“What do you mean by that?”
“I think we understand each other well enough.”
“Where does that take us? Carthallow’s death was an accident.”
“You mean Mrs. Carthallow says it was.”
Imleyson’s reply did not come immediately, but when it did the words were deliberate and were underlined by the emphasis he gave them.
“If Mrs. Carthallow says it was an accident, it’s quite sufficient for me.”
“It’s what I would have expected from you,” Mordecai Tremaine observed. “Naturally, it’s what you want to believe. But you can’t be certain it is the truth. After all, you weren’t there.” He added, after the slightest of pauses: “You weren’t, were you?”
Imleyson said:
“No. I wasn’t. But I know Helen—Mrs. Carthallow. I know it couldn’t have been anything else but an accident.”
“Let me see,” Tremaine said musingly, “you were coming back from Wadestow and your car broke down. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Where did you go when you did get back here? You didn’t go to Paradise at all?”
“No,” said Imleyson. “I went—”
He broke off. He eyed his companion aggressively. He said:
“There’s no reason why I should answer all your blasted questions. I’m not on trial, am I?”
“No,” said Mordecai Tremaine, “you’re not on trial.”
But from the manner in which he said it he left Imleyson in no doubt as to what he really meant.
He met Penross half an hour later as the inspector was coming out of the police station, set discreetly in one of the side streets of the town. Penross said:
“Hullo. Anything to report?”
“Nothing definite,” said Mordecai Tremaine. “I had a talk with Mrs. Carthallow last night and I’ve just left Imleyson. I don’t feel very happy about them.”
“You mean,” Penross said, giving him a shrewd glance, “the love-birds aren’t cooing any more?”
Tremaine nodded. The inspector adjusted his pace and they walked slowly along together.
“I’d already noticed it,” he went on. “Doesn’t seem to fit, does it? I’d like to know whether it’s genuine.”
“You think it might be a put-up job between them?”
“Why not? I gather Imleyson’s been sweet on Mrs.Carthallow for some time. Normally that would give him a seat in the front row of the suspects, and both of them must be aware of it. It’s possible that this apparent coolness between them is an act that’s intended to put me off the scent.”
Mordecai Tremaine gave his companion a long, reflective look.
“What’s on your mind, Charles?”
“Suppose,” Penross said, “they did it together? Oh, I know that a lot of things will need explaining. But the motive’s there right enough. Carthallow was getting awkward. Didn’t seem to be playing the complaisant husband quite so willingly. Maybe he threatened to make things so difficult that they decided that the only way out was to kill him. According to Mrs. Carthallow’s story, of course, her husband never was so obligingly broad-minded about her association with Imleyson when they were alone, and it was part of his way of hurting her to keep up a pretence in public of being very fond of her. But as far as I can see there’s only her word for that. If only,” he added, “there was some way of proving that somebody else did get into that house, after all.”
It was obvious from the inspector’s manner that there was more behind his words than he had so far indicated.
“What have you found out?” said Tremaine quietly.
“I’ve been along to the post office,” Penross returned. “You mentioned that an enquiry there might prove interesting. It did.” He said: “Did you think there might be anything peculiar about the fact that the postman called at Paradise twice on the day Carthallow was killed?”
Mordecai Tremaine nodded.
“Yes,” he said, “I did. And was there?”
“There was. He didn’t call twice.”
“The one call he made being half-way through the morning. Am I right?”
“You are,” Penross said. “But how did you know that?”
“I didn’t. But I had my suspicions. When I went into the house with Mrs. Carthallow that day there was an envelope lying on the hall table. It was unsealed—the kind of thing that usually contains a circular. Very often they’re not sent out until the second delivery. There was no sign of any other letter. It came back to my mind after you’d told me that the postman had made two calls. I realized, of course, that it was quite possible that there had been something else delivered which had been dealt with and that the circular had been left on the table because it was obviously unimportant, but neither Adrian Carthallow nor his wife had been in for long—they certainly weren’t there when the postman was making his rounds—and I thought that the fact that there hadn’t appeared to be anything else about was at least worth looking into.”
The inspector gave a murmur of approval.
“It was,” he said. “The man who does the Paradise delivery is certain that he made only the one call. There’s usually a fair amount of correspondence for Carthallow’s place and a blank day is rare enough to be noticeable. The point is why did Matilda Vickery say she saw him call twice?”
“Because,” Mordecai Tremaine said, “she’s under the impression that she did. Only the first time she saw the postman go across the bridge it wasn’t the postman at all.”
“You mean it was someone wearing a postman’s uniform?”
“Precisely. You remember Chesterton’s story about the man nobody noticed because they took him for granted? In this case the person was seen all right—by Matilda Vickery. But when she saw the postman’s uniform she took it for granted that it was the postman and didn’t pay any more attention.”
Penross looked at him expectantly.
“And who,” he said, “do you think it really was?”
“I think,” said Mordecai Tremaine, “it was Roberta Fairham.”
4
IT WAS QUITE obviously not the answer for which the inspector had been waiting. He looked disappointed.
