No, it was quite obvious he couldn’t say that.
Jonathan Boyce had been watching him.
“I imagine, Mordecai,” he observed, “we shall be seeing your friends over at Wadestow.”
“I think most of them will be there,” Tremaine agreed. “Except Mrs. Eveland. She doesn’t care for racing.” He added: “You know, Jonathan, I’ve been feeling guilty about spending so much time with them. I hope your sister and her husband don’t think I’ve been neglecting them.”
“My dear chap, they’ve been delighted to know that you’ve had friends so near at hand. It’s saved them having to worry about what to do with you! And as far as I’ve been concerned I’ve had a glorious laze. My chief worry has been that you might have decided to go and spoil things by finding another body!”
“I’m relieved to hear you say that, Jonathan,” said Mordecai Tremaine. “I wouldn’t like them to think that I haven’t appreciated all they’ve done for me.”
A run of forty minutes brought them into Wadestow in ample time for the first race. Owing to the necessity for changing, the journey by train was one of over an hour, but by road the town could be reached much more quickly.
When they arrived at the racetrack Mordecai Tremaine’s eyes glistened happily behind the tottering pince-nez. It was the kind of crowded, exciting scene in which he found perfection, and he spent an enthralling afternoon. The smell of the turf, the eager roar of thousands of throats, the drumming of hooves as the horses came into the straight and flashed past the rails where he was standing, all merged into an exhilarating kaleidoscope of colour and sound.
The fact that he could not see enough of the course to follow the races properly troubled him not at all. He caught, indeed, no more than a brief glimpse of a huddle of horses and jockeys as they came by and the crowd pressed to the rails. But he found his own enjoyment.
He found it in strolling through the enclosure where the bookmakers were calling the odds or performing swift mathematical intricacies upon the boards decorating their stands; in watching the tic-tac man, balanced perilously upon the buildings on the far side of the track and signalling frantically in his mysterious sign language so that he looked like a spidery Catherine wheel.
He found it in searching hurriedly through his card in an attempt to find a likely winner before the next race began; in joining the queues at the tote windows to buy his units, and three times, gleefully, in joining the smaller queues on the far side of the tote buildings to collect his moderate winnings.
Pince-nez awry and several shillings richer as a result of his intricate financial operations in backing favourites eachway, he came away from the track after the last race with the air of a man who had drunk his fill of life’s headiest wine.
He had seen nothing of Adrian or Helen Carthallow. He had looked for them once or twice, desultorily, without much hope of seeing them in such a milling crowd. He was beginning to think that it was certain he would not encounter them now when he found himself staring straight at them as they stood at the entrance to the car park.
All the others were there with the exception of Hilda Eveland. He saw that Haldean and Steele were standing apart from the rest of the company and that Roberta Fairham was talking animatedly to Carthallow.
It seemed obvious that she had dressed to impress him. She was wearing a flowered hat and a dress that advertised itself as one of the latest exclusive models, but one that had been intended for a creature of bolder curves and colouring than Roberta possessed. She had, Mordecai Tremaine thought, rather overdone it again. She looked like a timid sparrow unsuccessfully disguised as a bird of paradise.
Lester Imleyson was standing very close to Helen Carthallow. His arm, in fact, was half around her waist in a proprietorial fashion, although it was not visible to Carthallow.
Something about the group conveyed a warning to Mordecai Tremaine. Although he was still some yards from them he sensed an atmosphere; there had, he guessed, been a scene of some kind.
He was about to make his presence known to them when Adrian Carthallow turned away from Roberta Fairham and addressed himself to his wife.
“Come along, my dear,” he said. “It’s time you and I were going.”
The words in themselves were innocent enough, but they held a hard emphasis that told Mordecai Tremaine that their meaning went deep. Carthallow held out his arm. He looked like a polite husband making an understandingly intimate gesture towards his partner, but there could be no doubt in the minds of those who knew him that he was in reality cracking the whip of ownership.
