she’d eaten or drunk up to the time of her death would automatically have to be examined. We know Paul gave her chocolates. Mick Trelawny says he took her in some fish—”
“Where does my wife come in?”
“She sent her up a basket of strawberries yesterday.”
“How do you know that?”
“Jimmy happened to mention it when he brought out my tea. He took them up to the Thatched House. Vera said she’d have them for her tea. Didn’t you know your wife had sent up some strawberries?”
There was a curious expression on Major Payne’s face. “No, I didn’t know anything about it. No doubt my wife forgot to mention it to me.” The Major added hastily: “Not that there was any reason why she should. We’ve often sent things to Vera from the garden. There are times we have more fruit and vegetables than we know what to do with, and there’s no point in letting them rot.”
“Of course.” Biggles brushed the matter aside as of no importance.
The subject was dropped when at that moment Mrs. Payne herself came out on to the terrace.
“Still talking about this depressing business of Vera?” she queried, as she joined the men.
Biggles nodded. “It’s hard to get away from it.”
“When all this talk of murder is finished it wouldn’t surprise mc if it was decided that Vera died of shock.” Mrs. Payne spoke knowingly.
Biggles looked up at her. “But why should Vera die of shock? What could give her such a shock in her own house?”
“The ghost.”
“Ghost! What ghost?”
“Didn’t you know? The Thatched House is haunted.”
“Nonsense,” muttered Major Payne. “Superstitious nonsense.”
“Everyone in the village knows the house is haunted,” declared Mrs. Payne. “I wouldn’t live in it for all the tea in China.” She looked sideways at her husband. “Remember how Vera’s mother died suddenly.”
“But that, my dear, was proved to be a heart attack,” protested Major Payne, tolerantly.
“Yes, and what caused the heart attack? The ghost. That’d give anyone a heart attack.”
“I take it you believe in ghosts,” said Biggles.
“I believe in this one.”
“How do you know about it?”
“It’s common talk with the old people in the village.”
“What form is the apparition supposed to take?”
“I don’t know, but a shadow has been seen and they say there are queer noises in the night. That’s why the house was empty for years. It was a ruin when Mrs. Harrington bought it and had it done up. She didn’t live long to enjoy it. She herself once told me, and she wasn’t a woman to imagine things, that she distinctly heard footsteps; heavy footsteps, in the middle of one stormy night, as if they were made by a man. And they weren’t the only noises.”
Major Payne stepped in again, somewhat impatiently. “This was a long time ago. Some unauthorized person may have been seen in the house when it was a wreck — a tramp, perhaps, or one of the lads of the village. Vera’s never seen anything. She told me so herself on one occasion when the subject came up. The noises were made by mice, or rats, or bats in the thatch. That was why she bought a cat.”
“I’ve heard talk of ghosts but so far I’ve never seen one,” returned Biggles. “Nor have I heard of one being responsible for a death. Most ghost stories have an origin, usually an historical fact. How did this one start?”
Major Payne explained. “The story in the village is, about a hundred and fifty years ago the house was occupied by a notorious smuggler named Nathaniel Binns. I believe there’s a record of that in the church register. One night he was caught red-handed by the Excise officers but managed to get back to his house. There he fought it out to the death. He died horribly, cursing everyone, including the Almighty. That’s the story. His ghost is said to haunt the place, trying to hide the contraband kegs of brandy he’d brought in.”
“A fascinating tale,” averred Biggles. “Blood and brandy always go well together. Do you believe it?”
“No. It’s an old wives’ yarn. Mind you, I believe it’s true that a professional smuggler by the name of Binns did live in the house at one time, and for all I know he may have died there. But I’d say the rest is legend, which as usual has lost nothing in the telling from one generation to another. Mrs. Harrington wouldn’t have stayed in the house, and Miss Lewis, who is as nervous as a kitten, wouldn’t have remained in the place five minutes, had there been anything sinister about it.”
“That sounds more like the English of it,” agreed Biggles. “We can forget about Mr. Binns, and his alleged ghost, as far as Vera is concerned. I can’t see a self-possessed young woman like that being scared to death by anything.”
There was a short silence.
Biggles went on: “You know, we’re still being a bit premature in talking as if it were known definitely that Vera was murdered. The final post mortem will probably reveal a natural cause of death.”
“I hope so, for young Paul’s sake,” said Major Payne. “And for the sake of his parents. You can imagine the sort of state they’re in.”
“Where’s Paul now?”
“In his room. He refuses to come down. I’m having to send his meals up to him. With the staff problem as it is that’s a bit of a nuisance.”
“I’m not surprised he doesn’t want to be seen in public,” muttered Captain Gower. “He’s getting what’s been coming to him for a long time. Insolent young devil. Those sort of people usually have their chickens come home to roost.”
