The Cornish Coast Murder (British Library Crime Classics) (4 page)

“If there's nothing more, sir ... it's upset me ... this.”

“No. Go and have a stiff whiskey. But mind you—the police will want to question you when they arrive.”

With a grateful nod Cowper drew his fascinated stare away from the body and stumbled quickly out of the room.

Pendrill pulled out his pipe and lit it. The Vicar, on careful feet, was ambling slowly about the room, peering at things through his gold-rimmed glasses.

“You've noticed these?” he said, pointing to the windows.

“Yes—three shots. The middle one got Tregarthan. No doubt about
that
.”

“None at all, provided he was standing. But why should he stand at an uncurtained window when there's nothing outside to look at?”

“There was the lightning,” suggested Pendrill. “He may have drawn the curtains to watch the effect of the storm over the sea.”

“He did not draw back the curtains, I suppose?”

The Doctor told him about Cowper's statement.

“Curious,” said the Vicar as he drifted away from the window to the far side of the room.

He was experiencing a peculiarly mixed set of emotions. Horror and dismay at the tragedy which had come so swiftly out of the night and put an end to Julius Tregarthan's life. A compassionate pity for the girl who had been so unexpectedly bereaved. But beyond these perfectly natural reactions he was fired with an ardent glow of curiosity and interest. One side of him warred with the other. He felt that it was abhorrent to look upon crime, especially murder, as anything more than foul and unthinkable. At the same time this little devil of curiosity kept on tugging at his sleeve demanding attention. Yes—he must confess it. Apart from the tragic human aspect of the case he was deeply absorbed in an explanation of the mystery. The detective element in him was spurred to new energy now that he was in the midst, not of a mystery story, but a murder in real life. It was wrong of him, of course, sinful even, but that little devil was stronger than his conscience. He wanted to find out. He wanted to solve the problem of Julius Tregarthan's death, if indeed there proved to be a mystery attached to the crime. Of course the police would take things out of his hands. It was their job to apprehend criminals. It was his job to instil his fellow-men with a brotherly love which would make criminals impossible. The argument was good. But the little imp of curiosity was better.

“Pendrill,” he said, sharply. “Come here. Look at that!”

He was pointing to an indifferent yet graphic oil-painting of a full-rigged windjammer diving head-long into a watery abyss. The canvas, a large one, was fixed high up on the wall, and puncturing the stormy sky about an inch from the gilt frame was the unmistakable mark of a bullet.

“Bullet No. 1,” said Pendrill. “The left-hand window.”

“And over here?” demanded the Vicar, indicating a splintered hole in an oak beam just under the ceiling.

“No. 2,” said Pendrill. “The right-hand window.”

“And the third?” asked the Vicar.

“Probably somewhere about the room. Spent, of course. The bullet went clean through the brain. I made sure of that.”

“Possibly this has something to do with it,” said the Vicar as he ran his fingers over a deep dent in the face of an oak sideboard. The bullet's on the ground somewhere. Perhaps we——”

He was cut short by a further clanging of the front-door bell, announcing the fact that P.C. Grouch, after a stiff ride up the hill, had arrived at Greylings. Cowper showed him in and, at a nod from Pendrill, returned to his whiskey in the kitchen.

The Boscawen constable was panting with exertion after pedalling his thirteen-odd stone up the long rise from the cove. He was not cut out for speed and the unaccustomed need for haste, coupled with the alarming news that Tregarthan had been shot, had left him somewhat out of breath. He removed his helmet, wiped round the inside of it with his handkerchief, dabbed his forehead and nodded to the two men.

“Evening, gentlemen. Nothing been moved, I take it?”

“Nothing, Constable,” said the Doctor. “Not even the body.”

“He was dead when you got here, I suppose, sir?”

“Yes.”

The Constable crossed over and took a long look at the body. It was the first time in the whole of his career that he had been called in to investigate a possible murder and he was not inclined to underrate the importance of the occasion.

“Umph,” he said. “Shot through the head. No chance of it being suicide, I suppose?”

The Vicar pointed to the bullet holes in the window.

“Exactly,” said Grouch. “No man could shoot himself through a window. What about accident, gentlemen?”

“Hardly,” interposed the Doctor. “One shot—yes—but not three. Three shots have entered the room.”

“Who first found the body, sir?”

