Lizzie laughed contemptuously.
“Made her dresses, did she?” she repeated. “I don’t think. She didn’t hardly know how to wear a thimble, she didn’t. She wouldn’t have sat down to a job of sewing, not for no person on earth she wouldn’t.”
“Then who did the household mending?”
“Yours truly. Anything that was done I had to do.”
“But not the clothes, surely? Who darned Mr. Berlyn’s socks, for instance?”
“Yours truly. I tell you Mrs. Berlyn wouldn’t have touched a sock or a bit of wool not to save her life.”
This was a piece of unexpected luck. French turned away.
“You are a good girl,” he declared. “Would half a sovereign be of any use to you?”
Miss Johnston left him in no doubt on the point.
“Very well,” he went on. “You come down to the hotel after dinner tonight and ask for me. I want you to mend some clothes and socks for me. Or rather,” he paused, “I have to come up in this direction after lunch today in any case, and I’ll bring them.”
No object in advertising the lines on which he was working, he thought. The less that was known of his researches, the more hope there was of their proving fruitful.
A couple of hours later he returned with a small suitcase.
“Here are the clothes,” he said. “I wish you’d see what they want, so that I’ll know when I’m likely to get them.”
He laid four pairs of socks on the table—three brown pairs of his own and the grey pair found in the crate. The girl looked them over one by one. French watched her in silence. He was anxious, if possible, to give her no lead.
“There isn’t much wrong with these,” she said, presently. “They don’t want no darning.”
“Oh, but they have been badly mended. You see these grey ones have been done with a different-coloured wool. I thought perhaps you could put that right.”
Miss Johnston laughed scornfully.
“You’re mighty particular, mister, if that darning ain’t good enough for you. I’d just like to know what’s wrong with it.”
“You think it’s all right?” French returned. “If so, I’m satisfied. But what about these underclothes?”
The girl examined the clothes. They were almost new and neatly folded, just as they had come back from the laundry, so that her contemptuous reply was not inexcusable. At all events, it was evident that no suspicion that they were other than her visitor’s had crossed her mind.
French, with his half formed theory of Berlyn’s guilt, would have been surprised if she had answered otherwise. The test, however, had been necessary, and he felt he had not lost time. Mollifying her with a tip, he returned to the hotel.
IX
A Step Forward
French believed that he had obtained all the available information about the Berlyns from his interview with the sergeant and Lizzie Johnston. Pyke was the next name on his list and he now crossed East Street to the house in which the travelling representative had lodged. The door was opened by a bright-eyed, bustling little woman at sight of whom French’s emotional apparatus registered satisfaction. He knew the type. The woman was a talker.
But when for the best part of an hour he had listened to her, satisfaction was no longer the word with which to express his state of mind. He had no difficulty in getting her to talk. His trouble was to direct the flood of her conversation along the channel in which he wished it to flow.
He began by explaining that he was staying at the hotel, but that as he liked the district and might want to remain for some time, he was looking about for rooms. He had heard she had some to let. Was this so, and if it was, could he see them?
It was so and he could see them. She had had a lodger, a very nice gentleman and a very good payer, but she had lost him recently. Mr.—? She had heard his name: was it not Mr. French? Mr. French must have heard about his dreadful death? His name was Mr. Pyke. Had Mr. French not heard?
Mr. French had heard something about it. It seemed a very sad affair.
It was a very sad affair. Mr. Pyke had gone out as well as Mr. French or herself, and he had never come back, had never been seen again. Terrible, wasn’t it? And a terrible shock to her. Indeed, she didn’t feel the same even yet. She didn’t believe she ever would. Between that and the loss of the letting. …
What had he said before he started? Why, he hadn’t said anything! At least he had said he wouldn’t be home until about , and for her not to forget to leave the hall door on the latch and to put some supper on the table in his room. And she had done. She had left everything right for him, and then she had gone to bed. And she had slept. She was a good sleeper, except that one time after she had had scarlet fever, when the doctor said …
Yes, the rooms were ready at any time. She believed in keeping her house clean and tidy at all times, so that everything was always ready when it was wanted. She had once been in service with Mrs. Lloyd-Hurley in Chagford and she had learnt that lesson there. Mrs. Lloyd-Hurley was very particular. She …
Mr. Pyke’s things? Oh yes, they were gone. She thought that would be understood when she said the rooms were ready. She …
It was his cousin. His cousin had come down from London and taken everything there was. That was Mr. Jefferson Pyke. Her Mr. Pyke was Mr. Stanley. Mr. Jefferson was the only remaining relative, at least so she understood. He packed up everything and took it away. Except a few things that he said he didn’t want. These she had kept. Not that she wanted
