“I suppose you can’t blame her,” Penross said, mollified. “I wonder whether Imleyson knew she was going to support his alibi?”
“I doubt it. He probably didn’t think of the fact that the bridge could be observed from her window when he said he didn’t go to the house. No doubt he took ordinary precautions against being seen and thought he was safe. The interesting thing to my mind is what he’s thinking now that he knows Matilda’s been perjuring herself for him.”
The inspector pulled thoughtfully at his chin.
“Yes,” he said, “that is interesting. If he killed Carthallow he must be in a pretty jittery state at the moment wondering just when the balloon’s going up.”
Mordecai Tremaine settled his pince-nez firmly on his nose.
“You were saying not long ago, Charles, that the trouble with this case was that there weren’t enough people who could have committed the crime. The field seems to be opening out.”
“It’s opening right enough,” said Penross.
His tone was grim, and it was easy enough to read his thoughts. If Lester Imleyson had crossed the bridge he could have killed Adrian Carthallow. And he could have defaced Helen Carthallow’s portrait.
And he had had a perfect motive for doing both.
5
WHEN HE WAS still some distance off Mordecai Tremaine thought that the man on the seat at the end of the gardens was Lewis Haldean. The blond beard and the Viking profile were too distinct to be mistaken.
The fine weather had given further signs of coming to an end and a wind was blowing with an unpleasant and unseasonable wintriness through the town. Shielded by a steeply-rising hill that served as an ideal windbreak Valance Gardens provided an obvious refuge, and after leaving Inspector Penross to his official duties Tremaine had made his way there with the intention of settling down to half an hour or so of quiet communion with himself. Several vague but insistent theories were worrying at his mind.
The sight of Haldean, however, caused him to alter his plans. It was pleasanter to talk than to think. Besides, although this he tried not to admit, it was much less arduous.
The blond man turned sharply at his hail as he drew nearer.
“Morning, Tremaine. Didn’t see you. My mind was miles away.”
Mordecai Tremaine sat down at his side.
“You look worried.”
“I am worried,” Haldean said. “Damned worried. I don’t like the way things are going at all. What’s that inspector friend of yours up to?”
“Only what you might expect. Trying to find out how Adrian Carthallow was shot.”
“Thanks,” Haldean returned dryly. “What I’m anxious to find out is what ideas he has on the subject. About Helen, I mean. If I could do something to help her it wouldn’t seem so bad, but she won’t talk to any of us. It’s as though she’s built a wall round herself and we’re all outside it, unable to get through to her.”
“You think she’s hiding something?”
“Isn’t it obvious she must be?” Haldean said. “There’s no need for me to beat about the bush with you.”
“No,” said Mordecai Tremaine, “I don’t think there is. I—”
He broke off, his eyes upon a man who had just walked from the shelter of a thatched cottage restaurant some twenty yards away at the edge of the gardens. It was Morton Westfield. He seemed to be in a hurry. Tremaine nudged his companion.
“D’you see that fellow over there? The one with the unusually shaped head just going past the boating pool. D’you know him?”
Haldean said, reluctantly:
“Where? Oh, I see. No, I don’t know him. Am I supposed to?”
He seemed put out by the change of subject and disinclined to be drawn after what he considered to be a red herring. Tremaine said:
“I thought you might be acquainted with him, that’s all. He was on intimate terms with Adrian Carthallow.”
“Was he?”
“You’ve never met him at any time?”
“Not as far as I can remember,” said Haldean testily. “I knew a good deal about Adrian’s business but I didn’t know everything.”
He seemed to realize that he was acting ungraciously and his manner softened.
“Sorry. I’m afraid I’m a bit on edge and inclined to snap at people. This wretched business and the uncertainty about Helen have been playing on my nerves.”
“That’s all right,” Mordecai Tremaine said. “I know how you feel.”
“I wonder if you do?” said Haldean quietly. His face was very serious. He said, after an instant or two: “Who was that fellow you pointed out?”
