Detective-Sergeant Colson Discovers Clues
“Mrs. Yates,” said Detective-Sergeant Colson, as he finished a modest
meal, served at his request in the “Mariner’s Arms,” “I am thinking of
making my quarters here, at all events till the inquest is over. Can I
have a room?”
“I’m only too glad to have you, sir,” replied the buxom landlady. “I’m
not much given to be afraid, but I don’t like the idea of being alone
in the house with a corpse, and I was thinking of asking a neighbour
to sleep here.”
“You’re a widow, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir—these six years.”
“Well, I’ll be here to-night. I’m going into Frattenbury presently,
and shall cycle out, probably a bit late.”
“You can have the room Mr. Grayson had, sir. It’s a pleasant one,
above this, looking out over the water.”
“Who is Mr. Grayson?” he asked.
“A young gentleman—an artist—who’s been lodging here nearly a week. He
left early this morning.”
“Oh, did he?” said the detective, lighting his pipe. “This seems a
rare place for people leaving early on Sunday mornings.”
“Eh, sir?”
“Oh, never mind. Tell me about this lodger of yours. What time did he
go away?”
“It was just before the murder was discovered, sir. He came downstairs
early this morning, and said would I get him some breakfast because
he’d suddenly changed his plans and was going away. Seemed strange,
didn’t it, sir? A nice, quiet young gentleman he was, too.”
“How did he go?”
“On his bicycle, sir—same as he came here. Oh, he was a perfect
gentleman, never gave me trouble, and paid up all right.”
The detective had taken out his notebook.
“I wish you’d give me a description of this young man, Mrs. Yates,” he
said.
“Oh, Mr. Colson, sir,” she exclaimed, “you don’t mean to say as how
you think ’twas him as done it?”
The detective laughed.
“Come, come, Mrs. Yates,” he said; “I never said it was so bad as
that. But, you see, we policemen like to know about all the people
that were near a crime. That’s why I’m asking you to help me. The
smallest evidence may be valuable, and this young man may have noticed
something yesterday. You see, he left before the murder was
discovered, so he couldn’t know we wanted him, could he?”
Mrs. Yates, all suspicions removed by Colson’s bland manner, gave him,
so far as she could remember, a description of her lodger, which the
detective carefully took down. When she had finished, he said:
“Thank you, Mrs. Yates; excellent! You really ought to belong to the
force, you remember everything so well. Observation is a very great
gift, and you’ve got it. Splendid!”
Mrs. Yates smiled a smile of satisfaction. She was not proof against
flattery. The detective saw he had scored a point.
“Now I’m going to take you into my confidence,” he went on blandly.
“I’ll let you into a little secret. We detectives aren’t half as
clever as people think we are, and I don’t mind telling you—quite
between ourselves, you know—that this is going to be a difficult case.
You wouldn’t think it, perhaps, but, up to the present moment, I
haven’t the slightest idea as to who committed the murder.”
Mrs. Yates had sat down in a chair and was regarding him fixedly,
taking it all in.
“Lor’ sir,” she exclaimed, “you don’t say so?”
He nodded gravely.
“It’s quite true,” he said, “and I want you to help me.”
“Me, sir? What can I do?”
“You’re a discreet woman, Mrs. Yates—a very sensible woman. And I’m
sure you can hold your tongue if you like.”
“I never was one to gossip.”
“I knew it! Well, now, when I come back this evening I don’t want
anyone to know I’m here. You put some supper up in my room—show me now
how I can get up to it without being seen—and if anyone asks where I
am, you can tell them the truth, that I’m gone into Frattenbury, see?”
Mrs. Yates, who was almost trembling with excitement, showed him how
he could get in by a back door she would leave unlatched. She also
showed him a shed where he could put his bicycle.
“And one other thing, Mrs. Yates,” he said; “you’re going to keep your
mouth shut, but you must keep your ears open. You’re sure to have men
in to-night discussing the murder. If you hear them say anything about
having seen Mr. Templeton—or any strangers about—you make a note of it
and let me know.”
“I will, sir. I’ll do what I can.”
