So Pretty a Problem Page 4

  It was a view at which Mordecai Tremaine was never tired of looking. The firm golden sands that lay uncovered when the tide was out and the long white horses racing against the great grey cliffs when the sea was flooding in both had their irresistible appeal for him.

  There were caves all along the bay, varying from shallow indentations scooped out in comparatively recent times to vast and ancient caverns tunnelling back into the rock and in which the surge and boom of the sea formed a constant symphony of sound. Mordecai Tremaine’s boyish imagination had peopled them with lusty Cornish smugglers, running in their illicit cargoes of silks and rum, but now, of course, they were empty apart from small boys and girls play-acting in those places the sea did not render inaccessible except by boat. These were much more sober days.

  Or were they?

  Maybe the world had not altered fundamentally, although there might no longer be skirmishes on the beaches between smugglers and excisemen. Thoughtfully he regarded the scattered houses that led fitfully towards the isolated spot where Paradise occupied its unique position. It all looked innocent enough, but who could tell? It wasn’t until attention was focused on one particular spot that one realized just how many odd things could go on under the eyes of unsuspecting neighbours.

  At that moment he saw a figure coming towards him. A tall figure, with hands deep in pockets. He recognized Lester Imleyson.

  The other’s normally good-humoured face was morose and preoccupied. He did not notice Mordecai Tremaine until they had almost drawn level. Tremaine said, purely to open the conversation:

  “Nice evening.”

  Imleyson raised his eyes suddenly, as though he had been brought to an abrupt awareness of his surroundings.

  “Oh—hullo,” he said, ungraciously. “Didn’t see you.”

  “I noticed,” remarked Tremaine, “that you were deep in thought.”

  The significant note in his voice brought a flush to Imleyson’s face.

  “I don’t have to tell you the reason.”

  “No,” returned Mordecai Tremaine gently, “you don’t.” He added: “I’m on my way to see Mrs. Carthallow now. I thought there might be something I could do.”

  To his surprise, Imleyson took a step towards him and his hands grasped his shoulders.

  “There is something you can do,” he said tensely. “You can try and convince that wooden-headed inspector friend of yours that Carthallow’s death was an accident. You can stop him continually worrying Helen and acting as though there was some mystery about it.”

  “Aren’t you,” said Tremaine, “being a little melodramatic?”

  “Am I?” Imleyson’s voice was bitter. “I’ve just come from her. She’s been questioned and badgered so much that she doesn’t know what she’s doing or saying. Doesn’t Penross recognize the truth when he hears it?”

  His words held a note Tremaine found it hard to define. He could not be certain whether it was the result of fear, hysteria, or nervous strain due to a natural anxiety for Helen Carthallow.

  It rather surprised him. He had always thought of Imleyson as a well-balanced youngster who was unlikely to go to pieces in a crisis.

  “Inspector Penross is only doing his duty,” he observed. “It’s inevitable that Mrs. Carthallow should be asked to answer questions and make statements. I’m sure she appreciates that. The law doesn’t pay any regard to personalities and the police have to carry out their instructions.”

  Imleyson seemed to have taken a grip on himself by now. The momentary wildness had died out of his eyes. He said:

  “Sorry. I’m a bit strung up. It was such a damnable thing to have happened.”

  They parted and Mordecai Tremaine went on his way. The situation appeared to be developing along unexpected lines. Judging by what had gone before, it would have been reasonable to suppose that Lester Imleyson would have been delighted to hear that Adrian Carthallow was dead, since it left him a clear field. One would not, of course, have expected him to give three hearty cheers and go around telling the world how pleased he was. But one would certainly not have imagined that he would display all the characteristics of a man who had temporarily lost his nerve.

  Unless . . .

  Unless he wasn’t really in love with Helen Carthallow at all. Unless he had merely been amusing himself with her and now found himself trapped because her husband had inconsiderately managed to get himself shot.

