Lewis Haldean stood looking down at her. His face was grave. At last he said:
“Is that how it happened?”
She inclined her head.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s how it happened.”
The electric light was on now for it was beginning to grow dark. It was picking out the little golden lines in Haldean’s beard. He looked very serious and somehow tense, poised over her like a blond statue.
“My dear,” he said slowly. “My dear, you aren’t—hiding anything?”
Mordecai Tremaine was watching Helen Carthallow, and he saw that the question had shaken her. For an instant there was a shadowy fear in her eyes. She moved her head and the lock of hair came down.
“I don’t understand you, Lewis,” she said.
Haldean said:
“You aren’t trying to protect Adrian? You’re quite sure he didn’t kill himself?”
“Of course,” she said. Her voice rose. There was a shrillness in it. “Of course. I’ve told you how it happened. I’ve told the police. I shot him. Adrian gave me his gun and I pointed it at him and fired. That’s what he told me to do. He must have forgotten it was loaded . . .”
She broke off suddenly. She stared up at Haldean and there was in her face the incredulous look of a person who had just become aware of a new and altogether unexpected possibility.
“You mean,” she whispered, “you mean that perhaps he hadn’t forgotten? That he wanted me to kill him?”
Haldean did not make any comment. Roberta Fairham was leaning forward in her chair, her lips slightly parted. It was as though she was desperately anxious not to miss what Helen Carthallow might be going to say.
Mordecai Tremaine felt a sense of antagonism towards her. There seemed to be something of the ghoul in the pale eyes and the hard, peaked little face with its inexpert make-up. Why should she be displaying such a morbid curiosity?
But, of course, he already knew the answer. Roberta Fairham had been in love with Carthallow.
Carthallow hadn’t given her much encouragement, or at least he hadn’t appeared to. Which wasn’t at all surprising, for even if he had been the kind of man to take all that infatuated women were ready to give him he would probably have drawn the line at Roberta. She was definitely not the type to cause men to lose their heads. The thought of being pursued by her, Mordecai Tremaine reflected unkindly, would be enough to cause the average man to shudder.
Still, that wouldn’t affect her side of the story. She might have been nursing her passion against the day when the miracle might happen and it would be returned. To that extent, therefore, she would be interested in what Carthallow had had in his mind when he had handed that revolver to his wife. She had a kind of deferred share in the matter.
Helen Carthallow said:
“No. It can’t be true. It can’t. Adrian couldn’t have done that.”
She seemed to be talking more to herself than to Haldean. It was as though her mind was somewhere else altogether.
Lewis Haldean’s face still wore that expression of concern. It was clear that he wanted desperately to help her and didn’t know quite how to approach her. At last he said:
“You know, Helen, that if there’s anything I can do, you can count on me.”
She looked up at him and then she began to laugh. Softly at first and then louder. It was a harsh, unnatural sound that had a metallic edge to it.
“It’s so funny, Lewis. So awfully funny. Everybody wants to help me. And there isn’t anything to be done. Adrian’s dead and the police are in the house and there’s nothing for anyone to do. That’s what makes it so absurd . . .”
Hilda Eveland said, sharply:
“Stop it, Helen!”
Helen Carthallow raised her hands to her face. She sat for a moment with her fingers pressed to her eyes, and when she took her hands away again there was no sign of the hysteria that had threatened to break her self-control.
“I’m sorry, Lewis,” she said evenly. “You must think I’m an ungrateful beast. I’m not really. It’s been rather a trying day.”
“That’s all right, my dear,” he told her, “I understand.”
Mordecai Tremaine was not certain, but he fancied there was chagrin in Roberta Fairham’s face. He had the impression that she was disappointed that the incident had not been allowed to develop.
He found his eyes continually coming back to her. Fortunately she was too intent upon watching Helen Carthallow to be aware of his scrutiny.
He had once thought Roberta to be a rather negative person, incapable of strong emotion. He had believed that even her affection for Adrian Carthallow was of an ineffective type that was not banked by smouldering fires and was unlikely to achieve any climax.
But now he was by no means certain that the situation was as simple as that. He had seen hate in her eyes when she had looked at Helen Carthallow. And it had been the hate of a soul that possessed the capacity for performing dark and violent deeds.
Altogether it was a stimulating evening. It didn’t produce any startling facts, but it produced a great deal of atmosphere. Which, as far as Mordecai Tremaine was concerned, was equally as good. He thrived upon atmosphere. It was the best of all germinating influences for the seeds of theory that dwelt within him.
There was no doubt, he reflected, as he left Hilda Eveland’s house, that he had plenty of scope for theorizing now. It was not altogether a comforting thought. Some of the theories seemed likely to lead to highly disturbing conclusions.
Two things stood sharply etched among the confusion of impressions the evening had brought him. The undisguised hate he had seen in Roberta Fairham’s face and the hardness and the cynicism that had been in Helen Carthallow’s eyes.
Mordecai Tremaine shook his head. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all.
