The discovery left French almost speechless. If Markham Giles’ body was here, whose was the third body at Starvel? Was the whole of his case tumbling about his ears? Once again he swore bitterly and once again pulled himself together to deal with the next step.
“This means an inquest,” he said to Kent. “You and I had better get back to Thirsby and notify the coroner and so forth, and this man of yours can stay here and keep watch.”
They walked down to the little town almost in silence, French too full of his new problem to indulge in conversation, and the sergeant not liking to break in upon his companion’s thoughts. On arrival Kent got in touch with the coroner while French rang up Major Valentine.
“No, sir, I don’t know what to make of it,” he admitted in answer to the major’s sharp question. “It certainly does look as if the man I suspected was dead after all. But I would rather not discuss it over the phone. Could I see you, sir, if I went down to Leeds?”
“No, I’ll go to Thirsby. I’d like to look into the matter on the spot. There will be an inquest, of course?”
“Yes, sir. Sergeant Kent is arranging it with the coroner. We shall want an autopsy also. One of the things I wanted to know is who you think I should have to make it. But you can tell me that when you come.”
Major Valentine replied that he would drive over in his car and would pick up French at the police station at on his way out to Starvel.
It was now getting on towards , but French decided that he would have time to make an inquiry and get lunch before the Chief Constable’s arrival. He therefore turned into High Street and walked to Pullar’s, the largest shoe shop of the town.
“Mr. Pullar in?” he asked pleasantly. He had met the man in the bar of the Thirsdale Arms and there was a nodding acquaintance between the two.
“I suppose you haven’t heard of our discovery, Mr. Pullar?” French began when he was seated in the proprietor’s office. The whole business was bound to come out at the inquest, so he might as well enlist the other’s goodwill by telling him confidentially something about it.
Mr. Pullar cautiously admitted he hadn’t heard anything unusual.
“This is unusual enough for anyone,” French assured him, and he told of the finding of the grave on the moor, though making no mention of his doubts and fears about Roper.
Mr. Pullar was duly impressed and repeatedly begged that his soul might be blessed. When he had absorbed the news French turned to the real object of his call.
“I thought that maybe you could give me a bit of help, Mr. Pullar. You’d perhaps be interested to know how I got on to the thing. Well, it was in this way.” He took from the matchbox the piece of clay he had found on the floor of the shed.
“I picked this up in the shed, and as that sort of clay is covered everywhere here with three feet of dark soil, it followed that someone had dug a hole more than three feet deep.”
Mr. Pullar expressed his admiration of the other’s perspicacity with the same pious wish as before.
“Now you see,” French continued, “this clay was sticking to a shoe. It probably got a bit dry in the shed and dropped or got knocked off. Now, Mr. Pullar, can you tell me what kind of a shoe it was?”
Mr. Pullar shook his head. With every wish to assist, he was doubtful if he could answer the question. He picked up the piece of clay and turned it over gingerly in his fingers.
“Well,” he said presently, pointing to the hollow curve, “that’s been sticking round the outside of a heel, that has. If it had been a toe it would have been squeezed flatter. But that’s the square-edged mark of a heel.” He looked interrogatively at French, who hastened to interject: “Just what I thought, Mr. Pullar. A man’s heel.”
“Yes, a man’s heel I would think: though, mind you, it’s not easy to tell the difference between a man’s and some of these flat heeled shoes women wear now.”
“I thought it was a man’s from the size.”
“No: it might be either a big woman or a small man. Sevens, I should say.” He got up and put his head through the office door. “Here, John! Bring me three pairs of gents’ black Fitwells: a six and a half, a seven and an eight: medium weight.”
When the shoes came Mr. Pullar attempted to fit the circle of clay to the curve of each heel. French was delighted with the thorough and systematic way he set about it. He tried with all three sizes, then roared out for a pair of sixes and a pair of nines.
“It’s no good, Mr. French,” he said when he had tested these also. “Look for yourself. It’s smaller than a nine, but you can’t tell any more than that. It might be a six or a seven or an eight. It isn’t sharp enough to say.”
French looked for himself, but he had to admit the other’s conclusion was correct. The prints presumably had been made by a man with rather small feet, and that was all that could be said.
French was disappointed. He had hoped for something more definite. Roper admittedly had rather small feet, but the same was true of numbers of other men.
He bade Mr. Pullar good day and returned to the hotel for lunch. But he soon learned that the worthy shoe merchant had made the most of his opportunities. Scarcely had he sat down when the reporter of the local paper hurried into the coffee room and excitedly demanded details of the great find. And
