“That may prove an additional clue,” French declared. “I’m sure I’m greatly obliged, Mr. Munn. Thanks to you, my next move is clear. I shall search this stretch of coast in the hope of finding that a boat and oars were tampered with. If I am lucky enough to find them it may lead me on to something else.”
The day was living up to its early promise as he took leave of Munn and set off on foot along the shore. The prospect was charming. Across the blue, sparkling waters of the Solent lay Cowes, peeping out behind the Osborne Woods, while upstream, on the opposite side of Southampton Water, the long, low coastline rose dark and tree clad from shore to serrated horizon. The sea was dotted with the white sails of pleasure craft, and close under the island a great liner moved rapidly up towards Southampton. At intervals along the road were villas, opposite many of which were boats. To “borrow” one of these during the hours of darkness should certainly be easy.
But how was he to find out whether or not it had been done? He could see but one way and that long and tedious. He must make house to house inquiries as to whether, first, any trace had been found of the taking out of a boat, and second, anyone had been heard or seen on the shore about the time in question.
Soon he found his premonition justified. A longer or more tedious job he had seldom tackled. At house after house he called, waited interminably until some responsible person could see him, talked that person into a sympathetic frame of mind and then put his questions. With one inquisitive and voluble householder after another he searched boats, investigated the hiding places of oars and questioned servants. All to no purpose. Nothing helpful was to be learnt. He carried on while the day wore slowly away, growing more tired and dispirited with each fruitless repetition. At last only one group of houses was left and he began rather despairingly to wonder what he would do if he did not get news at one of them.
But just as he was losing hope the luck turned. In this case the owner was at home and on learning French’s business became interested. He had, he said, been shocked to read of the murder and would be glad to do anything to bring the criminals to justice. He at once called the members of his household that French might put his questions. And when this led to no result he went down with French to examine the boat.
It was moored off the end of a slip. A short painter was made fast to the bight of an endless rope which passed through pulleys fixed to the end of the slip and to a pole driven into the beach some eighty or a hundred feet farther out to sea. This arrangement enabled the boat to be kept clear of slip and pole, while by pulling on the rope the painter could be drawn to the slip. A cord, lapping the parallel parts of the rope at the pulley, prevented accidental movement.
The moment the owner, Mr. Farrar, saw this cord he exclaimed:
“Hullo! Someone has been here! I never left that cord like that!”
“No?” French answered, his spirits rising with a bound. “How did you leave it?”
“I don’t know if you know anything about knots,” Mr. Farrar went on. “If you do you will see that this is an ordinary clove hitch such as a skilful landsman might make. Now I always use what is called a ratline lock. It was shown to me by a Norwegian sailor whom I once met.”
“Pretty conclusive,” French admitted. “How long is it since you had the boat out?”
“Must be over a week,” Farrar said. “I have been in town for the last four days and I am sure it was four days before that.”
“Very satisfactory. Might we have the boat in? I should like a look at it.”
Farrar loosened the cord, and pulling on the rope, drew the boat in to the slip. It was about twelve feet long and strongly built and wide in the beam. A good sea boat, French thought.
He got in and began one of his meticulous examinations. Almost at once his efforts were rewarded.
Caught in a splinter of one of the stern bottom boards was a tiny scrap—little more than a thread—of fawn coloured material. It was just the shade of Miss Darke’s coat and skirt and French had not the slightest doubt that it would match the slight tear he had noticed.
“That fixes the matter, I fancy,” he said as he put his find carefully away in an envelope. “Part of the dead girl’s skirt. I noticed it had been torn. Now let’s see if there is anything else.”
Never since it had left the builder’s hands, if then, had that boat had such an examination as it got that afternoon. But it contained nothing else which might form a clue nor could French find any fingerprints.
This matter of the boat seemed to him to supply the answer to a question which had puzzled him from the first. If the criminals’ object had been to dispose secretly of the body, why had they chosen a landlocked piece of water like the Solent, particularly one so alive with shipping? The answer was evident: the boat. On no part of the open coast could they find boats so conveniently placed for “borrowing.” The ease of getting the boat would clearly outweigh the increased risk that the body might be found.
He rejoined Farrar on the slip.
“That’s really excellent,” he said with ill repressed delight. “It shows that I am on the right track.”
“But I don’t see how finding this will help you. There is nothing here to indicate who used the boat.”
French did not feel called on to deliver a dissertation on the science