“Roberta Fairham?” he said, slowly, like one who saw his hopes fading in a blaze of unexpected, wilting light. “What makes you pick on her?”
“It’s guesswork,” said Tremaine. “But I think it’s sound. I met her once at a fancy dress ball in London. She went as a postman. And when I was thinking about the people who were known to have crossed that bridge, trying to find a loophole somewhere, the incident came back to me. I felt reasonably certain that if there had been anything odd about those two calls the postman was supposed to have made, Roberta Fairham was mixed up in it. She knew about Matilda Vickery being able to see the bridge, and she realized that if she wanted to get into the house without being recognized she’d have to make use of a disguise that wouldn’t arouse suspicion. It was a piece of luck for her that there was no early morning post that day and that the official postman didn’t have to call until later.”
“I’ll need to have a talk with Miss Fairham,” said Penross grimly. “That young lady is going to find herself with some explaining to do.”
Nevertheless there was a reluctance in his manner. Mordecai Tremaine, who thought he understood the reason for it, put a hand on his arm.
“Don’t take it to heart, Charles,” he said quietly. “This is only the beginning. Maybe something else will come to light soon that will make things look more the way you want them to.”
“What d’you mean?” said Penross, a little too quickly.
“I mean Lester Imleyson,” Mordecai Tremaine returned. “As you very well know. If you could prove that he was in the house you’d be a lot happier.”
“It would certainly be tidier,” Penross admitted. “It would help to explain that portrait. If anybody had a motive for wanting to destroy it he certainly did.”
They walked on down the ro
ad and instinctively turned together in the direction of Hilda Eveland’s house. Tremaine said, after a moment or two:
“By the way, were you able to find out anything about Westfield?”
Penross wrinkled his brows.
“Westfield? Oh, you mean the chap at the Follies. As a matter of fact I’m expecting a report at any moment.” A sharper note came into his voice. He said: “You don’t think he’s mixed up in it, do you?”
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” said Mordecai Tremaine airily. “But then, I’m prepared not to be surprised at anything.”
The inspector relapsed into a silence tinged with suspicion. He did not make any further reference to Westfield during the remainder of their journey, but Tremaine knew that he was giving the actor considerable thought.
Hilda Eveland greeted them on their arrival.
“If you want to see Helen, Inspector,” she said, “I’m afraid she’s out. She’s gone into the town and I doubt if she’ll be in before lunch.”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Eveland,” Penross told her. “It’s MissVickery I’d like to see.”
She looked at him with an expression of surprise.
“Matilda? She’s here, of course. Would you like to go up?”
Mordecai Tremaine led the way and they went into Matilda Vickery’s room. She was lying back on the pillows so that she could look out of the big window. She turned her head as they came in and they saw that she was in pain.
“I’m sorry to worry you again, Miss Vickery,” Penross said, “but there’s a small point I’d like to clear up regarding the people you told me went across the bridge to Paradise on the day Mr. Carthallow was shot.”
She drew back against the pillows. There was fear as well as pain in her eyes. Her fingers plucked nervously at the sheet.
“The—the people who went across the bridge?” she said, and it seemed that she could barely utter the words.
“Yes,” said Penross. Her agitation had not escaped him. He regarded her curiously. “You told me you saw the postman twice,” he went on. “I wonder whether you could give me a little more information about those two occasions?”
The fear in her eyes gave way before a sudden, up-surging relief. She said, as though trying to gain time to face a new situation:
“Oh—the postman. Yes, I remember. He did call twice. What is it you want to know, Inspector?”
“What I want to know, Miss Vickery,” said Penross, “is whether you’re certain it was the postman?”
There was nothing strained or false about her reaction.
“Of course I’m certain,” she said. “He called once with the early morning delivery and again later in the day.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“I recognized his uniform. I didn’t see his face clearly. The bridge isn’t near enough for that. But I know the postman who delivers there. It’s Jack Roskom. He lives in Carbis Street.”
“I know,” said Penross. “Are you prepared to swear that it was the same postman who called on each occasion?”
She was looking uncertain now. His insistence had shown her that he believed there was an element of doubt in the statement she had made to him and she was searching in her memory for some reason for it.
“I don’t understand you, Inspector,” she said slowly.
“I’ve seen Jack Roskom,” he explained. “He tells me that he made only one call that day. There was no early morning delivery.”
“You mean it wasn’t him?” she said, startled. And, after a moment or two, she went on: “There was something different about him that first time. He didn’t seem quite so tall and his walk wasn’t the same. But I didn’t pay all that attention although I do remember now that I wondered whether there could be a new man on the round.”
“The position seems to be,” said Penross, “that you took the postman for granted because of the uniform. Is that right?”
She nodded her agreement and he said:
“Can you think of anyone else whom it might have been? Anyone you know. Could it have been, for instance—a woman?”
“A woman?” Clearly the thought was an unexpected one. She leaned back against the pillows and they could tell that she was desperately anxious to help them. “It might have been. But I couldn’t be certain. It was too far off.”
