“And I’d like to know,” said Penross, “just who made such a mess of Mrs. Carthallow’s portrait.”
There was a silence. The inspector had lit his pipe and was drawing at it steadily. It was clear that he was waiting for something.
“I take it,” Mordecai Tremaine said, “that you’re wondering how long you’ll be able to go before you’re compelled to arrest Helen Carthallow?”
Penross said:
“I’ve laid all the facts before the chief constable. He isn’t very happy about things. You see, it looks as though we ought to arrest her straight away. But he doesn’t want to take a step like that until he’s absolutely certain we haven’t tripped up anywhere. This isn’t just a local affair where we might be able to cover up a mistake without too much publicity. It’s headline stuff. You’ve seen what a write-up the newspapers have given it already. If we take Mrs. Carthallow into custody it’s going to be on every front page. And if we have missed something . . .”
Jonathan Boyce looked at him with understanding.
“You have visions, Charles, of your head being presented on a charger to appease the howling mob. Is that it?”
“That,” said Penross, “is it.”
“Besides,” interposed Mordecai Tremaine shrewdly, “she’s still an attractive young woman. More so now that she isn’t laying on the lipstick quite so lavishly. I can see your dilemma. But what are you going to do about it?”
“I’m glad we’ve managed to get round to it,” Penross returned. “That’s why I came. I told you I’ve laid the facts before the chief constable. That includes telling him about you. He doesn’t want to call in the Yard—no offence, Jonathan—and he’ll be wagging his tail if we can clear the case up from this end. He’s prepared to hold back for at least a day or two and deal personally with any awkward questions that might be asked. If—”
He broke off. Tremaine said:
“If?”
“You know all these people,” Penross went on quickly. “You’ve had an opportunity of meeting them on intimate terms. They’ll talk to you without setting a guard on their tongues. The chief constable knows all about you, of course, and how you’ve been able to help in other cases in a similar way. He’s wondering whether you’d be willing to work in with us now. Naturally, it would be unofficial, but you’d have all the facilities you need.”
“I seem to be fated,” Mordecai Tremaine observed, “to play the skeleton at the feast.”
Nevertheless, his eyes were bright. Chief constables did not issue such invitations casually. There must have been a good deal of discussion before Penross had come upon this mission, and flattering things must have been said about him. He said:
“As a matter of fact, Charles, I’ve been doing quite a bit of thinking and there are one or two points that puzzle me. I’d be glad of the opportunity of trying to clear them up, and if you think that I can be of help to you at the same time I’ll be delighted to keep in touch with you.”
Penross looked relieved.
“You’ve got the background to this thing and you can tell whether anybody’s behaving in a manner different to what you might have expected. You’ll be able to spot all sorts of little points, perhaps, that a stranger couldn’t hope to notice. In the meantime, of course, we’ll be going ahead with the routine.”
“I know what you mean, Charles,” Mordecai Tremaine observed, rising to his feet. “I’m just as anxious as you are to prove she didn’t do it. But apart from suicide—and I still feel we ought to keep open minds about that—the only way to clear her is to find somebody else who could have been in that house.”
“It would certainly help,” agreed Penross dryly.
Mordecai Tremaine surveyed him thoughtfully. He said:
“Matilda Vickery said that the postman called at Paradise twice on the day Carthallow was shot—or shot himself. I imagine you’ll be checking up with the postal authorities?”
“Naturally,” Penross said. “Why?”
“I’d like to know the results of your enquiries,” said Mordecai Tremaine. “I’ve a feeling they might prove interesting.”
He left the inspector staring after him like a man who badly wanted to ask questions, but who did not quite know where to begin.
2
WHEN MORDECAI TREMAINE went into the drawing-room it was obvious that a council of war was in progress.
“Helen’s upstairs resting,” said Hilda Eveland. “We’ve been putting our heads together trying to decide what to do about her.”
“What to do about her?”
“Don’t be obtuse, Mordecai,” she told him. “You know perfectly well your friend the inspector doesn’t believe the explanation she gave him of how Adrian came to be shot. Otherwise, why is he still asking questions and keeping his men at the house?”
Elton Steele looked up, his dark face clouded and grim and his big hand clenched about his pipe.
“She’s shielding Imleyson.”
Lewis Haldean made a movement of protest.
“That’s prejudice, Elton. Be honest and admit it. Imleyson wasn’t there. He couldn’t have done it.”
Roberta Fairham was sitting on a settee close by, her pale eyes watching them both with an intensity Mordecai Tremaine did not like. She reminded him of a tigress, without movement but savagely bent upon making a kill and determined that her quarry should not escape her. She said:
“The inspector knows that Lester couldn’t have done it. He didn’t go to the house at all.”
Steele turned upon her with a gesture that seemed almost threatening.
“Are you trying to say that it was Helen?”
She quailed before the look in his eyes but she would not retract.
“Helen admitted it herself,” she countered. “After all, she told the police she shot Adrian.”
“Accidentally,” put in Haldean quickly. “Don’t forget that, Roberta.”
“There’s only her word for it that it was an accident.”