5
AFTER BREAKFAST JONATHAN Boyce suggested a stroll along the cliffs. There were banks of clouds over the sea but it looked as though they would pass and that it would be a fine day. Mordecai Tremaine said that he would be glad of the exercise. It was, of course, purely a coincidence that they walked towards Paradise.
At first they talked carefully about the view. Boyce puffed stolidly at his pipe and pointed out the fishing boats bobbing clear of the bay.
“Looks a bit rougher out there,” he remarked. “The wind can be pretty fierce once you get round the headland. Glad I fixed my trip for yesterday. Even though,” he added, “I missed the main event of the afternoon.”
He looked at his companion. He said:
“Did you learn anything last night, Mordecai?”
Mordecai Tremaine pushed his pince-nez back into position.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve been hoping I didn’t, but I don’t know.”
“There was a full house, wasn’t there?”
“Yes. Steele, Haldean, Roberta Fairham, several people from the neighbourhood—they all went over to see whether they could do anything to help.”
“Or to see whether there was anything they could learn,” interposed Boyce dryly.
“Not Steele,” Tremaine returned. “Nor Haldean.”
Boyce said:
“Mrs. Carthallow appears to be popular. I’m not surprised. I like her myself. I’d be sorry to see anything go wrong.”
There was a constable standing at the entrance to the bridge leading to Paradise. Boyce nodded a greeting to him but did not attempt to approach him. It was a strange feeling to know that a police investigation was in progress and yet to have no right of entry, but he knew that the constable was aware of his identity and he did not wish to put the man in a difficult position. At the moment he was merely a civilian holiday-maker. He had no official standing.
Fortunately Penross arrived a few minutes later and the inspector had decided upon his course of action.
“I’d like you to come into the house with me,” he said. “I’ll take a chance with the Chief Constable. Although I don’t think he’s likely to raise obj
ections seeing who you both are.”
Mordecai Tremaine followed him over the bridge with a chest inflated with pride. He began to feel that maybe it wasn’t at all a bad thing to have earned a reputation as a crime investigator.
When they reached the house:
“I’ve asked Mrs. Carthallow to come over,” said Penross. “I told her I’d appreciate her help in checking up one or two details.”
They went with him into the study. Mordecai Tremaine found it difficult to recall that not many hours ago he had been in this same room with the body of a man who had died violently. The said body had, of course, been removed. There was only the still overturned chair to add a slightly jarring note to what was otherwise a perfectly ordinary scene.
“You’ve been here before, Mordecai,” Penross said. “Before yesterday, I mean. Is there anything different about the appearance of this room?”
Mordecai Tremaine looked carefully around him, although he had already impressed every detail upon his memory.
“Only the desk,” he said. “Usually it stood over there.”
He indicated a position against the outer wall of the study. Penross nodded.
“That’s what I thought,” he said. “You can see the marks in the carpet as though it was resting there for a long time. I wonder what made him move it?”
He was looking expectantly at Mordecai Tremaine, but that gentleman shook his head.
“Sorry, Charles. No suggestions.”
Jonathan Boyce had been surveying the room, his stocky form pivoting slowly, his sharp eyes peering intently about him.
“Where did you find the sun spectacles?” he asked.
Penross smiled.
“I thought maybe you’d have all the details by now,” he observed. “That’s why I didn’t go over them again.” He indicated a chair standing against the bookcase. “They were here.”
“Folded or open?”
“Open. As though they’d just been placed there while somebody looked for a book.”
Boyce nodded.
“And the forceps?”
“Not quite so obvious,” said Penross. “They were lying on the floor against the edge of the carpet just behind this leather cushion.”
“And Mrs. Carthallow,” remarked Tremaine, “says that the spectacles are hers and that she must have left them there several days ago but that she can’t explain the forceps. She thinks they must have belonged to her husband. He was always dabbling with pills and medicines and various medical gadgets.”
Boyce nodded again.
“What about the picture?” he said. “I take it that it’s in the studio?”
“I’ll show you,” said Penross.
He took them up the narrow stairway. Boyce glanced around at the untidy litter Adrian Carthallow had left behind him. He took up one or two of the charcoal sketches.
“Not bad,” he said. “He’s got the sweep of the coast even in this rough drawing. He had talent all right.”
“I wonder,” said Penross, “what he was preparing to do with it?”
He went up to the big easel and swung it round so that Boyce could see the canvas. Jonathan Boyce whistled.
“So somebody didn’t like it,” he said.
He stepped closer to the portrait. The thick streaks of yellow ochre, cadmium red and cobalt blue that had been daubed across it by a vicious hand effectively prevented any detailed examination of the original painting. It was still possible to tell that the sitter was Helen Carthallow but it was hopeless to attempt to judge the expression her husband had given her. The eyes, that would have betrayed the rest of the painting, had been obliterated with great patches of blue as though the tube had been squeezed out against the canvas and rubbed in with savage force.
“Was it going to be the Mona Lisa?” said Mordecai Tremaine. “Or Circe?”
From outside the house, through the open window of the studio, they heard the heavy tones of the constable stationed at the door and then a woman’s voice.
“That sounds like Mrs. Carthallow now,” said Penross.