  Mordecai Tremaine didn’t like it. He liked it even less the more he thought about it. He was glad when he reached Hilda Eveland’s house and could no longer spare the time to think.

  There seemed to be a lot of people on the premises. So much going and coming was in progress that it was difficult to sort out just who was present. He gathered that the news had spread effectively, and that the genuinely concerned and the merely curious had converged upon the house.

  Hilda Eveland greeted him with a smile of welcome that creased her plump face into its familiar lines.

  “So there you are, Mordecai! We’ve been wondering when you were going to turn up!”

  A friendly intimacy had grown up between them. Tremaine suspected her of a desire to mother him. He felt that secretly she regarded him as being in need of care and attention.

  “Your friend Penross has just gone,” she told him. “He’s been going over things with Helen.”

  “Is she—?” he began, and she took him up before he could finish framing the question.

  “Is she standing up to it? Don’t worry, Mordecai. There’s a good deal more in Helen than people imagine.”

  “I’m glad,” said Tremaine. “After all, it was such a frightful shock. It might have produced a nasty reaction.”

  Hilda Eveland gave him a shrewd look.

  “It did,” she said. “She was beginning to show signs of it when she got here. It was as well that she came. Anything might have happened if she’d stayed in that house on her own.”

  Mordecai Tremaine could read the situation easily enough. As soon as Helen Carthallow had arrived, Hilda Eveland had taken her in hand. She had been allowed no time to sit and brood. With her bustling good humour and forceful personality the older woman had worked hard to take her mind off the tragedy—at least, as far as that was possible.

  “I met young Imleyson on the way,” he remarked. “He gave me the impression that Mrs. Carthallow was finding the strain rather too much for her. He seemed to think the police had been worrying her.”

  “Did he?”

  A subtle change had affected Hilda Eveland’s manner. Her tone had become guarded. She said:

  “He wasn’t here long. As a matter of fact, I was surprised he didn’t come before. In view of—everything.”

  Mordecai Tremaine was not altogether taken unawares by the antagonism in her voice. He had always suspected that she did not greatly care for Lester Imleyson.

  “Has Inspector Penross been very persistent?” he asked.

  “Not more so than you might expect. After all, Adrian didn’t exactly die from natural causes. Even if he hadn’t been so much in the public eye the local police would have wanted to ask plenty of questions. And since it’s obvious that there are going to be headlines in every newspaper in the country, Penross doesn’t want to leave anything undone. When you’re operating under a spotlight you aren’t anxious to make any slips, so you do everything twice to make sure you haven’t forgotten the very thing everybody else is sure to see first.”

  Even if Hilda’s plump figure hadn’t borne all the battle-signs of a slightly ruffled hen determined to protect her brood, Tremaine would have accepted the logic of what she had said. It was, indeed, natural that Penross should move with caution. He said:

  “Have any reporters turned up yet?”

  “So far only the local men. But the others will be here all right.”

  The door opened. Tremaine turned to see the bulky figure of Elton Steele. He was smoking the inevitable pipe, his big hand caressing the bowl.

  “I think I’ll push o
ff, Hilda. Helen seems to be all right and you’ve enough people on your hands without me.”

  “Thank you for coming, Elton. You’re one of the few I was really glad to see.”

  “Wish I could have done something. Don’t seem to have made any useful contribution at all.”

  “Just to look at you is enough to give her confidence,” she told him. “I know your being here helped to steady Helen when she was most in need of it.”

  “You think so?” the big man said, as though eager to believe it and yet inwardly doubtful. “Nice of you, Hilda.” He became aware of Mordecai Tremaine’s presence. “Hullo, Tremaine. Pretty unpleasant business, eh?” He did not wait for a reply but addressed himself again to Hilda Eveland. “See you in the morning, Hilda. May need an errand boy or something.”

  “It’s awfully good of you, Elton. I’ll tell Helen.”

  Steele looked as though he was going to say something. He hesitated with his hand on the handle of the open door, his broad, tweed-clad shoulders almost blocking the entrance. Then he changed his mind, nodded and went out.

