Lee-on-the-Solent
When French woke next morning he found a brilliant sun pouring in
through his window. A good omen, he thought, as he gazed out on a sea
just as blue and sparkling as the Mediterranean had looked from the
hotel in Nice at which he had stayed when investigating the wanderings
of the Pyke cousins. With luck he would make progress today.
A short journey through Portsmouth and Gosport brought him to
Lee-on-the-Solent, a pleasantly situated little town of new houses,
stretched out along the shore. Five minutes later he was turning in at
the gate of Mr. Austin Munn’s neat villa.
There the first instalment of his luck materialized. Mr. Munn, clad in
white yachting flannels, was reading the paper on a rustic seat in a
shady nook. French went over to him.
“Oh,” said Munn, getting up. “You’re the inspector, aren’t you? Lovely
morning. Do you wish to see me?”
“For a few moments, if you please.”
“Certainly. Shall we sit here or would you rather go into my study?”
“I can’t imagine anything better than this. A delightful place you
have here, Mr. Munn.”
“Not too bad on a fine morning,” Munn admitted. “Will you smoke,
Inspector?” He held out a gold cigarette case. “Terrible business
about that poor girl.”
“That of course is what I want to see you about,” French returned,
selecting an opulent looking Turkish cigarette. “The local police have
called in Scotland Yard and I’ve been put in charge of the case. I
want to ask you for some help.”
“Only too glad if I can do anything, but I’ve already told all I
know.”
“I’m in hopes that you can help me all the same. First I’d like to fix
just where you picked the body up. I have an Ordnance map here and
perhaps you could mark the spot.”
French unrolled the 6-inch map he had brought from London. Munn bent
over it.
“It was about here,” he pointed, “to the east of Stokes Bay almost off
Gilkicker Point.”
“And how far from the shore?”
“A mile, I should say. Not less, possibly more.”
“Here?” French made a cross at the place. “Now how was the tide
running?”
“Flowing, but the current was running out. You see, we have rather
peculiar tides here. The run in and out doesn’t exactly correspond
with the rise and fall.”
“I didn’t know that ever obtained.”
“Oh, yes. It’s caused, of course, by the configuration of the coast.
It’s a bit confusing at first. For about two and a half hours after
high water the current continues to run up the estuary, though the
actual level is falling. Then for some eight hours it runs out. Now on
that Monday night it was high water shortly after one o’clock, summer
time. After that the tide level began to fall, but the current was
still running up towards Southampton. About three-thirty in the
morning the current changed and began to run out towards the sea. Low
water was about seven-thirty on Tuesday morning, but the current
continued to run out for another four hours. That’s roughly what
happens, though if you want stricter accuracy you would say ‘westerly
and easterly’ instead of ‘up and down the estuary.’”
“I think I follow you. At what time did you find the body?”
“About seven.”
“Then if I have understood you correctly, when the body was found
about seven the tide current was running seawards, and had been since
three-thirty?”
“That’s right.”
“Now, Mr. Munn, this is where I want your help. Rightly or wrongly I
have formed the opinion that the body was placed in the sea at some
time between three and five that morning, most probably about four
o’clock. Assuming that is so, where do you think it might have been
put in?”
History seemed to French to be repeating itself as he asked the
question. It was not so long since he had sat on the stones at the end
of the pier at Burry Port in South Wales and asked stout Coastguard
Tom Manners how the tides ran in the Burry Inlet and where a crate
which had been found off Llanelly might have been dropped into the
water.* If this went on, he thought, he might set up as a tide
specialist. He only hoped that today’s inquiries would have as
satisfactory results as those on that former occasion.
* _The Sea Mystery_, published 1928, in which Inspector French,
with no evidence to go by but the naked body of a man washed up
from the sea, solved a crime of amazing ingenuity.
Like Tom Manners, Munn hesitated over his answer, whistling the while
under his breath.
“I should say,” he replied at last, “a short way above Lee. Perhaps at
Lee, perhaps at Hill Head, probably somewhere between the two. It’s
not easy to say with any degree of accuracy.”
“That’s good enough, Mr. Munn. You see what I’m after? If I search the
coast where you suggest I may find some kind of clue.”
Munn shook his head. “I rather question it,” he answered slowly.
French’s eyes narrowed. “Now just why do you say that?”
“I’ll tell you. It hadn’t occurred to me before, but your question
suggested it. I don’t believe the body was put in from the shore at
all.”
“But——”
“I think it was too far out,” Munn went on. “I don’t mean that the
tide runs exactly parallel to the shore. It doesn’t. But an object put
in at the shore near Hill Head or Lee would not have got so far out
from the land as the distance to Stokes Bay.”
French nodded.
“I follow you. You mean that the body must have been thrown in at some
considerable distance from the shore?”
“Either that or it must have been thrown in earlier and come down from
nearer Southampton.”
“It couldn’t have been much earlier,” French objected. “Remember the
poor girl was alive and well in London at eleven-fifteen that night.”
He paused in his turn, then went on: “Any chance of getting a boat
along there?”
Munn gave him a sharp glance.
“On compulsory loan? Yes, I believe that would be possible, Inspector.
Several of the residents along the shore have boats which lie out at
night in the summer. I should think one could be borrowed. But your
criminals couldn’t get any oars. They’re always taken in when the
boats are out of use.”