“Miss Tregarthan. She's lying down in her room. I sent her there until you arrived, Constable. I've warned her that she may have to answer a few questions.”

“Quite right, sir. I'll need a statement. Anybody else in the house at the time?”

“The Cowpers. Mrs. Cowper is upstairs with Miss Tregarthan. Cowper is in the kitchen.”

“I'll want a word with them, too,” said Grouch. “I've phoned police headquarters at Greystoke. They're sending over an Inspector. In the mean-time ...” He pulled out his note-book and flicked it open with a thumb. “Suppose we have a few words with Miss Tregarthan.”

“Perhaps you would like me ...” said the Vicar, edging a little toward the door.

“No, it's all right, sir. I dare say the Inspector would like to ask you a few questions. Besides, I'm sure the young lady will feel more at home with you gentlemen in the room.”

Ruth came down, still obviously shaken, but now more in control of her feelings. Some of the colour had drained back into her cheeks. The Doctor was about to place a chair for her when the Constable shook his head.

“Perhaps there's another room available,” he said, with a quick nod toward the body. “The dining-room, perhaps.”

In the more ordinary atmosphere of the dining-room, where a fire was still flickering, the air was cleared of a good deal of its tension. Ruth sank at once into an arm-chair, whilst Pendrill and the Vicar drew up a couple of chairs at the table. Grouch placed his helmet on the sideboard and took up his position opposite Ruth on the hearth-rug.

“Now, Miss Tregarthan, I understand from the Doctor that you were the first to discover the deceased. Have you any idea as to what time that would be?”

“I know almost to the minute,” replied Ruth, in a restrained voice. “When I came in I remember the hall clock striking the quarter.”

“And you went directly into the sitting-room?”

“Yes.”

“I take it you'd been out?”

“Yes.”

“You discovered the body, then, at nine-fifteen.”

“Exactly nine-fifteen by the hall clock.”

“Which way did you come into the house, miss? Down the drive?”

Ruth hesitated for a moment, looked down into the fire and said quickly.

“No—along the cliff-path. I'd been out for a walk.”

The Constable glanced up sharply.

“Ah!—the cliff-path. You didn't notice anybody suspicious hanging about?”

“No.”

“I suppose you realise, miss, that Mr. Tregarthan was shot from the side of the house?”

“Yes, I realise that now,” returned Ruth quietly.

“From which way did you approach the house?”

“From the village.”

“And you met nobody on your way here?”

“Nobody.”

“And you heard nothing out of the ordinary—shots, for example—no firing?”

“Nothing.”

The Constable sighed and drummed his pencil on the mantelshelf. That particular line of enquiry seemed to have drawn a blank.

“You entered the house, miss——?”

“From the side door. There's a path——”

“I know,” cut in Grouch. “The path runs at right-angles to the cliff path along the garden wall.” He smiled benignly. “You see, miss, I knew this place long afore you were born.”

There was a pause, during which the Constable seemed to be working out his next line of approach.

“When you passed the bottom of the garden by the cliff-path did you notice the curtains were undrawn?”

Ruth nodded.

“But you didn't know anything was amiss?”

“Why should I?” asked Ruth quietly.

“Exactly. You didn't. You were wearing a mackintosh?”

“Yes—it was raining as you know.”

“I take it, miss, that you got pretty wet?”

“I was soaked,” agreed Ruth, puzzled by these seemingly irrevelant questions.

“And yet,” went on the Constable, “you came straight into the sitting-room, without taking off your wet things and
without
realising that there was anything amiss with Mr. Tregarthan?”

“Yes—no—that is ...”

“Well?”

Pendrill and the Vicar were startled by Ruth's sudden hesitation. So far she had answered the Constable's questions without pausing to consider her replies. But this apparently innocent question about a wet mackintosh, for some strange reason, seemed to disturb her.

“Well, miss?” reiterated Grouch.

“I don't think I was worried about my clothes at the time. I'm used to the wet. It wasn't unusual for me to go in to my uncle before taking off my outdoor things.”

“I see. Now, Miss Tregarthan, will you describe what you saw when you entered the room?”

Ruth did so in a low voice, pausing every now and then to regain control of her emotions. She still seemed on the verge of an hysterical breakdown, though her evidence was clear and concise.

“And after finding your uncle apparently dead what did you do?”