  When the door had closed behind him, Tremaine said:

  “I suppose it’s only one of my romantic fancies, but you know, Hilda, sometimes I’ve found myself thinking that Steele’s in love with Helen Carthallow.”

  “Of course he’s in love with her,” she said briskly. “You’ve only to see the way he watches her to realize that. Why do you suppose he came rushing over here the moment he heard what had happened?”

  “Does she know?”

  “She hasn’t admitted it, if that’s what you mean. But it’s a very unusual woman who can’t tell when a man’s in love with her. It’s a pity she didn’t meet Elton before she married Adrian. And it’s a pity Elton doesn’t go in for a little less dog-like devotion and a little more of the cave-man tactics.”

  Elton Steele was a very near neighbour. He had an estate agent’s business in Falporth that covered a wide area, and he was rumoured to be comfortably off financially if he could not exactly be termed a rich man. He was one of those physically big men whose manner is gentle and who traditionally would not harm a fly. His pleasant, slow-speaking voice was rarely any other than calm. He was solid, inarticulate, dependable, with grey eyes that seemed to be perpetually surveying the world with a kind of amused tolerance—and yet the kind of man who could display a devastating wrath when he was aroused.

  Mordecai Tremaine had never seen him give way to anger, but he had detected ominous rumblings and he did not think that his judgment was at fault.

  “This has certainly given Matilda something to talk about,” Hilda Eveland observed, and he looked at her enquiringly.

  Matilda Vickery was one of Hilda Eveland’s good turns. She had been a cook until rheumatoid arthritis had attacked first her legs and then crippled her hands so that she had become incapable of earning her own living. Unmarried, of strictly limited means, and with no near relatives to whom she could turn, her future would have been a bleak one, but Hilda had accepted responsibility for her. Apart from the fact that she appreciated a conscientious and loyal servant, her own good nature would not have allowed her to turn Matilda away.

  She had installed her in a room of her own and had paid for medical treatment for her. There was no hope of a permanent cure, but she had determined to do what she could to make her declining years easier.

  When Mordecai Tremaine had heard about it he had regarded Hilda Eveland with a much more understanding eye. At first he had thought of her as a cheerful, happy-go-lucky but negative personality who was a pleasant companion but whose emotions seldom ran deep. Now he knew that beneath her plump jollity she possessed a brave and understanding soul.

  “You know how much time she spends looking out of her window,” Hilda went on. “There isn’t much she misses. Whenever I want to bring myself up-to-date with the gossip of the neighbourhood I sit down and chat to Matilda. People bring all their confidences to her, and naturally they tell her all they know about everybody else as well! She can see the bridge leading to Paradise, as you know. She saw you go in with Helen and she saw Inspector Penross arrive. It was Matilda who gave me the first news that something was wrong.”

  “Has Penross had a talk with her?”

  “Yes. He was interested in the fact that she can see the bridge from her room . . .” She broke off as the door opened. “Here’s Helen now.”

  Helen Carthallow came into the room. Roberta Fairham was with her. Roberta was the mousy type, with straight hair strained back from her forehead and with nondescript features you couldn’t recall a few moments after she had left you. Just recently she seemed to have been taking pains to improve her appearance. She had been experimenting with nail varnish, mascara and lipstick. She had also been cultivating a bright manner. The results had not been entirely satisfactory. She had acquired the air of a half-finished portrait that the artist had had to leave because he wasn’t quite certain how to go on.

  Mordecai Tremaine addressed himself to a point midway between them. He said:

  “Good evening.” And to Helen Carthallow he said: “I just thought I’d drop in and see whether I could be of any assistance to you, but it looks as though you’ve had an embarrassment of offers.”

  Helen Carthallow smiled.

  “I didn’t know I had so many friends. It was very good of you to come.”