Colson took his hat and stick and a dispatch-case which he had brought
over in the morning.
When he got outside the inn he walked over to Constable Gadsden, who
was still on the spot. Quite a number of people were about, for the
news had spread rapidly, and anything so gruesome as the central scene
of a murder is attractive.
“Well, Gadsden,” said he, drawing him to one side, “you haven’t let
anyone go on board the yacht—no newspaper men, or anyone?”
The burly policeman grinned.
“Trust me for that, sergeant.”
“Mind you don’t. I’m going into Frattenbury now. I’ll send a man out
to relieve you.”
“Thank you, sergeant. I’ve found out something since I saw you.”
“What?”
The policeman opened his pocket-book. No self-respecting constable
ever reports to a superior officer without a reference to this
mysterious compendium.
“Man o’ the name o’ Simmonds—George Simmonds—lives in the cottage
yonder—states that he was walking along the field path yesterday and
met a man of the description o’ Mr. Templeton going into
Frattenbury—between half-past five and six.”
“May be useful,” replied the detective. “More useful still, though, if
he’d seen him coming back. If there’s anything else to report you can
do so to the superintendent when you get back to Frattenbury.”
He himself took the field path to Frattenbury, and not the road. For
half a mile or so the path ran by the side of the estuary, separated
from the shore by a low hedge. Then, just as one got over a stile, it
turned abruptly and led through a series of marshy meadows. There had
been rain a few days before, and in places the path was damp, showing
a number of footprints.
Just by one of the stiles was a particularly impressionable bit of
ground. The stile had a high step, from which one naturally jumped and
left well-defined footprints. Colson seated himself on the stile,
opened his dispatch-case, and drew out a shoe. Then he got down into
the path and investigated all the footprints narrowly, testing them by
measuring them and comparing the results with the shoe.
Presently he gave a little grunt of satisfaction. The shoe exactly
fitted one of the footprints. Walking slowly on, he was easily able to
trace these particular footprints going towards Frattenbury.
“Doesn’t help much,” he said to himself, “but—ah, here’s what I want.”
For he caught sight of a similar footprint—and then another—pointing
in the reverse direction. Several more were apparent as he walked on.
“That settles it,” he exclaimed; “Templeton walked back to Marsh Quay
by the same route. I’m glad I thought to bring one of the shoes he was
wearing with me. Now for the other test.”
The other test was still more simple. Every now and then, plainly
defined, was a small square hole showing in the soft soil, about
three-eighths of an inch in diameter. The detective stuck the
walking-stick he was carrying into the ground beside one of these
holes. It bore one of those tapering, square ferrules which are common
in Alpine walking-sticks. When he removed it from the soil, the
impression was exactly the same as the other.
A less shrewd man than Colson would have been perfectly satisfied with
the result, and would have made the very natural deduction that
Templeton had carried the walking-stick. Indeed, there was every
reason to deduce this. But Colson was not only a quick-witted man—he
was also a slow and careful thinker. It was his method, when he had
discovered any clue, to work out every possible explanation from it
mentally raising objections to each deduction. More than once this
habit of his had prevented him acting on hasty and erroneous
conclusions, and he knew the value of it well.
Besides, this was the biggest case in which he had been engaged. Never
yet had he been called upon to investigate so serious a crime as
murder, except in one instance, where everything had been fairly
obvious from the first. So, for his own credit and chances of
promotion, he was anxious to make no mistake.
Therefore, having turned the matter over in his mind, when he reached
Frattenbury, instead of going straight to the police station to make
his report, he called on Canon Fittleworth. This was in the afternoon,
and, it will be remembered, before the Canon had compared the cigar
band with those in his box.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said, “but you may be able to tell me
something. When Mr. Templeton left your house last night, who showed
him out?”
“I did,” replied the Canon.
“Good. Now can you remember if he was carrying a walking-stick when he
left?”
They were standing in the hall as they were talking.
“I can tell you exactly,” said the Canon. “He had a stick when he came
here—this is it,” and he drew one from the rack, “but when we opened
the door last night it was clouding up and looked like rain, and the
glass was falling. Templeton said he didn’t want to risk getting wet,
as he suffered from rheumatism. I lent him an umbrella. By the way, I
saw it in the cabin of the yacht, now I come to think of it.”
