She paused in the entrance to the studio and looked about her as though the place held painful memories. She said, in a voice low with grief:
“You wanted to see me, Inspector?”
“That’s correct, Miss Fairham,” Penross said, impersonally. The pale eyes regarded him reproachfully.
“I’ve told you all I can,” she said, “but of course if there is anything further you wish to know I’ll do my best to help you. I’m sorry you felt it necessary to ask me here. This house is too full of Adrian’s—Mr. Carthallow’s—presence to make it easy for me to enter it.”
Penross said:
“You were very fond of Mr. Carthallow, weren’t you, MissFairham?”
Her head went up. The pale, indeterminate face held a consciously proud defiance.
“I’m not ashamed of it. I loved him.”
For an instant or two the inspector looked at her. And then his hand went out and with a swift gesture he brought the easel round so that she was staring at the savagely daubed portrait.
“Is that why you did this?”
His voice was cold, scornful and accusing. It whipped the colour into her cheeks as though his palm had slapped them stingingly. It came so much without warning that she recoiled, her hand flying to her lips.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said unsteadily.
“I think you do, Miss Fairham,” he told her. “I’m waiting for your explanation of why you lied to me when you said that you didn’t come to this house on the day Mr. Carthallow died.”
“I didn’t lie! I didn’t come!”
The words were edged with a shrill desperation. Penross heard it and knew that her guard was down.
“I have a witness who saw you,” he said remorselessly. “You would be well advised to tell me the truth. You went into the house wearing a postman’s uniform.”
They saw what confidence was left in her face drain slowly away, leaving it small and viperish, as Mordecai Tremaine had known it once before when she had been speaking of Helen Carthallow. The mask of grief had been stripped from her.
“All right,” she said, between her teeth. “If you know so much I did come here.”
“And you did deface this portrait?”
“Yes!” she flung at him. “I did! And I’d do it again!”
She made a movement towards the easel as though she intended to put her threat into immediate execution, and Mordecai Tremaine stepped instinctively in front of her. It had the effect of drawing her attention upon him. She stared at him fixedly and he saw the understanding sharpen her eyes and the vixenish hate twist her lips.
“So it was you. I might have guessed it, with your poking and prying into other people’s affairs. You saw me that night at the Arts Ball.”
“Yes,” said Mordecai Tremaine, “I saw you that night—wearing the same uniform.”
Penross said:
“In your own interests, Miss Fairham, I think you’d better tell me exactly what you did.”
She turned to face him again.
“I’ll tell you! Why shouldn’t I? It was just as you said. I wore the postman’s uniform under my bathing wrap so that if I’d met anybody on the way they’d have thought I was just going for an early morning swim. When I got to the bridge I took the wrap off and put it in the bushes. I knew that there was no one at the house and that the only danger was that someone might see me from a distance. I was certain that if they did they’d take me for the postman and not pay any more attention to me.”
“How did you get into the house?”
“Adrian gave me a key.” She saw the inspector’s look of surprise and her voice became harder. “It’s true. I understood Adrian. He didn’t always show it in public, but he could be kind and gentle.”
“I’m not disputing your word,” Penross said. “There was no sign of an entry having been made forcibly. Tell me the rest.”
“You know it already. I came up here to the studio. Adrian never let anyone see his work when he was engaged on a portrait but I knew what he was doing. He was painting—her.”
She bit out the last word with a savage emphasis. And then her control began to leave her and the sentences came tumbling and disjointed as though they were being forced out of her by some dreadful inner force she could not resist.
“I asked him to paint my portrait. He laughed—said he didn’t have the time. And then I discovered what he was doing—painting her instead. I couldn’t stand it. I wasn’t going to let him finish it—I wasn’t going to have them all sneering about me, smirking behind my back. She didn’t love him. She never did. I squeezed out all the tubes I could over the canvas. I rubbed them in. I told myself when I was doing it that it was her face I was destroying. It was her fine beauty that was under my hands . . .”
There was a dribble of froth at the corners of her lips; her features were twisted and distorted. Penross said, quietly:
“And what then?”
Her fury died away. She looked at him slyly.
“I went back,” she said. “I know what you’d like to think and it isn’t true. I locked up the house again and went away. I wasn’t here when Adrian came. I wasn’t here when he was killed. If you know about my crossing the bridge you know that, too. She did it. She killed him so that she could have that fancy man of hers!”
Penross did not say anything. She had gone away. Matilda Vickery had confirmed it and Matilda Vickery had not lied. There was no reason for her to have lied. Not like there had been where Lester Imleyson had been concerned.
At last:
“I’d like you to go down to the lounge, Miss Fairham,” he told her, “and wait for me there. I must have your statement prepared so that you can sign it.”
And when she had descended the narrow stairs and they were once more alone in the studio he looked at his companion.
“Not a very pretty story,” he said grimly.
Mordecai Tremaine nodded. He was thinking of a viciously hurtling surf board that might have done grievous injury. It wasn’t a very pretty story. In fact, it wasn’t pretty at all.
