So Pretty a Problem Read online

  Mordecai Tremaine nodded. She did not offer to tell him any more and he leaned back in his chair and wondered what Jonathan Boyce would say.

  Jonathan Boyce was Chief Inspector Boyce, of Scotland Yard, now fishing somewhere out on the blue water of Falporth Bay and as yet unaware of the fact that his friend Mordecai Tremaine had managed to become involved with yet another body. Even as they had stood on Paddington station before stepping into the train that had brought them on their Cornish holiday Boyce had said:

  “This really is going to be a rest cure, Mordecai. I doubt whether even you will be able to produce a body in Falporth.”

  Mordecai Tremaine shifted in his chair a little uneasily. There was no disputing the fact that even for an enthusiastic amateur criminologist he seemed to possess an uncanny habit of being in the near neighbourhood whenever sudden death made its appearance.

  Thinking of what Jonathan Boyce would say provided him with an explanation of Helen Carthallow’s reluctance to talk to him. She knew that his reputation belied his mild countenance and she was afraid of him.

  Having reached that conclusion he was glad that Inspector Penross arrived so promptly. It was an uncomfortable feeling to know that a woman was afraid of him. His sentimental soul shrank from the admission.

  He heard Penross coming up the drive and went to the door to meet him. The inspector headed a procession consisting of a sergeant, a constable and a dumpy little man with a goatee beard who was carrying a bag and whom Tremaine knew to be Doctor Corbin, who acted as the police surgeon.

  The inspector looked at him enquiringly. In his gruff voice that was so oddly at variance with his slight frame he said:

  “It sounded a bad business, Mordecai. Just how bad is it?”

  “That’s your problem,” said Mordecai Tremaine significantly. “Mrs. Carthallow is in the lounge.” He added: “Would you like to see Carthallow’s study first? That’s where he is.”

  Penross nodded and followed him into the house. He stood in the doorway of the study and looked down at Adrian Carthallow’s corpulent body.

  “Very nasty,” he said. “Very nasty indeed.”

  For a moment or two he stood surveying the room and then he walked across to the dead man. Despite the apparent casualness of his manner Tremaine knew that his mind was photographing the scene so that afterwards he would be able to recall every detail.

  Doctor Corbin was still waiting in the doorway, bag in hand, a look of quivering professional eagerness on his puckered face. The sight of a man whose head had been distressingly treated by a revolver bullet of heavy calibre was not a new one to him, but this particular head had belonged to Adrian Carthallow.

  Penross said:

  “Let me know what you think, Doc. You stay here with the doctor, Sergeant. Helsey can come with me.”

  Mordecai Tremaine did not think that he wanted to go on looking at the ugly thing on the floor any more. His stomach was already moving protestingly.

  He was close behind Penross and the constable as they went into the lounge and he saw Helen Carthallow turn to face them.

  “Good afternoon, Inspector,” she said quietly.

  There was a certain tenseness in her attitude that betrayed that she had been nerving herself for this ordeal, but that was, after all, no more than natural.

  “I’m afraid this is very painful for you, Mrs. Carthallow,” Penross said, “but I’m sure you understand that there are formalities that have to be observed. I’ve just come from your husband’s study. Perhaps you’d like to tell me in your own way how it happened.”

  “There isn’t much to tell,” she said. “Adrian and I were—well, we were playing the fool. We were joking together. You—you know how I mean. Then Adrian began to act as though he was afraid of me and he unlocked his drawer and took out his revolver, saying that he needed something to protect himself with. He pointed it at me. I was rather scared. I told him to put it down in case it went off and he laughed and said that it was quite harmless because it wasn’t loaded. And then he said—”

  Her voice tailed away. Tremaine saw her hands clench upon the arms of her chair. Penross did not make any comment. He waited for her to recover and after an instant or two she went on:

  ‘He said: “Go on, try it for yourself.” He—he made me take the gun. I suppose I must have shown that I was frightened and didn’t want to handle it because he laughed again and said something about William Tell shooting the apple from his son’s head. Then he made some comment about my being a wealthy widow if anything went wrong. I can’t remember exactly what happened after that. I suppose I must have pointed the revolver at him and pressed the trigger. . . .”

