Biggles Goes Alone Page 6

  For the first time there was just the slightest hesitation, which Biggles did not fail to notice. “The way there was uphill. It was downhill coming home.”

  “Agreed. But to a young fellow like you that would hardly account for such a difference in time. Half an hour to get there and ten minutes to walk back? No, Paul, that won’t do, as you’ll find if ever you are asked that question in court. Did you stop to speak to someone?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see anyone?”

  “No. I swear it.”

  “Did you stop anywhere at all?”

  Again the momentary hesitation. “No.”

  Biggles sighed and moved as if he was about to get out of the car. “All right Paul. Have it your way. But if you’re not going to tell me the truth it’s no use going on. You’re hiding something, and unless I know what it is we shan’t get anywhere.”

  “All right. I did stop on the way.”

  “That’s better. Where did you stop, and why?”

  “I stopped at Doctor Venner’s garden.”

  Biggles stared. “What on earth for?”

  “To pick one or two roses for Vera.”

  “But you said you bought them on the road between here and Truro!”

  “I know I did, but that wasn’t true, I intended to get them in Truro but forgot. Having promised them I couldn’t go without them. I couldn’t tell Vera I’d forgotten her roses.”

  “So you decided to pinch a few from the Doctor’s garden.”

  “Why not? He’s got plenty. You can see them from the road, just inside the gate. He’s a cantankerous old devil, anyway.”

  “Who says so?”

  “I do. Everyone says so. He was rude to Vera when she asked him for a subscription for the Flower Show.”

  “Don’t think I’m making excuses for him, but in approaching him Vera must have been prepared for a rebuff, knowing how he felt about the Flower Show and that he’d refused to take any part in it.”

  “He needn’t have been rude.”

  “Even if he was, that didn’t justify you in raiding his garden for the roses which you’d forgotten to buy in Truro.”

  “I’d have asked him to give me a few, or sell me some, if I’d thought there was the slightest chance of him saying yes. I only took half a dozen. He wouldn’t miss ‘em.”

  “But I can’t understand why you thought it necessary to lie about it.”

  “Be reasonable. How could I say I’d pinched the roses from the garden next door? It seemed of no importance then, or now if it comes to that, where the roses came from.”

  “You knew what you were going to do when you left the hotel, didn’t you? That’s why you put on your gloves.”

  “Of course. Roses have thorns, and you can scratch your hands cutting them in daylight, never mind in the dark. I had to cut them with my nail scissors. Does it matter?”

  “It didn’t matter at the time, perhaps, but it might matter now because you’ve provided the police with an excuse to call you a liar; and a court might take the view that a man capable of telling one lie might tell more if it suited him.”

  “I see that now, but how was I to know what was going to happen? If Vera hadn’t died no one would have known anything about it, and the question would never have arisen.”

  “Unfortunately she did die, and you, very foolishly, left a flaw in your statement to the police, which may or may not be noticed.”

  “You won’t tell them?” pleaded Paul desperately.

  “No, I shan’t tell them. They can work it out for themselves. But if it comes to a showdown you’ll have to face up to it and tell the truth.”

  “I can see that now.”

  “Have you any idea at all of how Vera died?”

  “None whatever. But I’ll say this on my dying oath. That bottle of cyanide the police found in my room had nothing to do with it. I haven’t seen it for months. It’s only necessary to refresh a killing-jar once in a blue moon.”

  “And you’ve nothing more to tell me?”

  “Not a thing. Now you know the worst. It’s a bit hard, you must admit. For taking some presents to a girl I’m likely to be accused of murdering her.”

  “We can talk about that if and when it happens. Meanwhile, don’t make things look worse by running away. Put the car back in its usual place and go to bed. That’s where I’m going. I didn’t reckon on having a busman’s holiday.”

  “I’ll do as you say.”

  “That’s more like it. Good night.”

  Biggles got out of the car and walked away with something more to think about.

  CHAPTER VIII

  NO NINTH LIFE FOR A CAT

  The next morning Biggles had his usual dip and after breakfast waited on the terrace in the hope that the Superintendent would come and perhaps bring an early report on the autopsy. This might be enough to settle the problem once and for all.

  He got up when the police car ran in and stopped. The Superintendent got out and walked briskly to the terrace.

  “I’m really on my way to have another word with Miss Lewis and a last look round the cottage before she packs up,” he said. “Seeing you here I thought I’d give you an item of news that should interest you.”

  “That was a kind thought.”

  “The preliminary report of the post mortem says no trace of cyanide, so it looks as if you might be right in your opinion of young Graveson after all. Furthermore, there’s no indication so far of any other common poison, one such as a member of the public might be able to get hold of— arsenic, strychnine, for instance. The odd thing is, though, there are certain signs consistent with death from poisoning. It’s got the doctors guessing. Beats me, I’m damned if I know what to make of it. I can’t believe this to be a case of accidental death, but it’s no use expecting a coroner’s jury to bring in any other verdict without evidence.”

  “No symptoms of heart trouble?”

