The Cornish Coast Murder (British Library Crime Classics) (14 page)

The Superintendent agreed.

“That's all very well, but from what I hear about the three shots, they must have been fired from the cliff-path. There were no hurdles on the path, remember.”

“Tregarthan wasn't shot from the path,” said the Inspector emphatically. “He was shot from the wall. Hardy got to the wall over the hurdles, probably in his stockinged feet, climbed along the wall, threw the gravel—supplied by the girl—against the window and fired the three shots. Simple, eh? He then went back the way he'd come, put on his boots, cut up over the common to the road, where his car was parked, hopped in and drove hell-for-leather to Fenton's garage.”

“And the girl?”

“Returned along the cliff-path. Walked out along the hurdles. Picked ’em up one by one and stacked ’em against the wall. Found her returning track and continued along the cliff-path to the side-door. More than that, sir—you'll remember that I noticed she'd stopped, looked in at the window and then
run
to the side-door?”

“Yes.”

“Well, if she knew nothing about the crime, why did she
suddenly
run like that? Answer—because she did know about the crime. She did know that the deed was a ... a ...”

“A
fait accompli
,” suggested the Superintendent.

“That's the idea, sir. And the reason she knew it was a ... a ... what you've just said, sir, was because the curtains of the sitting-room were undrawn! She may even have noticed the shot-stars in the glass if she'd been expecting them.” The Inspector stretched himself, picked up his notebook and stuck it back in his pocket. “Well, sir, that's my theory. It all seems to fit in pretty well, doesn't it? It doesn't leave much to be explained.”

“No. It all sounds pretty conclusive, Bigswell. Looks like a smart piece of deduction,” agreed the Superintendent. “There's just one thing—what about the girl's little escapade
after
the murder?”

“You mean why did she sneak out of the house, sir? Yes, I'm glad you've asked that. I couldn't quite fit that in at first. It puzzled me no end. Of course, the obvious explanation was that she had an incriminating bit of evidence that she wanted to get rid of. But what? The revolver? I couldn't quite see why Hardy should leave his revolver lying about, when he could have easily tossed it over the cliff into deep water. But then it struck me—he
didn't
intend to leave it lying about. It was an accident. Suppose it had slipped out of his hand and fallen on to the cliff-path? What then? He was in a fix, eh? He couldn't reach it from the wall. He daren't walk along the path to pick it up. He daren't stay there a second after the murder had been committed for fear that anybody had heard the shots. He knew the girl was scheduled to come back along the cliff-path to pick up the hurdles, so he left the revolver where it was. She came along. Saw it. Picked it up. Hid it in her mackintosh pocket, smuggled it into her bedroom and later threw it into the sea. You see how it all fits in, sir? I don't think we shall have to call in the experts this time. After all, it would look bad for us if we fetched the Yard men down here under false pretences. To my mind when we can lay our hands on Ronald Hardy we've got the murderer of Julius Tregarthan!”

“And the girl?”

“Well, sir, what do
you
think?” asked the Inspector tactfully. “I suppose we might say that I've made out a strong enough case against her sufficient to warrant her arrest on suspicion. But I've an idea that it would be better to hold back for a while.”

The Superintendent agreed.

“Far better. Your hypothesis may be sound, but it's not cast-iron. We can't afford to make a mistake. Besides, if the girl is safe in Boscawen there's always the chance that Hardy may give us a line on his whereabouts by trying to get in touch with her. You never know. The intelligent type of criminal so often commits the most obvious and elementary blunders. The girl's at the Vicarage, you say?”

The Inspector nodded.

“What about the post? Still delivered at Greylings?”

“Probably. But I can find out.”

“Do. Make a note if any suspicious-looking document turns up. The postmark may enable us to narrow the search. No detail's too small to be neglected, Bigswell. Mind you, he's probably read the papers by now and knows that he's wanted in connection with the murder. His photo will be in all the later editions of the evening papers to-night. Still, there's just a chance that he may take the risk and let the girl know where he is. He'll guess she's worried. Particularly as they didn't meet according to arrangement last night.”

“And the Chief?” asked the Inspector anxiously.

