Secondly, the theory did not explain how the letters were posted in London. However, though French was not entirely satisfied, he grew more and more convinced that he was on sure ground in suspecting Domlio. At all events, his next job must be to test the point.
First he decided to find out what Sergeant Daw could tell him about the colonel and early next morning saw him at the police station. The sergeant greeted him with a peculiar smile.
“I suppose, sir, you’ve heard the rumor that’s going round?” he asked at once.
“What’s that, Sergeant?”
“They say you’ve found out that Mr. Berlyn murdered Mr. Pyke out on the moor that night. Mrs. Billing, Pyke’s landlady, is supposed to have recognised the underclothes.”
French smiled.
“Well it’s quite true,” he admitted. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you, Sergeant, but I went off to London as soon as I discovered it. I warned Mrs. Billing not to talk, but I hardly believed she could help herself.”
The sergeant was evidently upset.
“I’m sorry about the whole thing, Mr. French. I should have thought Mr. Berlyn was the last man who would do such a thing.”
“You may be right. Indeed, it’s a matter arising out of that very point that I want to see you about. I have a notion there was a second person in it—someone who might even have taken the lead. Tell me”—French’s voice became very confidential—“what sort of a man is Colonel Domlio?”
The sergeant looked shocked.
“Colonel Domlio?” he repeated. “Surely, sir, you don’t mean to suggest that the colonel was mixed up in a murder?”
“You don’t think it likely?”
“I don’t, sir, and that’s a fact. The colonel’s a very quiet man and peculiar in some ways, but he’s well respected in the district.”
“So was many a murderer.”
The sergeant was clearly sceptical, though anxious to be polite. He said he was sure Mr. French would not speak without good reason, but his own view was evident.
“Well, tell me all you know about him, anyway.”
Domlio, it appeared, was a man of about forty-five, short, thickset, and dark. (Not the man who called for the crate, thought French.) He was very well off, and since his wife had died some six years earlier, had lived alone with his servants in his house on the moor. He held sufficient Veda stock to give him a controlling interest in the firm, acted as consulting engineer, and was usually referred to as the senior partner. Entomology was his pet hobby and it was believed that he was writing a book on the insect life of the moor.
He had four servants. Inside was John Burt, valet, butler, and general factotum, and his wife, Sarah Burt, who combined the offices of cook and general servant. Outside was an ex-service man named Coombe, who acted as chauffeur and general handy man, and an old gardener called Mee. Mee lived with his wife and daughter in the gate lodge and Coombe boarded with them. All, so far as the sergeant knew, were reliable people of good character.
“I’ll go out and see the colonel after lunch,” French announced. “Could you lend me a push bicycle? I don’t want all my movements reported on by the driver of a car.”
“I can borrow one for you, but it’ll not be much use on these hilly roads.”
“It’ll do all I want.”
A couple of hours later French set out. When near Colonel Domlio’s gate he hid the bicycle in the brushwood and approached the house on foot. It was a smallish, creeper-covered building, L-shaped, with thick walls and heavy overhanging eaves. At least a hundred years old, French thought. It stood some two hundred yards back from the road and was approached by a drive which wound between clumps of stunted trees and shrubs. In front was a small lawn of mown grass, while between the trees to the right French glimpsed the roofs of outbuildings. The place had a cared-for appearance. The woodwork of the house had been freshly painted, the flower beds were tidy, and the grass edges had recently been cut.
The door was opened by an elderly man in butler’s dress, honest and kindly-looking, but rather stupid. John Burt, evidently. He asked French to step inside while he took his card to his master.
The hall was of fair size, with a large, old-fashioned fireplace and lead-lighted windows. French had not much time to observe it, for Burt called him almost immediately into a room on the left of the hall door.
It was long, low, and delightfully furnished as a study. Bookcases lined the walls and a couple of deep saddlebag armchairs stood on the soft Chinese carpet in front of the fireplace. A collector’s entomological cabinet was in one corner, with close by a table bearing books and a fine microscope. The room was evidently in the corner of the house, for there were French windows in adjacent walls. In one of these was a leather-topped desk and at the desk was seated a shortish man with a strong, clean-shaven face, iron grey hair, and a not too amiable expression. He rose as French entered.
“Inspector French of Scotland Yard, is it not? I have heard that you were in the town.”
“That’s correct, sir,” French answered, taking the chair to which the other pointed. “You’ve probably heard enough, then, to guess my business?”
Colonel Domlio squared his shoulders.
“I heard you were investigating the deaths of Mr. Berlyn and Mr. Pyke. I don’t know the object of this call.”
“I’ve come, Colonel Domlio, in connection with my investigation. I want to ask for your help in it.”
“What do you wish me to do?”
“Two things, sir. In the first place, I want any information you can give me about either of the two gentlemen you mentioned or anything which might throw light on the tragedy. Secondly, I would be obliged