  She buried her face in her hands, as though to shut out the memory of it. Her slim shoulders were shaking.

  “It was horrible,” she said, through her fingers. “There was a flash and a bang. I saw Adrian fall. There was blood on his head and face. I didn’t know what to do. I was too dazed even to think. At first I don’t think I realized what had happened.

  “Then I knew that I’d killed him. I knew that he was dead. There—there couldn’t be any doubt about it. I put the gun on the desk. Everything was confused, like some dreadful nightmare. I felt I couldn’t move. But I had to tell someone. I had to get help. I thought of Mr. Tremaine. I’d seen him on the beach when I came into the house and I guessed he’d still be there. It didn’t occur to me to use the telephone, although, of course, I should have known that the best thing to do was to get in touch with you. I told Mr. Tremaine what had happened and we came back here together. He telephoned you at once.”

  She stopped. Penross nodded.

  “I see. Thank you.” His expression was quite blank. “I gather that you and your husband were alone? There were no servants in the house?”

  “No. We employ a cook, a maid, and a general duty man who does any odd jobs that need to be done. Normally, the cook and the maid sleep in, but we’d been away for a couple of days and we’d given them the time off. They were to come back in time to prepare dinner for tonight.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Penross. “The races at Wadestow. You’ve been staying over there, I believe, Mrs. Carthallow?”

  “At the Polmurrion Hotel,” she told him. “My husband had some business matters to attend to in the town and decided that it would be better to stay in Wadestow rather than make the journey back here each night.”

  “You returned together this afternoon?”

  “Not together,” she said. “I didn’t expect Adrian back until later. He told me he had an appointment that would probably detain him a little while. He was using the car so I came over by train.”

  “About what time would that be?”

  “I caught the 1.10 from Wadestow. We must have been in Falporth about twenty minutes past two—it isn’t much more than an hour’s run. I took a taxi from the station so that I suppose I was here at some time between half-past two and a quarter to three.”

  “And your husband?”

  “Adrian was already here. I was surprised to see him because as I’ve said I hadn’t expected him back until later. He told me that the business appointment he’d mentioned had had to be cancelled at the last moment, so he’d decided to come straight here. Of course, he knew that I’d made my own arrangements thinking that he wouldn’t be able to pick me up.”

  “He knew you were coming back by train?”

  She moistened her lips.

  “Yes,” she said, after the merest of pauses. “I have a car of my own, but I didn’t have it with me in Wadestow because Adrian drove us both over.”

  Penross appeared to be digesting what she had told him. Mordecai Tremaine, who had had opportunities of studying him, knew that he was giving his impersonation of the guileless policeman who could be induced to believe anything by a person of average intelligence. It was a very useful part of his stock-in-trade.

  “How long do you think it must have been,” Penross said, “between the time of your return and the time wh
en the revolver incident took place?”

  Tremaine admired his use of the phrase ‘the revolver incident’.

  Helen Carthallow shook her head. She turned her dark eyes upon Penross with a pathetic helplessness. With the lock of hair falling forward she made an appealing picture. It would obviously be unforgivable to attempt to force her memory at this moment.

  “I’m sorry, Inspector,” she said. “It would only be guesswork if I tried to tell you. I was too upset to give any thought to the time.” She added: “But you know when I arrived here—the taxi driver will be able to confirm it—and you know the time when Mr. Tremaine telephoned you. Surely the rest isn’t important?”

  “Perhaps it isn’t,” agreed Penross. He rose to his feet. “I realize how painful this has been for you, Mrs. Carthallow. I’m afraid my men will have to look over the house—routine, you know. They’ll be as unobtrusive as possible, of course. And I shall have to ask you to let me have all you’ve just told me in the form of a signed statement.”

