This was something more than a blow to French, and his self-esteem reeled under it. For the nth time he marvelled at the amazing knowledge of other people’s business to be found in country districts. The small country town, he thought, was the absolute limit! There he was, moving continually among the townspeople, none of whom gave the least sign of interest in his calling, yet evidently they had discussed him and his affairs to some purpose. The garrulous landlady, Mrs. Billing, was no doubt responsible for the murder of Pyke becoming known, but the belief that he, French, suspected Berlyn of murdering him was really rather wonderful.
“It seems to me,” he said with a rather sickly smile, “that your townspeople are better detectives than ever came out of Scotland Yard. So your young man thinks I’m police and wants to turn an honest penny, does he? Where am I to find him?”
“He’ll be at home. He’s living with his father at the head of East Street—a single red house on the left-hand side just beyond the town.”
In the leisurely, holiday-like way he had adopted, French crossed the town and half an hour later had introduced himself to Mr. Alfred Beer. Lizzie’s Alf was a stalwart young man with a heavy face and a sullen, discontented expression. French, sizing him up rapidly, decided that the suave method would scarcely meet the case.
“You are Alfred Beer, engaged to Lizzie Johnston, the former servant at Mr. Berlyn’s?” he began.
“That’s right, mister.”
“I am a police officer investigating the deaths of Mr. Berlyn and Mr. Pyke. You have some information for me?”
“I don’t altogether know that,” Beer answered, slowly. “Just wot did you want to know?”
“What you have to tell me,” French said, sharply. “You told Miss Johnston you had some information and I’ve come up to hear it.”
The man looked at him calculatingly.
“Wot do you think it might be worth to you?” he queried.
“Not a brass farthing. You should know that witnesses are not paid for their evidence. Don’t you misunderstand the situation, Beer, or you’ll find things mighty unpleasant. Come along now. Out with it.”
“How can I tell you if you won’t say wot you want?”
“I wouldn’t talk to you any more, Beer, only, I think you don’t understand where you are,” French answered, quietly. “This is a murder case. Mr. Pyke has been murdered. If you know anything that might help the police to discover the murderer and you don’t tell it, you become an accessory after the fact. Do you realise that you’d get a good spell of years for that?”
Beer gave an uncouth shrug and turned back to his digging.
“I don’t know nothing about no murder,” he declared, contemptuously. “I was just pulling Lizzie’s leg.”
“You’ve done it now,” French said, producing his card. “There’s my authority as a police officer. You’ve wasted my time and kept me back from my work. That’s obstruction and you’ll get six months for it. Come along to the station. And unless you want a couple of years you’ll come quietly.”
This was not what the man expected.
“Wot’s that?” he stammered. “You ain’t going to arrest me? I ain’t done nothin’ against the law, I ain’t.”
“You’ll soon find out about that. Look sharp now. I can’t spend the day here waiting for you.”
“Aw!” The man shifted nervously. “See, mister, I ain’t done no harm, I ain’t. I don’t know nothing about no murder. I don’t, honest.”
“I don’t want to be hard on you,” French answered. “If you tell your story without any more humbugging I’ll let the rest go. But I warn you, you needn’t start inventing any yarn. What you say will be gone into, and Heaven help you if it’s not true.”
“I’ll take my davy it’s true, mister, but it ain’t about no murder.”
“Well, get along sharp and let’s hear it.”
“It was one night about six months ago,” said Beer, now speaking almost eagerly. “Me and Lizzie were walking out at that time. Well, that night we’d fixed up for to go for a walk, and then at the last minute she couldn’t get away. Mrs. Berlyn was goin’ out or somethin’, and she couldn’t get off. We’d ’ad it fixed up that when that ’appened Lizzie would come down to the shrubbery after the rest ’ad gone to bed. Well, I wanted to see ’er that night for to fix up some little business between ourselves, so I went up to the ’ouse and gave the sign—three taps with a tree branch at ’er window. You understand?”
French nodded.
“Well, I went back into the shrubbery for to wait for her. It was dark, but a quiet night. An’ then I ’eard voices an’ steps comin’ along the path. So I got behind a bush so as they’d not see me. There was a man and a woman, an’ when they came close I knew them by their voices. It was Pyke and Mrs. Berlyn. I stayed still an’ they passed me close.”
“Go ahead. Did you hear what they said, or what are you getting at?”
“I ’eard wot they said when they were passing. ‘I tell you ’e knows,’ she said. ‘I’m frightened,’ she said. ‘You don’t know him. If ’e once thinks you’ve played ’im false ’e’ll make a ’ell of a trouble.’ An’ then Pyke says: ‘Nonsense!’ ’e said. ‘ ’E’s not that sort. Besides,’ ’e said, ‘ ’e don’t know anything. ’E knows we’re friends, but that’s all.’ ‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m sure ’e knows or ’e guesses, anyway. We’ll ’ave to separate,’ she said. ’E said they ’ad been careful enough, and then they went past an’ I didn’t ’ear no more.”
“That all?”
“That’s all,” said Beer, disgustedly. “Ain’t it enough?”
“Nothing to boast about,” French replied, absently. He remembered that the man had been dismissed by Berlyn and he wondered if this statement was merely the result of spite. He therefore questioned him closely. But
