“Up to the moment when you went into the house with Mrs.Carthallow only four people used it. The postman, who called twice, on the early morning round and then with the second delivery; the milkman—he crosses the bridge and leaves the milk in a box affair on the far side from which the servants collect it—and Mr. and Mrs. Carthallow. She saw the postman and the milkman cross over and return and she saw Carthallow and his wife arrive.”
“Together?”
“No. Carthallow was first by a quarter of an hour or so. His wife came alone. That much at least bears out her story.”
“It doesn’t seem,” said Mordecai Tremaine, “to be particularly convincing evidence. Miss Vickery may easily have been mistaken. Someone could have gone in without her knowledge.”
Penross leaned back in his chair. His attitude was that of a man who had already found the answers to all the possible questions.
“She had a bad day yesterday—was in pain most of the time. She couldn’t concentrate on reading so she just lay in bed and watched from her window. She’s positive that she didn’t doze off at all and that she saw everything that went on. Her memory’s remarkably good—probably because she’s compelled to spend so much time looking at the world instead of playing an active part in it—and I don’t think there’s much escapes her. Even if she did nod for a moment or two and miss someone going in it’s unlikely that she would have missed the same person coming out as well.”
“I can’t swear,” said Mordecai Tremaine, “that there wasn’t anyone else in the house when I went back with Mrs. Carthallow. I didn’t search the premises and it would have been simple enough for a person who had been in hiding to have got away during the time we were waiting for you to turn up.”
“But only,” said Penross, “across the bridge. There’s only one way into that house. Miss Vickery says that she was watching the bridge the whole time. She’s positive that no one left the house between the time you crossed over with Mrs. Carthallow and the time when I got there after your telephone message.
“I questioned her pretty thoroughly and from what she told me about other things she’d seen and that I could check for myself I’m convinced she’s right. And I can vouch for the fact that nobody who hasn’t been accounted for left afterthat. I put one of my men at the entrance to the bridge and if anybody had tried to pass him I’d have known about it.”
He stopped. And then he said, with deliberate emphasis:
“There were only two people in that house. One was Mrs.Carthallow and the other was her husband.”
“I take it,” said Boyce, “that as a matter of routine you’ve looked into one or two people’s alibis?”
Penross took out a notebook from his pocket and thumbed through the pages.
“I’ve made a list of the people who seem to have had most to do with Carthallow. I haven’t had time to break down any of their stories so far, of course, but they all claim to have been a long way from Paradise when he was killed. Ah—here we are. Roberta Fairham. Was at a tennis party at the other end of the town. Says she was there before two-thirty, although she can’t be certain of the actual time, and didn’t leave until after five. It should be easy enough to check. She can’t have been the only person there.
“Lewis Haldean was over at St. Mawgan—didn’t get back until last night. He wasn’t due until today but says he came straight here when he heard the news.”
“I happened to be at Mrs. Eveland’s when he arrived,” said Mordecai Tremaine. “He’d found out that Mrs. Carthallow was there.”
Penross was studying his notes.
“I wonder what brought him back in such a hurry?” he said thoughtfully.
He left the question in the air, but he glanced suggestively at Mordecai Tremaine and that gentleman understood what he meant.
“There isn’t anything between them—as far as I know,” he said defensively. “Haldean’s more or less one of the family circle and I suppose it was natural for him to come back to see whether there was anything he could do. As a matter of fact, I always had the impression that he was on better terms with Adrian Carthallow than with his wife. So I don’t think, Charles, you’ll get very far with trying to bring him into an eternal triangle.”
“I haven’t said anything about an eternal triangle,” Penross remarked. “But since you’ve raised the subject I thought the most likely candidate for one side of the triangle was Lester Imleyson.”
“All right,” said Boyce, “where was Imleyson at the vital time?”
“On the road between Wadestow and Falporth,” returned the other. “His car broke down—one of the leads managed to become disconnected and it took him a little while to locate the trouble. He was coming back from the race meeting.”
“So his car broke down,” said Boyce. “After all, it might have happened to anybody. I wonder where he would have been if he hadn’t been delayed?”
“If we knew the answer I don’t see that it would prove anything.” There was a note of disappointment in the inspector’s voice. “The important thing is that he wasn’t at Paradise.”
Mordecai Tremaine’s face was grave. He was thinking that Penross was going to find it difficult not to make up his mind about Helen Carthallow one way or the other. Falporth had already produced a blossoming of reporters who would not be slow at hunting out the facts of the situation, and the chief constable would have studied the reports and would be expecting something to be done.
And it was no good trying to oppose unpalatable evidence with mere sentiment.
He went over in his mind all the points Penross had brought forward and it was undeniable that they added up to a damning indictment.
Adrian Carthallow had been killed with a gun that carried only his wife’s fingerprints. The two of them had been alone in the house at the time. Helen Carthallow was known to be in love with Lester Imleyson. She had admitted that it had been the cause of a violent quarrel between her husband and herself. She had already given two versions of the way in which Adrian Carthallow had died and neither of them was the correct one.
