by John Bude
“Then it was a trick,” mused Bigswell with evident satisfaction. “Just as I thought.”
“Indeed it was a trick!” agreed Ruth with spirit. “I learnt that night at dinner what my uncle had done, but I knew nothing about the letters. Oh, it was mean of him! Despicable! He must have deliberately stolen them from my desk for this purpose. But tell me about Ronald, Inspector. What happened that night? Where did he go? What did he do?”
Bigswell re-edited, as succinctly as possible, the essence of Hardy's recently given statement. Ruth grew more and more astonished as the Inspector proceeded. She could scarcely curb her impatience and wait for the end of the Inspector's story, before setting out to straighten things up with Ronald. She realised how deeply he must have suffered during the last few days. Anger at her uncle's duplicity was mingled with a tender compassion for the man who had been so bitterly deceived by his cruel and heartless trick.
“It's strange that your uncle should have been so antagonistic toward your friendship with Mr. Hardy,” concluded the Inspector. “Have you any idea as to why he took such a strong attitude in the matter, Miss Tregarthan?”
“An hour ago I hadn't, Inspector. But I think I see it all now.” She explained what had just transpired with the solicitor. “He must have been using this money of mine for his own purpose. Perhaps got into a difficult corner, Inspector. Naturally, if I married, the whole business would come out, since I should then be legally entitled to handle the settlement myself.”
“Speculation,” put in Bigswell. “Stock Exchange. Curious how people get bitten with the gambling spirit when it's other people's money they're risking!”
“And now,” said Ruth, rising quickly. “If you'll excuse me——”
“A moment,” cut in the Inspector. “I want to ask you just two questions before you go, Miss Tregarthan.” Ruth looked up and nervously scrutinised the Inspector's unsmiling countenance. “Firstly, why did you lie to me about your actions on Monday night? Why didn't you give me the real reason for leaving the house when you had been asked not to do so? And secondly—why did you perjure yourself at the Coroner's inquest?”
“So you know!”
The cry was involuntary. The Inspector smiled.
“I know everything,” he said. “Well?”
“I can tell you now. I can tell everything, Inspector. It was Ronald. I thought Ronald—may God forgive me for my suspicions—was responsible for my uncle's death. I knew he hated the sight of my uncle because of his unreasonable attitude toward our friendship. I knew, too, that he had a revolver. About a year ago he showed it to me as part of his varied collection of war mementoes. I found that revolver was missing on Monday night!”
“Let's start from the beginning,” suggested the Inspector. “Let's start at the moment when your uncle returned from his interview with Mr. Hardy at Cove Cottage.”
Ruth subsided into a chair and, after a moment's thought, plunged into her story.
“The whole trouble started at dinner that evening. My uncle told me what he had done. He tried to make me believe that there was some secret reason why I should have nothing more to do with Ronald. He led me to think that there was something disreputable about his past life. Needless to say I did not believe the implication. We quarrelled violently. I told him that he had no right to interfere with our friendship and that I was perfectly capable of managing my personal affairs myself. The result of the quarrel was that I left the dinner table in a towering rage. I intended to go at once to Cove Cottage and explain to Ronald exactly what my uncle had said. I went as you know along the cliff-path.
“When I reached Cove Cottage I found that Ronald had just left, apparently in a hurry. I was disturbed. I knew that Ronald was liable to fits of extreme melancholy when in trouble of any sort. It was the outcome of shell-shock in the war. At those moments he seemed to have little control over his emotions. He acted unreasonably and violently. Twice already I have had to pit my persuasive powers against his moodiness and, in each case, I was successful in winning him over to a more sensible frame of mind. Of late, however, these moods have been less frequent.
“I don't want you to think, Inspector, that when I first entered the cottage the idea of murder entered my head. It didn't. I was troubled, not on my uncle's account, but on Ronald's. I knew how he would react to my supposed message of dismissal. I knew he possessed a revolver. I was mad with anxiety that he had acted on the spur of the moment and rushed from the house, with the fixed idea of taking his own life.
“When Mrs. Peewit was out of the room, I opened the drawer where I knew he kept his revolver. It was gone. You can imagine my state of mind! Making a hurried excuse, I left the cottage and returned as quickly as possible along the cliff-path to Greylings. I had an idea of enlisting my uncle's help in finding Ronald. I thought perhaps he might be frightened by the result of his abominable trick.
“I reached the garden wall. Suddenly my toe came in contact with something hard that was lying on the cliff-path. I stooped down and picked it up. In the light that was coming from the sitting-room windows I saw that it was a revolver. A service revolver. Ronald's! Quickly I hid it in my mackintosh pocket and rushed into the house.