“Oh, pipe down, skipper,” requested Biggles impatiently, and with that the party broke up.
The remainder of the day passed quietly. Captain Gower did not join Biggles for the customary evening chat, possibly because he resented the criticism of his deductions.
CHAPTER VII
CONFESSION BY MOONLIGHT
Night fell, warm, still and silent; a brooding silence that seemed to be falling from the heavens in which the moon had not yet shown its face. Everything might have forgotten to breathe in the shock of seeing death intrude where normally peace and contentment reigned. Only the sea, never entirely at rest, sighed a monotonous lament upon the beach.
Biggles sat on the terrace, alone, unconscious of the passing of time, staring with unseeing eyes into the darkness as he strove to untangle the web of mystery in which inevitably he found himself involved. Around his feet lay the ends of the many cigarettes he had smoked, without being aware of it, in his profound examination of such evidence as had come to light.
The one unassailable fact was that Vera Harrington was dead. But how she had died, by whose hand and for what possible reason, although accusing fingers were already pointing in more directions than one, no man could say. He had considered suicide, but did not entertain the thought for long. That a young and apparently carefree girl should destroy herself was even harder to believe than that someone had taken her life. He had also dismissed the possibility of accident for lack of evidence to support i
t.
He would have liked a few words with Miss Lewis before she left the village, for he felt there was always a chance that in her statement, in her distressed state of mind, she might have overlooked some detail, no matter how trifling, that would throw a ray of light where at present all was gloom. But to question Vera’s maid without the permission of the Superintendent in charge of the case would have been a breach of faith as well as etiquette; and such a request he dare not make for fear it would be taken as interference in what was really no concern of his—anyway, no official concern. But he would not have been human had he been able to ignore a matter that had become the one topic of conversation, not only in the hotel but in the district. This was understandable, for nothing arouses morbid excitement more quickly than the grim word murder. No word travels faster or strikes more deeply into the heart of human thought and imagination.
Perhaps the inquest, or even the following day when the Superintendent might have advance knowledge of the result of the autopsy, would put an end to surmise and insidious speculation.
Yet even if that revealed the cause of death to be by poison—and from the absence of marks of physical violence on the girl’s body it was hard to see how she could have been done to death in any other way the problem of the motive would remain. Who could wish her dead? To what end? What had anyone to gain? Revenge, of course, seeks no reward other than satisfaction. Revenge for what?
Biggles had looked at this from every possible angle but was unable to convince himself that in this lay the answer; at all events, as far as any person known to him was concerned.
The moon, a silver sabre, crept up over the horizon. He yawned. It was long after his normal bedtime, a fact that was brought to his notice by an empty cigarette case. He looked at the hotel. No light showed, making it evident that most people, if not all, had retired for the night.
As he tossed aside the stub of his last cigarette and slowly rose to follow them, a slight sound not far away told him he had been mistaken in supposing that he alone remained outside the doors of the hotel. The sound seemed to come from the yard at the rear, where the cars, by reason of the fine weather, were left parked in the open.
Thinking of his own car Biggles moved silently and quickly to the yard to see who was doing what. Reaching his objective he saw a car, which he recognized as Paul’s Jaguar, being pushed towards the exit by a figure which he did not doubt was the owner. The lights had not been switched on, and the significance of this, together with the fact that the car was being pushed instead of the engine being started, was obvious.
With his rubber-soled beach shoes making no sound on the gravel Biggles walked on until he was nearly within touching distance of the pusher, whom he was now able to identify as the man he had supposed.
“What are you doing?” he asked. He spoke softly, but Paul sprang round with a sharp intake of breath.
“Oh it’s you,” he muttered, in a surly voice.
“Who did you think it was?” inquired Biggles. “Never mind. I said what are you doing?”
“Can’t you see?”
“I just wanted to be sure.”
“All right, if you must know. I’m off.”
“Off where?”
“Anywhere. I don’t know and I don’t care. Anywhere to get away from this place. I’ve had enough.”
“Of what?”
“Of being thought by everyone to be a murderer.”
“Not everyone. Didn’t the Superintendent tell you not to leave the hotel?”
“He did. But I’m not yet under arrest so he can’t give me orders.”
“So you’ve decided to do a bolt.”
“I have, and you can’t stop me, so don’t try.”
“Do your people know?”
“No.”
Biggles sighed. “Well, what you do is up to you, but let me give you a piece of advice. Don’t do it. You can’t escape trouble by running away from it. Sooner or later it catches up with you; and in this case that wouldn’t take long. Don’t you realize that by going you’ll only make your position worse? That would give the gossips reason to believe you had something to do with Vera’s death.”
