by John Bude
“With the possibility,” grinned the Inspector, “that we're once more barking up the wrong tree!”
“Dear me—yes. I'm not suggesting that my assumption is unassailable. It's full of theories which may or may not hold water. But with your permission those are the lines of inquiry along which I should like to work. Whether you want to work side by side with me is another matter. You may have formed an entirely new set of theories. Inspector—knowing my own intolerable weakness for making mistakes, I sincerely hope you have!”
“And what exactly do you propose to do, Mr. Dodd? Question these two men?”
“Gracious me—no! At any rate, not yet. My idea was to sit in this arm-chair for a couple of hours with a cigar—a policy of splendid inaction. At the end of that time I hope I shall have solved another little problem which has been worrying me for some time. I want you to understand, Inspector, that I'm not asking you to stand aside while I carry on. Far from it. But I'm going to ask you to give me a couple of hours in which to turn things over in my mind. If, at the end of that time, I'm no nearer a solution of the mystery, then I see no reason why you shouldn't cross-examine Haskell and Burdon. But until then, as a special favour, I'm going to ask you to adopt a similar policy to mine. Splendid inaction, Inspector! Will you grant me this?”
The Inspector considered the Vicar's strange request for a moment and then gave his promise. He would pursue no further enquiries that morning—at any rate where the two men were concerned. He decided to spend the time making a further examination of the six boats.
The moment Inspector Bigswell had left the Vicarage, with a promise to return for lunch, the Vicar took out his copy of that mysterious note which had caused him so much speculation.
I'm not wanting your money. I shall hold my tongue not for your sake but for his. I've no wish to hear further about this. M. L.
Again and again the Vicar's thoughts had hovered over the exact meaning of this note. Again and again he had puzzled over the initials. M. L. suggested neither Haskell nor Burdon. Neither did the L fit in with the other two suspects on the list—Staunton and Parkins. Yet it was reasonable to suppose that the note had been written by a married woman or, at any rate, by a woman who was about to be married. The four possibles among the boat-owners at Towan Cove were all married. Burdon's wife had died some two years back but, since the note had obviously been sent to Tregarthan some time ago, it might just as well be his wife as Staunton's, Parkins’ or Haskell's. He tried to visualise these four women—their looks, their characters, their past behaviour, and gradually things began to clarify. A memory stirred, like a germinating seed, grew and grew, budded and flowered. Other past incidents came to his mind once this initial train of thought had been started. From doubt he passed to a partial acceptance of his theory, from partial acceptance to a curious feeling of certainty. The little bits began to fit together.
He rose and crossed to his desk. He took out a parish register. With fierce anxiety he turned the pages, running his finger down the list of names. Then he started. Remained quite still for a moment. Why hadn't he thought of that before? Considering the nature of the note, it was quite natural that the woman should have initialled it with her Christian names. Mary Louise! That was it, of course. She had omitted the third initial, perhaps with the subconscious fear that at some future date this note might be used as evidence against her. Not that she had acted criminally, of course. Tregarthan was the criminal. But it would have been an awkward situation to explain away to her husband if he had found out. But hadn't she offered an explanation? Obviously. And the reason for this sudden revelation of her unfortunate secret was obvious, too. The Vicar saw it all then, but he was not elated. He was stricken with a feeling of sorrow and compassion, wavering between a desire to throw the note into the fire and confess himself beaten, and his sense of duty which cried to him that justice had to be done. To destroy evidence, to withhold evidence from the police was, in itself, a criminal act. A murder had been committed. Murder was a terrible and dastardly thing. He could not condone it, however extenuating the circumstances.
He sat by the fire and, with an unsteady hand, poured himself out a glass of sherry. He shrank wholeheartedly from the task which lay before him.
Punctually at one the Inspector returned, but it was not until lunch had concluded, that the Vicar made any mention of his discovery.
“Time's up!” said the Inspector when they were alone. “Well, Mr. Dodd?”
The Vicar sighed. He knew there was no escaping the demands of duty, however unpleasant that duty might be.
