The Cornish Coast Murder (British Library Crime Classics) (19 page)

The next morning proved fine and Bigswell was early on the road to Boscawen. Although the police had subpœnaed a number of witnessess, he expected little to come of the inquest. Mrs. Mullion's evidence would probably cause a sensation. He was curious to see how Ruth Tregarthan would parry the unexpected blow. The fact that she was seen on the cliff-path with the revolver in her hand would certainly prejudice public opinion against her, but the police were by no means in a position to issue a warrant for the girl's arrest. Hardy was still missing and his statement was an essential factor in building up a foolproof case against the girl. On top of that there was this new complication arising from the theft of the notes and Cowper's lie about the open window. It seemed ridiculous to suppose that Cowper was hand-in-glove with Ronald Hardy and Ruth Tregarthan, but if he had acted on his own, why had Hardy disappeared directly after the murder?

Still turning these problems over in his mind the Inspector went to the Constable's office. Grouch was not alone. Seated on a bench under the clock was a tall, shambling fellow with a knitted balaclava helmet completely encasing his head and ears. A huge muffler encircled his scraggy neck. On seeing the Inspector this extraordinary figure rose from the bench and demanded in a penetrating voice to know the time. Bigswell, rather taken aback by the strange request, grinned and pointed at the clock. The man grinned back and started to count aloud on his fingers. The Inspector threw an enquiring look toward Grouch. The Constable beckoned him over.

“It's all right, sir,” he said in a quick undertone. “It's only old Tom Prattle. Quite harmless as long as you don't pull his leg, but a bit——” He tapped his forehead. “You know, sir.”

“What's he here for? Drunk and disorderly?”

“At this time of the day, sir?” Grouch chuckled and shook his head. “It's
that
, sir. That's the reason for his visit. Curious, eh?”

The Inspector moved over to the desk. Then he stopped short and whistled.

“Hullo! Hullo!” he said. “What the devil's this?”

Lying on a sheet of blotting paper was a Webley service-pattern revolver!

“That's just what I can't make out, sir. Tom here found it this morning. He's a hedger and ditcher for the Rural District. And he came across it lying at the bottom of a ditch up on the Vicarage road.”

“Whereabouts on the road?”

“Well, as far as I can make out from Tom, about a quarter of a mile this side of the Greylings drive gate. Funny, eh? Looks rather as if——”

“Exactly,” cut in the Inspector. “We'll get this fellow to show us the exact spot.”

He took up the revolver gingerly in his gloved hand. It was speckled with rust and splotched with daubs of dried mud. Finding it loaded, the Inspector emptied the cartridges into his hand. He was surprised. Every chamber was filled. He looked at the butt of the revolver. Crudely scratched on the metal, obviously with some blunt instrument, were the perfectly defined initials—R.H. Hardy's revolver! Precisely. But why fully loaded? And how the devil had it found its way into the ditch by the roadside, when according to Mrs. Mullion's evidence, Ruth Tregarthan had handled this very revolver on the cliff-path some hundreds of yards away?

He turned to the grotesque figure, who was sitting with splayed knees on the extreme edge of the bench.

“Can you show us exactly where you picked this up?”

“Oh—oi. I can do that right enough.”

“Good!”

The three men went outside and clambered into the car, but not before Tom Prattle had enquired the time of Grimmet and informed the Inspector in a lugubrious voice that Mr. Tregarthan had been murdered by a German spy.

Grouch winked.

“Got Germans on the brain, sir. It was the war that sent him rocky. He's always talking about the Jerries. Poor devil!”

On that short drive the Inspector did some pretty rapid thinking. He was at an entire loss to explain away the revolver's sudden appearance in the ditch. It would have been impossible for Ruth Tregarthan to have planted it there when she had crept out of Greylings on Monday night. She would not have had time; moreover her track round the outskirts of the wall had corroborated her explanation. No—if Ruth Tregarthan had picked up a revolver from the cliff-path and later thrown it into the sea, it was not Hardy's revolver. She may have thought it was Hardy's revolver. But she had been mistaken. Then whose revolver had she picked up? Cowper's? That seemed the only feasible supposition. Then it was Cowper and not Hardy who had lured Tregarthan to the window and shot him? Well! Well! So much for his pretty little theory about the Ruth-Ronald collaboration. Was it after all going to be a case for the experts?

