by John Bude
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!”
“Say about one in seven.”
“And you think that a highly intelligent young man like Ronald would risk committing a crime with those odds against him? Surely not, Inspector? If he and Ruth were determined to get married at all costs why couldn't they adopt the obvious expedient of running away together? It's been done before, you know. My father did it. Tregarthan was not an insuperable obstacle in their way—merely a temporary irritant, shall we say. Don't you agree?”
“Well, there's something in that,” acknowledged the Inspector grudgingly. “On the other hand, there's this young fellow's headstrong nature to take into account. Shell-shocked in the war, wasn't he? Probably kept some of his service equipment. His revolver, say. In an unbalanced moment there was no reason why he shouldn't throw logic to the winds and revert to instinct. Like elopement—it's happened before, you know.” The Inspector's grey eyes twinkled. “You agree, sir?”
The Reverend Dodd sighed gustily and nodded.
“I suppose you've as much right to your theory as I have to mine. But I can't help feeling that you're groping up a blind alley in suspecting Ronald Hardy. There's probably a very simple explanation for his apparent disappearance.”
The Inspector drew out his note-book and thumbed back a few of the pages.
“You may wonder, sir, why I'm taking you into my confidence like this. I'll tell you. Two heads are better than one. You know these two young people better than I do. But I want you to take a look at that.”
And he leaned forward to hand the Vicar his note-book.
“Read it,” he added.
The Vicar slid his glasses a little down his nose, and holding the note-book some little distance away, did as the Inspector asked.
The first paragraph was headed “Ruth Tregarthan,” and below were appended the following points:
(1) R.T. had quarrelled with the deceased about an hour before he was found shot. There were violent words. (Mrs. C.’s evidence.) “You've no right to interfere. I'm old enough to do as I please with my own life. It's a matter between him and me.”
(2) R.T. has no alibi to prove that she was not on the cliff-path at the time when it was estimated (Dr. Pendrill's report) that the deceased was shot.
(3) R.T.’s footprints were found on the cliff-path and she does not deny she was there.
(4) R.T. on her own evidence says she did not realise anything was amiss when she reached the bottom of the garden. Then why did she run into the house after stopping midway along the wall and facing toward the french windows? (“Ah!” thought the Vicar, “so he's noticed that point, too, has he?”)
(5) Three shots entered the room at widely scattered points. The garden is fifteen feet in length. This argues a poor shot. Probably a woman.
(6) Why did R.T. leave the house when she had been expressly ordered by Grouch not to do so? Surely it was to rid herself of incriminating evidence? Possibly the revolver.
“Well,” asked the Inspector, seeing that the Vicar had read to the bottom of the page. “What have you to say to that, sir?”
The Vicar placed the open note-book with deliberate care on the arm of his chair. He pushed his glasses slowly up on to the bridge of his nose with a forefinger. For a moment, so disturbed was he by the Inspector's marshalling of the facts, that he was unable to parry the indictment of Ruth's innocence with a counter-theory of his own. Viewed like that and set out with such damning clarity, he was forced to realise that Ruth was placed in a very precarious and unenviable position. Points 1 and 6 were new to him and he decided to question the Inspector further about these two happenings.
Bigswell, nothing loath, set out in a few concise sentences the evidence of Mrs. Cowper and her husband with regard to Ruth's quarrel at the dinner-table, concluding with his own version of what happened later that evening.
“May I take the first point first and deal with them one by one, Inspector?”
“That's exactly what I hoped you would do, Mr. Dodd. It's always been my principle to invite criticism. Truth doesn't always lie on the surface, eh? A good hammer-and-tongs argument is just what I need at this point in my investigations—so go ahead, sir, please.”
“First then,” said the Vicar, setting his finger-tips together and lying back in his arm-chair, “this quarrel. I set no store by that as evidence of Miss Tregarthan's guilt. Mind you, Inspector, I'm talking in your idiom now. I'm dealing with the facts of the case only. My intuition theory doesn't enter in—you understand? If Ruth had never before quarrelled with her uncle then, perhaps, this upset at the dinner-table might be more than a matter of coincidence—seeing that Tregarthan was shot an hour or so later. But she had quarrelled with her uncle before ... frequently. We have the Cowpers’ word for that. A verbal upset was quite in the natural order of things, and if Tregarthan had not been found dead that night, then nobody—the Cowpers included—would have considered this particular quarrel strange.
“The second point, of course, is unassailable. Unless any further witness comes forward, who actually heard the three shots fired and thus fixes the exact time of Tregarthan's death, and unless a further witness can prove that Ruth was elsewhere at that particular moment, then I grant you she has no cast-iron alibi.
“The third point—well frankly, Inspector, the third point puzzles me. I've no explanation to offer as to why only Ruth's and Mrs. Mullion's footsteps were found on the cliff-path. I can only suppose that the criminal by some ingenious arrangement obliterated his tracks as he went along. I've read of it being done. Whether it's practicable or not I can't say. Actually, considering the amount of rainfall, I'm rather wondering if we're not setting too much store by that particular line of investigation. A third set of prints may have been washed away. Weak, I admit—but a possible theory perhaps.