“You talk like a copper yourself,” sneered Paul.
“As a matter of fact I am one.”
Paul stopped pushing the car, hesitated a few seconds, and then turned face to face. The wan moonlight fell on him. He looked miserable and his eyes were puffy as if he had been crying. “It’s only a question of time before they arrest me on a charge of killing Vera,” he muttered. “My God! As if I would. I loved her. I’d have died for her. An if it isn’t bad enough that she’s dead I’m accused of killing her.” Paul’s voice was harsh and stringent with bitterness.
“I’m not accusing you. But let’s have this straight. Did you kill her?”
“No. I know nothing about it.”
“Then all you have to do is tell the truth and stick to it. While you do that with a clear conscience you’ve nothing to fear.”
“I’ve nothing to hide.”
“Good. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Why?”
“I may be able to help.”
“How can you help?”
“I said just now I was a copper, and so I am, but not the sort you would naturally suppose. Actually—keep this under your hat—when I’m not here I’m a detective at Scotland Yard.”
“So that’s it. Why keep it a secret?”
“Because I’d rather the Superintendent in charge of the case didn’t know I’d told you, or even that I’d been talking to you. He might not like it. He knows who and what I am, but being a bit touchy he might think I’m poking my nose in where it isn’t wanted.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m on holiday. You say you know nothing about how Vera died. Very well. Let’s see if we can find some way of proving it. Suppose we sit in the car and have a chat—eh?”
“All right, if you think it’ll do any good.”
“I make one condition.”
“What is it?”
“That you tell me the absolute truth. If you don’t do that I shall be wasting my time. Remember, it’s in your own interest. I’ve nothing to gain, or lose—except my beauty sleep.”
“All right.”
They got in the car, Paul in the driving seat and Biggles beside him.
“You start,” invited Paul.
“I’m puzzled about one or two things so I’m going to ask you some questions. If, as you say, your conscience is clear, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t give me the right answers, is there?”
“I suppose not.”
“You only suppose?”
“Go on. I’ll give you the answers.”
“First of all will you explain this. When you went to the Thatched House you were wearing leather gloves—remember? You left them there. It was a hot night. Why did you wear gloves?”
“They were my driving gloves. They were in the car.”
“That was no reason why you should put them on.”
“I didn’t want to prick my fingers on the thorns of the roses I was taking to Vera.”
“Weren’t they properly wrapped up?”
“No. As I had only a short distance to go there seemed no reason to go to that trouble.”
“Fair enough. That answers that. You stayed with Vera about half an hour.”
“That’s right.”
“Where did you say good-night to her?”
“Does it matter?”
“It might. Little things can add up to big ones.”
“She saw me off at the front porch.”
“Did she seem all right then?”
“Perfectly all right.”
“You had no quarrel, or anything like that?”
“Certainly not.”
“Having said good night she went back indoors?”
“Yes. She locked and bolted the door after me.”
“How do you know that?”
“I heard her as I walked down the path.”
“Good. Then obviously you couldn’t have got back in.”
“Of course not. I had no reason to, anyway.”
“When you arrived Miss Lewis let you in.”
“Yes.”
“Was she surprised to see you?”
“No. They’d been expecting me. Vera knew I was going to Truro because I asked her if she’d care to come. She wouldn’t, so I promised to bring her some roses. She loves roses. She has none worth while in her garden and I often take her some.”
‘“I see. Where was Vera when you joined her?”
“In the sitting-room, eating strawberries. She had a basket on the couch beside her. She asked me to have some but I said no because we get too many at the hotel. I put the roses and the chocolates on the table and sat beside her. We talked for a bit and then she asked me if I’d care for a glass of sherry. I said yes so she got up and poured out two glasses at the sideboard. Then she opened the box of chocolates and we each had one or two. After that we sat talking.”
“What about?”
“Nothing in particular—who was at the hotel, what fine weather it was, how Mrs. Payne had kindly sent her the strawberries and Mick Trelawny had brought in a brace of pollack—that sort of thing. I sat with her until she pointed at the time. I took the hint. She saw me to the porch. She said she would put the roses in water and then go to bed. That’s about all I can tell you.”
“Just one more thing. Let’s go back to the time you finished your dinner and walked up the road to the Thatched House. That would mean you left the hotel —at what time, say?”
“Half past nine.”
“And you reached the house at ten.”
“Near enough.”
“You’re quite sure of this?”
“Of course.”
“You say you left Vera at ten-thirty precisely?”
“Yes.”
“And you got back to the hotel at twenty to eleven when you said good night to your people.”
“Yes.”
“Now tell me this, Paul. How was it that it took you half an hour to walk to Vera’s house and only ten minutes to walk back?”