“His name’s Westfield. He’s in the Follies company at the Pavilion.”
“I haven’t been to their show yet. You say Adrian knew him well?”
“That was the impression I gained,” returned Tremaine. “I saw them together on a couple of occasions and each time they were talking in a confidential fashion.”
“Adrian didn’t say anything about him to you?”
“Not,” said Mordecai Tremaine carefully, “exactly. Beyond telling me that it couldn’t have been Westfield I saw him with the first time.”
The blond man frowned. He clasped his hands around his knees, staring over the flower-beds.
“Adrian had something on his mind,” he said thoughtfully. “He didn’t give anything definite away to me but I’m certain of it from the way he used to act. Perhaps—”
“Perhaps?” Mordecai Tremaine prompted, hopefully, but Haldean shook his head.
“No, it’s no good. Westfield couldn’t have had anything to do with it. Nobody went over that bridge except Helen and Adrian.”
Mordecai Tremaine eyed his companion reflectively. And then he said:
“Somebody else did go over. Lester Imleyson.”
“Imleyson!”
Haldean turned a startled face upon him. Consternation echoed in his voice. He said, unsteadily:
“You’re not—you’re not serious?”
“I’m afraid,” Mordecai Tremaine said, “I am. He went into the house shortly after Mrs. Carthallow.”
The blond man leaned back. He was trying to avoid betraying how much the news had shocked and distressed him but he had been taken unawares and he was not succeeding too well.
“Does the inspector know?”
Tremaine nodded.
“Yes, he knows.”
Haldean made an obvious effort to give the impression that he did not think the incident was so important, after all.
“I dare say Imleyson has some reasonable explanation,” he said, attempting casualness.
“It’s possible,” Mordecai Tremaine agreed, dryly. “But it doesn’t look too good, does it? There’s only one theory Inspector Penross can follow on the face of things.”
“What theory’s that?” said Haldean, unwillingly, and Mordecai Tremaine pushed back his pince-nez.
“That they did it together,” he said, deliberately brutal.
Lewis Haldean’s face looked suddenly old and lined.
“It can’t be true—it just can’t. Not—Helen.” With an abrupt movement he put his hand on his companion’s shoulder. Tremaine felt his fingers digging into the flesh beneath his coat. “She couldn’t have had anything to do with it. I tell you, man, I know her too well.”
Mordecai Tremaine regarded him steadily.
“Are you in love with her?”
Slowly the blond man’s grip relaxed. He turned away.
“What if I am?” he said. “Does it make her innocence any less sure?”
“No. But it helps to explain why you’re so anxious to save her. And it’s important to see that all the various pieces in the puzzle fit together.”
Haldean’s toe traced a pattern on the gravelled path. He did not look at Tremaine. He said:
“I understand. You’re working with the inspector and you’ve got to make certain where everybody comes in. I’d just like to say this. I’ve never told anyone else what I’ve just
told you. Certainly I’ve never told Helen. I’d appreciate it if she didn’t learn it now.”
“You have my assurance,” Mordecai Tremaine said gravely, “that she won’t learn it from me.”
There was a wry twist to Haldean’s lips.
“Don’t imagine that I’m being heroic,” he said. “It’s just that I’m not so blind that I can’t see the truth when it’s staring me in the face. I know that I don’t stand a chance with Helen and I’m not anxious to have my emotions paraded in public.”
“Naturally not,” said Mordecai Tremaine, and added: “What’s your opinion of Elton Steele?”
“Steele?” The blond man was disconcerted again by this sudden switching of interest. He echoed the name blankly. “Steele? There isn’t any bad blood between us—if that’s what you mean.”
“He’s in love with Mrs. Carthallow, too, isn’t he?”
“I believe he is. But we don’t exactly go around exchanging intimate details of that description.”