6
THERE WAS ON Lester Imleyson’s good-looking face the sullen expression of a man who knew that he was under suspicion but who was determined to give nothing away. Mordecai Tremaine, taking a morning stroll over the cliffs, had encountered him coming from the direction of Trecarne Head. He had not seen Penross since his interview with Roberta Fairham on the previous day, but he was confident that the inspector would by this time have confronted Imleyson with the challenging fact that he had been seen at Paradise.
The younger man’s attitude made it clear at once that he was in no mood for finesse and Tremaine went straight to the point.
“I gather there’s been a development since I saw you yesterday.”
Imleyson’s reaction was as aggressive as he had expected it would be.
“I don’t doubt that you know all about it. When am I to be shown the handcuffs?”
“Has there been any talk about handcuffs?” Mordecai Tremaine said mildly.
“Your friend Penross didn’t trouble to hide his opinion.”
“But he didn’t arrest you.”
Imleyson gave him a sharp glance.
“Maybe he thought it wouldn’t look so good if he had to release me again because he’d made a mistake.”
They were standing near the edge of the cliffs. Mordecai Tremaine stared out over the water, the wind whipping at his cheeks. He said:
“When you went into the house that day did you see Adrian Carthallow?”
Imleyson flushed angrily. At first it seemed that he did not intend to reply, and then he said, shortly:
“I saw his body.”
“Was Mrs. Carthallow there?”
The muscles along Lester Imleyson’s jaw tightened perceptibly. He said:
“No.”
“You didn’t see any sign of her at all?”
“No.”
“What did you do?”
“It didn�
�t need a doctor to tell that Carthallow was dead. There wasn’t anything I could do for him. I left.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Imleyson said, “I didn’t want some stupid idiot accusing me of having killed him.”
Mordecai Tremaine gave a gentle cough.
“And you didn’t kill him?”
“Don’t be a fool.”
“I see your point. You could hardly be expected to admit it even if you did. So your story is that you went into the house, found Carthallow dead, and went off again without seeing anyone else or trying to notify the police because you were afraid that in view of the known closeness of your association with Mrs.Carthallow you might be accused of murder. Is that right?”
“You seem to have it all tied up,” Imleyson said.
It was very lonely on this part of the cliffs, for the weather was not warm enough now to bring many people out. The water and the rocks seemed a long way down. Mordecai Tremaine glanced at his companion’s face and took a step backwards, away from the edge of the drop. Imleyson smiled sardonically.
“Nervous? Who kills once can kill twice, eh? You needn’t panic. I’m not going to pitch you over—not yet.”
Mordecai Tremaine put up a hand to his pince-nez. He felt that he was not cutting a very dignified figure. He endeavoured to re-establish his hold upon the situation.
“When you saw Carthallow,” he said, “just how was his body lying?”
Lester Imleyson drew a deep breath.
“I’ve told Inspector Penross all I know. If there’s anything you want to find out you’d better go and talk to him.”
He turned on his heel and strode off towards Falporth. Mordecai Tremaine stared thoughtfully after him, allowing him time to increase the distance between them, and then he, too, began to walk back in the direction of the town.
His destination was Hilda Eveland’s house. As he pushed open the iron gate at the entrance to her garden he saw that she was busy with a pair of hand shears, trimming the edge of the lawn where it bordered the drive.
“Morning, Hilda.”
She turned a red and perspiring face upon him, waved him a greeting and went on clipping.
“Don’t stop me, Mordecai. Once I straighten up I’ll never be able to get back down again!”
“As a matter of fact,” he told her, “it was Helen I really came to see.”
“Too late,” she said, wielding the shears vigorously. “She’s out.”
“Did she go alone?”
“No. Elton came for her. He’s taken her for a drive.”
Mordecai Tremaine said:
“Oh.” And added: “He’s been seeing rather a lot of her, hasn’t he?”
Hilda Eveland snipped away the last few blades of grass and stood upright with a sigh of relief.
“Thank goodness that’s over. You know the way the wind’s blowing, Mordecai. He’s in love with her. I don’t know when they’ll be back. Did you want Helen for anything in particular?”
“No—I just thought I’d like to talk to her. I’ve been speaking to Lester Imleyson this morning. You know he went to the house, after all, I suppose?”
“Who doesn’t?” she said. “What’s the inspector going to do about it?”
Mordecai Tremaine made no attempt to answer the question. He said:
“Hilda, what’s the trouble between Helen Carthallow and Lester Imleyson?”
He thought he saw a shadow cross her face.
“Trouble?” she said, and he took her arm.
“You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. Before Carthallow died they were almost open lovers and now they’re acting as though they’re strangers. Penross thinks it might be an act, but I’m not so sure. I’ve watched them both. They’re like people who’ve something to conceal and who aren’t certain whether or not the other is going to let them down. Imleyson’s always truculent and on the defensive, and Helen’s hard and cynical. Why do they avoid each other’s company? Why is it Steele who’s acting as her protector?”
“Aren’t you rather imagining things, Mordecai? You shouldn’t pay so much attention to Romantic Stories,” said Hilda Eveland, but she could not keep the note of uncertainty from her voice.
“I’m not doing any imagining,” said Mordecai Tremaine soberly. “How long has Steele been in love with her?”