Helen Carthallow hesitated a moment or two and then, without a word, she took the proffered arm. Tremaine saw Lester Imleyson clench his fists; there was a sullen, resentful look in his handsome face. She gave him a desperate, pleading glance, and then Lewis Haldean stepped into the circle.
The blond man was ill-at-ease. His usually dramatically firm voice was uncertain. It was as though he doubted his ability to prevent an open breach between Imleyson and Carthallow.
“No doubt we’ll see you later, Adrian,” he said quickly. He had planted himself in Imleyson’s path so that the younger man could not reach the artist without pushing him aside. “Maybe at your hotel.”
“Maybe,” said Carthallow.
He grinned at Imleyson, mockingly and offensively. And then they had separated and had disappeared into the crowds pressing through the entrance to the car park, Lewis Haldean’s restraining arm about Lester Imleyson’s body as Adrian and Helen Carthallow went off to find their car.
Mordecai Tremaine was relieved that he had not spoken. He was relieved, too, that none of them had noticed him and that Jonathan Boyce and the Tynings had been talking among themselves and had not seen what he himself had seen.
The whole incident had been over in a few moments, but it had left an impression that etched itself upon his mind as he went with his companions towards their own car.
He saw the mocking, flabby features of Adrian Carthallow, flaunting possession of his wife in front of her lover; he saw the white, haunted face of Helen Carthallow, her lips once more a vivid contrasting scarlet against her powder; he saw Imleyson, a murderous, impotent fury in his eyes.
He saw Lewis Haldean, concern large upon him, trying to prevent a public scene, and behind him the powerful bulk of Elton Steele like some great background force that might come into devastating play when it was least expected. And he saw Roberta Fairham, trying to appear unconcerned, but unable to conceal the savage delight in her grey eyes at the discomfiture of the woman she hated.
The memory worried him all the way back to Falporth. It prevented him from sleeping until a late hour and it was still with him when he awoke the next morning.
He was denied the opportunity of endeavouring to cure himself with the hair of the dog, for the Carthallows were staying in Wadestow for the second day’s racing, and would in all probability remain until the day after that. Adrian Carthallow had mentioned as much to him and it had recalled the conversation he had overheard on the beach. The artist had told Westfield that he would see him in Wadestow, and Tremaine was certain that the ‘business’ with which Carthallow was supposed to be dealing in that town was connected with his arrangement to meet the shabby man—he still thought of him as that, although Westfield in his new role was by no means ill-dressed.
Lewis Haldean was not attending the second day’s race meeting but had gone off to St. Mawgan where he proposed to spend his time fishing. He, too, would probably be away for a few days, for he planned to sleep at the inn there. Elton Steele was busy with his work in the town, and Roberta Fairham and Lester Imleyson seemed temporarily to have vanished. With Paradise empty, of course, there was nothing to bring them to that part of Falporth.
Mordecai Tremaine spent a great deal of time relaxing in deck-chairs, but somehow his mind would persist in coming back to the subject of Adrian Carthallow. Almost he decided to unburden his worries to Hilda Eveland, and then he changed his mind in case she
should laugh at him for an imaginative old idiot.
On the afternoon following the second day of the Wadestow meeting he walked along the beach to the headland upon which Paradise was built and settled himself in a chair he took from the cave. He had brought the daily newspaper with him, not to read but to employ to protect himself from the sun if it beat down too fiercely upon him, and it was his intention to think over the whole involved problem objectively. If, he told himself, he could make a determined effort to define the vague anxieties that were fretting at him he would probably find that they were only phantoms of his imagination, after all.
Methodically he began to set his facts in order. It was undoubtedly very warm and before long he was forced to spread the newspaper over his head. His thoughts began to drift. They became inextricably mixed with the soothing sound of the sea and the shrill voices of the gulls. They ceased to be thoughts at all.
And it was there that Helen Carthallow came down to tell him that she had killed her husband.