  “None whatever. The chief pathologist says that from his first examination the girl appears to have a perfectly healthy body in every respect.”

  “So you still have no idea of why she died?”

  “Not a glimmer.”

  “Queer.”

  “Queer! I’ll say it’s queer. I’ve never struck a case like it. At ten o’clock that girl was alive and well. By eleven she was dead. She didn’t just lie down and die for no reason at all.”

  Biggles smiled wanly. “No one is likely to argue with you on that score.”

  “I can’t get the feeling out of my bones that she was murdered. But how? In every other murder case I’ve handled that was a problem that didn’t arise. We did at least know how the victim was done in. Up to now the doctors haven’t been able to help us. They’re still working on the case so it may be a bit early to say they’re baffled. There’s still a chance something may turn up. The answer must be here, but I’m damned if I know where to look for it.” The Superintendent cocked an eye. “You got any ideas?”

  “No. The thing is just as much a mystery to me as it is to you.”

  “Ha! So we’ve even got the Yard guessing. I reckon you’ve given the matter some thought?”

  “A certain amount. I won’t say I’ve knocked my plan out, because I was fully prepared for you to look in this morning to say you had information that had got everything buttoned up. Instead, you now tell me we’re back where we started.”

  “How far did you get?”

  “Not very far, I’m afraid. But remember, I told you I wouldn’t interfere, so for the most part my activities have been confined to this chair.”

  “What lines have you been thinking on?”

  “The old method of sifting out what was impossible and turning the spotlight on what remained. There was one basic fact. Vera Harrington was dead. Broadly speaking that could only have happened in one of four ways. Which one was it? Death from natural causes, suicide, accident or murder. I started with suicide because that seemed the easiest to dispose of. I ruled it out because I just
could not see how Vera could have destroyed herself—anyhow, in a house of that size— without leaving a clear indication of how it was done. Secondly, to me it didn’t make sense that she should suddenly break off in the middle of doing a simple household job, namely, arranging a vase of flowers, in order to kill herself. So suicide was out. You now tell me the doctors say she didn’t die from a natural cause, so that’s out, too. Assuming we’re correct so far, and we’re bound to work on that assumption, we’re left with only accident and murder.”

  “What about murder?”

  “I considered the possibility of this being one of those really clever murders that are never recognized as such, the victim going to the grave under an ordinary death certificate. As you know, just as many murders go undiscovered as are exposed for what they are. Was this one of them, only somehow the plot had come unstuck, death coming more quickly than was intended and in a way that was certain to call for an enquiry? But here we run into an absence of motive, which is always a snag.”

  “I’ve been thoroughly into that, as you can imagine. But far from anyone wishing her ill Vera seems to have been the most popular girl in the village. As far as anyone hating the girl to the point of wanting to kill her—it’s out of the question. If she had an enemy, in a place this size everyone would know it. It would be impossible to keep a thing like that quiet.”

  “You’re talking about the village; and that’s all right as far as it goes. But what about London? I have no details but I’m told she worked there for a time. Why did she pack up and come home? She said because she preferred life in the country. That could be true. But did she get into some trouble there? Did she make an enemy? In short, is there a factor in this case which we know nothing about?”

  “I’ll go into that. Miss Lewis might be able to tell me. She’d know. But what did you make of the possibility of accident?”

  “Nothing. It’s as difficult to point the case of an accident as it is to find a motive for murder.”

  “Dammit all. It must have been one or the other.”

  “I shall be interested to hear which it was, when you’re able to tell me.”

  The Superintendent looked at his watch. “I must be getting along to the cottage, I told Miss Lewis I’d run her into Truro if she’d finished tidying up. I could then lock the house. I don’t suppose the poor old thing will want to stay there an hour longer than is necessary. I’ll let you know if anything turns up.”

  “Okay, Chief. Thanks.”

  After the police car had gone Biggles set off for his customary stroll along the beach; but on this occasion he went farther than usual, making for a minor headland that bulged out of the cliff opposite the far end of the village. This, he had been told, was where Trelawny kept his boat.

  He walked slowly, his forehead knit with the intensity of his concentration, aware that his original intention to ignore the local sensation was not working out. But then, in the circumstances, it could hardly be otherwise.

  Rounding the headland he found himself looking into a tiny cove, a mere spit of sand. A boulder with a chain attached to it, and some old lobster pots, well above the high water mark, told him this was Trelawny’s mooring. The boat was there, drawn up on the sand. In it the owner sat slumped, his chin in his hands.

  Biggles greeted him from a distance in order not to startle him. “Good morning, Mick. Not fishing today?”

  Trelawny half looked up. “No.”

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “What do you think?”

  “You mean this business of Vera.”

  “I can’t get it out of my head. I still can’t believe she’s dead and I shall never see her again.”

  “That’s how it is with sudden death,” came back Biggles, philosophically.

  “Have the police found out anything yet?”

  “No. They’re completely baffled.”

  “They would be. They’re about as much good as a spent lobster.”

  “Oh, come now, give ‘em a chance. Have you any ideas about it?”

  “Not one.”