Mordecai Tremaine said:
“Each time the postman called I take it that you saw him go across the bridge and come back again?”
“Yes,” she told him.
“On the first occasion was there a considerable interval between the time you saw him—or her—go over, and when he or she returned?”
She thought again for a moment or two and then she nodded.
“Yes, there was. It was quite a while before he came back. I can remember more about it now. I thought he must have had a registered letter and had been trying to get a reply, not knowing there was no-one at the house.”
“But he did come back?”
“Oh yes, he came back. I would have noticed if he hadn’t.”
Mordecai Tremaine looked significantly at the inspector. He saw the chagrin come into his eyes and he knew that Penross understood what he had tried to convey.
Maybe there had been a false postman. Maybe it had been Roberta Fairham. But it didn’t help. Because she hadn’t stayed. She had left again before Adrian Carthallow had returned.
Penross said:
“Thank you, Miss Vickery. I think that’s all I need to ask you.”
“I’m sorry if I haven’t been of much assistance,” she said.
The inspector was turning to walk towards the door when Mordecai Tremaine said, quietly:
“I think you could be of assistance, Miss Vickery.”
Something in his tone made Penross pause. The fear had come flooding back into Matilda Vickery’s eyes. Her voice was unsteady. “What—what do you mean?”
“I mean,” Tremaine said, “you could tell us the truth.”
The room was so quiet that they could hear the faint sighing sound of her breathing. Penross was quite still, watching her.
“I’ve—already told you the truth,” she said, with an effort.
“I’m afraid,” Mordecai Tremaine said, “you haven’t. You haven’t told us that you saw Mr. Imleyson go across the bridge.”
She raised herself from her pillows, facing them with a pitiful defiance.
“No! It isn’t true! I didn’t see Lester!”
Mordecai Tremaine went across to her. He took one of the crippled hands in his own. He said, gently:
“I know you want to shield him. He’s always been a favourite of yours, hasn’t he? But you can’t go on with this. The truth is bound to come out before long and it’s much better that you should tell us of your own free will. After all, if people conceal evidence—even if it’s from the best of motives—it looks as though they have something to hide. In the end it only makes things worse for the person they’ve been trying to help.”
“Lester didn’t do it,” she said. “He didn’t kill him!”
“Nobody,” he told her, “is saying that Mr. Imleyson killed Mr. Carthallow. But I’m sure you realize that if you persist in withholding important information about his movements the inspector has no choice but to regard him with suspicion. And you did see him, didn’t you?”
Under his steady gaze her own eyes dropped.
“Yes,” she admitted, in a low voice. “I saw him.”
Penross made a movement in her direction but Mordecai Tremaine gestured to him not to speak.
“It was after Mr. Carthallow went in, wasn’t it?” he said.
She nodded. Her words were barely audible.
“Mr. Carthallow was first, and then Mrs. Carthallow crossed the bridge. Lester went over a little while afterwards.”
“When did he come away from the house?”
“It was after Mrs. Carthallow left.”
“You mean,” said Tremaine, “it was between the time Mrs.Carthallow went down
to the beach to fetch me and the time we went back together?”
“Yes,” she told him. “That was it.”
The distress in her face was painful to see. Mordecai Tremaine’s sentimental soul was troubled but he knew there was nothing else he could have done.
“Don’t think,” he said, “that we want to try and persecute Mr.Imleyson for any reason. If he’s innocent of Mr. Carthallow’s death it’s the inspector’s job to help him and to do his utmost to prove it. You must believe that.”
“Of course,” said Penross, a little gruffly. “Of course. I shall have to ask you for another statement, Miss Vickery, embodying what you’ve just said. It’s a pity you didn’t tell me earlier.”
There was a note of irritation in his voice. Mordecai Tremaine said, quickly:
“Technically, you know, you’ve committed an offence by not telling the whole truth, but, under the circumstances, I think the inspector will be prepared to overlook it. Eh, Inspector?”
Penross still had a disgruntled air. But it was impossible to be sternly official with a woman in Matilda Vickery’s pathetic state. He said:
“Yes. I’ll overlook it. Under the circumstances.”
When he was walking away from the house a few moments later, however, he allowed his feelings to find expression.
“Why the devil,” he said, “she couldn’t have told me all that before, I’m damned if I know.”
“Your future looks like being a grim one then, Charles,” observed his companion. “Because you do know.”
“What are you getting at now?” Penross demanded.
“Matilda Vickery has always had a soft corner for young Imleyson,” Tremaine said. “He goes to see her quite a lot—takes her little luxuries now and again. She’s known him since he was a boy and she’d do anything for him. Naturally, she knew all about what was going on between Imleyson and Helen Carthallow, and as soon as she heard about Carthallow’s death she connected it with the fact that she’d seen Lester Imleyson cross the bridge just about the time he must have been killed. She’s an intelligent woman and she knew perfectly well that her evidence might put a rope around his neck. So she decided she wasn’t going to talk.”
So Pretty a Problem Page 20