Ruth went on to describe how she had summoned the Cowpers and then rushed to the phone and called up the Doctor at Rock House. Learning that he was dining at the Vicarage, she had phoned there and told him of the tragedy. She had then returned to the sitting-room and ascertained, as far as she was able, that her uncle was dead. At the sound of the Doctor's car on the drive she had rushed out to meet him.

At the conclusion of her story the Constable turned to Pendrill.

“Could you give me some idea, sir, as to the time you received the phone call?”

The Doctor thought for a moment.

“I'm afraid I can't. It was after nine. I know that, but the Vicar and I were talking——”

“Wait a moment,” cut in the Reverend Dodd excitedly. “I think I can help you, Constable. The telephone bell rang about twenty minutes past nine. I happen to know because it's one of my—er—idiosyncrasies to listen to the church clock during a storm.” He then went on to explain about his fears for the safety of the tower. “Subconsciously I suppose I was waiting for the quarter chimes while I was talking with Doctor Pendrill. I distinctly remember hearing them. The tower, as you know, is only a stone's throw from the Vicarage and when the wind is in the right direction ...”

“Thank you, sir,” said Grouch, with an appreciative nod in the Vicar's direction. “I think that more or less fits in with Miss Tregarthan's idea as to the time she found the body.” He turned to Ruth, who was now lying back with closed eyes in the armchair, as if trying to shut out the abnormal spectacle of a policeman in the Greylings dining-room. “Thank you, miss. I don't think there's anything more I want to ask you. You've been very helpful, Miss Tregarthan, and in an unofficial capacity I should like to offer you my sincere sympathy for what has happened.” As Ruth, escorted by the Vicar, crossed unsteadily to the door, the Constable added: “Now, sir, would you mind calling Mrs. Cowper. I'd like to hear what she has to say.”

CHAPTER III

THE PUZZLE OF THE FOOTPRINTS

M
RS.
C
OWPER
came into the room in much the same way as she would have entered a lion's cage. She looked both nervous and apprehensive. Her eyes, reddened with weeping, glanced from the Doctor to the Vicar and then came to rest, with a sort of fascinated glassiness, on the Constable. Grouch waved her unceremoniously into the arm-chair and without wasting time, put the housekeeper through a similar catechism to that which he had adopted in the case of Ruth Tregarthan.

“Now, Mrs. Cowper, I want you to be pretty sure about what you're going to tell me,” he warned. “It's easy to imagine things at times like these. But I want the facts. That's all. The plain facts. Now—when did you last see Mr. Tregarthan alive?”

Mrs. Cowper, taking the Constable's warning to heart, considered this question deeply before essaying to answer it. She cast a wary eye at the other inmates of the room as if suspecting a trap and replied with a sort of defiant deliberation.

“It was when I took in his coffee as usual at a quarter to nine. He was a regular man, was Mr. Tregarthan, and he liked things done regular. Quarter to nine he liked his coffee taken in and a quarter to nine he had it.”

“Were the curtains drawn to when you went in?”

“No. I drew them myself. That's usual.”

“Right across the windows?”

“Right across, Mr. Grouch,” said Mrs. Cowper decidedly. “No one can lay it up against me that I didn't perform my duties to-night the same as usual.”

It was obvious that Mrs. Cowper's nervousness was taking the form of an indignant resentment that she was suspected to have been in any way responsible for her master's death. She knew Grouch, unofficially, as Grouch had married her sister-in-law, and this did nothing to ease the abnormality of the situation. Grouch in his official capacity was another being from Grouch sitting over a cup of tea in Annie's parlour down at Laburnam Cottage. A fact which put Mrs. Cowper off her balance.

“Now that's all right,” said the Constable soothingly. “I'm not trying to incriminate you, Mrs. Cowper. I only want straight answers to straight questions. Understand?” He consulted his note-book. “So you last saw Mr. Tregarthan alive at a quarter to nine or thereabouts. Now, after that time, did you hear any unusual sounds—shots—any firing? Eh?”

“No—I heard nothing unusual except the storm, of course. All them crashes of thunder right over the chimneys. I remember remarking to Cowper that——”

“Exactly. Nothing unusual. Now this is a very important question, Mrs. Cowper, and I want you to think carefully. Did you see anybody, a stranger for example, pass any of the windows to-night?”