Inspector French and the Sea Mystery

by Freeman Wills Crofts

  ‘If I don’t you will suspect me in reality, so I don’t see that I have much option. I was here, in this room.’

  ‘Between what hours?’

  ‘During the whole evening. I finished dinner about eight or a quarter past. Then I came in here and stayed here until I went to bed between one and two.’

  ‘And no one came in during that time?’

  ‘No one came in. I take nothing after dinner except a little whisky going to bed and I have everything I want in the cupboard there. I’m writing a book at present and I don’t like to be disturbed in the evenings.’

  ‘Then in the face of what you’ve said, I presume I needn’t ask you if you heard any sound at the door or windows?’

  ‘You need not.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said French, ‘that disposes of one question. Now, the other. Can you tell me anything likely to be helpful to me about either of the two gentlemen?’

  The colonel regretted that in this case also he could do nothing to oblige. He would answer Mr French’s questions so far as he could, but he had nothing to volunteer. And French found that after half an hour’s interrogation he had learnt just nothing whatever.

  ‘There is one other matter to which I must refer,’ he said. ‘I regret the necessity, as it’s somewhat delicate. Common report says that Mrs Berlyn was on very intimate terms, first with Mr Pyke and then with yourself. Would you tell me how far that is true?’

  The colonel squared his shoulders again and French presently saw that it was an unconscious nervous trick.

  ‘Is it really necessary that Mrs Berlyn’s name should be dragged in?’ he asked stiffly.

  ‘I’m afraid so. You will recognise that I am trying to find motives.’

  ‘I don’t think you will find one there.’

  ‘On the contrary, Colonel Domlio, I have evidence that Mr Berlyn was acutely jealous.’

  But the colonel was not to be drawn.

  ‘That is news to me,’ he declared.

  ‘Well,’ said French doggedly, ‘I should like to have your definite statement as to whether such jealousy would or would not have been justified, in so far at all events as you yourself were concerned.’

  The colonel smiled sardonically.

  ‘I state categorically that it would not have been justified.’

  ‘Very good, colonel. I have now only one other request to make. I should like to interrogate your servants. Some of them may have seen or heard something which might be useful to me. Would you oblige me by calling them in and instructing them to reply to me?’

  For the first time an uneasy look appeared in the colonel’s eyes.

  ‘Surely that is unnecessary?’ he demurred. ‘What could they possibly tell you?’

  ‘Nothing, I very greatly fear,’ French admitted. ‘But it is a routine inquiry, and as such I dare not omit it.’

  With an evident ill grace Colonel Domlio rang the bell. French, sensing his opposition, had become keenly alert. It seemed to him that he might be on the brink of learning something important. But instantly he decided that he would postpone serious examination of the staff until he had them to himself.

  The butler, Burt, answered the bell.

  ‘This gentleman is Mr French, Burt,’ said the colonel. ‘He wants to ask you some questions. You might answer him so far as you can.’

  ‘It was only to know whether you heard or saw anything unusual on the night of the deaths of Mr Berlyn and Mr Pyke,’ French explained.

  The man denied with what French thought was over-earnestness. Moreover, he looked acutely uneasy, even scared. French felt a sudden thrill, but he merely nodded and said:

  ‘You didn’t see any traces on the moor the next day?’

  ‘Nothing whatever, sir,’ said the man with evident relief.

  ‘Thank you, that’s all I want. Now, colonel, if I could see the others to put the same questions I should be finished.’

  Mrs Burt and the two outside men were produced in turn and each denied having heard or seen anything unusual. Coombe and Mee, the chauffeur and gardener, were interested, but evidently nothing more. But Mrs Burt reproduced all the signs of uneasiness which her husband had exhibited, only in an intensified degree. She was obviously terrified when French questioned her, and her relief when her ordeal was over was unmistakable.

  But French apparently saw nothing amiss, and when the quartet had gone he thanked Colonel Domlio for his assistance and apologised for the trouble he had given. And in the colonel’s manner he noticed the same repressed evidences of relief. That something had taken place that night of which the master of the house and the two domestics were aware, French was positive.

