After dealing with his correspondence and making a formal report to Sir Mortimer Ellison, French settled down in his room to consider his next step in the light of the theory he had evolved in Les Quatre Plumes. First out of politeness he wrote to Dieulot, telling him what he had learnt at Boulogne, though he did not think the information would be of much use to him. Then pulling towards him a large-scale map of Forde Manor, he began to study it.
He had not been working long when there was a knock at his door. French glared up with an expression that boded ill for his caller’s welcome. The door opened and in walked Shaw.
‘Constable told me you were here,’ he announced calmly, then after a glance at French he added, ‘How’re things?’
‘Things,’ said French, suddenly feeling that he could do with a spot of sympathy, ‘are all right. What about yourself?’
‘Bad,’ Shaw declared, putting down his hat and pulling out a chair. ‘I’ve not got any further with that confounded puzzle.’
‘I have,’ French returned, trying to keep the triumph out of his voice.
‘You have? What’s the latest?’
‘The latest,’ French could not avoid a slight pomposity, ‘is the solution of the whole darned box of tricks.’
Shaw stared. ‘Do you mean you’ve got your man?’
‘I mean I know who he is and that I can get the proof.’
Shaw swore—a satisfying oath which relieved his feelings. ‘Who?’ he breathed gently.
‘Look here,’ French swung round. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ve learnt the last couple of days and you’ll see it for yourself.’
‘I’d rather you’d tell me the answer right away.’
‘No, it’s an interesting problem. I told you about Wellesley and Vincent, but I didn’t tell you of the Colorado Buller hired, nor of all that I learnt in Paris. Quite a lot I’ve learnt since we met. I’ll tell it to you now.’
Shaw sat drinking in the tale while French recounted his recent activities. ‘Now,’ he ended up, ‘you know everything I know. You can get the entire solution from this.’[fn1]
Shaw moved uneasily. ‘Hang it all, French,’ he protested, ‘don’t ask riddles. Who’s the man?’
French grinned. He couldn’t help it, but he felt like a mischievous child. ‘Tell you what,’ he said, ‘I’m going down to Forde Manor presently to have a look round. Come with me. With luck you’ll be interested. Excuse me while I fix up about the car. Here’s a map of the estate you may find interesting in the light of what I’ve just told you.’
He went out of the room, delighted to observe in Shaw’s expression bewilderment and irritation struggling for the mastery.
‘Carter,’ he said when he had run the sergeant to earth, ‘what are you doing?’
‘Clyde’s evidence in the Battersea case, sir.’
‘Then drop it and come along with me. Get another man,’ and French gave instructions about personnel, car, and equipment. ‘When can you be ready?’
‘Ten minutes, sir.’
‘Good.’
Some quarter of an hour later a large car left the Yard with French at the wheel. Beside him was Shaw and in the back were Carter and Constable Grayson, with some tools of strange design not unlike the outfit of a Brobdingnagian chimney sweep. The morning was bright if a trifle cold, and French found the run refreshing after his night in the train. He was still feeling rather like a child, intensely, supremely interested in his quest and eager to get to work. Shaw admitted he was completely mystified, but he asked no questions. He knew French well enough to be sure not only that the secret would in due course be revealed, but also that when it was, it would be worth hearing.
French glanced at his watch as they turned into the back drive, which led to the house through the trees near the head of the lake. ‘I telegraphed to Relf to meet us at twelve,’ he observed, stopping the car at the shell of the great building. ‘Let’s get out and stretch our legs while Carter puts the things together. Now, Shaw,’ he went on as they strolled away from the car, ‘I want you to answer a question. Suppose you were the owner of this place and you had something you wanted to hide, where would you put it?’
‘What sort of thing?’ Shaw parried.
‘Any sort of thing,’ French returned comprehensively.
‘Well, it would depend. I shouldn’t hide a brooch or a diamond ring in the same place as a ton of coal.’
French grinned. ‘Why not? If you didn’t want either of them to be found again.’
‘You didn’t say that,’ Shaw protested, getting deeper into the mire.
‘I say it now. Where would you hide them?’
Shaw hesitated. ‘Plenty of places. I might dig a hole and bury them. If they were heavier than water I might throw them into the lake. I might pack them up and post them to some imaginary address in Lapland. I don’t know what I might do.’
‘I know one thing you wouldn’t do,’ French chuckled, ‘and that’s post a ton of coal to Lapland. No, Shaw, I’m serious. If you wanted to hide an object here on the estate, how would you do it?’
‘Would it burn?’
‘No.’
‘Then the lake, I suppose, if it didn’t float.’