When they reached the lounge she was already there waiting for them. She was wearing a grey costume with a flared skirt that was tailored to her slim figure. She wore no hat; her dark hair was brushed back from her forehead to fall gracefully to her shoulders. It was fine, silky hair that glimmered in the light from the window behind her. Her lips were not their usual vivid scarlet; she seemed, indeed, to be wearing very little make-up this morning.
There was tragedy in her face but there was a dignity as well. Mordecai Tremaine felt something catch at his throat. The hardness had gone from her and she looked very sad and very beautiful.
“Good morning,” she said, as they came in. “You wanted to see me, Inspector?”
“Yes,” said Penross. “Thank you for coming over, Mrs.Carthallow. There are just one or two things I’d like to clear up and I thought it would be easier to deal with them on the spot.”
She looked at him with a puzzled air.
“But I told you all I could, Inspector. I thought I went over everything. It was all in my statement.”
Penross said, as though he was unaware of the question in her voice:
“You know these two gentlemen, of course?”
“Yes, of course.”
“You have no objection to their being here?”
There was a touch of asperity in her voice.
“I don’t understand you, Inspector. Why should I object?”
“What I meant, Mrs. Carthallow,” said Penross, “was that they aren’t here in any official capacity. If you would rather not answer any questions or make any statements in their presence there is no reason why you should do so. As a matter of fact,” he added, “you aren’t compelled to answer questions in any case, although I shall naturally appreciate any help you are able to give me.”
She gave him a steady, speculative glance.
“You aren’t—cautioning me, Inspector?”
“What gave you that impression, Mrs. Carthallow?” he asked. “No, I’m just anxious that you should be aware of your rights. That’s part of my job, you know, to make sure that people understand all the rules that are laid down for their protection. Now,” he said, “I wonder if you’ll be good enough to come across to your husband’s study?”
She sat very still.
“Is it—necessary?” she said, in a low voice.
“I’m afraid it is,” he told her gravely.
They crossed the hall and went into the room where Adrian Carthallow had died. She looked instinctively at the desk. The faint colour that had been in her cheeks when she had arrived had vanished.
“What is it you want me to do?”
“I’d like you to show me,” said Penross, “exactly where you were standing when your husband was shot.”
She hesitated for a second or two, as though recollecting, and then walked across the room.
“I was here,” she said steadily.
Penross began to move slowly towards her.
“Tell me to stop,” he said, “when I’m just about where your husband was standing.”
She watched him. When Penross drew level with the desk she made a little gesture. Penross stopped.
“Here?”
“I’m not sure,” she said slowly. “I think—I think it must have been more to the left.”
Penross shifted his position.
“About here?”
“Yes,” she said. “About there. Adrian was sitting at his desk when he took the revolver out of the drawer. He got up and gave it to me. I think I must have backed away from him. That’s when he laughed and said that there wasn’t anything to worry about because it wasn’t loaded.”
Penross appeared to be thinking hard. He said:
“When you fired, did you hold your arm straight out in front of you or did you bend it slightly?”
She frowned.
“I don’t think,” she said, “it could have been straight. I’m not certain—it’s
all rather hazy. But the revolver was heavy. It wasn’t easy for me to hold.”
“I see. So when you actually fired the shot, if what you’ve just said is correct, you must have been about two or three yards away from your husband. Is that right?”
It was obvious that she was troubled. There was a watchfulness in her manner and it seemed that there was fear in it, too.
“Yes,” she said unwillingly. “Yes, that’s right.”
Penross looked at her. He shook his head.
“I’m afraid, Mrs. Carthallow,” he said, “it won’t do.”
She tried to conceal her agitation but she did not quite succeed. Her breathing had become hurried.
“What do you mean?” she said.
“I mean that it didn’t happen like that,” Penross said quietly.
“The doctor says that the shot that killed your husband was fired at close quarters. Very close quarters. Why don’t you tell me the truth, Mrs. Carthallow?”
She tried to speak but although her lips shaped words no sound came out of them. Penross watched her. His manner was gentle but there was something inflexible behind it. Mordecai Tremaine knew that he wasn’t going to let go.
And at last Helen Carthallow said:
“All right, Inspector. I’ll tell you the truth. I’ll tell you what really happened.”
Penross pulled forward one of the easy chairs. He was utterly non-committal.
“I think,” he said, “that will be much more satisfactory.” He motioned to her to sit down. “I don’t want you to regard this as an ordeal and I don’t want you to say anything until you’re quite sure what you want to tell me. There’s no hurry at all. The only thing that matters,” he said, and now there was a trace of significance in his voice, “is that we should get at the truth.”
She sat down. Her hand went up to her forehead with an instinctive gesture that conveyed despair and helplessness.
“I’ve been very foolish,” she said. “I realize that. I’m sorry, Inspector. I should have known better than to try to tell you such a story. It was obvious yesterday that you didn’t believe me. I knew myself how thin it sounded. I knew that I ought to tell you the truth, but it was too late then to go back on what I’d said. And I wanted to avoid the scandal. Adrian was a well-known figure. His death would make a stir. The newspapers would be searching out all they could about him.
So Pretty a Problem Page 5