  He left the house and regained the clump of brushwood in which he had hidden the bicycle. But he did not withdraw the machine. Instead, after a quick glance round he crept in beside it, pulling the bushes over him to make sure that he was invisible from the road. From his hiding place he could see the entrance to ‘Torview,’ as the colonel had named his house.

  He was waiting on a pure chance, but after an hour he found that his luck was in. He heard the sounds of an engine being started up and presently saw a small green car turn out of the drive and disappear in the direction of Ashburton. In the car was Colonel Domlio.

  French allowed another twenty minutes to pass, then crawling out of the brushwood, he returned to the house. Burt again opened the door.

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you again, Mr Burt,’ he apologised with his pleasant smile, ‘but I forgot to ask Colonel Domlio a question. Could I see him again, just for a moment?’

  ‘Colonel Domlio went out about half an hour ago, sir.’

  ‘Ah, that’s very unfortunate.’ French paused and looked disappointed, then brightened up. ‘Perhaps you could give me the information, if you would be so kind? I don’t want to have to come back another day.’

  Burt was obviously disconcerted. But he tried to hide his feelings and reluctantly invited the caller into the study.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ he said.

  French instantly became official and very stern. He swung round, frowning at the other and staring him full in the face. Then he said harshly: ‘It is you I want to see, Burt. You lied to me this afternoon. I have come back to hear the truth.’

  The man started and fell back a pace, while dismay and something like terror showed on his features.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he stammered. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s no use, Burt. You’ve given yourself away. You saw or heard something that night. What was it?’

  ‘You’re mistaken, sir,’ he declared with a look of relief. ‘I neither saw nor heard anything. I swear it.’ And then, gaining confidence: ‘I don’t know what right you have to come here and tell me I was lying. I’m sure—’

  ‘Cut it out,’ French said sharply. ‘Look here, Burt, if you have any information which might lead to the arrest of the murderer and you keep it back, it’s conspiracy. You become an accessory after the fact. I’m not threatening you, but you can see for yourself where that would put you.’

  Burt’s jaw dropped, but French did not give him time to reply.

  ‘Now, be advised by me and tell what you know. Mr Pyke was murdered that night, and perhaps Mr Berlyn as well. They were not lost on the moor, and it is believed they came here. Now, Burt, what about it?’

  The man’s face had grown pale, but he stuck to it that he had neither seen nor heard anything. French cut his protestations short.

  ‘Fetch your wife,’ he ordered.

  The man’s manner as he heard these words, coupled with Mrs Burt’s evident fear when originally questioned, assured French that this time he was on the right track. With evident unwillingness the woman appeared.

  ‘Now, Mrs Burt, I want to know what you heard or saw on the night of the tragedy. There is no use in telling me there was nothing. Now, out with it!’ And in terse language he explained what accessory after the fact meant and its penalty.

  Mrs Burt was of less
stern stuff than her husband. Under French’s examination she was soon in tears, and presently, disjointed and in fragments, her story came out.

  It appeared that on the night of the tragedy she slept badly, owing to some small indisposition. Shortly after one she woke in considerable pain. She endured it for a time, then thinking that perhaps a hot drink would help her, she decided to go down to the kitchen and heat some milk. She got up quietly so as not to awake her husband, and left the bedroom. A quarter moon dimly lit up the staircase and hall, so she carried no light. Just as she reached the head of the lower flight of stairs she heard the front door open. Startled, she drew back into the shadows, peering down at the same time into the hall. She was relieved to see that it was Colonel Domlio. He wore a hat and overcoat, and taking these off, he moved very quietly across the hall. Then she heard the click of the cloak-room door and slight sounds of movement as he approached the stairs. She slipped back into the passage which led to the servants’ quarters and in a few seconds the colonel’s bedroom door closed softly. This was a few minutes past two o’clock.