‘Light objects can be weighted,’ French pointed out. ‘Very well, let us say the lake. That’s what I lent you the map for. I went over every inch of it this morning before you came in and I also plumped for the lake. That’s why Carter has brought the drags.’
Shaw whistled. ‘Then we’re going to make a day of it?’
‘Well, I expect it’ll take as much of the day as is left.’ Morning, Relf. Got the keys?’
The caretaker touched his cap. ‘The boathouse is open, sir. Everything’s ready for you.’
‘Good. Then let’s go down.’
The boathouse was on the narrow upper end of the lake, deeply secluded among the trees. It was a modern building of purplish red brick, with an L-shaped floor, surrounding on two sides the water basin. There were no windows, illumination by day being obtained from a large central roof light, and by night from two electric light bulbs swinging beneath large reflectors.
‘Money no object,’ remarked French. ‘Fancy running down a special cable just for those two lights! Tell me, Relf, if those were turned on at night, would they show through the skylight?’
Relf shook his head. ‘No, sir. You couldn’t tell from outside whether the light was on or off. The reflectors keep direct light off the glass.’
French nodded as he passed through the door. On the floor lay three boats, a punt, a long narrow skiff and a yacht’s tiny dinghy, the latter nearest the basin. Two sets of conveyors with light chain blocks and gunwale grips showed how these could be lifted in and out of the water. The door to the lake was solid and worked on the portcullis principle, being raised and lowered by a Windlass.
‘Job to get these boats in and out,’ said French, examining the apparatus.
‘Not so bad, sir,’ Relf returned. ‘If one of you gentlemen would lend a hand I’ll guarantee to have all three floating in ten minutes.’
‘It would take two people?’
‘Not necessarily, but with the punt and skiff it would be quicker. The little dinghy one man could handle easily.’
‘Let’s see you do it,’ French invited, glancing at his watch. ‘I’d like to time you. Start—now!’
The dinghy, which had only one central thwart besides the bow and stem seats, was right below one of the conveyors. Relf took down from the wall a set of four light chain slings connected at one end to a ring and ending at the other in grips. These he hooked to the gunwale, two at each side, threw the ring over the hook of the chain blocks, and began to wind up the chain. In less than a minute, the boat was swinging clear of the ground. By pulling another chain, Relf then moved the blocks along the conveyor beam, till the dinghy was hanging over the water. To lower it till it floated was a matter of another minute. Relf stepped into it, unhooked the grips, and coming ashore again, drew the chains back out of the way.
‘Four and a half minutes,’ said French. ‘Not bad. And I suppose the same time to get it out again?’
‘Say five, sir,’ Relf returned. ‘There’d be more lifting to do.’
‘Ten altogether. Well, that’s good. When did you tidy up this place last, Relf?’
‘I do it every week, sir; every Saturday morning.’
‘Now tell me, when you did it on the Saturday after the fire, did you notice anything unusual?’
‘Unusual, sir?’
‘Yes: anything you might not have expected? Any sign of anyone having been in the house, or any of the boats or oars wet?’
Relf stared. ‘Come to think of it, sir, I did see some marks of damp on the floor. I noticed them particularly and wondered how they had got there. I thought maybe rain was blowing in through the louver and I intended to look, but I forgot.’
‘Whereabouts were the marks?’
Relf pointed to the space between where the dinghy had been lying and the edge of the basin.
There was triumph in the look French exchanged with Shaw. ‘Want to ask Relf anything?’ he inquired.
Shaw shook his head.
French turned back to Relf. ‘Thank you. Then I think that’s all we want in the meantime. Come down again at dusk to lock up.’ He waited till the man had gone. ‘Well, Shaw, what do you think of that? Water on the floor! That shows we’re right.’
‘It looks as if a boat had been used right enough,’ Shaw admitted. ‘But I don’t know what you’re expecting to find.’
‘You wait and see,’ French returned in high good humour. He turned towards the others. ‘Now, men, we think someone’s hidden a package in the lake and we want to find it. Take out the punt and have a try with the grabs.’
Then began a long and tedious search. French walked along the bank sticking posts into the ground to act as guides, while the others swept across the water in parallel lines. All that afternoon they worked till the early twilight closed down and they had to desist.
‘Disappointing,’ murmured Shaw.
‘We’re not beaten yet,’ French returned. ‘Tomorrow morning at nine. We’ll have another shot at it when we’re fresh.’
He put a watchman on that night and next morning saw the scene re-enacted. They had by this time covered all the deeper portions of the lake and were working up nearer the boathouse.
‘More chance up here,’ Shaw said encouragingly. ‘If I were going to get rid of something I’d do it here surrounded by all these trees and not down there in the open.’
‘Probably you’re right,’ French answered. ‘Well, we’ll soon know.’
