The Cornish Coast Murder (British Library Crime Classics) (9 page)

“By the way,” said the Vicar, when the Inspector had finished with Pendrill. “You've heard about my proposal to Miss Tregarthan? The Doctor is taking her and her luggage up to the Vicarage now. Much more pleasant for her I feel. It will enable her, I hope, to regain a more normal outlook on things after this terrible
contretemps
. My sister will be there—a very understanding woman. It's a handicap for a girl not having a mother. A woman's sympathy is a very present help, I feel, in a time of trouble. Don't you agree, Inspector?”

The Inspector nodded absent-mindedly. He was only half listening to the Vicar's preamble. He realised that it might be expedient to get hold of Mr. Ronald Hardy and see what he had to say about his relationship with Ruth Tregarthan. He was surprised that the young man, who by now must have heard about Tregarthan's death, had not put in an appearance.

At that moment Ruth came down followed by Cowper with her suitcases, and joined by Pendrill, the little
cortège
went out to the car. The Inspector shot an enquiring glance at the Vicar, who remained standing in the middle of the room.

“Oh, I'm staying, Inspector. Miss Tregarthan has asked me to go through her uncle's papers in case there should be anything relevant to the solicitor's visit this afternoon. I have the keys of his bureau.”

“I should be very much obliged then,” put in the Inspector quickly, “if you would take a careful note of any correspondence which may throw light on the reason for Tregarthan's murder. It'll save me a lot of time and trouble. It means an official warrant, of course, and I haven't got one with me. Anything you may show me will be treated in strict confidence of course.”

The Vicar agreed to this proposal and settled down forthwith to a methodical search of the big rolltop desk which stood, rather out of place in its ugly utility, in a corner of the sitting-room.

Out on the front drive the Inspector was met by Grimmet and the Constable who reported an unsuccessful morning's work. They had discovered nothing which might serve to elucidate the case in any way and the Inspector, who had rather anticipated this result, ordered Grimmet to start up the car and left the portly Constable in charge of Greylings. Just as the car swung round and headed up the rise of the drive, Grouch hove in sight and started to freewheel swiftly down the slope. The Inspector raised his hand and Grouch, applying his brakes with more fervour than discretion, skidded alarmingly and plunged sideways off his machine. Regaining the upright he saluted smartly.

“Are these acrobatics necessary, Grouch?” asked the Inspector with a faint smile. “I've got quite enough work in hand for the Coroner without asking him to hold an inquest on you. Anyway, leave your juggernaut here and hop in. You can direct us to Cove Cottage, and after that I want to see Mrs. Mullion.”

As the car rose and dipped like a veering gull between the gorse-dotted greenness of the open common, the Inspector arranged that Grouch should be dropped at Cove Cottage, so that the Constable could go down and interview the landlord of the Ship Inn. The Chief Constable had been in touch with the Coroner, a Greystoke solicitor, before the Inspector had left for Boscawen that morning and the inquest had been fixed for two o'clock on Thursday. As it was expected that a number of witnesses might have to be subpœnaed, Bigswell had suggested that a room in the local inn might prove more convenient and central than Greylings. He had little doubt in his own mind as to what the Coroner's verdict must be—murder, without a doubt, and in the view of the somewhat conflicting and puzzling evidence so far collected—“murder by person or persons unknown.” For all that he felt distinctly sanguine as to his chances of driving home the crime, by force of carefully gathered circumstantial evidence, to one particular person.

Nearing the village the Inspector ordered Grimmet to slow up, whilst he took a good look at the general topography of the district. As the car topped the little rise at the end of the undulating road, Boscawen itself came suddenly into view—a scattered collection of grey-walled, green-tiled cottages clustering about a rocky cove, which was edged with a glorious carpet of smooth, silvery sand. Looking back, Greylings now appeared as an isolated little fort, standing well out on the broad ness, linked by the tiny thread of the cliff-path to the cove below.

The car came to a fork in the road—the metalled surface drove straight on down into the hollow, whilst a rough and slatey by-road dipped to the left and appeared to run directly into the sea. Grouch lent forward.

“If you drop me here, sir, I'll slip down and fix up with Charlie Fox about the room. You take the road here to the left and Cove Cottage lies on your right, about a hundred yards round the corner.”

“Right! When you've seen the landlord, Grouch, put a call through to Greystoke if it's O.K. They'll be anxious to fix things up with the Coroner. Then meet me up at Cove Cottage.”