  It was unusual for the colonel to be out at night and her woman’s curiosity led her to examine the hat and coat. They were soaking wet. Rain was falling, but only very slightly, and she realised therefore that he must have been out for a considerable time.

  She thought no more of the incident, and having had her hot milk, returned to bed. But she had not slept, and soon Sergeant Daw appeared with his story of the missing men. This excited, but did not perturb her, but when a few minutes later she heard Colonel Domlio assuring the sergeant that he had spent the whole evening in his study until going up to bed, she felt that something was wrong. But it was not until the next day, when she had learnt the full details of what had happened and had talked the matter over with her husband, that any possible sinister significance of her employer’s action occurred to her. Burt, however, had pointed out that it was not their business, and that their obvious policy was silence.

  Mrs Burt did not state that she had coupled the colonel’s nocturnal excursion with the tragedy, but French could sense that this was in both her and her husband’s minds. He wondered what motive they could have suspected and further questions showed that it was connected with the colonel’s intimacy with Mrs Berlyn. According to Mrs Burt this had been more serious than he had imagined. Mrs Berlyn had spent several afternoons and an occasional evening with the colonel in his study, and they were known to have had many excursions together on the moor. Since the tragedy, moreover, both the Burts noticed a change in their master. He had developed fits of abstraction and brooding and acted as if he had a weight on his mind.

  Believing he had got all he could from the couple, French warned them to keep his visit to themselves, and immensely comforted Mrs Burt by assuring her that she had told him little that he had not known before. Then, saying he wished to have another word with the two outside men, he left the house and walked round to the outbuildings.

  At the back of the main house was a large walled yard with an old-fashioned stone-built well in the centre and farm buildings along one side. Wheel-tracks leading into one of these indicated that it was the garage, and there, polishing up some spare parts, was Coombe.

  French repeated his explanation about having forgotten to ask Colonel Domlio a question, then after chatting for some minutes he returned to the night of the tragedy. Putting up a bluff, he asked at what hours the colonel had taken out and brought back the car.

  Coombe was considerably taken aback by the question and said at once that he knew nothing about it.

  ‘But,’ said French in apparent surprise, ‘you must have known that the car was out?’

  To his delight the man did not deny it. Oh, yes, he knew that, but he had not heard it pass and he didn’t know when it had left or returned.

  ‘Then how did you know it had been out? Did Colonel Domlio tell you?’

  ‘No, he didn’t say naught about it. I knew by the mud on the car and the petrol that had been used.’

  ‘Pretty smart of you, that,’ French said admiringly. ‘So there was mud on her? Was she clean the night before?’

  ‘No, he had her out in the afternoon and got her a bit dirty. But he said it was late and for me not to bother with her till the next day, and so I let her alone.’

  ‘Naturally. And was much petrol gone?’

  ‘’Bout two gallons.’

  ‘Two gallons,’ French repeated musingly. ‘That would run her about forty miles, I suppose?’

  ‘Easy that, and more.’

  ‘You live at the lodge gate, don’t you, Coombe?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Then the car must have passed you twice in the night. Surely you would have heard it?’

  ‘I might not. Anyhow, I wouldn’t if she went out the back way.’

  All this was excessively satisfactory to French. The theory he had formed postulated that Domlio had secretly run his car to the works on the night of the tragedy. And now it looked as if he had done so. At least, he had taken the car out. And not only had he denied it, but he had arranged that the machine should be left dirty so that the fresh mud it might gather should not show. Furthermore, the hour at which he returned exactly worked in.

  For a moment French was puzzled about the quantity of petrol which had been used. Forty miles or more was enough for two trips to the works. Then he saw that to carry out the plan Domlio must have driven there twice. First, he must have been at the works about ten to drug Gurney’s tea. Then he must have gone in about midnight with Berlyn and Pyke. So this also fitted in.

  French, always thorough, next interviewed Mee. But he was not disappointed when he found the man could tell him nothing. Keenly delighted with his progress, he renewed his directions to keep his visit secret and took his leave.