All that day the search dragged on interminably. Next morning they went at it again, French growing steadily more depressed and his comments shorter and less polite. Then at last, just before the first signs of dusk appeared, he had his reward. The constable gave a shout, ‘Something here, sir!’
It took a deal of work to get it up. They manoeuvred the end of the punt over the place, and while Shaw and Relf held it steady, the others got their drags beneath the object and began to lift. But it was heavy and they could not get it up into the punt. They therefore propelled it to the shore and beached it. Then Carter and the constable, slipping off their shoes, waded into the water and pulled it ashore.
As they looked at it there were exclamations of surprise from the officers and of horror from Relf. But French was neither surprised nor horror-stricken. Abundant satisfaction was his sole feeling. He had been right in his theory and he had won his case!
For the object was the body of a man, a man whom Relf identified in awestruck tones. ‘Bless my soul,’ he shouted, ‘it’s Mr Barke!’
It was small and insignificant-looking as it lay there on the lake bank. The bulk due to clothes was lacking, for it was dressed in undergarments only: shirt, pants and shoes. Round it was coiled several turns of heavy chain, fully accounting for the difficulty they had had in lifting it.
For a time all stood motionless, looking down at the ghastly object; then French roused himself. ‘Slip away, one of you men, for an ambulance and get it moved to the mortuary. Then get your doctor on to it. Maybe, Shaw, you’ll stay and see it though? And you,’ he turned to Relf, ‘not one word about this before tomorrow. Understand?’
French hurried back to the car and drove furiously for town, stopping at the first telephone box to speak to the Yard. As a result, men and warrants were waiting for him, and that night Sir Geoffrey Buller and Basil Davenport were arrested, the former on a charge of murdering, the latter of conspiring to murder, Charles Gresham Barke.
It was with deeper misgivings than was usual under such circumstances that French in the small hours of the next morning reached his home. For once his customary sense of achievement on making an arrest was absent, and instead anxiety gnawed in his mind. With regard to Buller he felt safe, but he had no proof of any kind against Davenport. Yet he had burnt his boats. If he could not obtain evidence demonstrating the artist’s complicity, he would have laid himself open to serious criticism.
Anxiety and eagerness were therefore balanced in his mind as early next morning he again went down to Ockham. With Shaw acting as a sort of indeterminate liaison officer, the local police had taken charge. Their doctor had examined the remains and their coroner had fixed the hour of the inquest, which was to be held that afternoon.
The doctor reported that Barke had died as the result of a blow on the back of the head, rather towards the right side, from a soft heavy weapon such as a sandbag. The skull was fractured, but the skin was not broken, so that there had been no blood at the scene of the crime. He could not say precisely how long the body had been in the water, but he estimated about the period since Barke had disappeared.
The chain was found to consist of four pieces each weighing some thirty pounds. The sections were wired together to form a single length, which was wrapped round the body from the ankles to the neck. The remains would therefore never have floated, no matter what chemical changes had afterwards taken place.
French seized eagerly on the chain, which he thought might produce valuable evidence. It was obviously new, as the links showed no sign of wear and but little rust. Relf was positive that there had been no such chain about the estate: therefore presumably Buller had bought it. One of French’s earliest steps was to have inquiries made in all likely shops in the London area, in the hope of tracing its purchase.
At the inquest evidence of identification was given by Oliphant from the Crewe Gallery, in order to spare Agatha Barke. He also told of Barke’s disappearance. French described the finding of the body: ‘Acting on information received I proceeded to the lake at Forde Manor.’ The doctor was first technical about the injuries, afterwards by request translating into the vulgar tongue, and finally declaring that neither accident nor suicide was a possibility. The coroner, refusing to consider suggestions of possible guilt, confined the inquiry to the questions of who had died and how, and the jury obediently brought in the obvious verdict of wilful murder by some person or persons unknown.
Shaw hung about with a faintly disapproving air. ‘You know, French,’ he said, ‘I can’t give up my case just because you’ve found a murderer. It’s absolutely necessary that the arson should be proved. It means hundreds of thousands to my Company. I’d like to talk it over with you before making my report. And, of course,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘I want to hear the story of what you did.’
French grinned. ‘Don’t worry, Shaw. You’ll get your verdict all right. The arson is part of the murder case. And as to my story, let’s kill two birds with one telling. You want the facts and I want a check on my deductions from them. We might have a go at it this evening. What about coming home with me and having a bit of supper first?’
Shaw seemed pleased. ‘Very good of you, French. I’d like to.’
‘Right then. Say seven o’clock. Or will you call at the Yard at six-fifteen and we can go home together?’
‘At the Yard,’ Shaw decided, as the two men parted.