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

she said she'd rather sit in here for a bit and just dry her feet at the fire.”
    “This I take it is Mr. Hardy's room?”
    “That's right. This is where he writes. Wonderful books, so they say, though I'm not given to reading much myself—the newspapers being as much as I can manage in my spare time.”
    “How long did Miss Tregarthan stay in here alone?”
    “Till just after nine. I remember the clock striking just before she called out that she wouldn't stay any longer, as she thought Mr. Hardy might be down at the Men's Club. So I opened the front door to her and promised to let Mr. Hardy know that she'd called.”
    “So she was alone in here,” said the Inspector more to himself than to Mrs. Peewit, “for about ten minutes—perhaps a bit longer.” He looked up suddenly.
    “What time did Mr. Hardy come in last night, Mrs. Peewit?”
    The woman's attitude changed immediately. She seemed to lose her growing self-confidence, whilst her features were illuminated with a mingled look of agitation and bewilderment.
    “That's just it!” she blurted out. “That's just what worries me, sir! Mr. Hardy didn't come in last night!”
    “What's that?” demanded the Inspector curtly.
    “He didn't come in and what's more when I went up to take him his early cup of tea this morning his bed hadn't been slept in. He didn't turn up to breakfast neither! Since he left the house last night, about a quarter to nine, I haven't set eyes on him again, sir. I'm fair worried, I can tell you. He's a highly strung sort of young gentleman, due to shell-shock in the war, they say, and I'm wondering if anything's happened to him!”
    “He left no message to say where he was going, I suppose?” Mrs. Peewit shook her head. “Did he take anything with him—I mean any luggage?”
    “No, sir. He just put on his overcoat in the hall and called that he was going out. He seemed anxious not to waste time with a lot of explainings, if you see how I mean. I was worried about him then, sir, because he hadn't touched a morsel of his supper, which I took in to him the moment Mr. Tregarthan left the house.”
    “Tregarthan!” exclaimed the Inspector. “Was he here yesterday?”
    “He called in to see Mr. Hardy about seven-thirty. I opened the door to him myself, but I never thought then that in a few hours the poor man would be lying dead in his own sitting-room with his head in a pool of blood.”
    It was evident that the Cowpers had broadcast a pretty sensational description of the crime at Greylings. The rush of yesterday's events when compared with the usual placid routine of Cove Cottage had, by their very strangeness, impressed themselves upon Mrs. Peewit's mind. The Inspector's few questions had served to stimulate the flow of these recollections.
    “Yes—it would be about seven-thirty, perhaps later, when Mr. Tregarthan knocked at the door and enquired for Mr. Hardy. Mr. Hardy was sitting in here writing at that very desk which you see over there, sir. He didn't like me to interrupt him when he was working. But I knew he and Miss Ruth were tidy close friends, and I thought that Mr. Tregarthan had brought him a message from her. So I plucked up courage enough to rap on his door and ask if he'd see Mr. Tregarthan. Mr. Hardy seemed surprised by the visit, but he asked me to show Mr. Tregarthan in. For a long time I heard the murmur of voices. I was sitting in the kitchen, and although the door of Mr. Hardy's room was closed, I couldn't help hearing a bit of what was going on inside. This isn't a big house as you can see. Well, later, sir, I heard Mr. Tregarthan raise his voice, sharp-like, as if he were dressing Mr. Hardy down. Mr. Hardy didn't seem to like the tone of Mr. Tregarthan's voice and he started arguing, too, at the top of his voice. There was a fair set-to—in fact, I don't mind telling you that I heard Miss Ruth's name mentioned more than once. It seemed that her uncle was objecting to the young man having anything more to