  Her face was white and there were contrasting patches of shadow under her eyes. He thought, too, that she had applied her lipstick with a slightly more prodigal hand than usual. But she had herself well under control; she was showing no sign that her nerves were reaching breaking point, despite the questioning she had apparently undergone from Penross. She added:

  “There isn’t really anything to do. Except wait. Inspector Penross has told me that his men will be staying at Paradise and they’ve already been in touch with the servants and told them not to go back to the house for a day or two. The inspector said he’d see to all the formalities for me. He’s been very kind.”

  There was no trace of irony in her voice. Tremaine gave her a quick, observant glance. If she was acting she was certainly playing a difficult part with extraordinary ability.

  Deliberately he said:

  “I met Mr. Imleyson on my way over.”

  “I’m afraid Lester was rather perturbed by the way the inspector kept asking questions,” she told him coolly. “Poor dear, I believe he thought I was going through some kind of third degree!”

  She was fencing with him. Mordecai Tremaine was sure of it. She knew that he had told her about Imleyson in order to test her reaction, and she had met him on his own ground.

  He realized then that in some subtle fashion she had changed since the afternoon. It was difficult to place the precise nature of the change, but her manner had grown harder. There was a bitterness in her eyes, a cynicism that had not been there before. She no longer appeared so fragile; the natural steel in her was nearer the surface.

  He was not allowed to test her further. Hilda Eveland steered the conversation away from the subject of Adrian Carthallow’s death, and in view of his self-announced reason for being present he had no option but to give her his support with every appearance of goodwill.

  They were drinking coffee and Mordecai Tremaine was trying to think of a suitable exit line, since it was obvious that his visit was unlikely to produce any more information, when Lewis Haldean arrived. They heard the characteristic screech of brakes as his car pulled up outside the house with the usual breathtaking effect, and Hilda Eveland went out to meet him.

  They heard his resonant voice in the hall.

  “I didn’t hear the news about poor Adrian until I got back this evening—been out fishing all day. Of course, I came straight over.”

  There was a vibrant, dramatic quality in his words. The whole man, in fact, was dramatic. With his distinguished appearance and his expressive voice he possessed all the outward characteristics of the successful actor.

  Tremaine always
thought of him in conjunction with Elton Steele. Partly because they were both big men, although there was slightly more solidity about Steele’s build, and partly because Haldean’s fair colouring and his short, carefully trimmed blond beard and his quick gesticulatory way of speaking contrasted so sharply with Steele’s dark, clean-shaven features and slow-speaking deliberation.

  Not that Steele’s sombre masculinity gave Haldean the appearance of softness. There was something of the Viking in the boldness of the blue eyes and the defiant thrust of that striking beard.

  He was just outside the door by now. They heard him say:

  “What happened? All I heard was some garbled story about Adrian being dead. You know how people embroider any kind of rumour. Was it suicide?”

  Hilda Eveland said, in a tone of warning:

  “I think you’d better come in, Lewis. Helen’s inside.”

  Haldean’s face appeared in the doorway. He saw Helen Carthallow and for a moment he looked disconcerted. Then he went towards her, his hand outstretched.

  “Helen, my dear—I’m terribly sorry. I couldn’t believe it when they told me. How did Adrian come to do it?”

  “Adrian didn’t,” she told him. “I did it.”

  He stared at her, momentarily at a loss. Still holding her hand he turned back to Hilda.

  “It was an accident,” Hilda Eveland said. “Helen and Adrian were joking. Adrian took out his gun and when she asked him to be careful because it naturally scared her, he gave it to her and said that it wasn’t loaded and told her to try it for herself. It was loaded, after all.”

  Haldean turned back again, still with Helen Carthallow’s hand in his own. An intuitive light flashed across Mordecai Tremaine’s mind. Was he being romantic again or was there something of particular significance in Haldean’s manner?

  Helen Carthallow said:

  “That’s the story, Lewis. It’s a very simple one, isn’t it? I shot Adrian. I didn’t mean to do it. I didn’t know the revolver was loaded.”