Again the answer seems simple. Prove that Thora Chevalle did not commit suicide, but was murdered. And how could it be proved? There I’m afraid I still have to mystify you. For if the one to profit most by her murder was Chevalle, then the way to prove that he was responsible for it, was to prove that he didn’t commit it! To prove, in fact, that the one who committed the murder was Santon.
Immediately after lunch that day I got to work on the job of proving to my own satisfaction the theory of which I have just given admittedly only a vague idea. Before I began I made a new bargain with myself. If I discovered anything that implicated Santon, then I would pass it on to Wharton, but if the discovery implicated Chevalle, then I would reserve the right of keeping it to myself.
What started me off so hot-foot was a chance peep into a cupboard in my bedroom, and seeing on the floor a pair of tennis shoes that had belonged to my brother-in-law, Tom Thornley. He takes large nines and I tens, and I found I could wear them, even if they were the least bit tight. Then the idea came, and when Helen and Annie were in the kitchen after lunch I had a look in the hot-press and there found a towel that was long past its best. I took it, and the shoes, and then made my way unseen to the back path.
I was making for Bassetts, and as I came near Little Foxes I kept a wary eye for Santon and Dewball, for after what had happened that morning I wanted to avoid them both. But I got past the house without a sign of either of them, and then suddenly I smelt smoke. In a moment it was drifting across the path, for the wind was in the southwest, and I was wondering if the house itself or a shed was on fire. Then there was something in the smell of the smoke and the fact that it hugged the ground that told me it was only a rubbish-heap burning.
So I went on my way, and then, when the chimneys of Bassetts were visible through the chestnut, I turned sharp right, and set a course by guess and by God. My memory proved reliable and though I didn’t strike that little pond by the roadside, I came within sight of it. When I did get to it, I did some reconnoitring. A dense hedge of thorn and holly concealed it and me from the road, provided I kept to the side nearest Bassetts, and that was the side where I wanted to explore. As for the path by which I had come, that was a hundred yards away in the chestnut underwood.
I felt the black water and found it on the cold side, for though it was a swelteringly hot day, that pond was well in the shade. Still, it wasn’t too cold, and well in the underwood I stripped to the raw, wrapped the towel round my middle and put on the shoes. With a length of oak fallen from a tree I probed the pool bottom and found it about three foot at its deepest. Then I stepped carefully in. Except from a casual tin or bottle I didn’t look for danger from a cut, for a notice was posted by the roadside with a threat of penalties for depositing rubbish, and that pond moreover was too far from the village to have been a general dump.
The first two feet were clayey and slippery and then I sank to the ankles in mud and leaf-mould. My long arms went down and while I cocked an ear for a sound on the road, my fingers were groping methodically, and my feet went forward inches by inches. Then I found something, and it was just as sudden as that. Somehow it seemed ridiculous that I should be holding that gun in my hand, and I smiled at it with all the inanity of surprise. For I’d never really expected to find it. True the pond wasn’t large. What was so unsubstantial was the theory that it should be there at all!
It was the sound of a bus or lorry that straightened my face and I nipped out of the pond and squatted well behind the hedge. When the lorry had gone I had a quick look at the gun, and wiped it on the towel. It was a beautiful job of work, and the very spit of the one with which Thora Chevalle had shot herself. Then, with another inane grin, I looked at the incised marks below the barrel. It was the twin of the other. It was, in fact, one of a pair.
I rubbed my legs down with the towel and dressed. The towel was muddied beyond redemption and the shoes a rather soggy sight, so I scraped a hole under a chestnut stub and buried them. That the gun had no prints didn’t matter in the least, for the mere evidence of its finding was proof that it was Thora Chevalle’s gun. To me it was incontrovertible proof. If she had shot Maddon, then she dared not keep the gun. If she had not killed Maddon, then she had been terrified lest Wharton should find the gun in her possession. In either case she had thrown it into the pond. Or had she induced Mary to throw it in there? Again in either case, I told myself, it came to the same thing.
I slipped that gun into a trouser pocket and made my way back towards Little Foxes. A glance at my watch showed that I had now well over half an hour to wait before Santon should be safe at the Wheatsheaf with Wharton, so I drew off the path, stoked my pipe and sat with my back against an oak. So far I was remarkably pleased with myself. That gun should be given to Wharton and he could send it to the Yard with the two bullets. What would be discovered was that the gun from the pond had fired the bullet that had killed Maddon. And since it was in the pond while Thora Chevalle was killing herself, there could have been no jiggery-pokery about substitution. She had, in fact, not killed herself with her own gun, and therefore she had not killed herself at all. Unless, of course, she had owned both guns, and that was highly improbable. Mary had seen only the one. And the two guns looked to me the kind that are kept together in a neat little case.
But the finding of the gun didn’t make the next moves any easier, and it was not till well after three o’clock that I began to see daylight again. Off I moved then to Little Foxes, and along the path by the summer-house. To the right I heard a voice adjuring someone not to take his Sunshine away, and when I came round to the little orchard, there was Tom Dewball stoking a bonfire with a pitchfork.
He stopped his singing and rather gaped at the sight of me.