There were, he thought, four possible explanations.
One. Adrian Carthallow had killed himself for some reason yet to be ascertained. In which case why had there been no fingerprints of his on the gun?
Two. Helen Carthallow had killed him, but accidentally. In which case why had she not told a straightforward story instead of making two statements the police had easily proved to be untrue?
Three. Helen Carthallow was a murderess and had killed her husband with malice aforethought. In which case why had she not made at least an intelligent attempt to protect herself?
Four. Some third person, at present unknown, had been responsible. In which case how had he or she managed to come and go unseen?
He realized then that he had not, after all, covered all the possibilities. There was a fifth. One that Jonathan Boyce had raised.
Adrian Carthallow had wanted his wife to kill him and had lied deliberately in telling her that the gun was not loaded. But in that case why had he chosen such a clumsy method of committing suicide and why hadn’t she told the truth about where she had been standing when she had fired?
He recalled the first time he had met Adrian Carthallow and his wife, probing into his memory to find some clue that would help him now, searching for the link with that dreadful scene in the study at Paradise that must exist in the background of their lives. He could see Helen Carthallow’s face; could see the dark eyes and the over-vivid lips; could see them and could not be certain of what they meant.
Inspector Penross dug his hands deep into his pockets. He heaved a long and heavy sigh.
“The question is,” he said, “where do we go from here? Instead of a nice, neat little accident it looks like being as pretty a problem as I’ve struck.”
Mordecai Tremaine said:
“Yes. She is, isn’t she?”
PART TWO
Background: Before the Corpse
1
&nbs
p; MORDECAI TREMAINE WAS thinking that it was a very good party. There were a lot of people present and he liked meeting people.
It was true, of course, that he had brought a dangerous enthusiasm to the task of passing judgment on Anita Lane’s latest capture from her wine merchant. If he was not exactly wearing rosy-coloured glasses the pince-nez through which he was beaming happily were temporarily possessed of a quality that had invested the scene with a mellowness slightly larger than life.
As a stage and film critic Anita’s circle of acquaintances was a wide one and all kinds of guests were likely to be found at her Kensington flat. Tonight it was Adrian Carthallow who was the social lion.
Carthallow’s latest picture, The Triumphal March of the Nations, had just been exhibited and the art world was still being torn violently in opposite directions by those who considered that it was worthy to hang alongside the masters and those who contended that such depths of bitterness and cynicism would have been best left untouched.
Tremaine had not seen the painting but he had read the criticisms of both sides and he was inclined to support Carthallow, for if it was bitter and cynical it was at least founded upon truth.
It was intended to represent Evolution and showed the growth of man from the primeval apes to the flowering of the modern nations. For a comparatively small canvas it was a remarkable achievement.
Carthallow had made clever use of impressionism without falling into the error of exaggeration, and the eye was carried from left to right and upwards in a bold sweep of colour that showed mankind pressing on to fulfilment, the figures crowding one upon the other beneath the irresistible impetus of the life force. The whole point of the picture lay in the fact that the triumphant nations at the summit of the evolutionary tree bore the faces of war, famine, pestilence and greed. From a distance they appeared to be figures of nobility, but when one approached closer to the canvas they were revealed as grimacing skeletons, with evil eyes burning from fleshless sockets.
It produced a sensation of physical shock to stand near to it and see the whole thing change so sickeningly to something that conjured up the horrible odour of the charnel house. Carthallow had been asked to reveal the technique that had produced that telling effect but he had refused to gratify his questioners.
“Rembrandt had his secrets,” he had said grandly. “I have mine.”
Anita Lane introduced Mordecai Tremaine early in the proceedings.
“He’s been dying to add you to his collection, Adrian,” she said.
Carthallow was puzzled at first and then a look of understanding came into his face.
“Tremaine? Are you the Mordecai Tremaine who goes around solving murders?”
Mordecai Tremaine assumed an air of modesty.
“I have been in the neighbourhood once or twice when the police have been working on a case,” he admitted, “and the newspapers have given me rather a lot of publicity.”
“So,” Carthallow observed, “I’ve noticed.”
“It wasn’t altogether welcome,” said Tremaine hastily, thinking his modesty had been overdone and was in danger of becoming suspect. “There was a tendency to neglect the part played by the police, and after all they did most of the real work.”
“Any time,” Carthallow said, “you feel you’re getting too much publicity, just let me know. I thrive on it.”
He had the air of the sublime egotist. Tremaine felt the beginnings of dislike stirring regretfully within him. But he told himself that it was short-sighted to leap to conclusions. First impressions were sometimes a long way from the truth.
He looked at his companion reflectively, taking in the long, rather pinched nose, the thinning hair, the hint of the paunch of the successful man that was pushing insidiously at Carthallow’s waistline. Although the artist was a man who liked to live in the limelight and be the centre of attraction, it did not follow that he was fundamentally unsound. It might very well be the natural exuberance of the creative artist that drove him to take the centre of the stage.