PART THREE
Exposition: Following the Corpse
1
INSPECTOR PENROSS CAME through the gate leading to Arthur Tyning’s house.
“A good day,” he said, “has been had by all.”
He dropped into the vacant deck-chair between Mordecai Tremaine and Jonathan Boyce with a long, grateful sigh. Those two gentlemen waited expectantly. After dinner they had taken up their positions on the verandah in front of the house and although neither had spoken a word to the other, each of them knew perfectly well they were hoping Charles Penross would look in.
Boyce said:
“Any news, Charles?”
“I’ve spent most of the afternoon with Adrian Carthallow’s solicitor,” the inspector returned. “As far as I can make out, he was well and truly broke.”
Boyce took his pipe from his mouth and stared at him.
“Broke?” he said. “I thought he was coining the stuff. What about his pictures?”
“Oh, he was making money all right, but he wasn’t making enough of it. He was running on a permanent overdraft. Apparently his bank manager had been pressing him pretty hard.”
“Anything among his papers?”
Penross nodded.
“There was a cash book in his desk where he kept a record of some of the bigger amounts outstanding. He borrowed a lot of money from Lewis Haldean. According to his figures it came to about five thousand pounds.”
“Have you spoken to Haldean?”
“Yes. He didn’t make any bones about it. Told me he’d always been on good terms with Carthallow and lent him the money purely as a friend because he knew he was going through a bad time financially.” Penross rubbed his chin ruminatively. “Just shows you can’t be certain about people. From what I’ve heard about Carthallow, I’d have thought he was the last man to be in a corner for money.”
“Being well known isn’t the same thing as being well paid,” observed Mordecai Tremaine. “Carthallow built up a reputation for himself but he hadn’t been in the public eye long enough to have established a profitable connection. It costs a lot of money to keep up an appearance of being successful, and until you’ve managed to draw a few dividends you’re quite likely to live on the borderline of bankruptcy. And Carthallow’s attempts at getting his name in the news were inclined to play back on him. He wasn’t the kind of artist people felt they could safely approach for a portrait. They didn’t know what he might turn out and he wasn’t being given too many commissions, despite the stir he’d caused.”
“Which brings us back to Christine Neale,” said Jonathan Boyce.
Penross raised his eyebrows.
“Christine Neale?”
“You probably read something about it at the time. Carthallow painted her portrait. It wasn’t exactly—flattering.”
“Believe I do remember something about it,” said the inspector thoughtfully. “Didn’t her father try to make trouble over it? Threatened to take a whip to him if I’m not mistaken. But as far as I recall, it never came to anything.”
“It didn’t,” said Jonathan Boyce. “But Colonel Neale is in Falporth. At least, he was just before Carthallow—died. Mordecai and I happened to spot him in the main street a few days ago.”
“Did you now?” Penross’s deep voice had a sudden throbbing note of excitement. And then, regretfully, it died again. “I can’t see that it gets us anywhere. Nobody went into that house except Mrs. Carthallow and her husband.”
“You’re accepting Matilda Vickery’s evidence that no one else crossed the bridge?”
“It ties up with all the alibis,” returned Penross. “And I must admit the old lady impresses me. I don’t think she misses very much. Of course, I’ll check up on this Colonel Neale of yours just in case he happened to get in and out without being seen, but I’m not hopeful. He’ll probably be able to prove he was nowhere near the place.”
Mordecai Tremaine said:
“You still think it was Helen Carthallow?”
“Somebody,” Penross said, “killed Adrian Carthallow. On the face of it, only two people went across that damned bridge, and one of them was Carthallow himself. There isn’t much of a choice, is there?”
“That,” said Mordecai Tremaine, “is what I’m trying to get at. You’ve found out that Carthallow’s affairs were in a bad way. He had expensive tastes, was heavily in debt and wasn’t doing as well out of his painting as everybody imagined.”
“Well?”