“Hallo, sir? Come to see the Commander?”
“Not actually,” I said. “In fact I know he’s out.”
“That’s right, sir. He went out about half an hour ago.”
“You seem on good terms with yourself?” I said, and I knew he hadn’t been told about Thora Chevalle.
He looked a bit sheepish. “You mean the singing, sir.”
“Well, we’ll agree to call it that,” I said, and grinned. He grinned too.
“I like bonfires,” I said. “Always did. And I like the smell.”
“The Commander had this one started this morning,” he said. “He likes a bonfire too. Then he reckoned we’d better clear up all the rubbish while we had the chance.”
He shook another forkful or two while I watched.
“Be all burnt out before black-out,” he said. “If not, then I’ll damp it down with some of that wet stuff. Don’t want to, though, if I can avoid it. It makes the wood-ash so hard to sieve.”
He finished the stoking and was leaning on his fork as if disposed for a gossip.
“Didn’t I see you with a bundle of stakes this morning,” I said.
“Oh, them,” he said darkly. “You weren’t supposed to see them, sir.”
As he knew me for an old soldier he made no bones about telling me about the scrounging. He could have cut plenty of wood from their own strip behind the tennis court, but what was the sense of using your own when other people had plenty they wouldn’t miss.
“What did the Commander say to that?” I asked jocularly.
“Lord bless you, sir, he’s a bigger scrounger than I am,” he told me with a grin. “It was him who sort of threw out a hint for me to go to Hiver’s.”
“You’ll both be hung yet,” I said, and then began to move away. Then I artistically remembered that I’d come for something.
“Nearly forgetting what I came here for,” I said. “Do you happen to have a copy of the Porthaven Gazette?”
“The Gazette, sir?” He shook his head. “No, sir, we don’t take it. We used to, but there don’t seem to be anything in it except Porthaven news, so the Commander gave it up. The Telegraph’s all we take now. And the Mirror.”
“We take the Telegraph at Ringlands,” I said. “And
The Times. A bit extravagant these days, but there we are.” Then I gave a sigh. “Not that the Gazette matters very much. There was something I thought might be in it—that’s all.”
He told me I could see one at the Wheatsheaf and I said it wasn’t all that important. I’d happened to be passing Little Foxes when I’d thought about the Gazette or I shouldn’t have bothered him. After that he walked with me to the front gate where I saw he’d already begun to stick the zinnias. A quite cheery farewell, and I set out for home along the main road. That Tom would be bound to tell Santon I had called didn’t worry me in the least. Even if it did look fishy that I should have called when I knew for a certainty that he would be out, yet he could see nothing suspicious in my inquiry for a Gazette. As for the bonfire, that was incidental.
As soon as I got to Ringlands I rang up Wharton. He was obviously busy with Santon and Chevalle, and annoyed at being disturbed.
“Yes,” he said snappishly. “Who is it?”
“Travers, George. You can’t be overheard?”
“No,” he said, and I could imagine him giving a quick look round. “Why?”
“I won’t even risk telling you over the telephone,” I said. “But as soon as you’ve finished at the Wheatsheaf, call here and there’ll be a little parcel for you, and an explanatory letter. I’ve got to go to Porthaven or I’d have been here myself.”
“Being a bit mysterious, aren’t you?”
“Maybe,” I said. “But the letter will tell you why.”
I said a quick cheerio and hung up. Then I made a neat parcel of the gun with a cardboard box I found in the bedroom cupboard, and after that set about writing the explanatory letter.
When that was done I asked Annie where she kept the old copies of the newspapers. Luckily they hadn’t yet gone for salvage. I found the copy of the Telegraph that I wanted, cut out a long paragraph and put it carefully in my wallet.
Helen was calling me to tea. When I said I thought of going to Porthaven by the four-thirty bus she said that would save her a journey if I changed the library books. When I asked where the library was, she told me the best way to the main Boots was to get off at the station and then take a passage-way that led behind some cottages. That would bring me out plumb in the middle of the shopping centre, and save the much longer walk now due to a one-way traffic system.
Before a quarter to five I was in Porthaven. The short cut was an excellent one, and when I’d changed the books I asked the way to the office of the Porthaven Gazette. Friday was publishing day and the place looked pretty busy. An office boy took me down to a basement where a girl was in charge of the files.
Within five minutes I had found what I wanted. The copy was on sale, and when I got outside I made for a handy park, cut out the best part of a column and placed it with the Telegraph cutting in my wallet. The rest of the paper I read till it was time for the return bus. Then I bought Helen a small present with my sweets’ points and soon after seven o’clock was home again.
The meal was ready to put on the table, but Helen gave me Wharton’s letter first. He had collected his parcel and had then asked if he might leave a note for me. It was brief and very much to the point.
Good work. I think I’ve got you. The whole collection’s leaving at once, and not through Porthaven. After the inquest to-morrow I shall go up myself. I’ve got to be dead sure.
If I don’t get the chance to see you in the morning, don’t worry. I’ll let you know in good time when I’m coming back. If you’re making inquiries on your own, be careful. One wrong step and everything’s kyboshed. But you’re wrong about Ch., or did I misread you? The latter, I think. He’s above suspicion and his alibi’s perfect. Burn this.