  14

  French Turns Fisherman

  On reaching the road French returned to his clump of brushwood and once more concealed himself. He was anxious to intercept Domlio before the latter reached home and received the account of the afternoon’s happenings. A question as to the man’s nocturnal activities would be more effective were it unexpected.

  Though French enjoyed moorland scenery, he had more than enough of this particular view as he sat waiting for the colonel’s appearance. Every time he heard a car he got up hopefully, only to turn back in disappointment. Again and again he congratulated himself that he had found a position which commanded the entrances of both front and back drives, or he would have supposed that his quarry had eluded him. For two hours he waited and then at last the green car hove in sight. He stepped forward with upraised arm.

  ‘Sorry to stop you, colonel,’ he said pleasantly, ‘but I have had some further information since I saw you and I wish to put another question. Will you tell me, please, where exactly you took your car on the night of the tragedy?’

  The colonel was evidently taken aback, though not so much as French had hoped.

  ‘I thought I had explained that I wasn’t out on that night,’ he answered, with only a very slight pause.

  ‘To be candid,’ French rejoined, ‘that’s why I am so anxious to have an answer to my question. If there was nothing in the trip which would interest me, why should you try to hide it.’

  ‘How do you know I was out?’

  ‘You may take it from me, sir, that I am sure of my ground. But if you don’t care to answer my question I shall not press it. In fact, I must warn you that any answers you give me may be used against you in evidence.’

  In spite of evident efforts the colonel looked uneasy.

  ‘What?’ he exclaimed, squaring his shoulders. ‘Does this mean that you really suppose I am guilty of the murder of Mr Pyke?’

  ‘It means this, Colonel Domlio. You’ve been acting in a suspicious way and I want an explanation. I’m not making any charges; simply, I’ve got to know. Whether you tell me now or not is a matter for yourself.’

  ‘If I don’t tell you does it mean that you
will arrest me?’

  ‘I don’t say so, but it may come to that.’

  The colonel gave a mirthless laugh.

  ‘Then I’m afraid I have no alternative. There is no mystery whatever about my taking out the car that night and I have no objection to telling you the whole thing.’

  ‘But you denied that you had done so.’

  ‘I did, and there I admit having made a foolish blunder. But my motive in doing so must be obvious.’

  ‘I’m afraid not so obvious as you seem to think. However, having regard to my warning, if you care to answer my question I shall be pleased to hear your statement.’

  ‘I’ll certainly answer it. Possibly you know that I am interested in entomology? I think I told you I was writing a book about the insects of the moor?

  ‘In order to get material for my book I make expeditions all over the moor. I made one on that day of the tragedy. I went to a little valley not far from Chagford where there are numbers of a certain kind of butterfly of which I wanted some specimens for microscopic purposes. While chasing one of these I had the misfortune to get a severe fall. My foot went into a rabbit hole and I crashed, as the airmen say. I was winded and it was some time before I could get up, but I was thankful not to have broken my leg, as I might easily have done. That put me off running for one day and I crawled back to the car and drove home.

  ‘I was feeling a bit shaken and I went up to bed early that night, just before eleven. When I began to undress I found I had lost a miniature which I always carry and which I value extremely, not so much because of its intrinsic worth, but for sentimental reasons. Here it is.’

  He took a small gold object from his pocket and passed it across. It was of a charming design, exquisitely chased and set with diamonds, and French saw at once that it was of considerable value. It contained the portrait of a woman; a beautiful, haunting face, clear-cut as a cameo. The whole thing was a wonderful example of artistic skill.

  ‘My late wife,’ Colonel Domlio explained as he replaced it in his pocket. ‘As you can imagine, I was distressed by the loss. I could only account for it by supposing it had dropped out of my pocket when I fell. I thought over it for some time and then I decided to go out to the place then and there and have a look for it, lest some shepherd or labourer might find it in the early morning. I did so. I took out the car and a strong electric-torch and went back, and on searching the place where I fell I found it almost immediately. I came straight back, arriving shortly after two. Does that satisfy you?’