“What I found there you, of course, know. But coupled with the shock of finding my uncle murdered was the even more distressing thought that Ronald was the murderer. Had I been in a more normal frame of mind I daresay I should have questioned my first suspicions. I only know that, ever since Monday night, I have been in a storm of indecision. I have hated myself for my disloyalty, only to be plunged, the next minute, into the depths of hopelessness and despair because I could not completely allay that suspicion.
“I managed to take the revolver from my mackintosh pocket and hide it upstairs in a drawer of my dressing-table before the Constable arrived. I realised that if I wanted to shield Ronald from the police, it was essential for me to get rid of the revolver. You know now, of course, how I did it. I crept downstairs when you were talking to the Constable in the sitting-room and let myself out of the side-door. I went down to the cliff-path and threw the revolver into the sea. When later you questioned me as to the reason for my leaving the house, I had to invent an excuse on the spur of the moment. I'm afraid, Inspector, it was not a very plausible or convincing excuse! I could see then that you doubted my story. But what else could I do? I was so certain then that Ronald, in a fit of violent anger, had shot my uncle from the cliff-path. I had to shield him.
“At the inquest it was the same. Mrs. Mullion's evidence, I don't mind admitting, flung me off my balance for the moment. I got up to deny her story. Luckily Doctor Pendrill pulled me down until Mrs. Mullion had finished making her statement. This gave me time to think and when, later, I asked the Coroner if I might speak, I was ready with a simple but very reasonable explanation. I committed perjury. I admit it. I am quite ready to face the consequences of my action. I'm ready to face any charge the police may bring against me now that I know Ronald is innocent and safely back in Boscawen. These last days I have been living a nightmare existence. Nothing has seemed real. I thought I should never learn again what it meant to be happy and free of care. Always there was the thought of Ronald's safety in the background of my mind. That terrible, unworthy suspicion, too, that he had killed my uncle.
“Thank heaven that cloud has passed over! You will never begin to realise, Inspector, what your words meant to me, when you told me of Ronald's innocence. You know my story now. I'm prepared to face the charge of perjury. You needn't fear that I shall try and escape from the consequences of my actions. Only don't keep me now—please, Inspector! I must go to Ronald! I must comfort and reassure him. The thought of the misapprehension under which he is labouring nearly drives me mad when I think of it. He must think me heartless and callous, without any claim on his sympathy and understanding. I want to set everything right—now. At once!”
Ruth's voice had taken on a deeper, impassioned note. She was no longer setting out facts, she was giving th
e Inspector a glimpse of her inmost thoughts and feelings. She was no longer a witness under cross-examination. She was a woman moved by the stress of strong and genuine emotions.
“You've answered my two questions,” said the Inspector quietly. “That's all I wanted, Miss Tregarthan. If any further action is to be taken with regard to your behaviour at the inquest, I needn't bother you with that now. You are free to do as you wish. I've no further claim on your time.” He rose and held out his hand. “Goodbye, Miss Tregarthan.”
“You've got your car outside?” The Inspector nodded. “You are going in the direction of the village?”
“Yes—to the Constable's office. You want a lift?”
“If I may.”
“Of course.”
Thus it was that Ronald Hardy, sitting at his desk, was suddenly aware that a police car had come to a standstill outside the gate. He sighed. More officialdom, he supposed.
Then with a little cry he sprang to his feet, amazed beyond measure to see Ruth Tregarthan, hatless, coatless, running up the path toward him. They reached the door at the same moment. For an instant they stood staring at each other, puzzled, bewildered, an enquiring, wondering look—then Ruth stepped forward murmuring something unintelligible about a mistake and the door closed.
“Step on it, Grimmet,” said the Inspector in a terse voice. “What the devil are you staring at?”
“I'm thinking somebody's glad to see somebody else, sir,” replied Grimmet with a broad grin.
“Then you shouldn't think,” growled the Inspector. “Thinking's ruined many a man ... and woman, before to-day. Particularly wrong-thinking, Grimmet!”
The car slid off down the hill through the deepening twilight, to where an orange square of light glowed from the dark face of the Constable's cottage.
So much for Inspector Bigswell's pet theory!
CHAPTER XX
THE LITTLE GREYSTOKE TAILOR
IT was striking six when Inspector Bigswell climbed out of the car and entered the Constable's office. Grouch was perched on the high stool, writing at his desk. On seeing his superior, he pushed aside his work and took up a slip of paper which was lying under a paper-weight.