G.W.
I smiled to myself at George’s wonder if he’d misread my letter. I’d intended him to be puzzled by making a hint so vague that it was doubtful if it was a hint at all. As for Chevalle, I knew his alibi was perfect. He was at Porthaven when Thora arrived at Little Foxes, and he couldn’t have known of the visit. When he reached Little Foxes, Santon could vouch for his alibi, just as Chevalle could guarantee Santon’s. As for Chevalle’s being above suspicion—well, I knew that too. Chief Constables don’t commit murders. Then I found myself idly polishing my glasses, for into my mind had come a line or two of Shakespeare, learned long ago in my prep-school days—
But Brutus is an honourable man.
So are they all, all honourable men.
A classic example of irony, as I’d then been told, and not unapt for this present occasion, and with or without the irony. Season with irony according to taste, I said to myself. Chevalle is an honourable man. So is Santon for that matter. So is Wharton, and so—ostensibly—is Ludovic Travers. We’re all of us honourable men.
It was not till a quarter-past eleven that I entered the inquest room at the Wheatsheaf. Except for the jury and witnesses there weren’t more than a half-dozen people there, so I sidled in at the back and took an unobtrusive seat. Identification was over and the doctor was concluding his evidence.
I find inquests boring in the extreme, and I’m not going to bore you by a long account of this one. What you ought to know you shall be told, and no more. The doctor’s evidence, for instance. There was the gun and there was the bullet, and there was the doctor explaining with meticulous care for the benefit of a very mixed jury the course that bullet had taken and, in answer to an obviously rehearsed question, stating confidently that its course had been dictated by the state of nervous tension in which the deceased had been when the trigger was pulled.
Then George dominated the proceedings for a minute or two, and when George is on his dignity and has made it clear what he is and what he stands for, then what he says is not so much evidence as final and unquestionable fact. But he hadn’t a lot to say that morning—only that the prints on the gun were those of the deceased, and consistent with the way the gun had been held and the course the bullet had taken. I thought the evidence deliberately woolly, but the Coroner was very impressed with George. He couldn’t help telling the Court how lucky we all were that so distinguished a witness had been available.
The next witness was Mary Carter. She was a good witness too, speaking quietly but to the point. She had seen the gun in a drawer in the bedroom of the deceased. She could not swear that it was the same gun though she was practically certain that it was. In answer to questions, she said the deceased had been very agitated during the last few days. The reasons were that she had come to hate Bassetts and her life there.
“You would regard her unhappiness there as of her own making?” interposed the Coroner.
Mary nervously moistened her lips, then said almost inaudibly that that was so.
The Coroner leaned forward and remarked, also practically inaudibly and for the benefit of the reporter of the Porthaven Gazette, that there would be more evidence on that point later. Then came Commander Santon.
It was his evidence that had had the most careful preparation. There was not a single false statement, but the omissions were significant and one deft piece of manipulation was as near perjury as makes no difference. That was when he gave as the reason for Thora Chevalle’s mad desire to get away from Bassetts the one that she had worked herself up into almost a nervous breakdown over imaginary grievances. There was never a mention of Wharton or Maddon, and then the Coroner, obviously a friend of Chevalle’s, put in a beautifully timed leading question.
“Tell me, frankly, will you, Commander. Did the deceased give you the impression that she had grounds for jealousy?”
“Good heavens, no!” Santon said. “There was nothing like that at all.”
“Well, there’s always likely to be gossip,” the Coroner said, and once more as if to the reporter, “and that’s why it should be scotched at the outset. But go on with your evidence.”
By the time he’d finished Santon had related everything, even the visit Thora Chevalle had made the previous morning. But there was no long-drawn description of the positio
n of himself under the car and timings. What was emphasised was that no sooner was Chevalle inside the gate than the shot was heard. Santon concluded, his voice almost inaudible from obvious distress, that when Major Chevalle had entered the summer-house it had been in time to see his wife die. Then he stepped down, and it was plain enough that he had the sympathy of the Court in the trying predicament in which he found himself.
There was a little flutter as Chevalle took the stand. In a clear dispassionate voice he confirmed Santon’s evidence. The Coroner began putting questions.
“This is going to be very painful for you, but I must ask you to make every possible piece of information available to this Court. The question of your wife’s unhappiness, for instance. Can you tell us to what it was really due?”
Chevalle’s eyes narrowed for a moment, and he hesitated. Maybe the Coroner had made a variation in the wording of the question.
“I don’t think I can,” he said. “It was just that we’d come to differ on everything. We were temperamentally different. I was much older, for one thing, and occupied with my work. She liked excitement, perhaps, and things that I didn’t care for. Or had no time for.”
“I understand. And on what precise terms were you?”
“Oh, no terms at all,” Chevalle told him. “Speaking terms perhaps, and no more. Of recent weeks not that.”
“You quarrelled?”
“Never. The situation had got beyond quarrels.”
The Case of the Platinum Blonde: A Ludovic Travers Mystery Page 17