“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! Some one 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
of detection.
“It may be a help. You never can tell,” was his summary of the
situation. “By the way what about oars? Where do you keep yours?”
“They couldn’t have got the oars. They are never left in the boat. We
take them up to the house when we’ve finished with them. The criminals
must have stolen oars elsewhere or brought their own.”
“One other question. You’ve told me you didn’t see anyone about on
that Monday night or hear a car. Now can you suggest anyone who might
possibly have been out?”
Farrar shrugged.
“How could I?”
“Well, who are the doctors in this part of the world? Was there a
dance in the neighbourhood? You see what I mean?”
Farrar saw, but couldn’t help. He gave the names of four medical men,
any one of whom might have been called in by residents in the
district. But he didn’t know of anyone who had been. And then suddenly
he slapped his thigh.
“But I do though, after all,” he exclaimed. “Findlay’s wife had a son
that morning! You bet Findlay was out for the doctor. You should go
and see him; he’s an architect in Portsmouth. Or if you like you can
come back to the house and ring him up. I’ll introduce you.”
French accepted gratefully and in a few minutes the call was put
through. Findlay was equally ready to help. Yes, his wife had been
confined on the night in question and he had gone for the doctor
shortly before four—Dr. Lappin, of Lee. But he had met no one on the
road nor had he seen a car.
“A call on Dr. Lappin seems to be indicated,” French declared as he
once again thanked Farrar for his help.
“Well,” said the latter with a sidelong look, “since you mention it,
do you know why I told you about Findlay?”
“Why?”
“For this reason. I know something about the police and I may tell you
that you’re the first officer who has ever come to ask me a question
in what I may call a really civil way. It is generally: ‘Tell me or
it’ll be the worse for you.’ But when you treated me as a friend who
might be able to help you, why, I thought I’d do it.”
“I don’t think our people are as bad as you make out, Mr. Farrar. But
I’m much obliged to you all the same.”
After a hurriedly snatched cup of tea French presented himself at Dr.
Lappin’s door. The doctor was just going out, but he turned back with
his visitor.
“Yes,” he agreed, “I left here shortly after four. It is about five
minutes’ run to Mr. Findlay’s and I should say that I got there about
four-fifteen.”
“And did you notice a car?”
“As a matter of fact I did. Now let me see where it was. Yes, I
remember it distinctly. It was about half a mile on the Hill Head side
of the wireless station, where the road turns inland. I can show you
the very place if you wish me to.”
“It passed you there?”
“I passed it. It was standing at the side of the road and the driver
was working at the engine. He had the lid of the bonnet raised and was
bending over it. I slowed up and called out to know if there was
anything wrong, but he replied only a dirty plug and that he had got
it right.”
This was good news. French felt that he was on the trail once more.
With his interest aroused to the keenest pitch he went on with his
questions.
“There was only one man there?”
“I saw only one. The car was a fairly large one, a saloon. It was not
lighted up and there might have been others inside, but I didn’t see
anyone.”
“Was there a moon?”
“No, but dawn was breaking. I could see objects fairly clearly, but no
more.”
“Now, what about the man outside? Could you describe him?”
“Not well. He was muffled up in a coat and had a soft hat pulled down
over his eyes. As far as I could see he was a tallish, thin man with a
pale face and small moustache. But I couldn’t be sure of that.”
“Anything peculiar about his accent?”
“It occurred to me that he had a sort of inflexion in his voice such
as you hear in Ireland or South Wales. I don’t know about North Wales,
as I’ve never been there.”
“High pitched or low?”
“Rather high of the two.”
Better and better! If this was not Style, French would, so he said to
himself, eat his hat.
“I see. Now, doctor, can you describe the car more fully?”
“I really don’t think I can, except that it was a middle-sized, grey
saloon. Possibly a Daimler, though really I have no right to give such
an opinion. But it seemed rather that shape. Of course that’s the
shape of a lot of other makes as well. But I saw the number.”
“The number! Why, sir, you did well. What was it?”
The doctor smiled thinly.
“I’m afraid I don’t deserve as much credit as you seem to think,” he
protested. “It happened to be the number of my own car, less one
figure. Mine is 7385 and this one was 7395—one figure different, you
see. But whereas my car is registered in Hampshire, this one had a
Surrey initial.”
“This is valuable information, Dr. Lappin,” French declared. “Now
before I go do you think there is anything else that you can tell me?
You didn’t see anyone on the road, for instance?”
But Dr. Lappin had not noticed anyone. The facts he had mentioned he
was sure of, but he knew no others. When he had returned about seven
the car was gone. He promised French to give any evidence that might
be required and that in the meantime he would say nothing of what he
knew.
On his return to Portsmouth French drafted a police circular. It was
believed that a middle-sized, grey saloon car, possibly a Daimler and
possibly registered in Surrey and numbered 7395, had travelled from
London to Lee and back during the night of the 18th/19th inst. Had
anyone seen or heard of such a vehicle? Three persons were believed to
have been in the car—here followed descriptions of Westinghouse,
Style, and Gwen Lestrange. Had these persons been noticed? Had anyone
been seen taking out or replacing a boat between Lee and Hill Head
during the same night?
From the police station French went to interview the coastguards, but
unfortunately without result.
Delighted with the result of his first day’s work, he went early to
bed and slept the sleep of the weary.