“Oh, I'll square him,” grinned the Superintendent affably. “After all, your theory does seem to hold water. He can't deny
that
. Looks to me as if it's a mere case of routine work now—a thorough comb-out of the metropolitan area by the London police—bless ’em! I think you can congratulate yourself, Bigswell, on a pretty slick bit of work.”

The Inspector left the Superintendent's office with a somewhat lighter heart than when he had entered it. He had propounded his theory in the nick of time. If he had not evolved his line of enquiry on his way back from Boscawen that evening, by now the Chief would have, doubtless, been through to Scotland Yard, arranging for a couple of experts to be put on the case.

Outside the Police Station he dismissed Grimmet, who was waiting with the car, and turning left along Marston Street he made his way to Fenton's Quick Service Garage.

Fenton himself, in greasy dungarees, with a cigarette-stub behind his ear, hurried up as the Inspector entered the garage. Fenton and Bigswell were old friends, for since the car had entered more and more into criminal activities, police and garage-owners were in constant touch with each other. Over Fenton's desk in the little glass-windowed cubby-hole which served as his office, there was more often than not pinned a list, giving the numbers of “wanted” cars.

“Evening, Inspector. Come about the car in the Tregarthan murder case, eh?” asked Fenton in what he considered a voice of official secrecy. “Gave me a bit of a jolt, I can tell you, when I knew we'd had that chap in here. It's this way,” he added in an undertone. “Nothing's been meddled with.”

It was obvious that the garage-proprietor was considerably impressed and excited to be connected, even in a remote way, with a sensation which had flung black headlines across the evening Press.

He guided the Inspector through a maze of dismantled cars, engine parts, tools and empty petrol cans, to where a sliding door gave on to a smaller garage behind the general workshop. Only a few cars were in—a sleek, high-chassised Daimler, a Trojan van, a couple of baby Austins and in the far corner a mud-spattered, rather sorry-looking Morris, with a dilapidated hood and a rust-spotted radiator.

“Hardly a beauty, is she?” said Fenton. “Seen better days, I should say. It's a marvel to me how these old cars stand up to it. You can't wear ’em out. Bad look-out for us, you know.”

The Inspector agreed, but it was obvious that he was not paying any attention to Fenton's rigmarole. His practised eyes were straying over the car, above which burnt a single, naked bulb. The hood, torn in two places, was still raised and a little pool of water had gathered in a fold at the top. The mudguards and bonnet-sides were thick with splashes and the wheels themselves encrusted with dried mud. It was obvious that the car had been driven at a reckless speed along the Boscawen–Greystoke road.

With methodical precision the Inspector went through the pockets, looked under the seats, searched the tool-box, even probed the upholstery in the hope of unearthing some clue which would verify his lately expounded theory. But he drew a blank. All the usual clutter which succeeds in finding its way into the nooks and crannies of a car—maps, spare plugs, rags, old gloves, pocket-torch and a couple of A.A. books—but beyond that, nothing which might be of any use in elucidating his ideas. He then, with equal precision, examined the outside of the car. But there again he found nothing unusual—even the licence was in order. As he concluded his examination, during which Fenton had stood by in respectful silence, the Inspector pointed to the spare wheel.

“What d'you make of that, Fenton?” he asked. “Careless chap, eh?”

Fenton took a closer look at the worn tread of the tyre and whistled.

“Some burst! Bet that caused him a moment's panic! These old high-pressure tyres are the very devil when a front-wheel blows off. Can't quite see the point of him travelling with a wheel like that though, Inspector, it's not the slightest use to him if one of the other tyres goes. He ought to have had it replaced.”

“Exactly,” said the Inspector. “As I remarked—a careless chap.” Adding as they walked toward the door of the main garage, “Can we go into your office a minute, Fenton? There are one or two questions I want to ask you. Nothing sensational. The usual formal stuff about identification. We can? Good! Then lead on.”

And with the taking of Fenton's evidence the Inspector decided to bring his day's work to a close. He was well satisfied as to the progress of his investigations. The mists were slowly clearing. In a couple of days the arrests might be made. Yes—as the Superintendent had said—he had every reason to congratulate himself. Damn the experts!

