The Sea Mystery · Chapter 14 (2/2)

Fortunately for French, there was a tailor’s tab sewn into the lining of the breast pocket and he was able to make out part of the legend: “R. Shrubsole & Co., Newton Abbot.” Beneath was a smudge which had evidently been the owner’s name, but this was undecipherable.

“We’ll get it from the tailor,” French said. “Let’s try the hooks again.”

Once again they lowered their line, but this time without luck.

“No good,” French declared at last. “We’ll have to pump it out. You might get the depth, and then close up and leave it as we found it. We’d better bring a portable pump, for I don’t suppose that old thing will work.”

They replaced the grating and the billet of wood, and stealing silently out of the yard, rode back to Ashburton.

With the coat wrapped in paper and packed in his suitcase, French took an early bus to Newton Abbot. There he soon found Messrs. Shrubsole’s establishment and asked for the proprietor.

“It’s not easy to say whose it was,” Mr. Shrubsole declared when he had examined the coat. “You see, these labels of ours are printed⁠—that is, our name and address. But the customer’s name is written and it would not last in the same way. I’m afraid I cannot read it.”

“If it had been possible to read it, I should not have come to you, Mr. Shrubsole. I want you to get at it from the cloth and size and probable age and things of that kind. You can surely find out all those things by examination.”

This appeared to be a new idea to Mr. Shrubsole. He admitted that something of the kind might be done, and calling an assistant, fell to scrutinising the garment.

“It’s that brown tweed with the purple line that we sold so much of last year,” the assistant declared. He produced a roll of cloth. “See, if we lift the lining here it shows clear enough.”

“That’s right,” his employer admitted. “Now can we get the measurements?”

“Not so easy,” said the assistant. “The thing will be all warped and shrunk from the water.”

“Try,” French urged, with his pleasant smile.

An orgy of measuring followed, with a subsequent recourse to the books and much low-voiced conversation. Finally Mr. Shrubsole announced the result.

“It’s not possible to say for sure, Mr. French. You see, the coat is shrunk out of all knowing. But we think it might belong to one of four men.”

“I see your difficulty, Mr. Shrubsole, but if you tell me the four it may help me.”

“I hope so. We sold suits of about this size to Mr. Albert Cunningham of Twenty-seven, Acacia Street, Newton Abbot; Mr. John Booth of Lyndhurst, Teignmouth; Mr. Stanley Pyke, of East Street, Ashburton; and Mr. George Hepworth, of Linda Lodge, Newton Abbot. Any of those any good to you?” Mr. Shrubsole’s expression suddenly changed. “By Jove! You’re not the gentleman that’s been making these discoveries about Mr. Berlyn and Mr. Pyke? We’ve heard some report that some Scotland Yard man was down and had found out that that tragedy was not all it was supposed to be. That it, sir?”

“That’s it,” French replied, feeling that it was impossible to keep his business private. “But I don’t want it talked about. Now you see why I should like to be sure whether that was or was not Mr. Pyke’s coat.”

But in spite of the tailor’s manifest interest, he declared that the point could not be established. He was fairly sure that it belonged to one of the four, but more than that he could not say.

But French had no doubt whatever, and, well pleased with his progress, he left the shop and took the first bus back to Ashburton.