The Cornish Coast Murder (British Library Crime Classics) (18 page)

“You were upstairs for about twenty-five minutes then?”

“About that, sir.”

“And during this time—where was your husband?”

“As far as I know in the butler's pantry. When Miss Tregarthan called out for us to come, Cowper hadn't quite finished with the washing-up. I remember seeing him come out of the pantry at the same moment as I rushed out of the kitchen.”

“And the wood had by then been taken into the sitting-room?”

“Oh, he'd taken it in all right. Earlier, I suppose. The trudge was beside the fender where he always placed it. As a matter of fact, Inspector, seeing that nothing has been touched in the room, I expect it's still there now.”

“It is,” agreed the Inspector. “I noticed it myself. Well, that's all I wanted to ask you, Mrs. Cowper. You might send your husband in to me here now.”

When Mrs. Cowper had gone the Inspector swiftly rev-iewed the housekeeper's evidence. More than ever was he inclined to think that Cowper had something to do with the disappearance of the forty pounds—or to be exact, the thirty-eight pounds left in Tregarthan's wallet. He had been alone for nearly half an hour in the butler's pantry, though there was no reason why he should not have walked where he liked on the ground-floor without being seen by his wife. Cowper in his statement to Grouch spoke of his entry into the sitting-room at a quarter to nine or there-abouts. That was to say, a few minutes after Mrs. Cowper had taken in the coffee. But had he really entered the room at that time? Had he perhaps made a false statement of the time in order to make it look as if he entered the room when Tregarthan was alive. Knowing that his wife had taken in the coffee round about 8.45, he realised that if he claimed to have seen Tregarthan a minute or so later, there would not have been time enough for the murderer to lure him to the window and commit the crime. Grouch would naturally assume, as Bigswell had assumed, that Cowper was the last person to see Tregarthan alive. But what if this were not the case? What if Mrs. Cowper was the last to set eyes on the living Tregarthan? What if Cowper had not taken in the logs straight away, but remembered them later as an afterthought? Then there would have been ample time for the murder to have been committed. Cowper might have gone in, found Tregarthan shot, stolen the money and returned to the butler's pantry. Nobody was in a position to dispute his account of his own movements. He was, apparently, an inveterate gambler. He might have fallen into the bookmaker's clutches. Found himself in a hole—frightened, perhaps, of losing his job if the business came to light—seen the opportunity to clear off his debts and, in a headstrong moment, seized it.

All further supposition was cut short by the entrance of the man in question. Bigswell was astonished by his appearance. There was no doubt that Cowper's self-respect had considerably deteriorated since the night of the murder. His clothes were untidy and unbrushed. He wore no collar and the rim of his shirt was greasy with dirt. His eyes, heavily underlined as if through sleeplessness, were bloodshot and shifty, and his face had assumed a yellowish pallor. About his person hung a strong aroma of whiskey.

“Letting himself go,” thought the Inspector. “Something uncomfortable on his mind by the look of it. Turned to the whiskey bottle for Dutch courage!”

The man's manner toward the Inspector, too, was characterised by a sort of surly defensiveness and it was not until Bigswell adopted a peremptory tone that he showed any inclination to speak up. He repeated his story of Monday night, merely adding that after he had taken in the logs at 8.45 he had retired to the butler's pantry and proceeded to wash up the dinner things. He had remained there until Miss Tregarthan's cries had summoned him post-haste to the sitting-room.

“You took in the logs,” asked the Inspector, “after your wife had gone upstairs to see to the laundry?”

“Just after,” said Cowper shortly.

“And this butler's pantry—where is it?”

“Beyond the sitting-room—at the far end of the hall.”

“Opposite the kitchen?”

“That's it.”

“I should like to have a look at the room,” said the Inspector tersely. “Now!”

Cowper clip-clopped along the hall in a disreputable pair of felt slippers and opened the door of the pantry. The Inspector realised, with a certain amount of surprise, that it was adjacent to the sitting-room. A single wall had divided Cowper from the room in which Tregarthan had met his death.

The pantry was not very large. A sink and a draining-board ran along one wall, whilst a large cupboard, with glass doors and shelves, occupied the wall next to the sitting-room. In the wall opposite the door was a smallish window set about four feet from the ground. Beneath this was a long, oak stool.

