“Your loving wife,
“SUZANNE.”
Superintendent Blundell listened aghast; then snatched the paper from Wimsey, as though he mistrusted his translation and thought to tear out some better meaning from the words by mere force of staring at them. “Little Pierre — nine years old — kisses to their papa — and the red cow’s dead — t’cha!” He did a little arithmetic on his fingers. “Nine years ago, Cranton was in gaol.”
“Step-father, perhaps?” suggested Wimsey. Mr. Blundell paid no heed. “Spring sowing — since when has Cranton turned farmer? And what’s all that about military authorities? And the War. Cranton never was in the War. There’s something here I can’t make head or tail of. See here, my lord — this can’t be Cranton. It’s silly, that’s what it is. It can’t be Cranton.”
“It begins to look as if it wasn’t,” said Wimsey. “But I still think it was Cranton I met on New Year’s Day.”
“I’d better get on the telephone to London,” said Mr. Blundell. “And then I’ll have to be seeing the Chief Constable about this. Whatever it is, it’s got to be followed up. Driver’s disappeared and we’ve found a body that looks like his and we’ve got to do something about it. But France — well, there I How we’re to find this Suzanne I don’t know, and it’ll cost a mint of money.”
THE SIXTH PART
MONSIEUR ROZIER HUNTS THE TREBLE DOWN
The remaining bell… does nothing but plain hunting, and is therefore said to be “in the hunt with the Treble.”
TROYTE On Change-Ringing.
There are harder jobs in detective work than searching a couple of French departments for a village ending in “y,” containing a farmer’s wife whose first name is Suzanne whose children are Pierre, aged nine, Marie and a baby of unknown age and sex, and whose husband is an Englishman. All the villages in the Marne district end, indeed, in “y,” and Suzanne, Pierre and Marie are all common names enough, but a foreign husband is rarer. A husband named Paul Taylor would, of course, be easily traced, but both Superintendent Blundell and Lord Peter were pretty sure that “Paul Taylor” would prove to be an alias. It was about the middle of May when a report came in from the French police which looked more hopeful than anything previously received. It came through the Sûreté, and originated with M. le commissaire Rozier of Château-Thierry in the department of Marne.
It was so exceedingly promising that even the Chief Constable, who was a worried gentleman with an itch for economy, agreed that it ought to be investigated on the spot. “But I don’t know whom to send,” he grumbled. “Dashed expensive business, anyhow. And then there’s the language. Do you speak French, Blundell?”
The Superintendent grinned sheepishly. “Well, sir, not to say speak it. I could ask for a spot of grub in an estaminet, and maybe swear at the garsong a bit. But examining witnesses — that’s a different question.”
“I can’t go myself,” said the Chief Constable, sharply and hastily, as though anticipating a suggestion that nobody had had the courage to make. “Out of the question.” He tapped his fingers on his study table and stared vaguely over the Superintendent’s head at the rooks wheeling high over the elms at the end of the garden. “You’ve done your best, Blundell, but I think we had better hand the thing over, lock, stock and barrel to Scotland Yard. Perhaps we ought to have done so earlier.”
Mr. Blundell looked chagrined. Lord Peter Wimsey, who had come with him, ostensibly in case help should be needed to translate the commissaire’s letter, but actually because he was determined not to be left out of anything, coughed gently. “If you would entrust the inquiry to me, sir,” he murmured, “I could pop over in two ticks — at my own expense, of course,” he added, insinuatingly.
“I’m afraid it would be rather irregular,” said the Chief Constable, with the air of one who only needs to be persuaded.
“I’m more reliable than I look, really I am,” said his lordship. “And my French is my one strong point. Couldn’t you swear me in as a special constable, or something? with a natty little armlet and a truncheon? Or isn’t interrogation part of a special constable’s duties?”
“It is not,” said the Chief Constable. “Still,” he went on, “still — I suppose I might stretch a point. And I suppose”—he looked hard at Wimsey—“I suppose you’ll go in any case.”
“Nothing to prevent me from making a private tour of the battle-fields,” said Wimsey, “and, of course, if I met one of my old Scotland Yard pals knocking round there, I might join up with him. But I really think that, in these hard times, we ought to consider the public purse, don’t you, sir?”
The Chief Constable was thoughtful. He had no real wish to call in Scotland Yard. He had an idea that a Yard man might make himself an officious nuisance. He gave way. Within two days, Wimsey was being cordially received by M. le commissaire Rozier. A gentleman who has “des relations intimes” with the Paris Sûreté, and who speaks perfect French, is likely to be well received by country commissaires de police. M. Rozier produced a bottle of very excellent wine, entreated his visitor to make himself at home, and embarked upon his story.
“It does not in any way astonish me, milord, to receive an inquiry concerning the husband of Suzanne Legros. It is evident that there is there a formidable mystery. For ten years I have said to myself, ‘Aristide Rozier, the day will come when your premonitions concerning the so-called Jean Legros will be justified.’ I perceive that the day is at hand, and I congratulate myself upon my foresight.”
“Evidently,” said Wimsey, “M. le commissaire possesses a penetrating intelligence.”
“To lay the matter clearly before you, I am obliged to go back to the summer of 1918. Milord served in the British Army? Ah! then milord will remember the retreat over the Marne in July. Quelle histoire sanglante! On that occasion the retreating armies were swept back across the Marne pell-mell and passed in disorder through the little village of C — y, situated upon the left bank of the river. The village itself, you understand, milord, escaped any violent bombardment, for it was behind the front-line trenches. In that village lived the aged Pierre Legros and his granddaughter Suzanne. The old man was eighty years of age and refused to leave his home. His grandchild, then aged twenty-seven, was a vigorous and industrious girl, who, single-handed, kept the farm in a sort of order throughout the years of conflict. Her father, her brother, her affianced husband had all been killed.
“About ten days after the retreat, it was reported that Suzanne Legros and her grandfather had a visitor at the farm. The neighbours had begun to talk, you understand, and the curé, the reverend Abbé Latouche, now in paradise, thought it his duty to inform the authorities here. I myself, you comprehend, was not here at that time; I was in the Army; but my predecessor, M. Dubois, took steps to investigate the matter. He found that there was a sick and wounded man being kept at the farm. He had suffered a severe blow upon the head and various other injuries. Suzanne Legros, and her grandfather, being interrogated, told a singular story.