“No,” Mordecai Tremaine said. “I suppose not. I mentioned Steele because he rather intrigues me. He strikes me as being a man who might be capable of anything under certain circumstances. And if he’s in love with Mrs. Carthallow—”
He did not need to finish the sentence. Haldean took him up.
“If that’s in your mind,” he said sharply, “you can forget it. The idea’s absurd. I’ve known Elton Steele for some time, and he isn’t the type to go around murdering people.”
“Still, there is a motive.”
“You couldn’t describe Adrian as a popular figure,” Haldean said. “If it’s motive you want I dare say you could find dozens of people who might have wanted to get at him. But that doesn’t prove that one of them did it. They weren’t at the house—and neither was Steele.”
“True,” Mordecai Tremaine observed. “But Lester Imleyson was.”
Haldean said:
“All right. So you have got something. But don’t let it lead you into seeing things that aren’t there. For pretty obvious reasons I’ve no cause to try and whitewash Imleyson, but he isn’t a murderer any more than Steele. Come to think of it, I don’t know any of us who is.”
“Nobody,” said Mordecai Tremaine, “likes to think they’ve a murderer among their acquaintances. But it’s a thing that has happened to quite a lot of people.”
The blond man seemed to be thinking something over. He fingered his beard. He said, haltingly:
“Look here, it’s an open secret that you and the inspector are hand in glove. You know my feelings about things. If there’s any way in which I can help to get this frightful business cleared up just tell me and I’ll do all I can.”
There was a smile on Mordecai Tremaine’s lips.
“So far,” he said, “your help has consisted of trying to convince me that nobody I’ve mentioned could have killed Adrian Carthallow. What I’m anxious to find out is who did.”
Haldean acknowledged the thrust with an apologetic gesture.
“I dare say I have been a bit of a wet blanket from your point of view. But you know where I stand. I still can’t get rid of a hunch that it was suicide. Maybe it does look all wrong, but I knew Adrian and I know Helen. If you could get her to talk I’m sure you’d find I’m right.”
Tremaine did not debate the question. He extracted his big pocket watch and glanced down at it.
“I must be off,” he said. “Getting Mrs. Carthallow to talk,” he added, as he rose to his feet, “hasn’t been easy so far. Why don’t you have a try with her? Between ourselves I can tell you this. If you can prove she’s innocent there won’t be a happier man than Inspector Penross.”
He nodded to his companion and set off along the path before Haldean could make any comment. He had an appointment with Charles Penross at Paradise and it was an appointment for which he did not wish to be late. For the inspector had sent a message to Roberta Fairham that he wished to see her there and Miss Fairham’s reaction to the item of information that was to be laid before her was likely to prove interesting.
Penross was already at the house when he arrived. Mordecai Tremaine crossed the bridge and went up the winding drive to find him in Carthallow’s study, staring pensively out through the gap in the trees towards the sea. The inspector turned as he came in.
“She’s not here?” said Tremaine. “Good. I was hoping I hadn’t missed her. I’m a bit late—stayed talking to Lewis Haldean in Valance Gardens.”
Penross nodded abstractedly. Tremaine said:
“You look as though there’ve been developments, Charles.”
“Not exactly developments,” Penross returned. There was a note of gloom in his voice. “I’ve been studying the reports on Colonel Neale. He’s still in Falporth all right. And he hasn’t what you might call a reliable alibi for the time Carthallow was killed.”
“No?”
“No,” the inspector said. “He took a stroll along the cliffs—in this direction. He didn’t see anybody he knew and didn’t speak to anybody who might be able to confirm his alibi. We’ve made a check at his hotel on the times he went out and came back, but there’s a sizeable gap in between. And it’s the sort of gap that could prove awkward.”
“What was your man’s impression of him?”
“Favourable enough as far as it went. Neale answered questions without any fuss and didn’t make any bones about the fact that he didn’t approve of Carthallow.”
“But he said he didn’t kill him?”