“There's no question about it now, Inspector. I can see the whole thing clearly. I only wish it could have turned out otherwise. But I know now who murdered poor Tregarthan!”
“You know?”
Inspector Bigswell was astounded.
“As far as any man can know by deducing his facts from circumstantial evidence.”
“Then who is it?”
The Vicar shook his head.
“May I be allowed to work this in my own way and in my own time? Legally, of course, I have no right to keep back any information from you, Inspector. But somehow I should feel easier in my conscience if I could confront this man myself. You can be nearby—the Constable, too—concealed somewhere. But let me, I beg you, be the first to acquaint this poor man with the facts of the case. He's suffered already—God knows! Now it means more suffering ... perhaps, his life. Most certainly imprisonment.”
“Very well,” said the Inspector shortly. “I'll get hold of Grouch and we'll go straight away.”
The Vicar nodded.
“It would be best,” he said quietly.
An hour later Inspector Bigswell and P.C. Grouch were ensconced behind a couple of thick furze bushes on the cliff-top. Their eyes were fixed on a thin ribbon which serpentined up the rising slope of the common and, breasting the rise, disappeared beyond. Up that pathway, some fifteen minutes earlier, the Vicar had climbed. He held a police-whistle in one hand. In the other was the strange note.
The two men waited. The minutes dragged with intolerable slowness. Had the man made a dash for it? Had the Vicar been overpowered before he had time to blow his whistle? The Inspector was already beginning to kick himself for having let the Vicar have his way in the matter. It was a risk and a foolish one at that. Better to have made the arrest in the ordinary way—got out a proper warrant and made a workmanlike job of it. All this concession to a murderer's feelings was ridiculous. It was only out of respect for the Vicar's intelligence ... but a pretty fool he'd look at headquarters if the bird escaped from the net just when a capture seemed certain. Better, far better....
Grouch jerked his arm.
“It's all O.K., sir! He's coming back! Not alone either!”
A tall, gaunt figure, was walking with long strides beside the rotund little person of the Reverend Dodd. The two men seemed to be engaged in eager conversation. They approached with rapidity.
Suddenly the Inspector, followed by Grouch stepped clear of the bushes. The tall man halted at the sight of them, and turned to the Vicar. The little man threw out his hands. The tall man hesitated a moment, then with a shrug of his powerful shoulders, walked forward toward the police.
Grouch turned with amazement on the Inspector.
“Good heavens, sir!”
“Well?”
“It's Joe Burdon!”
“Burdon?”
“That's right,” said the man in question, who had overheard the Inspector's exclamation. “It's Joe Burdon—the chap whose boat you borrowed t'other day. Funny, eh? Loaning my own dinghy so as ye could collect evidence against me!”
Grouch and Bigswell closed in on either side of the gaunt quarryman.
“It's all right,” he growled. “I'll go quiet enough. It's a fair deal. I've lost. You've won. I wouldn't have it otherwise, I reckon. Mr. Dodd here knows all about it. He advises me to make a full statement.”
“I must warn you——” began the Inspector.<
br />
Joe Burdon waved his hand.
“Aye—I know. Everything I say will be used in evidence against me. That's as maybe. But all you'll hear from me now or later will be the naked truth. I promise ye that!”
“Then let's get going,” said the Inspector. “I've a car waiting down in the cove. If you've got anything to say then you'd better save it until we see the Chief over at Greystoke.” The Inspector turned on the Reverend Dodd. “And you, sir—coming our way? We can drop you at the Vicarage.”
“No, really—I don't think so, thank you, Inspector. I'll just take a quiet walk home along the cliff.” The Vicar held out his hand to the unemotional Burdon. “I'm sorry about this, Burdon, but I know you agree with me that it couldn't be otherwise.”
Burdon gripped the Vicar's extended hand and shook it vigorously.
“Don't you be worrying, Mr. Dodd. Sooner or later I should have given myself up. Chap can stand so much and then his nerve cracks. Aye, sir, a man's conscience is a powerful thing and not to be overcome, I reckon. I'm ready for what's coming.”
