The Cornish Coast Murder (British Library Crime Classics) by John Bude Read Free Book Online

between the two coves. I would have run the good woman back, only she wanted to stay on for a bit to make sure everything was as it should be with Mrs. Withers. That was my patient's name. I couldn't stay longer myself as I had a dinner appointment with the Vicar here.”
    “What time did you leave the cottage?”
    “About seven-fifteen, I imagine.”
    “And Mrs. Mullion?”
    “Well, I can't say exactly. She may have stayed an hour, perhaps an hour and a half. I shouldn't think longer. Everything was going along quite satisfactorily.”
    “Suppose she stayed an hour,” went on the Inspector quickly. “That means she would have left the cottage about eight-fifteen. Allowing her fifteen minutes to walk the half-mile along the cliff—we mustn't forget her damaged heel—that means she would have passed this spot about eight-thirty. You see where I am getting to, sir?”
    “That she may have been somewhere in this locality when the murder was committed.”
    “Exactly. If she left at a later hour it is almost certain she must have passed within a few minutes of the fatal shot being fired. I think it might be advisable for us to get hold of Mrs. Mullion tomorrow, Grouch, and put a few questions to her.”
    “But you don't mean ...” put in the Vicar, aghast.
    “That she shot Tregarthan? Hardly. But she may be able to give us information which will help us to find out who did.”
    “There's a third alternative, sir,” said Grouch respectfully. “Perhaps it's already occurred to you. Mrs. Mullion might have passed the house after the murder was committed.”
    “Yes—I thought of that. It's possible. Still, there's no harm in putting her through a little third degree, as the newspapers have it.”
    “Which gets us, you realise, Inspector, no further with the footprints.”
    The Inspector, who was by then on his hands and knees, peering again at the footprints, seemed at a complete loss.
    “You're right there, sir. It sets us back half a mile. Take a close look at the path, gentlemen—you too, Grouch. How many recent sets of prints do you see?”
    After a moment Grouch said:
    “Three, sir. Two of Miss Tregarthan's. One belonging to Bessie Mullion.”
    “And over here?” asked the Inspector, moving a yard or so along the path.
    “Still three.”
    “And here and here and here?” demanded Bigswell, advancing in jerks along the track under the wall.
    The result was the same. Three tracks! For a stretch of twenty yards, which the Inspector considered a feasible angle from which Tregarthan could have been shot, an exhaustive inspection brought no further footprints to light. The little group extended its activities to the hoof-pocked and half-muddied turf which bordered the cliff-path beyond the wall. They found nothing! Three tracks and three tracks only were visible and those on the path itself. Two belonging to Ruth Tregarthan. One to Mrs. Mullion.
    “Well, I'll be b—busted!” exclaimed the Inspector, realising the Vicar's presence in the nick of time. “What are we to make of that? Miss Tregarthan? Mrs. Mullion? Surely a woman——?”
    “It's impossible, Inspector,” remonstrated Pendrill. “Why, good heavens, I've known Ruth since she was a kid! She couldn't have done a thing like this. Her uncle? It's ridiculous! You might as well accuse my old friend the Vicar here, as accuse that girl!”
    “And Mrs. Mullion?”
    “A steady, respectable, unimaginative country-woman. Good at her job. A motherly old soul, if I know the meaning of the phrase. As to her handling a revolver—my imagination boggles at the thought. She'd miss the house at fifteen feet, let alone a man standing in that window. What do you say, Dodd?”
    “Eh?” The Reverend Dodd during the Doctor's argument had moved off a little way, making a further inspection of the footprints on his own account.
    “Ruth! Mrs. Mullion! Ridiculous, eh?” reiterated Pendrill.
    “Oh, dear me—yes, of course. Unthinkable, Inspector. You must be on