  “The police are beginning to think she was accidentally poisoned, but they don’t know how. Tell me this. Have you ever known anybody to be taken ill with fish poisoning after eating pollack?”

  “Never. Pollack ain’t everybody’s choice of a fish but they’re safe enough. I’ve known people ill from eating shellfish but that’s usually the result of not knowing where they came from or how to clean ‘em— what to keep and what to chuck away.” A thought seemed to strike the fisherman. He looked up. “Are you thinking about those pollack I took in to Vera?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well you can set your mind at rest on that. Those fish hadn’t been out of the water half an hour. They were still alive. And anyway, if Vera had been struck with fish poisoning Miss Lewis would have known all about it.”

  “It was just an idea.”

  “Miss Lewis said they’d have the fish for lunch, which means she’d have some, too. I’ve been sitting here wondering what could have happened. I shall never forgive myself for not going in the house while I was at it, even if it meant forcing the door. I ought to have known something was wrong. Vera might still have been alive.”

  “Maybe it’s a good thing you didn’t go in,” said Biggles, seriously.

  “Where are you making for now?”

  “The village. I want to go to the Post Office. I should just have time before lunch. Is there any way I can get there without going all the way back? Did I hear you say something about a way up the cliff?”

  He had already surveyed it. It was a typical South Cornish coastline, a bulwark of rugged rock, not very high—perhaps fifty feet—and seldom vertical. More often it leaned back a little, and at such places an ascent appeared to offer no difficulty to anyone with sound limbs. Along the base lay the usual chaos of rock that had fallen through the centuries.

  It was true he wanted to go to the Post office but he did not want to walk up the village street and in all probability encounter the Superintendent who had said he was going to collect Miss Lewis. He was still anxious not to be suspected by him of meddling in the affair.

  Mick got out of the boat. “There are several ways up when you know ‘em. I usually go home that way. It’s a short cut.”

  Together they walked to the face of the cliff..

  “Here’s one way,” said Mick, pointing. “This is the way I went up to see why the lights were still on.” He indicated an object at Biggles’ feet. “There’s the fag end I threw down when I started. You need two hands.” For a moment he hesitated as if a thought had occurred to him. “Perhaps it’d be better if you didn’t try that way. It’s a bit tricky in places. There’s an easier one over here.”

  He picked a way through the jumble of fallen boulders for a few yards and again raised a pointing finger. “This is a lot easier. You can’t make any mistake. It goes crossways instead of straight up. You can see the way it goes from here. It’ll bring you out at the back of the houses bang opposite the Post Office.”

  “Are you coining up?”

  “No. I shall have to go round my pots later.”

  “Right. Then I’ll be going. Many thanks.”

  Biggles started up and without the slightest difficulty reached the top. From the lip he looked down to wave, but Mick was already walking back to his boat. For a few seconds he watched to see if he looked back, but as he did not he walked on a little way to an outcropping boulder, where he sat down and lit a cigarette.

  In his brief engagement with the fisherman another question had arisen that seemed to demand an answer. It arose from his principle, that had so often been helpful, of turning a close eye on any behaviour that did not seem quite natural.

  Mick had first taken him to the way up the cliff he had used on the night Vera had died. That was not to be doubted because the cigarette he had discarded still lay there, untarnished. He had thrown it down because that particular way up was tricky. It needed two hands. If i
t was tricky in daylight it would be even more tricky in the dark. Why had he taken the hard way when within a few yards there was a track a child could follow? That might be only a small thing and there was probably a simple explanation; but on the face of it, it seemed a strange thing to do.

  There was a secondary point associated with it. It had obviously been Mick’s intention to show him that particular route. He had gone straight to it. Then, suddenly as it seemed, he had changed his mind and had taken him to the route he had actually used. Why? Had he remembered something? Was it true that this was the easier way or had Mick some reason for not wanting him to make the ascent by the track he had used on the night of Vera’s death, apparently the first to come to his mind. Why had he changed his mind? People do not change their minds without a reason. It might be worth investigating.

  Biggles got up and looked around. He found himself on an area of rough grass, some twenty to thirty yards wide, a sort of no-man’s-land, between the edge of the cliff and the back gardens of the houses on the seaward side of the village street. Their boundary was marked by a straggling thickset hedge bent inwards by the prevailing wind. Beyond it, no distance away, was the conspicuous roof of the Thatched House. In the hedge at fairly close intervals were small wooden gates, obviously intended to give the occupants of the houses access to the sea front.

  Biggles looked up and down and saw to his satisfaction that he was alone. He did not want to be seen. He had accused Captain Gower of snooping and he was rather uncomfortably aware that he was now about to do the same thing. He had told Mick he was going to the Post Office and he had every intention of doing so, but first he had another object in view. He had only a vague idea of what he was going to do. He was not looking for anything in particular. Nor did he seriously expect to find a clue to the mystery that now occupied his mind. But he had decided to have a look at the Thatched house and the adjacent properties from the rear, for this was something he had never seen. After another glance up and down he walked over to the hedge.