Grouch saluted, got out of the car and trudged off down to the village. The car swung left and descended steeply toward the sea.

Cove Cottage proved to be a small, detached building, standing back, behind a tidy garden, from the road, surrounded by a few wind-swept crab-apple trees. Picturesque enough, but nothing out of the ordinary, obviously inhabited by a woman who believed in tidiness and utility.

Leaving Grimmet in the car, the Inspector went up the short path and finding no bell or knocker, tapped smartly on the well-weathered door. After a pause, footsteps approached within and the door was opened to reveal a straight, bright-eyed woman of about forty with slightly greying hair. On seeing a uniformed Inspector on her doorstep she started back.

“Good morning, ma'am,” said the Inspector, with a quick salute. “Might I ask if you're Mrs. Peewit—the owner of the cottage?”

“That's right,” said Mrs. Peewit with a puzzled air. “Is it me you're wishing to see?”

“Just a little matter I want to speak to you about,” replied the Inspector reassuringly. “I won't take up much of your time.”

“Then come in, please.”

The Inspector followed Mrs. Peewit along the tiny hall and thus into a surprisingly large sitting-room, plainly but comfortably furnished, which Bigswell realised in a moment must belong to Ronald Hardy, the novelist. Under the window, which overlooked the Atlantic and part of Boscawen Cove, was a big desk littered with papers and all the usual paraphernalia of writing. A long row of reference books, dictionaries and other standard works stood on the desk between two book-ends fashioned in the shape of galleons. On a table under a smaller window stood a head and shoulder portrait of Ruth Tregarthan in a thin, silver frame.

“Now, Mrs. Peewit,” said the Inspector, taking out his note-book. “I believe you're in a position to help me with a few enquiries I'm making.”

Mrs. Peewit asked in a tremulous voice: “It's about poor Mr. Tregarthan, I've no doubt. I heard about it only an hour ago, sir. It's fairly upset me—me knowing Miss Ruth so well. It's all over the village about him being found murdered last night in his sitting-room. Shot through the head, they say.”

The Inspector smiled. He knew how swiftly news travelled in small villages like Boscawen. Doubtless the milkman and the postman had been well primed with the facts of the crime by the Cowpers. Not that it mattered. The reverse in fact, since it might bring forward voluntary information from anybody who had seen or heard anything unusual the night before.

“They say right for once, Mrs. Peewit—and I'm down here investigating the case, see?”

Impressed by the somewhat lurid situation in which she found herself, Mrs. Peewit promised to do all she could to bring, as she said, the criminal to justice. She was emphatic in assuring the Inspector that such a thing had never, as far as she knew, happened in Boscawen before.

“Now, Mrs. Peewit, I want you to try and remember all that happened when Miss Tregarthan called on you last night.” Mrs. Peewit looked surprised. “Oh, I know she did,” added the Inspector. “She told me herself. You needn't fear to tell me the truth. I know a good deal as to what took place already.”

“Well, sir,” said Mrs. Peewit, “Miss Ruth called last night and asked if Mr. Hardy was in. Mr. Hardy, as perhaps I should explain, is——”

“Yes, I know all about that,” cut in the Inspector. “He's lodging here. An author. What time was it when Miss Tregarthan called?”

“I can't say exactly, I'm afraid. It hadn't struck nine— I know that much. I should say it was about ten minutes to nine or thereabouts.”

“I see. Yes—go on, Mrs. Peewit.”

“Well, sir, I don't mind saying that I was a bit surprised seeing Miss Ruth at that time of the evening—particularly as there was a storm on, as you may remember. It's not been her custom to call on Mr. Hardy at such hours. She looked ill, too, downright ill, I thought—looked as if she had been upset over something. Of course I didn't make any mention of it, but I asked her to step into Mr. Hardy's room, seeing that she was so wet and that it was still raining cats and dogs. Mr. Hardy as it happened was out. He'd taken his car out a bit before Miss Ruth turned up and gone off somewhere in a hurry.”

“Did Miss Tregarthan wait at all?”

“Yes, for a bit she did. I offered to dry her wet mac in front of the kitchen range, but she said she'd rather sit in here for a bit and just dry her feet at the fire.”

“This I take it
is
Mr. Hardy's room?”

“That's right. This is where he writes. Wonderful books, so they say, though I'm not given to reading much myself—the newspapers being as much as I can manage in my spare time.”

“How long did Miss Tregarthan stay in here alone?”