“A year—perhaps more. You can’t be certain with a thing like that. Especially with Elton. He doesn’t give himself away.”
“No,” said Mordecai Tremaine. “He doesn’t.”
Something in his tone made her look at him with a sudden intentness, her eyes filled with foreboding.
“Mordecai, you don’t—you don’t suspect Elton?”
“No more than I suspect anyone else,” he told her. “It’s just that Elton Steele seems to me to be the kind of man who might do all sorts of unexpected things and I don’t think it would be wise to ignore him.” A memory came back to him of Steele’s face as he had stared at Roberta Fairham just after the surfing incident. He added, slowly: “I certainly don’t think that would be wise.”
He remained chatting with Hilda Eveland for several more minutes, but he knew that he had disturbed her and as soon as he could do so without making it appear too obvious he took his departure. He went out of his way through the town in the hope that he might see Colonel Neale, but he arrived back at Arthur Tyning’s home without having encountered anyone he knew.
In the afternoon the clouds lifted over the sea and the sun shone through. It was still too breezy to encourage him down to his usual spot on the beach near Paradise but he found a sheltered spot in the garden and settled down in a deck-chair. Jonathan Boyce had gone down to the harbour and the Tynings were making several calls in Falporth. His afternoon should be undisturbed.
He had provided himself with the latest copy of Romantic Stories, but he did not read more than a few paragraphs and even these did not convey any meaning to him. His mind was far too preoccupied with the stuff of the drama with which real-life had presented him to enable him to take his human relationships at second-hand.
His brain was busy calling back scattered impressions from the past, fitting them into a coherent whole.
Anita Lane speaking to him on the telephone. Adrian Carthallow displaying an interest in police work and going out of his way to be pleasant to an elderly gentleman wearing insecurely balanced pince-nez whom he had never seen before. Lewis Haldean sitting in a gently swaying boat and telling him that he was afraid Carthallow might be heading for a nervous breakdown. A newspaper item. An early morning meeting on a lonely beach between Adrian Carthallow and a man whom he had only a short time previously denied that he knew.
Mordecai Tremaine felt truth being dangled tantalizingly in front of him. Romantic Stories lay forgotten on his knees. In his mind a fantastic, unbelievable theory was slowly unfolding and he knew instinctively that the mystery of how Adrian Carthallow had come to die lay almost within his grasp. . . .
It was the click of the gate that aroused him late in the afternoon. He sat up in his chair and saw Inspector Penross coming down the garden path. Penross had the tense, excited air of a man who brought news.
He saw the deck-chair and made towards it.
“Well, Mordecai, we’re on to something!”
Mordecai Tremaine tried hastily to push Romantic Stories out of sight.
“You are?” he said, still not quite adjusted to the shock of the inspector’s sudden appearance.
“It’s about that chap Westfield. He may be working for his living as an actor, but he has other strings to his bow. The Criminal Records Office know all about him. He’s a very shady character—has contacts with all kinds of crooks. In his own particular line he’s something of a con man.”
Tremaine was fully interested now.
“Have you found any link-up with Carthallow?” he asked eagerly.
“Nothing concrete so far, but there’s no doubt that they were hand-in-glove over something, and judging b
y Westfield’s record it isn’t likely to have been legal. They used to meet quite a lot in London—in places where they weren’t likely to be seen by anyone who knew Carthallow. The Yard are still making enquiries. They’ll let us know, of course, if anything definite turns up.”
“Beyond the fact that it confirms that Westfield’s past is a murky one,” observed Mordecai Tremaine thoughtfully, “I don’t see that it takes us anywhere. You’ve still got to get over Matilda Vickery’s evidence that nobody went over the bridge except the people you’ve already checked. I don’t doubt that Westfield has an unbreakable alibi for the time of the shooting.”
“Maybe he has,” said Penross. “And maybe he hasn’t. As soon as the report came through I went along to the Pavilion myself to see him. He wasn’t there. He hasn’t shown up since last night and the manager was tearing his hair because he’s supposed to be appearing in the matinée performance this afternoon. I promptly checked at his digs and the landlady told me that he didn’t come in last night after the show as he usually did.”
“H’m. What’s your opinion of that?”
“I’m not going in for opinions,” said Penross cheerfully. “Not just yet. There are too many loose ends to be cleared up. But it looks promising. Let’s say that for some reason or other Westfield—his name at the C.R.O. is Galley, by the way—lost his nerve. Maybe he found out we were making enquiries about him—one of his London pals could have tipped him off—so he decided to bolt. And a man who does that has something on his conscience.”
“Does that mean that Lester Imleyson isn’t under suspicion any more?”
“It does not.” Penross spoke with the emphasis of a man who was considerably more at peace with the world than he had formerly been. “But this case is beginning to break. After going along in a kind of tunnel that left precious little room for development it’s getting into open country. I’ve sent out an all-stations message for Westfield. He’s bound to be picked up soon and my guess is that by then he’ll be ripe to talk.”
“Maybe.” Mordecai Tremaine sounded preoccupied. One part of his brain had been listening to what Penross had been saying; another part was working busily at something else. He said: “You’ve heard of Warren Belmont?”
So Pretty a Problem Page 22