“Well ... good luck, Burdon,” said the Vicar in husky tones. “I'll see that you're represented. Good luck and good-bye.”
“Thank ye, Mr. Dodd.” He turned to the Inspector. “I'm ready.”
The trio set off down toward the cove, the tall, angular frame of the quarryman, swinging with an easy stride between the dark, uniformed figures of the law. For a long time the Vicar stood, immobile, staring after them, then with a deep sigh he followed slowly after, pondering on the curious ways of an almost childlike mankind. He had done his duty. By a lucky series of circumstances he had been guided to the solution of the mystery—but he felt no elation, no triumph, no satisfaction. Murder was all right in books and plays, but in real life it was a sorrowful, suffering business.
Never again did he want to find himself caught up in the sordid realities of a murder case. He felt utterly dispirited.
CHAPTER XXII
CONFESSION
THIS was the confession made by Joseph Alfred Burdon in the presence of the Chief Constable, the Superintendent and Inspector Bigswell at the divisional headquarters of the County Constabulary at Greystoke on Saturday, March 28th, 193–. It was in the form of a signed and written statement.
“I confess to the murder of Julius Tregarthan on Monday evening, March 23rd. I had deliberately planned his death. I had been turning over the idea of killing him for nearly two years. It was a job, to my way of thinking, that had to be done. He had ruined my domestic happiness. And, as I see it, was responsible for my wife's death. I had better start my story with events that happened three years ago, before the death of my wife Mary Louise Burdon. I am a quarryman employed by the Boscawen Slate Quarrying Co., which is about a quarter of a mile from my cottage in Towan Cove.
“As, at that time, we had no children, my wife was left alone for the most part of the day in the cottage. We were both happy in our marriage. She was a quiet, contented woman without a care in the world. I had a pretty good job and we had money enough to rub along without much worry. Our cottage was the property of Julius Tregarthan. We always paid the rent regularly every Friday, when Tregarthan himself made a round of his cottages in the cove and collected the money. As he used to call in the afternoon, I always gave my wife the rent-money and she paid Tregarthan herself.
“One Friday when I returned about six o'clock I found my wife upset. I could see she had been crying. I asked her what was the matter but she wouldn't tell me anything. I thought that she might have been feeling unwell and let the matter drop. I didn't think anything about it until a fortnight later. On that particular Friday when I got home I found my wife out. She did not come in until an hour later. She seemed strange and a bit wild in her manner. I again asked her if she was worrying about anything. She denied that anything was wrong.
“From that day, however, there seemed to be something between us. We couldn't get on in the old way at all. My wife seemed restless and uneasy and often sat for a long time without speaking, not even answering when I spoke to her. Things seemed to be going wrong in the cottage. I tried a hundred ways to find out if my wife had anything on her mind or if she was faced with trouble of any sort. But she never dropped a hint as to what was the matter.
“This went on for about three months. Then one day she suddenly told me that she was going to have a baby. I was naturally pleased and excited on hearing the good news. We had always wanted a child. I knew my wife would make a perfect mother and we had both looked forward to the birth of our firstborn. At once I saw the reason for her past moodiness and restlessness and I did my best to cheer her up by talking about the happiness which was coming to us in the near future. But my wife remained strangely depressed. Instead of looking forward to the day when her baby would be born, she seemed to shrink from the approaching event. I got it into my mind after a bit, that she didn't want the child to be born. I couldn't get rid of the idea.
“A black cloud seemed to hang over us. Then one day, on my way home from the quarries, I was met by Jack Withers, a man who lives in the cove. He brought me news that my wife had given birth to a son. I ran down as fast as I could to the cottage. My wife was suffering terribly. She was deathly white and fighting for breath. I knew somehow, as soon as I saw her, that she would not live. The child, too, was sickly, and lay at her side without a sound and making little movement. The Doctor told me there was small chance for either of them. I was almost off my head with grief. I had looked forward to this day for so long.