“Till just after nine. I remember the clock striking just before she called out that she wouldn't stay any longer, as she thought Mr. Hardy might be down at the Men's Club. So I opened the front door to her and promised to let Mr. Hardy know that she'd called.”

“So she was alone in here,” said the Inspector more to himself than to Mrs. Peewit, “for about ten minutes—perhaps a bit longer.” He looked up suddenly.

“What time did Mr. Hardy come in last night, Mrs. Peewit?”

The woman's attitude changed immediately. She seemed to lose her growing self-confidence, whilst her features were illuminated with a mingled look of agitation and bewilderment.

“That's just it!” she blurted out. “That's just what worries me, sir! Mr. Hardy
didn't
come in last night!”

“What's that?” demanded the Inspector curtly.

“He didn't come in and what's more when I went up to take him his early cup of tea this morning his bed hadn't been slept in. He didn't turn up to breakfast neither! Since he left the house last night, about a quarter to nine, I haven't set eyes on him again, sir. I'm fair worried, I can tell you. He's a highly strung sort of young gentleman, due to shell-shock in the war, they say, and I'm wondering if anything's happened to him!”

“He left no message to say where he was going, I suppose?” Mrs. Peewit shook her head. “Did he take anything with him—I mean any luggage?”

“No, sir. He just put on his overcoat in the hall and called that he was going out. He seemed anxious not to waste time with a lot of explainings, if you see how I mean. I was worried about him then, sir, because he hadn't touched a morsel of his supper, which I took in to him the moment Mr. Tregarthan left the house.”

“Tregarthan!” exclaimed the Inspector. “Was he here yesterday?”

“He called in to see Mr. Hardy about seven-thirty. I opened the door to him myself, but I never thought then that in a few hours the poor man would be lying dead in his own sitting-room with his head in a pool of blood.”

It was evident that the Cowpers had broadcast a pretty sensational description of the crime at Greylings. The rush of yesterday's events when compared with the usual placid routine of Cove Cottage had, by their very strangeness, impressed themselves upon Mrs. Peewit's mind. The Inspector's few questions had served to stimulate the flow of these recollections.

“Yes—it would be about seven-thirty, perhaps later, when Mr. Tregarthan knocked at the door and enquired for Mr. Hardy. Mr. Hardy was sitting in here writing at that very desk which you see over there, sir. He didn't like me to interrupt him when he was working. But I knew he and Miss Ruth were tidy close friends, and I thought that Mr. Tregarthan had brought him a message from her. So I plucked up courage enough to rap on his door and ask if he'd see Mr. Tregarthan. Mr. Hardy seemed surprised by the visit, but he asked me to show Mr. Tregarthan in. For a long time I heard the murmur of voices. I was sitting in the kitchen, and although the door of Mr. Hardy's room was closed, I couldn't help hearing a bit of what was going on inside. This isn't a big house as you can see. Well, later, sir, I heard Mr. Tregarthan raise his voice, sharp-like, as if he were dressing Mr. Hardy down. Mr. Hardy didn't seem to like the tone of Mr. Tregarthan's voice and he started arguing, too, at the top of his voice. There was a fair set-to—in fact, I don't mind telling you that I heard Miss Ruth's name mentioned more than once. It seemed that her uncle was objecting to the young man having anything more to do with his niece. Presently Mr. Tregarthan came out into the hall, looking a bit ruffled and red in the face. When I made as if to open the door for him, he waved me away. ‘It's all right,’ he said, ‘I know my way out without your help!’ And that was the last I saw of him. The last I shall ever see of him as it happens. He walked straight from this very door to his death! Poor man! Dreadful how sudden it comes, sir—just when you least expect it!”

But Inspector Bigswell had heard more than enough. Mrs. Peewit had loaded him with such a sackful of information that he wanted a moment's quiet in which to sort the wheat from the chaff. There was just one other thing he wanted to find out before he left Cove Cottage and he racked his brains for an intelligent means by which this information could be obtained without Mrs. Peewit's knowledge. Inspiration came to him. He removed his peaked cap, mopped his brow, coughed raspingly once or twice and remarked, casually, that it was thirsty work asking questions. Could Mrs. Peewit oblige him with such a thing as a cup of tea? He was sure Mrs. Peewit knew how to make a cup of tea for a thirsty man—strong, not too much milk and three lumps of sugar. Flattered by this unexpected request Mrs. Peewit subsided, at once, to a more normal frame of mind and bustled out to attend to the Inspector's needs.