The words came hurriedly, as though she wanted to make the accusation before anyone could stop her. There were two vivid spots of colour in her cheeks.
There was a moment’s silence. And then Hilda Eveland said, in a voice that was completely unlike her normal cheerful tones:
“We all know why you’d like to hang her, Roberta. But I’d be careful not to say too much if I were you.”
It was Lewis Haldean who saved the situation. He leaned forward, his blond beard glinting silkily, his voice vibrant.
“Let’s admit there’s something in what Roberta’s said. We don’t want to start bickering amongst ourselves. The thing’s too serious. And on the surface it does look bad for Helen.”
“You’re not going back on her, are you, Lewis?” said Hilda Eveland.
“Of course not,” he said, sharply for him. “I don’t think for one moment she killed Adrian.”
“Then how,” Mordecai Tremaine said quietly, “do you think he died?”
The blond man turned to face him.
“I think he committed suicide,” he said. “I knew Adrian better than anybody except Helen. He could be pretty unpleasant at times, but he never showed his unpleasant side to me and we didn’t get on badly. Sometimes he talked frankly with me and I know that he was in a tight corner for money. I lent him a fair amount myself. It’s no secret now—the police know all about it. He was worried. There’s no doubt about that. And he was a creative artist. There’s no doubt about that, either. When people of that type are up against it you can never be quite sure what they’re going to do. They’ll appear to be acting normally and then without any warning they’ll go over the edge.”
Steele was obviously impressed by his sincerity.
“And that’s what you think happened to Adrian?” he said.
Haldean nodded.
“That’s what I think happened to him. There’s more to it than that, of course. It’s clear that Helen’s hiding something. We’ve got to persuade her to let us know what it is. On
ce we’ve found out the reason for her telling the police that she shot Adrian we can start trying to help her in earnest. But there’s nothing we can do until she’s given us her story.”
“She’s already given her story,” said Hilda Eveland, a frown creasing her plump face. “She’s given it to the police.”
“But as you admitted just now, Hilda, the police don’t think it’s the right one. That fellow Penross is no fool. If he doesn’t believe her it’s because he has some reason not to. Something doesn’t fit, and if we can get Helen to be frank with us maybe we can help to make Penross change his mind.”
There was a resentful look in Elton Steele’s brooding face.
“You seem damned certain she hasn’t told the whole truth.”
“Don’t be a fool,” said Haldean, without malice. “It’s no good refusing to face facts. That won’t help her.”
Roberta Fairham’s face was old and shrewish. Malignancy was naked in her pale eyes.
“The facts seem plain enough,” she said. “They had a quarrel. Everybody knows why. What about the portrait? How are you going to explain that away?”
“Maybe it was Adrian,” said Steele slowly. “Maybe he didn’t think he was doing her justice.”
“No!” she said fiercely. “No! He would never have done a thing like that. He was a great artist. He couldn’t produce bad work—it wasn’t in him to fail and he would never have destroyed something he had created!”
Her vehemence silenced them. Tremaine realized that it was because, although they disliked both the woman and what she had said, they knew that she was right.
There was a sound from the doorway. Instinctively all of them turned. Helen Carthallow was there.
Her face was very white and there was strain in her eyes. She faced them almost challengingly. It was as though her beauty was backed by a quality of hard defiance.
It was plain from her attitude that she knew they had been talking about her. And it was equally plain from their embarrassed reaction to her appearance that they were aware that she knew.
Mordecai Tremaine seized upon his opportunity.
“You’re looking tired,” he said. “I think a breath of fresh air is what you need. Suppose we take a stroll in the garden?”
He thought as soon as he had spoken them that the words sounded a little too obvious. But there was, after all, no need for camouflage; all of them were too close to the reality of the situation for that. Hilda Eveland said, quickly:
“Yes, why don’t you, Helen? It will do you good.”
Helen Carthallow made no objection. As he went out of the room with her Tremaine felt suddenly like an actor playing a part. He knew that they were aware of his friendship with Inspector Penross and that, although no word had been said, they realized that he wanted to speak to Helen Carthallow alone.
As they were going down the path she said:
“Did the inspector send you?”
The hardness and the defiance were in her voice. Mordecai Tremaine looked at her over his pince-nez.
“Not exactly. But I do know a little of what he’s thinking.”
“So do I,” she said. “I suppose that as soon as he’s managed to find a bit more evidence I can expect the handcuffs. Isn’t that it?”
“You must put yourself in Inspector Penross’s place,” he said quietly. “It’s his job to investigate your husband’s death. Whatever he may feel personally, he has to judge according to the facts. And the facts are that the explanations you’ve given him haven’t been—frank. You can understand how it must look to him.”
He thought from the momentary expression that came into her face that her attitude had softened and that she was going to confide in him. But when she spoke her voice was unyielding.
“I can’t help how it looks to Inspector Penross,” she said. “I’ve told him what happened and that’s all there is to it.”
“Is it?” Mordecai Tremaine put his hand on her arm. “Don’t run away with the impression that the inspector wants to trap you. He wants to help you. He will help you. If you will let him.”
