The Cornish Coast Murder (British Library Crime Classics) by John Bude

the well-weathered door. After a pause, footsteps approached within and the door was opened to reveal a straight, bright-eyed woman of about forty with slightly greying hair. On seeing a uniformed Inspector on her doorstep she started back.
    “Good morning, ma'am,” said the Inspector, with a quick salute. “Might I ask if you're Mrs. Peewit—the owner of the cottage?”
    “That's right,” said Mrs. Peewit with a puzzled air. “Is it me you're wishing to see?”
    “Just a little matter I want to speak to you about,” replied the Inspector reassuringly. “I won't take up much of your time.”
    “Then come in, please.”
    The Inspector followed Mrs. Peewit along the tiny hall and thus into a surprisingly large sitting-room, plainly but comfortably furnished, which Bigswell realised in a moment must belong to Ronald Hardy, the novelist. Under the window, which overlooked the Atlantic and part of Boscawen Cove, was a big desk littered with papers and all the usual paraphernalia of writing. A long row of reference books, dictionaries and other standard works stood on the desk between two book-ends fashioned in the shape of galleons. On a table under a smaller window stood a head and shoulder portrait of Ruth Tregarthan in a thin, silver frame.
    “Now, Mrs. Peewit,” said the Inspector, taking out his note-book. “I believe you're in a position to help me with a few enquiries I'm making.”
    Mrs. Peewit asked in a tremulous voice: “It's about poor Mr. Tregarthan, I've no doubt. I heard about it only an hour ago, sir. It's fairly upset me—me knowing Miss Ruth so well. It's all over the village about him being found murdered last night in his sitting-room. Shot through the head, they say.”
    The Inspector smiled. He knew how swiftly news travelled in small villages like Boscawen. Doubtless the milkman and the postman had been well primed with the facts of the crime by the Cowpers. Not that it mattered. The reverse in fact, since it might bring forward voluntary information from anybody who had seen or heard anything unusual the night before.
    “They say right for once, Mrs. Peewit—and I'm down here investigating the case, see?”
    Impressed by the somewhat lurid situation in which she found herself, Mrs. Peewit promised to do all she could to bring, as she said, the criminal to justice. She was emphatic in assuring the Inspector that such a thing had never, as far as she knew, happened in Boscawen before.
    “Now, Mrs. Peewit, I want you to try and remember all that happened when Miss Tregarthan called on you last night.” Mrs. Peewit looked surprised. “Oh, I know she did,” added the Inspector. “She told me herself. You needn't fear to tell me the truth. I know a good deal as to what took place already.”
    “Well, sir,” said Mrs. Peewit, “Miss Ruth called last night and asked if Mr. Hardy was in. Mr. Hardy, as perhaps I should explain, is——”
    “Yes, I know all about that,” cut in the Inspector. “He's lodging here. An author. What time was it when Miss Tregarthan called?”
    “I can't say exactly, I'm afraid. It hadn't struck nine— I know that much. I should say it was about ten minutes to nine or thereabouts.”
    “I see. Yes—go on, Mrs. Peewit.”
    “Well, sir, I don't mind saying that I was a bit surprised seeing Miss Ruth at that time of the evening—particularly as there was a storm on, as you may remember. It's not been her custom to call on Mr. Hardy at such hours. She looked ill, too, downright ill, I thought—looked as if she had been upset over something. Of course I didn't make any mention of it, but I asked her to step into Mr. Hardy's room, seeing that she was so wet and that it was still raining cats and dogs. Mr. Hardy as it happened was out. He'd taken his car out a bit before Miss Ruth turned up and gone off somewhere in a hurry.”
    “Did Miss Tregarthan wait at all?”
    “Yes, for a bit she did. I offered to dry her wet mac in front of the kitchen range, but