“That window,” said Bigswell,” what does it give on to?”

“The garden,” replied Cowper, obviously resenting the Inspector's curiosity.

“Which means that it's in line with the french windows of the sitting-room, eh?” Cowper nodded. “Was the window open or closed when you were in here on Monday night?”

“Closed,” said Cowper promptly. “There's enough draught in this ruddy place without leaving the windows open.”

“I see that it does open.”

“Oh, it opens all right,” agreed Cowper in surly tones. “But it's not been opened this side of of Christmas. You can take my word for that.”

The Inspector moved to the window and took a close look at it. He was about to place his hand on the latch, when he thought better of it and turned suddenly on Cowper, who had been furtively watching the Inspector's procedure.

“Look here, Cowper—there's one thing which puzzles me in this case. You say you were in this room from eight-forty-five until Miss Tregarthan found her uncle dead. Out there, through that window, is the garden and at the end of the garden, the cliff-path. On the other side of this wall is the sitting-room. Mr. Tregarthan was murdered by some unknown person who fired three shots at him from the path. One of those shots was fatal. On the other side of the wall, say twelve feet from where we are standing, Mr. Tregarthan—a heavily built man mind you—fell to the ground shot through the head. On Monday night you made a statement to the Constable. You were asked if you heard any unusual sounds between eight-forty-five and nine-seventeen. You replied that you didn't. D'you still stick to that statement, Cowper?”

“Why shouldn't I?” asked Cowper truculently. “It's the truth, isn't it? You know as well as I do that there was a storm right over the house. If the chap that killed Mr. Tregarthan chose his moment and fired at the same time as a thunder-clap, how the devil could I be expected to hear the sound of the shots?”

“It's curious—that's all,” answered Bigswell meaningly. “The shots being so close and the window apparently open.”

Cowper gave him a sudden, furtive look of enquiry.

“The window open? Didn't I tell you it was shut!”

“Then how do you account for this?” asked the Inspector in a quiet voice, pointing to the window-sill. “D'you see those marks, Cowper? D'you know what they are, eh? You don't? Then I'll tell you. They're rain spots—recent, too, by the look of them. It's curious how driving rain will dapple the surface of dark paint and remain spotted until the marks are cleaned off. What have you to say about that, eh? You realise, Cowper, that it hasn't rained since Monday night. The storm had gone over completely by nine-thirty. It rather looks as if somebody
did
open that window on Monday night. Your wife perhaps. If so I can easily put the question to her and make sure. The same applies to Miss Tregarthan. If neither of them opened the window, then it rather looks as if you've not been telling the truth, Cowper. Well?”

During this exposition of logic Cowper's face had assumed the look of a man who finds himself in a tight corner and can't see his way out of it. His features were ashen. His fingers worked nervously at the tapes of his green baize apron.

“Well, then,” he mumbled uneasily, “let's say I made a mistake. With so much happening in the house, it's nothing but natural, isn't it? Daresay I did open the window earlier in the evening. A chap can't remember everything when he's upset.”

“I see. So the window was opened on Monday night?”

“Come to think of it,” said Cowper, with a kind of despairing heartiness, “you're right there, Inspector. Can't think how I came to forget it! I'd been filling the oil-lamp in here what I use in the wood-shed. Just afore dinner that would be. Paraffin hangs about, as you know. So I opened the window to clear the air a bit, not wanting Mrs. C. to fall on me for filling the lamp in the pantry. She's a stickler for having things just-so.”

“A very commendable quality,” Bigswell observed dryly. “Well, I won't keep you any longer, Cowper. You can get back to your job.”

Without waiting to be told twice Cowper, with a faint smile of relief, slipped out of the pantry and returned to his sawing. He was pleased with his own smartness. He had not suspected that he was the possessor of a highly inventive mind. He had parried the Inspector's stroke, he felt, with extreme deftness.

But the Inspector was far less gullible than Cowper imagined. From the moment he had discovered the rain-spots on the window-sill he knew that Cowper had been lying. He had lied to Grouch. It would have been obvious to the least observant man that Cowper was hiding something from the police. He felt certain in his own mind now, that the man had stolen the notes. The next problem to be solved was where had he concealed the money? In the pantry itself? It was a very probable hiding-place.

