The Sea Mystery · Chapter 13 (2/2)

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, do you want to be arrested on a charge of conspiracy to murder?”

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

“Because if you don’t you’ll 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. If you keep back any information that might lead to the arrest of the murderer, it’s conspiracy⁠—accessory after the fact. Ten years penal for that, Burt! Come along, now. Make up your mind whether you’re going to tell or face the judge.”

Burt’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 cloakroom 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 master’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 the outbuildings.

At the back of the main house was a large walled yard with an old-fashioned stone-built well in the center 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 moments, 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, 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.