Colson had taken the stick into his hand and was examining the point
of it. He lifted his eyebrows and gave a low whistle. The ferrule was
of the Alpine pattern. He carefully compared it with the one he had
brought from Marsh Quay. The sizes were exactly the same.
“What is it?” asked Canon Fittleworth.
“Only a curious coincidence, that throws me entirely out of my
reckoning. I’ll take this stick, please. Oh, by the way, I went
through all the papers I could find on the _Firefly_. There was
nothing particular. Only, perhaps you can throw some light on this
one.”
He took a letter from his pocket and handed it to the Canon. It bore
an address in North-West London, and the writer merely said he was
glad to hear that Templeton had arrived in England, and hoped that,
when he was tired of yachting, he would run up to see him, as there
were two or three matters of business to discuss. It was signed “A. F.
Crosby.”
“Do you know who it is?”
“Why, yes,” said the Canon. “I ought to have thought of it before, but
this terrible event has put things out of my mind. Templeton mentioned
his name last night. He said he was going up to town shortly to see
his lawyer, Anthony Crosby. I know him slightly myself. I ought to
have written to him. I’ll do so at once.”
“Oh, that’s capital,” said Colson. “Don’t you trouble to write. We’ll
’phone up to the London police, and ask them to see him at once. We
must have him down to the inquest to-morrow, if possible. He may be a
great help. Thank you very much. I must be off.”
When he arrived at the police station he found the superintendent in
consultation with the Chief Constable, Major Renshaw, a typical
military man with close-cropped moustache.
The two men welcomed the detective-sergeant eagerly.
“Well,” said the superintendent, “we’re very anxious to know
developments. Have you had any luck?”
“Yes, sir—several things have come to light, and there may be
something to go upon, though I’m still very much in the dark. First of
all, though, I’ll get you to have this description ’phoned to the
police throughout the county—a young man, a cyclist, staying at the
‘Mariner’s Arms,’ who left suddenly early this morning. The landlady
says he was apparently riding into Frattenbury. We ought to get hold
of him in any case.”
“Most decidedly,” said the Chief Constable. “It’s important.”
After this was done, and the matter of Mr. Crosby taken in hand, the
superintendent told Colson that he had telephoned to London about
Moss, but, as yet, there were no developments. Then the detective
opened his dispatch-case and spread an assortment of articles on the
table.
“I made a pretty searching examination,” he said, “but I’m afraid
there are not many results so far. The lockers and portmanteau mostly
contained clothes—and some money. There’s only one letter—and there
weren’t many—that seemed to bear on the case, and it isn’t signed.
Here it is, in an envelope with the Frattenbury postmark, posted to
the G.P.O., Ryde. And it’s typewritten.”
The letter proved to be a half-sheet of nondescript notepaper, with
the words:
“I shall be at home to discuss matters if you will call next
Saturday evening after 8.30—not later than 9.”
That was all. A grim smile lit up the face of the Chief Constable as
he read it, shaking his head.
“That’s not much help,” he said. “Of course it’s the appointment Canon
Fittleworth spoke of. What next?”
The detective produced a blotting-pad.
“There’s not much here,” he said, “but if you hold it before a
looking-glass you can make out what I think to be bits of two
letters.”
Across the top of the blotter, by holding it in front of the glass
portions of words appeared as follows:
e y u on turd ft on,
and then the signature, freshly blotted and quite plain:
Y rs f ithfully,
R. Templeton.
“‘See you on Saturday afternoon,’” said the superintendent. “That
ought to be plain enough. It looks like his appointment with Moss. We
know he went there.”
“That’s it,” said the detective. “Now try the other. That’s a
puzzler.”
For some time the two men scrutinised the blotting-paper. The ink
marks were faint and broken, and in most cases only isolated letters,
or bits of words. Finally, they agreed with Colson that the result was
this:
a d ver zr ice s o ion & roo
s is nal
“Well,” said the Chief Constable, “you’ll be a smart fellow if you
make anything out of _that_—even if it’s worth anything. What next?”