Closing the door, Inspector Bigswell made a minute search of every nook and cranny of the little room. But there was no money. At the conclusion of his search, however, his gaze was attracted to the polished surface of the long, oak stool under the window. It had been scratched, recently it seemed, and on looking closer the broken outlines of a footprint were faintly discernible. Whoever had stood on the stool had worn nailed boots—boots such as a gardener might wear or a man whose duties carried him outside the house. A few pieces of gravel were dusted over the dark, shiny wood. It was identical with the gravel which the Inspector had found on the Greylings drive and on the cement outside the french windows.

But why had Cowper mounted the stool? The window was set fairly low down. There was no reason why Cowper should have climbed on to the stool to open the window. But he had climbed on to it. Why?

Leaving this question for the moment, Bigswell let himself out of the side door and, leaving the light on in the pantry, walked down to the cliff-path. It was now almost dark and the orange square of the frosted window shone out brightly from the grey bulk of the house. The Inspector realised at once that the pantry-window was set at the extreme right-hand corner of the house. But that was not all! Directly beneath the window, running at right angles to the house's façade, was the southern wall of the garden.

For a moment, unable to suppress a quick thrill of excitement, he pondered the full significance of this fact. Was his Ronald Hardy-Ruth Tregarthan theory at sixes and sevens? Was Cowper responsible, not only for the theft of the notes, but for the murder itself? How damnably easy for Cowper, knowing the coast to be clear, to climb out of the pantry window, creep along the wall, shoot Tregarthan and return, unnoticed, to the house. No tracks on the surrounding paths or the flower beds. Little chance of being surprised in the act, since he had a perfect knowledge of everybody's whereabouts. And following up the murder, the theft of the notes. Perhaps he had misjudged the man's true character. Perhaps, driven to desperation by his bookmaker's threat to divulge the secret of his debts to Tregarthan, he had decided in cold blood to murder his master, having full knowledge that he carried the monthly cash-allowance on his person. And the revolver? Well, the same theory would still hold water. It had slipped from his hand when he was on the wall. Ruth Tregarthan had come along and picked it up in the belief that it was Hardy's. She probably knew that he possessed a Webley. She knew of the quarrel between Ronald and her uncle. She knew Ronald was liable to sudden emotional storms and, putting two and two together, had jumped to a very possible conclusion. True it was that Hardy's revolver was missing from its holster. But that might have been an unfortunate coincidence. On the other hand the man had disappeared and the revolver with him. Was his disappearance to be dismissed also as an unfortunate coincidence?

Bigswell suddenly felt disheartened. Where was he really getting to? This affair of the stolen notes had opened up an entirely new line of reconstruction. In some way Cowper was implicated. He had climbed on to that stool. He had, in spite of his initial denial, opened the pantry window. Was it not a perfectly logical argument to say that the theft was connected with the murder and that Cowper was the “wanted man” on both counts?

CHAPTER XIII

CORONER'S INQUEST

B
EFORE
returning to Greystoke, Inspector Bigswell called in at the Constable's office to acquaint himself with Ned Salter's evidence. Cross-examined by Grouch, who had full knowledge of the Bedruthen interview, the poacher had given a perfectly satisfactory account of his movements on the night of the murder. His story fitted without flaw the account already given by the shepherd, and the Inspector realised that, as far as Ned Salter was concerned, he had absolutely no connection with Tregarthan's death. He had guessed that Salter's alibi was unassailable the moment Bedruthen had come forward, but it was with a great sense of relief that he found himself in a position to cross at least one suspect from his list.

He returned to Greystoke and went at once to the Superintendent's office, where he made a concise report of the day's investigations. On the whole Bigswell felt little progress had been made. The theft of the money was an annoying complication, which had considerably shaken his faith in the theory which he had advanced the night before. The Superintendent, too, was worried by the introduction of yet one more suspected person into the already overcrowded picture. In his opinion the Coroner's verdict was already a foregone conclusion. Confronted with such a mass of conflicting evidence he could do little more than to bring in a verdict of “murder by person or persons unknown.” The Superintendent had no doubt that the Chief would get in touch with the Coroner and suggest that the inquest should run along these lines. Unsatisfactory, perhaps. But there it was. The Inspector had done his best in the limited time, but it looked as if the problem was of a more stubborn nature than they had first anticipated.