At that moment the car drew up beside an ordinary roadman's barrow from which projected a red flag.

“Is this the spot,” asked the Inspector over his shoulder.

“Oh—oi. This is it. Down in the trench, corporal—just here it was.”

Tom clambered awkwardly out of the car and the men formed a little group about his swaying figure.

“You see that big stone, hay? Right aside that it was lying, Corporal. Left there in a hurry, I reckon, by some poor, ruddy German.”

The Inspector examined the spot carefully. There was a deep indent in the almost liquid mud which lay in the trough of the ditch, but it was impossible to say if the impress had been made by the revolver. But Bigswell was less interested in the ditch than in the springy ribbon of turf which divided the ditch from the road. He worked along this ribbon of spongy turf for about five yards either side of where Tom Prattle had found the revolver. Suddenly he uttered a little exclamation of satisfaction. About six feet away from the parked car was the unmistakable tread of a tyre. It had left a series of diamond-shaped prints in the damp turf.

“When I made that test yesterday, Grimmet, where did we park? About here?”

Grimmet shook his head.

“Fifty yards further on, sir.”

“And these marks?”

“Not the tyres on our own car, sir. We've got bramble-markings.”

The Inspector nodded and with a word of thanks to Tom Prattle, climbed back into the car and ordered Grimmet to drive back to the Constable's cottage.

There he put through a call to Fenton's Quick Service Garage. Fenton himself answered the phone.

“Morning, Fenton. I want you to do something for me. Take a look at the markings of the tyres on Hardy's car for me, will you? I didn't notice myself when I was over on Tuesday.”

“Right!” snapped Fenton. In a few moments he was back at the phone. “Criss-crosses,” he said, “sort of diamond-shaped pattern.”

“Thanks. That's all I wanted to know.”

He hung up the receiver and turned to Grouch.

“No doubt about it, Grouch. Hardy parked his car up on the Vicarage road on Monday night.”

“And the revolver, sir?”

“His without a shadow of doubt.”

“But how——?”

“Don't ask me,” said the Inspector testily. “This damned case is fairly bristling with snags. No sooner do we round one awkward corner when we come on another. Look here, Grouch, let's tabulate all those points which, at the moment, we can't explain.”

At the end of ten minutes Bigswell had drawn up a pretty formidable list. It ran:

(1)
Why did Hardy leave his revolver in the ditch near the scene of the crime instead of ridding himself of it on his way to Greystoke station?

(2)
Why, if he did not intend to murder Tregarthan, had he taken the revolver out of its holster that evening?

(3)
Why did he park his car near Greylings on the night of, and at the estimated time of, the murder?

(4)
Unless he was implicated in the murder, why had he disappeared?

(5) Did he murder Tregarthan?

(6)
Whose revolver did Ruth Tregarthan have in her hand when seen by Mrs. Mullion?

(7)
Did she believe it to be Hardy's?

(8)
Was that the reason for her subsequent actions later in the evening? Had she thrown that particular revolver into the sea?

(9)
Was it Cowper's revolver?

(10) Did Cowper murder Tregarthan?

(11)
Why was it, since three shots were fired, that Salter and Bedruthen both swore that they had heard only a single shot?

(12)
If those shots had been fired from Hardy's revolver, why had he ejected the empty cartridges, fully recharged the gun and cleaned the barrel?

All these questions seemed, at the moment, unanswerable. Questions 5 and 10 combined to form a damning indication of the Inspector's state of indecision. After nearly three days of intensive investigation he was asking himself which of two men had committed the murder. Until yesterday evening he had not even suspected Cowper to be in any way connected with the crime. But now, since the discovery of that second revolver, he was already inclined to think that Cowper, and not Hardy, was the wanted man.

Grouch cut into his train of thoughts.

“This man—Tom Prattle—shall I serve a summons on him to appear at the inquest, sir?”