“I went through his pockets. There were no papers of any kind in them.
That looks suspicious. A gentleman in his position would hardly go
about without a pocket-book or something. There was loose cash in the
trousers pockets—and in the waistcoat pocket I found this.”
He produced a very small bag of chamois leather, with a loose string
tied to it to fasten it.
“Look!” he said, as he shook something out on the table.
The two men started. A brilliant coruscation of light flashed before
them. It was a diamond the size of a pea.
“Uncut,” said the Major, as he took it up to examine it; “in the rough
at present, but still brilliant. It’s worth a heap of money. And he
came from South Africa? Where are the rest?”
“Ah,” said the superintendent, “and where does Moss come in?”
“There’s something else,” said Colson, “and I’m not sure whether it
may not be the best clue of all—if we can find the owner of it.”
And he laid the two walking-sticks on the table.
“This one,” he went on, taking up the one the Canon had given him,
“was carried by Templeton when he walked into Frattenbury yesterday
afternoon. I’ve traced the marks of it along the field path. But he
didn’t take it back with him—Canon Fittleworth lent him an umbrella.
And this one,” he added, taking up the other, “I found under the stern
seat of the dinghy. I’d almost made up my mind it had belonged to
Templeton, but inquiry from the Canon seems to show it didn’t. After
I’d found it I questioned Templeton’s man—Webb—though I took care not
to let him see it.”
“Why not?” asked the Chief Constable.
“Because, sir, I never like to give anything away if I can possibly
help it; and I thought, even then, that it might possibly have
belonged to someone else. What I wanted to find out from Webb was
whether there had been more than one walking-stick aboard the
_Firefly_. And there hadn’t. So now we know that this stick must have
been left by someone else who went out to the yacht.”
“Exactly,” said the superintendent. “And somebody else knows it, too.”
“Who?” asked Major Renshaw.
The superintendent and Colson exchanged meaning glances, and answered
simultaneously:
“The man who left it there.”
And Colson added:
“He made a bad mistake. And it’s mistakes that are the best clues.
That’s my experience.”
The Chief Constable and the superintendent examined the stick
carefully. It was a very ordinary plain ash walking-stick, with a
crook handle. The only noticeable thing about it was that a small
piece had been chipped off the handle. Otherwise there was nothing
remarkable about it.
Colson sat lost in thought. Presently his face cleared a little.
“I’ve got an idea,” he said; “it’s only a sort of forlorn hope. But I
may as well try it. By the way, I promised Gadsden he should be
relieved, sir,” he added to the superintendent. “He’s been at Marsh
Quay since early morning.”
The superintendent touched a bell, and a constable entered.
“Is Peters in?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell him to report for duty.”
“Very good, sir.”
Peters came in, and the superintendent gave him some brief
instructions. Then Colson spoke.
“I want you to do exactly what I say, Peters,” he said. “When you get
to Marsh Quay it will still be daylight. Ride your bicycle there and
leave it close to the shore. Then take one of the little canoes and
paddle out to the yacht—the _Firefly_. Don’t in any way touch the
dinghy that’s moored to her. Get on the yacht’s deck and stay there.
Do you understand?”
“Yes, sergeant.”
“As soon as it’s struck ten—or thereabouts—keep your eye fixed on the
upper window in the ‘Mariner’s Arms.’ There may be a light in the
room. Don’t take any notice of that. But directly you see the flash of
a red light in the window, get into the canoe and paddle ashore. Make
a bit of noise about it. Leave the canoe in the water—the tide will be
flowing—and make the painter fast to one of the posts you will
find—well up the little bank. Then light your bicycle lamp and ride
off—back to Frattenbury. I shan’t want you any more. If there’s
anybody about, sing out ‘Good night’ to them—let ’em see you’re going
off. You understand?”
“I’ll do it, sergeant.”
“That’s all, then. Good night, Major, if I don’t see you again. I’ll
drop in,” he added to the superintendent, “before I go back to Marsh
Quay. I’ve got a little job first. And I want this walking-stick.”
He went out, carrying the stick he had found in the dinghy.