CHAPTER X

THE SINGLE SHOT

O
N
Wednesday morning Inspector Bigswell looked out of his bedroom window to find a thick sea-mist enveloping the town. It was chill and damp and miserable, and this meteorological development threatened to be a hampering factor in the day's investigations.

Nevertheless, after an early breakfast, he set off briskly for headquarters, where Grimmet had been ordered to have the car in readiness. The chauffeur seemed a trifle dubious about the Boscawen journey, and put forward a tentative suggestion that they might wait for a time to see if the mist thinned. But the Inspector wouldn't hear of it. After the Superintendent's somewhat favourable reception of his theory he felt keen and eager to push his investigations to a definite conclusion. He was scheduled to meet Mrs. Mullion at half-past nine at Grouch's office, and he had an idea that she might possibly have seen or heard something on the Monday night. She must have passed Greylings within fifteen minutes either side of the estimated time of the murder. She might have heard the shots fired. It seemed almost certain that she
must
have heard them fired if she had left Towan Cove before the murder was committed. And as far as he could see, the woman would scarcely have passed by the bottom of the garden without noticing the figures in the uncurtained window. If she had passed after Grouch arrived on the scene, she must have guessed something was the matter. But so far she had not come forward. It was curious. The only explanation was that she knew nothing, so far, of Tregarthan's death.

The car crawled through the almost deserted streets of the town and nosed its cautious way onto the Boscawen road. At a higher level the bleak moorland was almost destitute of mist and Grimmet, taking advantage of a clear stretch, sent the speedometer up to fifty and held it there. Nearing the coast, however, the visibility grew gradually worse and it was at a snail's pace that the car ground down the final hill in second-gear.

Grouch, like a sensible man, had come out on foot to meet the Inspector and it was the flashing of his pocket-torch which first reassured Bigswell that they had arrived at the outskirts of the village. Guided by Grouch, who rode on the running-board, the car at length drew up outside the Constable's office.

Inside the office, a barely furnished room with a high desk and a stool, a cheerful fire was crackling in the grate. The Inspector threw off his cloak and got down to business without delay.

“Well, did you arrange with Mrs. Mullion last night, Grouch?”

“Yes, sir.” The Constable glanced up at the plain-faced clock on the varnished wall. “She should be along at any minute now. She's got something to tell us, I think. Something pretty lively, sir. It was all I could do to prevent her from making a statement last night. But I pointed out that she may as well save her breath to cool her porridge because she'd have to repeat it all to you this morning.”

“If it was important,” said the Inspector testily, “then why the devil didn't she come forward before she set out for Porth yesterday morning?”

“She hadn't heard the news then. First she knew of the murder, sir, was when she came home last night. Seemed properly upset.”

There was a scrunching on the gritty road outside, followed by a timid knock on the door.

The Inspector nodded toward the inner room.

“You and Grimmet had better slip in there and read up the case in the daily papers. You may learn something you didn't know!”

As his grinning subordinates went into the Constable's parlour the Inspector opened the outer door and admitted the midwife.

“Mrs. Mullion?” he enquired.

“That's right, sir. The Constable said that you wanted to see me about this dreadful happening up at poor Mr. Tregarthan's.”

“Quite right, Mrs. Mullion. Come in and take a chair by the fire.”

He hoisted himself onto the high stool.

“I thought perhaps you might be able to help us with our enquiries, Mrs. Mullion. I understand from Doctor Pendrill that you were attending a case on Monday night over at Towan Cove. You returned to Boscawen by the cliff-path, didn't you?”

“Yes, sir. It's a short cut between the two coves, and I started home rather later than I intended.”

“Have you any idea what time it was when you left—let's see—” he consulted his note-book, “Mrs. Wither's cottage at Towan Cove?”

“About nine o'clock or thereabouts, sir.”

“You're more or less certain about the time?”

“Within five minutes one way or the other I am. I remember looking at the clock at ten to nine and I left the cottage shortly after, sir.”

“You came straight along the cliff-path, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir, as fast as I could. The storm was still hanging about and it was pitch-dark so I had to be careful. Besides, a heel had come off my shoe getting out of the Doctor's car earlier in the evening. It didn't make walking any the easier.”