“Well, maybe there’s your motive. Carthallow knew he’d reached the end of his tether and killed himself.”
Inspector Penross sighed.
“This is where I came in,” he said. “And I still don’t see how he could have shot himself and not have left his fingerprints on the gun.”
“Helen Carthallow might have wiped them off.”
“And left her own so that she could sign what might be her own death warrant?”
“Not necessarily her death warrant,” Mordecai Tremaine persisted. “After all, Jonathan here suggested a possible solution. Helen Carthallow reached the house some time later than her husband. She went into the study and found that he’d shot himself. She knew the insurance company wouldn’t pay out for suicide, so she wiped the gun clean of fingerprints and deliberately handled it herself so that she could tell that first story about her husband having been joking with her and telling her to pull the trigger, not realizing it was loaded.
“She must have known it would be taking a chance, of course, but she may have thought that it was worth it. She must have had a pretty good idea of how little money there was left and she wanted to make sure she didn’t starve. She reasoned perhaps that if she could get away with that story with the police she’d be able to put it over on the insurance company as well.
“Naturally, finding him dead like that came as a shock to her and she didn’t have time to think the thing out clearly. When you showed her that the explanation she’d given wouldn’t fit the evidence she thought up her second story. It meant putting herself in a more difficult position and pretty well giving herself a motive for murder by admitting that there’d been a quarrel, but having wiped off the fingerprints and having been found out in one set of lies she knew that the truth itself would only look like another lie in any case, so she had nothing to lose by keeping up her attempt to secure the insurance money.”
Penross said:
“Very cunning. It might even have been true. If there’d been any insurance money to get.”
Mordecai Tremaine looked crestfallen.
“Oh. So there wasn’t a policy?”
“There was not,” said Penross. “I’ve checked with the solicitor and I’ve also put it to Mrs. Carthallow herself. They were both quite definite that Carthallow wasn’t insured. He’s supposed to have been against that sort of thing on principle, but I rather imagine that his real reason was that he objected to paying money so that somebody else could benefit by it. He doesn’t seem to have been interested in the
endowment type of policy.”
“Even if that motive doesn’t exist,” Mordecai Tremaine went on, after a moment or two, “it still doesn’t follow that Carthallow didn’t commit suicide. His wife may have had another reason we don’t yet know about for wanting to prevent its becoming public.”
Inspector Penross looked at him.
“Do you think he committed suicide?” he asked. “Do you?”
Mordecai Tremaine had the grace to look uncomfortable.
“No,” he confessed reluctantly. “No, I don’t.”
The inspector leaned back in his chair.
“That’s a blessing, anyway,” he remarked. “It’s nice to know that somebody else thinks like I do in at least one particular. Carthallow wasn’t the suicide type from all I’ve heard, and in any case there are one or two things I’d like to clear up before coming down on that side of the fence. Those forceps, for instance. And the sun-glasses. What were they doing in the study?”
Mordecai Tremaine’s hand went up to his pince-nez.
“Why,” he said, “why, now I come to think of it, I don’t ever remember seeing Carthallow wearing a pair of sun-glasses.”
“But Mrs. Carthallow said they belonged to her husband,” Penross observed quietly.
“Yes,” Tremaine agreed, “she did. And she also said that the forceps must have belonged to him, too, because he was always using patent medicines and various medical gadgets. But when I was talking to Carthallow one day—it was the first time I went to Paradise—he was full of how healthy a place it was and what little need he had of doctors. He didn’t talk like a man who was a hypochondriac.”
“I must admit,” said Penross, “that she wasn’t at all certain about the forceps. She said at first that she couldn’t explain them, and it’s natural enough that if they didn’t belong to her she’d imagine they must have been her husband’s.”
Mordecai Tremaine stared thoughtfully out over the cliffs to where the sun had set in a wind-streaked sky.
“I’d like to know,” he said, “just why Carthallow moved that desk of his into the centre of the room.”
So Pretty a Problem Page 18