“At nine o'clock that night, the child died. My wife did not seem to understand what had happened and protested when they took the dead baby from her side. She realised that she was dying. I don't know how. A sort of instinct, I reckon. She called me to sit at her side. I did so. She told me that she had a confession to make. It was then that I first learnt to hate the very name of Julius Tregarthan. That child was not mine. It was Tregarthan's. The man had been making up to my wife when he called for the rent-money on Friday afternoons. He was cunning and in no hurry. He pretended, at first, to have a fatherly interest in my wife's affairs. She was taken in by his talk and began to look upon him as a friend. She never drew him on—that I'll swear! She was never that sort. Tregarthan played his hand with the devil's own cunning. My wife was quite taken in by his charming ways and his easy talk.
“One Friday there was a bit of a scene when he tried to kiss her. After that my wife began to dread his weekly visits. And then, one afternoon, he behaved like a brute beast, like the swine he was, and took advantage of her. A child was the result. Tregarthan got at her and forced her to make out that I was the father of the child. He even tried to bribe her with money, which my wife refused to accept. She was terrified that her secret would leak out. She knew that Tregarthan, with his smooth tongue, was capable of making out that she was in love with him, that the deception was mutual. If only she had not doubted my faith in her! It was the only wrong she ever did me!
“Late that terrible night, my wife died ... in agony. From that moment I had but one idea in my head, and that was to kill Tregarthan. I think he realised that I knew of his beastliness. After the death of my wife he never again called at the cottage for the rent. He arranged for me to leave the money with Mrs. Withers. I reckon he was afraid of meeting me alone. I was in no hurry. My idea was to plan out a perfect scheme so that when Tregarthan was murdered suspicion could never fall on me. Soon the plan began to take shape. I had an old service revolver, which I had scrounged in France, before being demobbed in ‘19, and several rounds of ammunition.
“By careful watching I got to know Tregarthan's habits of an evening. He was, I realised, a man of routine. I knew that when he had finished his dinner he always went into his sitting-room. My first idea was to lure him to the window and shoot him from the cliff-path. I turned over this plan for a couple of months, but I knew that it was by no means perfect. For one thing the sound of the shooting might bring people to the spot. I might have trouble
in making myself scarce after the murder. Then, one night, there was a storm over the coast and I saw at once that, if I chose the right moment, I could fire under cover of the thunder-claps. But a thunderstorm usually means rain and rain means mud and mud means footprints. I gave up the idea of shooting Tregarthan from the footpath.
“My next step toward making my plan perfect was the idea of shooting Tregarthan from the sea. I owned a boat. I often did a bit of night fishing. Even if I was seen the chances were that nobody would think it unusual for me to be out in a boat after dark. I made several tests along under the cliff. I found out how near I could get to the cliff and still keep the window in view. I realised that it would not be very difficult shooting. The next thing was to divert suspicion from myself and make it look as if somebody on land had committed the murder.
“So, one night, I filled a flour-bag with gravel off the Greylings drive. I hid it away in the cottage. When I had fired my first scheme was to throw my revolver into the sea. But suddenly I realised that if I threw my revolver up on to the cliff-path, it would look more than ever as if somebody on land had killed Tregarthan. Then, with my plan all set, I waited for the right moment to carry out the job. For months I waited for a storm to come up at the time when I knew Tregarthan would be in his sitting-room. Time and again there were day storms and storms late at night. But I was in no hurry. I felt certain that one night my chance would come. And then on Monday, March 23rd, my chance did come.
“As ill-luck would have it, I had painted my own boat only the day before. I dared not risk getting paint all over my clothes. It would look suspicious if the police found out. So I borrowed Mr. Crook's boat, the Nancy. I dumped the flour-bag full of gravel in the boat. I put on gloves, polished my revolver and loaded it. Then I put out to sea. I kept a course close along under the cliffs until I came to Greylings. There was a light in the sitting-room window. I had to risk the fact that Miss Tregarthan might have been in the room. If I threw the gravel against the window and she came to it instead of her uncle, then I knew it was a matter of waiting for my next chance.
