The Cornish Coast Murder (British Library Crime Classics)

by John Bude

  “Simply,” replied the Vicar in a genial voice. “Dear me, Inspector, the more I look into my assumption, the more clearly I see the whole truth of the matter. Suppose after murdering poor Tregarthan, the man rowed in close to the cliff. He had only to toss his revolver up on to the path to add an extremely confusing factor to the case. Because you believed the revolver to have been on the cliff-path you naturally assumed that it had been dropped by somebody on land. As it happens, you suspect it was dropped by accident from the wall. But surely, Inspector, if Hardy was on the wall when he shot Tregarthan—as you suppose—isn't it highly improbable that he'd fire the shots from three widely different points? The hurdles, I see, are over there, to the left. That means he mounted the wall at that corner. Now what on earth possessed him to crawl, not only to the middle of the wall, but very nearly to the far end of the wall, when we can see quite clearly that Tregarthan would have been visible from any point on the wall? Peculiar, isn't it, Inspector?”

  Bigswell nodded dolefully. Already he could see his carefully erected case collapsing like a house of cards.

  “It certainly looks as if you're right,” he admitted.

  “I've been barking up the wrong tree. What do you propose now, Mr. Dodd? I can tell you—your lines of investigation,” he pointed with a wry smile at the three strings emerging from the house, “have properly upset mine!”

  The Vicar apologised.

  “I fear I've been a trifle presumptuous. But as things stood—I feel sure you understand, Inspector?”

  “And now?”

  “Well, my idea was to borrow a boat and have a look at things from the murderer's point of view.”

  “A good scheme,” agreed the Inspector. “I'll come with you, if you've no objection, sir.”

  The Vicar laughed.

  “It's rather fantastic, isn't it? But I want you to realise, Inspector, that as far as my very amateur attempts at deduction are concerned—well, shall we say, I hand them over to you? It's Ruth I've been thinking of all along. The rest doesn't matter a farthing to me. It's your job, Inspector—not mine. Shall we say no more about it? You can rely on my discretion.”

  Later, as they were walking along the cliff-path to Towan Cove, the Vicar said:

  “There's just one person I'd like to take into my confidence over this—Doctor Pendrill. It's not often I get the chance of astonishing him. It will give me a certain ascendancy, I feel, over his confirmed agnosticism. He's inclined to poke fun at us clergy as impractical visionaries. I should like to disillusion him, Inspector. Who knows? A man's first step along the road to salvation is often brought about by the absurdest and most irrelevant events!”

  CHAPTER XVII

  ENTER RONALD HARDY

  LEAVING the Inspector to look round Towan Cove, the Vicar climbed up out of the gully on the far side and made his way along the cliff-top to the slate quarries. He found Joe Burdon, his eyes protected by a pair of monstrous goggles, trimming up the raw edge of a thick, green-grey slab of Cornish slate. The man touched his hat.

  “Morning, Burdon,” said the Vicar affably. “I've come to ask a favour of you.”

  “Aye?”

  “I want the loan of your boat for about half an hour. Can it be done?”

  “Aye, sir. You're welcome, such as she is. Not much of a tub to look at, I reckon—rather too broad in the beam for speed. Still, she's just had a fresh lick o’ paint and she's seaworthy enough.” He pushed up his goggles on to his forehead and peered inquiringly at the Vicar. “Going fishing, sir?”

  The Vicar shook his head.

  “Not exactly, Burdon. I want to have a look at something along under the cliff.”

  “Maybe it's something to do with the murder, eh? I heard as there's an Inspector on the job.” He pointed down into the cove, where a little blue figure was strolling along the rocky quayside.

  “That's him, maybe?”

  “Quite right. It is something to do with the murder. I'm not in a position to tell you more than that, I'm afraid, but it's a matter of some importance to the police.”

  “Well, you know the boat, don't you, sir? Black with a white line. You can't mistake her.”

  And, touching his hat once more, Joe Burdon lowered his goggles and returned to his slate-trimming.