“Of course. I wasn’t expecting anything else. But I wish his alibi was a bit tighter. You can never be certain what a man like Neale will do. He’s the dyed-in-the-wool Army type—been used to having people running around after him and treating him as a tin god. And by all accounts he took a bad knock over that daughter of his.”
“What you mean,” said Tremaine, “is that you think he might have regarded himself as quite legitimately able to treat Adrian Carthallow like he might have dealt with an enemy under active service conditions?”
“Something of the sort,” Penross agreed. “Anything—odd about it?”
“Not at all. It sounds perfectly logical. But when I first told you about Colonel Neale being here,” Mordecai Tremaine observed quietly, “you knew all about that. It didn’t seem to impress you very much then. What’s the reason for the change in your outlook?”
“If anybody knows the answer,” Penross said, “you do. When this case started only Mrs. Carthallow and her husband were supposed to have been in the house. Now we know that at least two other people came here as well. I’m not taking things for granted any more and that’s why I’m keeping an open mind about Neale.”
“What explanation did Imleyson give you?”
“So far he hasn’t given one. He’s gone into Wadestow—on business for his father. Apparently it’s genuine enough. I’ve left a message that I’d like to see him as soon as he gets back.”
Mordecai Tremaine nodded. He was moving restlessly about the room, as though there was a special problem worrying at his mind. He stopped beneath the point in the picture rail where the bullet that had killed Adrian Carthallow had been embedded. The damaged section of the rail had been neatly cut away.
“You’ve had the bullet examined, Charles?”
“The whole thing went down to the lab,” Penross said. “The ballistics people got the bullet out and checked it. There’s no doubt that it came from Carthallow’s gun. The markings tally. There were still five rounds left and they were able to put it through all the routine tests. We found the cartridge case from the shot that was fired and the markings on that have been checked as well. Carthallow’s fingerprints were found on the bullets that were in the chamber, but all that proves is that he loaded the thing. It doesn’t take us any further in telling us who fired it.”
“It was a pretty big hole, wasn’t it?” said Tremaine. “Did your science people make any special comments?”
“As a matter of fact,” said Penross slowly, “there were on
e or two rather odd features. There was a certain amount of blackening and they found powder grains in the wood. But you do sometimes get freak results with firearms.”
“So I understand,” said Mordecai Tremaine thoughtfully.
He did not pursue the matter and in a moment or two the inspector led the way up to the studio.
“The Fairham woman should be here any time now,” he explained, “and I want to make the most of it when she gets here.”
Tremaine looked round once more at the crayon sketches, water-colours and oils scattered about the room.
“She used to make a great fuss about Carthallow’s work. The first time I came here she went off into a lyrical outburst about what one of the art critics had written about him. Even Carthallow felt embarrassed. There’s no doubt about his versatility though. He could turn his hand to anything. The trouble was he knew it and tried to tell the world about it.”
Penross picked up a tube of vermilion and balanced it idly in his hand.
“Art isn’t much in my line,” he remarked. “I never could understand why people part with thousands of pounds in good money for a painting on canvas.”
“Art,” said Mordecai Tremaine, “is universal. When a man paints a picture on the rocky walls of a cave he’s doing something that will still be understood centuries later by every other man who sees it.”
“I dare say,” said Penross, unimpressed. He replaced the tube of pigment. “I grant you, though, there are people who seem to be able to do some pretty tricky things with paintings. These restorer fellows, for instance. I remember reading once about two paintings done on panels that were taken right off and put on canvas instead.”
“Two by Rubens,” Tremaine said. “They’re in the Louvre in Paris.”
He was about to launch into a dissertation on the subject when they heard the muffled sound of the front-door bell. Penross looked relieved.
“That sounds like our lady now.”
In a few moments Roberta Fairham was shown into the studio by the constable who had been posted below. She had cast off some of her finery. Her face was free of make-up and she was wearing a dark grey costume severe in style; her role, obviously, was one of tragedy. She was in ostentatious mourning for Adrian Carthallow.
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