He waited, but there was no sign of response in her eyes. They remained cold, distant and bitter. And after a moment or two he said, casually:
“It’s a good thing Mr. Imleyson wasn’t there.”
She reacted so quickly that he knew that it was what she had been waiting for.
“What do you mean?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
She turned to face him. She was breathing rapidly and there was a defensive look in her eyes.
“What has Lester to do with it? He wasn’t there. The inspector knows he wasn’t.”
“Does he?”
Mordecai Tremaine displayed a deceptive lack of interest. He thought it might produce results.
Helen Carthallow’s hand went to her throat. She could not hide the leaping shadowy fear that came at that moment.
“What—what does he suspect?”
“What should he suspect?”
The question brought her to the knowledge that she was betraying herself. The hardness came back into the white face.
“Nothing,” she said. “Nothing at all.”
They did not remain long in the garden. There could be no hope of any confidences now. They walked back to the house in silence.
There was a tense atmosphere in the room where the others were still gathered. Tremaine felt it as he passed through the doorway, and then he understood the reason for it.
Lester Imleyson was there. He was standing motionless, his eyes on Helen Carthallow.
“Good evening,” he said.
Helen Carthallow’s lips moved stiffly. She said:
“Good evening, Lester.”
Mordecai Tremaine pushed back his pince-nez. He looked from one of them to the other. Imleyson’s face was unsmiling, with lines of strain about his eyes and a tautness in their depths. He took a step forward and held something out to her.
“I only came over to give you this,” he said. “I believe it is yours?”
It was a lady’s small silk handkerchief. A tiny sound escaped from Helen Carthallow’s lips. For a moment there was no mask to conceal her thoughts and Mordecai Tremaine saw the fear and horror naked in her face. It filled him with dismay and a terrible lurking doubt.
He heard her say in a voice that was a whisper barely under her control:
“Yes. Yes, it is mine. Thank you for bringing it, Lester.”
“Not at all,” he said. His eyes met hers. As he passed over the handkerchief and she took it from him there was no contact between their fingers. “I don’t want to disturb you,” he added, levelly. “It’s been a trying time. You should be resting as much as you can.”
“Yes,” she said, and now she had recovered herself, and her voice held that hard note. “It’s been a trying time.”
Lester Imleyson said good night and she let him go without a further word.
And twenty minutes later, as he strolled slowly back across the cliffs, Mordecai Tremaine wondered uneasily what grim significance had underlain that brief, disturbing scene. For Lester Imleyson was reputed to be in love with Helen Carthallow and he had seen for himself that rumour had not lied. At this time one would have expected Imleyson to have been at her side, comforting her, protecting her, proving his love.
Two people united against the world. That was the picture his romantic soul had expected to find. And instead they had stared at each other with the hard eyes of strangers.
3
THE WEATHER HAD changed and a cold wind was playing across beaches upon which only a few well-wrapped souls, deck-chairs placed with their backs to the sea, were braving the morning air. Mordecai Tremaine came briskly down the stone steps leading to the miniature promenade upon which was situated the pavilion housing the Falporth Follies and as he did so he caught a glimpse of Morton Westfield.
The sight of the man’s queerly shaped bald head as he went into the building by the stage door started his mind exp
loring a new channel of thought. He wondered whether Inspector Penross had yet managed to obtain any information on the subject of Westfield’s antecedents. No doubt Adrian Carthallow’s death had driven all other matters into the background. He would have to mention it the next time they met.
For he had a feeling that the relationship between Morton West-field and the artist had been an intriguing one; that early morning rendezvous on the beach had not been arranged without reason.
However, it was not Westfield with whom he was immediately concerned. He went on, scanning the faces of the passers-by, and climbed the hill leading from the other side of the promenade up to the town. He did not think he would be likely to meet Lester Imleyson at Hilda Eveland’s again—not, at least, as long as Helen Carthallow was there—but fortunately in such a small place as Falporth he could be reasonably sure of running into him sooner or later if he kept a sharp watch.
He found him where the road ran towards the harbour, staring moodily over the rails at the fishing craft lying high and dry on the sands uncovered by the retreating tide.
“Hullo, Imleyson. Didn’t expect to see you just here.”
The other turned from the rails. A frown brought his brows together.
“Sure you haven’t been looking for me?” he said.
The blunt challenge in his manner called forth an equal bluntness in Mordecai Tremaine. That gentleman settled his pince-nez more firmly.
“Very well, I have been looking for you. I want to talk to you.”
“No doubt on behalf of your friend the inspector?”
“What,” said Mordecai Tremaine, “makes you afraid that might be the reason?”
“Who said anything about being afraid?” demanded Imleyson with sudden fierceness.
“Nobody,” returned Tremaine mildly. “Nobody at all.” He moved up to the rails at the other side so that he could talk without fear of being overheard by any third person. “I would have thought,” he said, “that you of all people would have been interested in trying to help Mrs. Carthallow.”
Imleyson stiffened and his hands clenched upon the metal.
So Pretty a Problem Page 19