  “There are six boats here,” said the Inspector when the Vicar had joined him on the diminutive quayside. “Six boats—six possibles. That's from Towan Cove alone, and Lord knows how many there are over at Boscawen.”

  “A fair sprinkling,” said the Vicar. “I don't think it's going to be easy.”

  The Inspector grunted his agreement and they climbed into the boat. She was a tubby little craft of a dinghy type, broad in the beam, yet astonishingly easy to handle. The Inspector took the oars and the Vicar sat in the stern, attending to the rudder-lines. In a short time the boat shot clear of the sheltering cove and responded to the long, slow swell of the open sea. Keeping well in under the cliff, they nosed along at a fair speed until the roof of Greylings hove in sight just above them.

  “Now,” said the Inspector, “we'll manipulate the boat so that we can find the nearest point to land from which Tregarthan would have been visible. This will give us some idea of the distance from which the shots were fired.”

  After one or two false starts, where, due to strong currents, they overshot the mark before being able to check up, the Vicar suddenly cried: “Now!” The Inspector brought the boat up short. A hasty look satisfied them that their assumption was not only feasible, but in view of their proximity to the cliff, a highly probable one. The distance, in all, could have been little over fifty feet. Given the fact that Tregarthan was silhouetted against the bright light of the room, it would not have been difficult shooting. Although the marksman was moving, the target was static, and with six bullets at his disposal the murderer had more than a fair chance of success.

  “What about the gravel?” asked the Vicar. “You told me that you found gravel under the window. Is the distance too great, do you think, for our man to have flung a handful against the glass?”

  “Oh, he'd reach the house easy enough. The wind was behind him, remember, blowing off the sea. Besides, he may have moved in a bit closer and flung it.”

  “Which means,” said the Vicar, “that we're probably on the right track?”

  “Almost certainly,” agreed the Inspector. “Take a look at those lines of yours. If they were projected they would just about meet the sea at this spot. That's what we should expect. You see, Mr. Dodd, how it's all fitting in?” The Inspector dug a single oar into the water and smartly pivoted the boat. “Now I want to get hold of a complete list of all boats and their owners. Then, with your help, Mr. Dodd, I'd like to eliminate the probables from the possibles and the possibles from the impossibles.” Adding dismally, “If there are any impossibles!”

  Later, when they parted at Greylings, the Inspector held out his hand.

  “I'll see you later, Mr. Dodd, if there are any developments. Mind you, I still hold to the theory that Tregarthan could have been shot from the wall. Hardy's disappearance hasn't been accounted for. Can't overlook that fact. Then there was that revolver of his found in the ditch. He had a revolver with him on the night of the murder. If he is innocent then why doesn't he come forward? And what about Miss Tregarthan's curious behaviour on Monday night and her behaviour at the inquest? Can't overlook that either. She, for one, thinks Hardy did it. That's why she perjured herself. And if she thinks he did, then we have every reason to suppose that he did do it. I'm sorry, Mr. Dodd. I know all this goes against your—what did you call it?—intuition theory, eh? But facts are facts and until I can find an explanation for every single one of ’em, then I'm bound to keep Hardy and Miss Tregarthan on my list of suspects,” adding with a smile, “unless, of course, you can decorate this new road of inquiry with a few more signposts. It's a possibility anyway, and I'm going to follow up your supposition even if it does end in a blank wall. I promise you that, Mr. Dodd.” />
  The men parted. The Vicar returned at once to the Vicarage, whilst Bigswell returned by car to the Constable's office. From there he and Grouch proceeded to the cove, where a number of boats were lying, like a catch of fish, on a concrete slipway. These the Inspector examined carefully, one by one, but no clue was forthcoming. He felt, therefore, that the only thing left for him to do was to draw up a list, with Grouch's help, of all those men who owned boats either in Boscawen itself or at Towan Cove. There was a chance, of course, that the boat had set out from a harbourage further up or down the coast, but, for the time being, Inspector Bigswell dismissed this idea as improbable. The storm had come up quickly and, accepting the fact that the murderer had reckoned on a thunder-clap to cover the sound of the shots, it seemed fairly conclusive that he had set out along the coast from a nearby point.

  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.”