“The fourth point is interesting. I noticed the fact last night that Ruth had run into the house after looking in at the window.”
“The devil you did!” thought the Inspector.
“But there's nothing really suspicious in her action,” went on the Vicar blandly. “After all, it was a wet night. The sitting-room must have looked a veritable oasis of comfort from the cliff-path. Stimulated by the thought of a cheerful fire and a possible reconciliation with her uncle, the girl suddenly hurried on her way, by instinct, as it were.
“Then we come to your fifth point, Inspector—the scattered shots. You may remember that rather catchy ditty of W. S. Gilbert's about making the punishment fit the crime? You do? I thought you might! Well, here I feel I'd like to transpose the line—you're making the evidence fit the crime. You suspect Ruth Tregarthan. Ruth Tregarthan is a woman. The scattered shots suggest that a woman fired the revolver. You make your original suspicion stand on its head so that it looks like evidence against Miss Tregarthan. After all, Inspector, an unpractised male shot might be equally inaccurate—particularly if he was in the throes of a great emotional storm. No, really—I'm afraid that line of argument falls to the ground.”
“And the last point,” demanded the Inspector.
“Curious. Very curious. I'll admit Ruth's story does sound a little thin. On the other hand it does offer a feasible explanation for her action. She was distraught—in an unreasoning frame of mind—and therefore liable to indulge an utterly unreasonable whim. Women are often unreasonable, Inspector. Illogical, too. And here you're dealing with a woman under the stress of a violent shock.” The Vicar paused, sat up and gazed at the Inspector with great earnestness through his gold-rimmed glasses. “Have I shaken your faith in the theory that Ruth had some hand in this dreadful event? Or do you still believe her to be the guilty party?”
The Inspector stretched out his legs, elbowed himself upright and stared into the fire.
“I don't know. I don't know what to think. You've fought me fair and square with my own weapons, Mr. Dodd, and I don't mind admitting that there's a great deal in what you say. Now, if it's not taking up too much of your valuable time, sir, would you mind turning over a page in that note-book and having a look at the next paragraph.”
The Vicar did so, rather flattered and not a little astonished, that Inspector Bigswell had deigned to discuss the matter with him. Never, even in his most optimistic moments, had he visualised a scene of this nature—himself in one arm-chair, a police officer in another, and between them ... a mystery. If he had not been so appalled by the crime and its consequent effects on Ruth, he would have enjoyed the unprecedented situation.
He resettled his glasses on his nose and began to absorb the contents of the next paragraph. The page was headed “Ronald Hardy,” and as before this bald announcement was followed by a number of clearly defined points.
(1) R.H. had quarrelled with deceased on the evening of his death. (Mrs. P.’s evidence.)
(2) R.H. left Cove Cottage in a great hurry, having left his supper untouched, at about 8.45. (Mrs. P.’s evidence.) Did not say where he was going.
(3) R.H. has not been seen since in the vicinity. Probably disappeared after the murder had been committed.
(4) R.H. had a revolver. Webley pattern. .45 calibre. Bullets found prove to be of this type. Revolver, recently removed from holster now missing.
(5) R.H. has, as far as is known at present, no alibi from 8.45 onward.
(6) Known to be temperamental and liable to sudden emotional storms. Shell-shocked in the war.
Finding that this apparently concluded Inspector Bigswell's indictment of Ronald, the Vicar handed back the note-book. Seeing that the Inspector was quizzing him with a look of expectant enquiry, he shook his head.
“I've been through to headquarters from the ‘Ship’ where I lunched, and they're broadcasting a description of the young man. Also a description of his car. But by now he may be in the wilds of Scotland or abroad for all we know. Has he ever spoken to you, Mr. Dodd, of any relations or mentioned any particular friends?”
“Never. He always struck me as a somewhat lonely young fellow. Men of an independent and thoughtful nature often are. Beyond the fact that he had a Public-School-Varsity education and fought with the infantry in the war as a 2nd Lieutenant, I really know nothing about his past.”
“Well, until we can lay our hands on Mr. Hardy and get a statement as to his movements last night, I don't think we can travel further along that line of enquiry. In the meantime, sir, what about this man, Ned Salter? You know him by reputation, I expect?”
The Vicar chuckled.
“Know him! Dear me—yes! He's one of Boscawen's public institutions. Much as I deplore his inability to discriminate between meum and tuum, I don't think he's really vicious. His misdeeds are of the minor order—poaching, petty pilfering and so on. But taken all in all I don't think Ned is the true criminal type. He's not subtle or intelligent enough.”
The Inspector nodded dismally.
“Much as I imagined,” he said. “I think we can dismiss his talk with Tregarthan on the drive as pure coincidence. Still I shall have to see him.”
“By the way,” went on Bigswell after a brief pause, “you went through Tregarthan's papers, I take it? Did you find anything useful?”