And as the evening progressed Tremaine found that initial resentment dying away.
“Even the cleverest of criminals,” he said, in response to a question the other had put to him concerning his hobby, “slips up sooner or later. And once the police have had their suspicions aroused there’s no escaping them.”
“So you don’t,” said Carthallow, “believe in the perfect crime?”
“The perfect crime,” returned Tremaine, “isn’t likely ever to be analysed, because once the police know about it the perfection’s gone. The essence of it is that no one should suspect that there has been a crime.”
“I see your point,” Carthallow observed, and there was a note almost of regret in his voice. “It must be depressing to commit the perfect murder and then not be able to take the credit for it just because you’ve done the job so well. I wonder how many unsuspected murderers are walking around now,” he said reflectively, “just aching to tell the world how clever they’ve been!”
“I hope there aren’t many,” said Mordecai Tremaine hastily. Carthallow eyed him with a hint of amusement. He said:
“You’d better keep an eye on me.”
Tremaine peered doubtfully over his pince-nez.
“You don’t mean,” he said, “that you’re contemplating committing what you hope is going to be the perfect murder?”
Carthallow grinned.
“Not exactly. But you never know when I might be called upon to play a leading part in one of your detective problems. The part of the corpse. A lot of people don’t like me at all, and some of them have told me how delighted they’d be to have an opportunity of laying me out. I’d like to think that I was going to be revenged by someone who really knew his stuff!”
The words were bantering, but somehow they impacted upon Mordecai Tremaine’s mind with an odd sense of chill. He felt for an instant or two that he was walking over a grave. And then he said:
“I suppose an artist is bound to make enemies. Especially if he paints exactly what he sees. But words aren’t deeds. A lot of things are said that aren’t meant.”
“Maybe,” said Carthallow, and grinned, and turned to look for another whisky.
There was no opportunity of continuing the discussion for Carthallow was in constant demand. There was no doubt that he enjoyed the role.
Mordecai Tremaine would probably have finished the evening with an active dislike for him but for one circumstance. And the circumstance was Carthallow’s attitude towards his wife.
He never forgot that she was present. He took pains to see that she was not neglected. His concern for her was understandable, for Helen Carthallow was an attractive woman. Mordecai Tremaine thought that he would have preferred it if she had been a little less vivacious and if her laugh had been slightly more subdued. But he was aware of his own limitations and was prepared to admit that in some respects he was old-fashioned.
Besides, when he talked to her he did not feel that he was speaking to a hard and unsympathetic person. Despite the boldness of her make-up he was conscious of something essentially feminine in her.
Searching for a common ground for conversation he mentioned a musical play he had seen the previous week, and when she spoke of the theatre her face took on an enthusiasm that told him he had found a subject in which she had a genuine interest. Her slim, graceful body seemed to develop a new vitality : the dark eyes acquired a natural eagerness; the colour came into the whiteness of her cheeks and by contrast the harsh scarlet of her lips was toned down so that it was barely noticeable.
For a brief space of time she became a different person, and the result was that by the end of the evening Mordecai Tremaine’s feelings had become so mixed that he was incapable of making up his mind about her.
If he had not seen her in that mood, displaying the spontaneous pleasure of a child with no adult inhibitions to guard her speech, he would have dismissed her as a rather metallic, empty creature who moved in a bohemian world, continual
ly acting the gay wife of a successful artist, smiling without meaning and uttering flatteries that were false. Now he was wondering which of the two women he had seen was the real Helen Carthallow. He was wondering whether the lipstick and the over-bright manner were symbols of defence.
As the wife of Adrian Carthallow it was inevitable that she should move in the limelight and that she would be called upon to act the hostess with or to meet people with whom she would otherwise have had nothing in common. Was she inwardly a little afraid of it all, and was this her instinctive reaction?
He cried a halt before he could become too involved with theorizing. At any rate it was gratifying to his sense of the romantic to see that Adrian Carthallow displayed such consideration towards her. In times when the sanctity of marriage seemed to be going the downhill way of all the other moral standards it was reassuring to find a man who paid court to his wife in public.
Later, and before he bade good night to Anita, he said as much to her. Unaccustomed wine had mellowed him. He was prepared to take an exaggeratedly sentimental view of the universe.
Anita Lane gave him a curious look. She said, dryly:
“Do you still read Romantic Stories, Mordecai?”
Despite his mood he sensed the critical note in her voice.
“What do you mean?” he asked her.
“Let it pass, Mordecai,” she told him. “Sometimes it’s better to have your head in the clouds.”
He wanted to question her further but she turned to attend to others of her departing guests, and in his state of exaltation it seemed in any case to be of no importance.
2
POSSIBLY IT WAS merely because Adrian Carthallow’s name had moved up a step or two in his subconscious mind that he noticed it more, but it seemed that in the course of the following weeks it came to his notice with a frequency that had all the marks of being ordained by fate.
So Pretty a Problem Page 7