“No. I don't think there's any need to bring up the matter of this second revolver this afternoon. This case is quite complicated enough as it is. Besides the verdict's a foregone conclusion. Let's see, Grouch, whom have we called?”

“Miss Tregarthan, of course, sir—the Cowpers, Dr. Pendrill and Mrs. Mullion.”

“I see. Well, we'll stick to that list. In the meantime I'd like to put my feet up in your parlour, Grouch, and run over my notes. I'll lunch at the ‘Ship.’ The inquest's at two sharp, remember.”

The Inspector's remark was prophetic, for punctually at two o'clock, the Coroner, a Greystoke solicitor, opened the proceedings. The room, an erstwhile billiard saloon, was packed to the walls, and outside a small crowd, unable to gain admittance, waited with patience to hear the result of the inquest. A long trestle table, which the landlord of the “Ship” hired out for school-treats and the like, ran down the centre of the room. At the head of the table, in a wheel-back arm-chair, sat the Coroner. Ranged on his right hand were the jury; whilst opposite the jury, looking somewhat oddly assorted now they had been collected together, were the various witnesses subpœnaed by the police.

As the tinny ormulu clock on the mantelshelf chimed two, the Coroner struck the table with his gavel and the excited hum instantly died down.

The proceedings opened according to the usual formula. Ruth Tregarthan identified the body of the deceased as that of her uncle and went on to describe, in a quiet and rather tremulous voice, her discovery of the crime. Despite the ordeal to which she was being subjected she set out her evidence with commendable clarity, pausing every now and then to consider a quietly interposed question of the Coroner's, and then continuing with her story. Ruth sat down and Mrs. Cowper was called. She described how, in answer to Miss Tregarthan's call, she had rushed into the sitting-room and found Mr. Tregarthan lying shot on the floor. The housekeeper was obviously nervous and she delivered her evidence, for the most part, in a husky and quavering whisper. At a request from one of the older jurymen, who was a trifle hard of hearing, the Coroner asked her to speak up. But it was with an audible sigh of relief that Mrs. Cowper collapsed on her chair and surrendered her unenviable position to her husband.

Cowper, though more spruce in his attire than when the Inspector had last seen him, was by no means at his ease. His glance shifted from the Coroner to the jury, from the jury to the packed audience wedged tightly together on the benches at the far end of the room, and finally alighted with a stare of glassy anxiety on Inspector Bigswell. The Inspector did not move a muscle. Disconcerted, Cowper's gaze swung back on the Coroner, who was questioning him, and he began in a glib voice to corroborate his wife's story as to the discovery of the dead man. His relief was even greater than Mrs. Cowper's when the Coroner waved him into his chair and called on Doctor Pendrill.

The Doctor gave his evidence in a brisk, professional voice. Death, he said, had been due to gunshot wounds and was almost certainly instantaneous. As far as he could say the revolver had been discharged at fairly close quarters, for the bullet had entered the forehead, completely penetrating the skull. He further believed, on evidence since corroborated by the police, that the bullet was of a .45 calibre, such as was used in a Webley service-pattern revolver. Questioned by the Coroner, Bigswell endorsed this statement and the Doctor sat down.

Mrs. Mullion was then called and for the first time since the proceedings opened Inspector Bigswell's face was illuminated by a flicker of interest.

The Vicar, too, sitting on the front bench beside his sister, suddenly pushed his shooting-hat under the seat, leaned forward and clapped his hands over his splayed knees. He knew, of course, that Mrs Mullion had passed along the cliff-path on Monday night, but he was utterly surprised to see her subpœnaed as a witness. The Inspector had told him nothing about Mrs. Mullion's statement and he prayed fervently that the midwife's appearance in court had nothing to do with Ruth. The poor child had already suffered so much. He felt her distress so keenly. This was a ghastly enough ordeal for her, without her being badgered by a further cross-examination.

Once sworn in, Mrs. Mullion delivered her evidence at a breakneck speed, every now and then drawing in a huge gulp of air, which, like the momentary pause of a gear-change, only served to increase the speed of her narrative. Once again the deaf juryman lodged a complaint with the Coroner. The Coroner smiled in sympathy and asked the midwife to speak a little slower.