“Any luck, Grouch?”
“Fairly full list, I think, sir. I got one of the local fishermen here to identify the boats lying in Boscawen Cove and Jack Withers helped me with the Towan Cove lot. In those cases where the boats aren't named, I've taken down a bit of description so we can sort out which is which, sir.”
“Good,” said the Inspector. “Then you'd better stick that list in your pocket and come over to Towan Cove with me straight away. I want to follow up that idea we had of looking for the gravel. By the way, are all the boats accounted for?”
“I think so, sir. There's nothing but local-owned boats in the two coves at the moment. In the summer it's different. Chaps on holiday sometimes hire boats then and keep ’em on the slipway here. But there's nothing of this sort lying about now. I've got the names and addresses of every one of the local owners.”
“Right! Then let's get going.”
They climbed into the car and sped along the Vicarage road toward Towan Cove. On the way over the Inspector gave Grouch a rough idea of what had transpired in the Superintendent's office that afternoon. He did not believe in keeping his subordinates ignorant of what was happening outside the circle of their own particular vision.
Leaving Grimmet to turn the car at the top of the rough road which slid down precipitously into the cove, Bigswell and the Constable proceeded on foot. At some little distance from the milky line of breakers which marked the shore, the Inspector drew up short and pointed down into the hollow.
“What d'you make of that, Grouch?”
“Looks like somebody with a pocket-torch, sir.”
“Wonder who the devil he is and what he's up to?” said the Inspector in puzzled tones. “Must have dropped something during the day and come back to look for it. Quietly does it, Grouch. We'd better take a closer look.”
Keeping to the turf at the side of the slatey track, the two men descended into the cove. The figure was apparently unaware that it was being watched, for the bright circle of light travelled slowly over the line of boats, which lay side by side on the long slab of rock.
“Searching the boats for something, sir,” said Grouch in an undertone.
“Suspicious, eh?” demanded the Inspector.
Grouch agreed. On careful feet they moved nearer, when the Inspector suddenly stepped forward from the shadows and flung the light of his own pocket-torch directly on to the figure. The man swung round, startled. The Inspector laughed. It was the Reverend Dodd!
“Who's that?” demanded the Vicar sharply, for the dazzling light had temporarily blinded him.
“Inspector Bigswell.”
It was the Vicar's turn to chuckle.
“Dear me, Inspector, we seem destined to run into each other to-day. I thought you'd gone back to Greystoke.”
“What's the idea, Mr. Dodd? Stealing a march on me?”
“Gracious, no! Not intentionally that is. I was suddenly blessed with a minor inspiration over tea and I wanted to reassure myself that it was a genuine inspiration. As you see, I'm making a careful examination of the boats here. I wasn't satisfied with the cursory way we looked over them this morning. As a matter of fact, Inspector, I'm searching for gravel.”
“The deuce you are!” exclaimed Bigswell. “Then we may as well join forces because I came over here for exactly the same reason. Great minds think alike, eh, sir?”
“Or conversely, Inspector—fools seldom differ. It's curious how these old proverbs cancel each other out with such charming inconsequence. Since we've decided to join forces, I might add that many hands make light work—to which you might aptly reply: ‘Too many cooks spoil the broth.’ You see how beautifully it all works out?”
“I suppose we're both after the same clue?” asked the Inspector.
“Oh, no doubt about it. You said to yourself, if Tregarthan was shot from the sea then the man who shot him was the man who flung the gravel against the window. That being so, he must have had a small pile of gravel in the boat, which in turn leads us to suppose——”
“Exactly,” cut in the Inspector. “Well, Mr. Dodd—what luck have you had?”
“None ... so far. I've examined these three boats at this end of the row. Not a trace of gravel in any of them.”
“Well, let's examine this one,” suggested the Inspector, directing the rays of his torch on the boat which lay nearest to them. “If I'm not mistaken this is the tub we took out this morning, isn't it?”
“That's right—Joe Burdon's. Freshly painted with a white line running round it. Quite distinctive.”
They made an exhaustive search, even removing the loose boards which rested on the curved ribs at the bottom of the boat. But there was no trace of the gravel. They turned their attention, therefore, to the next in the line, a nondescript, rather clumsy-looking dinghy, with tarred sides and rusty rowlocks. Crudely painted on either side of the blunt bows was the name—Nancy. The bilgeboards were rotting at the edges and nearly awash in a pool of viscid water which had obviously seeped in through the keel of the boat.
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.