  “I quite understand the position,” she told him. “Adrian didn’t die naturally. You will have to make a report.”

  “I’m glad you see it like that,” Penross said, in the tone of one who was greatly relieved. “It makes a very unpleasant task a good deal lighter for me. I may have to ask you a few more questions later on, but I won’t disturb you more than is absolutely necessary.”

  He was moving towards the door when he turned.

  “If you’ll pardon my taking the liberty,” he said, “I’ll ask Doctor Corbin to come across. He’s in the study. You’ve undergone a very great shock and I’d feel happier if the doctor saw you.”

  “I’m perfectly all right, Inspector,” she said, but Mordecai Tremaine saw that her lips were quivering.

  Penross went over to the study and Tremaine heard him speaking to the police surgeon. Discreetly he left the lounge as the doctor came briskly across the hall. The door closed upon the other’s dapper little form and a moment later Penross appeared again in the entrance to the study. The inspector caught his eye.

  “It looks,” he said, “as though you’ve done it again.”

  2

  MORDECAI TREMAINE WAS annoyed to find himself beginning to feel embarrassed.

  “Mrs. Carthallow told you what happened,” he said, defensively. “I was on the beach. She saw me there and came down for help.”

  Penross was looking at him thoughtfully.

  “You must have heard the shot,” he said.

  “I did. It woke me up. I didn’t know what it was, of course. I looked around and couldn’t see anything wrong so I settled down in my chair again. The next thing I knew was that Mrs. Carthallow was standing in front of me saying that she’d killed her husband.”

  There was chagrin in Mordecai Tremaine’s face.

  “I know what you’re going to ask,” he said, “and I can’t tell you. I didn’t look at my watch. I don’t know just how long it was after I heard the shot that Mrs. Carthallow came down to the beach.”

  Penross gave him a queer look, but all he said was:

  “There was no reason why you should have noticed the time. You weren’t to know what was happening.”

  Mordecai Tremaine was feeling like a star pupil who had let his master down in public. But the inspector did not seem to think that the matter was of any importance. He glanced about him. The sergeant and the constable were out of earshot. His gruff voice was lowered to a somewhat throaty whisper.

  “I can talk to you more easily than I could to other people,” he said. “Not just as a witness. Off the record. You knew Mr.and Mrs. Carthallow. Did they strike you as being a couple who were still in love with each other?”

  “Not less so than dozens of other married couples I’ve met,” said Tremaine carefully.

  “But the first romantic bloom had worn off, eh?”

  Mordecai Tremaine pushed his pince-nez back into position.

  “Well—perhaps,” he admitted.

  Even his sentimental soul could not pretend that between Adrian Carthallow and his wife there had existed the perfect understanding born of a completely happy marriage. Not that it would have impressed Penross in any case, for there was plenty of outside evidence to show that the marriage had not been among the successes.

  The inspector nodded. He did not make any comment, but no comment was necessary.

  Mordecai Tremaine had experienced an unpleasant feeling of doubt when Helen Carthallow had been giving her version of how her husband had come to meet his death, and he knew what was in the inspector’s mind. The picture of the happily-married couple indulging in a youthful romp did not carry the stamp of truth. Still less did it seem likely that Adrian Carthallow would have compelled his wife, even more or less laughingly, to point a revolver at him and pull the trigger.

  It did not follow, of course, that Helen Carthallow had lied. Tremaine knew from experience that some of the most fantastic of stories proved upon examination to be no more than sober fact. It was unbelievably easy for a person to become the victim of circumstances; sometimes the appearance of guilt was so overwhelming that innocence could be proved only after the most intensive of investigations.

  The door of the lounge opened. Doctor Corbin came out. He said:

  “She’s trying hard not to break down, but she’s in a pretty overwrought state. I don’t think it would be advisable for her to stay here on her own and I’ve persuaded her to go over to Mrs. Eveland’s. It’s quite near. As soon as you’ve finished I’ll drive her over—if you’ve no objection, of course.”

  Penross nodded.

  “That’s all right, Doc. As long as I know where she is so that I can handle all the formalities. And as long as she understands that I’ll need to spend some time here yet.”

  Helen Carthallow seemed content to allow her immediate destiny to be arranged for her. Her face was white and drawn and there was strain in her dark eyes and the pinched appearance of her nostrils. The rigidity that had marked her when she had been telling her story had vanished. She looked small and lonely and very pathetic.

  She answered the further questions the inspector put to her, agreed to the accuracy of her statement when he went painstakingly through it with her, and agreed to sign the typewritten copy as soon as it was available.

  “It will be necessary for me to keep my men on the premises, Mrs.Carthallow,” he told her. “If you feel that you would prefer to be present—”

  He left the opening for her. She said:

  “I know I can leave matters in your hands, Inspector. When the servants arrive perhaps you will arrange to send them over to me at Mrs. Eveland’s so that I can see what will be the best thing to do.”

  “You don’t propose to come back tonight?” he asked, and Mordecai Tremaine saw her shiver.

  “Not unless I have to,” she said, in a low voice. “I couldn’t stay here alone. Not—not now. I’m sure that Hilda—Mrs. Eveland—will let me stay with her.”

  Tremaine knew Hilda Eveland. She lived about half a mile or so away on the outskirts of Falport. She was middle-aged and one of those plump, cheerful people who never seem to lose their good-humour. She lived permanently in the district but she had seen a good deal of the Carthallows during their periodic visits to Paradise.

  The doctor had had to leave his car on the mainland, since the bridge was too narrow to permit its passage. Mordecai Tremaine stood watching with Inspector Penross as he went down the drive with Helen Carthallow. She stumbled once and he saw Corbin’s hand go out to help her.

  “Going over that bridge is the only way of getting to this place isn’t it?” Penross asked.

  Tremaine nodded. The inspector said, as they went back inside the house:

  “Would it be possible for anyone to climb up from the beach and reach the grounds?”

  “I don’t think so. The cliff is too sheer for that.”

  “Did you see anyone else about when you went in with Mrs. Carthallow?”

  “No.”
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  “H’m.” It was a worried sound. Penross frowned. “I think,” he said, “we’ll take another look around.”

  Mordecai Tremaine was feeling worried, too. He was remembering how Helen Carthallow had gone up the cliff path ahead of him and how she had looked about her when she reached the top, as though she had half-expected to find someone there.

  But he did not mention that fact. He felt that at this stage it would only serve to introduce an unnecessary complication.

  Penross went back into the study where Adrian Carthallow’s body lay.

  “The photographers and fingerprint people ought to be here soon,” he said. “They’ve got to come from Wadestow. In the meantime let’s see what there is to see.”

  Mordecai Tremaine followed him gingerly, trying to tread lightly and avoid touching anything. A pair of sun-glasses lay upon a chair by the bookcase that occupied part of one wall. They looked as though they might have been placed there carelessly by someone who had come in out of the sun to search for a book on the shelves.

  Penross glanced reflectively at them for an instant or two as he passed. Suddenly he pursed his lips and went down on one knee.

  “Hullo,” he observed, “what’s this?”

  Tremaine looked over his shoulder at the metal object lying on the floorboards between the edge of the carpet and the skirting.

  “Seems to be a pair of forceps,” he remarked. “The kind surgeons use for holding arteries during operations. The Spencer Wells type I think they call them.”

  “Funny sort of thing for an artist to have,” Penross said.

  He peered at them. Several tiny slivers of wood were adhering to the serrations but otherwise they seemed to be unmarked.

  “No sign of blood on them, anyway.”

  They left the study and the inspector carried out a brief tour of the house. The place was not large, but it was expensively furnished.

  “Must have spent a small fortune on it,” Penross mused, as they glanced into the beautifully fitted bathroom adjoining the main bedroom. “Nice to be able to paint pictures that bring in that much money.”