“He died, then, of what?”
“There is the mystery. There is no sign of fatal wound, or of poison, or of strangling, nor yet of disease. The heart was sound; the intestines show that he had not died of starvation — indeed, he was well-nourished, and had eaten a few hours before his death.”
“Tiens! an apoplexy, then?”
“It is possible. The brain, you understand, was in a somewhat putrefied condition. It is difficult to say with certainty, though there are certain signs that there had been an effusion of blood into the cortex. But you comprehend that, if a thundering apoplexy killed this man, it was not so obliging as to bury him also.”
“Perfectly. You are quite right. Forward, then, to the farm of Jean Legros.”
The farm was a small one, and did not seem to be in too flourishing a state. Broken fences, dilapidated outhouses and ill-weeded fields spoke of straitened means and a lack of the necessary labour. The mistress of the house received them. She was a sturdy, well-muscled woman of some forty years of age, and carried in her arms a nine-months old child. At the sight of the commissaire and his attendant gendarme a look of alarm came unmistakably into her eyes. Another moment, and it had given place to that expression of mulish obstinacy which no one can better assume at will than the French peasant.
“M. le commissaire Rozier?”
“Himself, madame. This gentleman is milord Vainsé, who has voyaged from England to make certain inquiries. It is permitted to enter?”
It was permitted, but at the word “England” the look of alarm had come again; and it was not lost on either of the men.
“Your husband, Mme. Legros,” said the commissaire, coming brusquely to the point, “he is absent from home. Since how long?”
“Since December, M. le commissaire.”
“Where is he?”
“In Belgium.”
“Where, in Belgium?”
“Monsieur, in Dixmude, as I suppose.”
“You suppose? You do not know? You have had no letter from him?”
“No, monsieur.”
“That is strange. What took him to Dixmude?”
“Monsieur, he had taken the notion that his family lived perhaps at Dixmude. You know, without doubt, that he had lost his memory. Eh, bien! in December, one day, he said to me, ‘Suzanne, put a record on the gramophone.’ I put on the record of a great diseuse, reciting Le Carillon, poem of Verhaeren, to music. C’est un morceau très impressionnant. At that moment, filled with emotion where the carillons are named turn by turn, my husband cried out: ‘Dixmude! there is then a town of Dixmude in Belgium?’ ‘But certainly,’ I replied. He said, ‘But that name says something to me! I am convinced, Suzanne, that I have a beloved mother residing in Dixmude. I shall not rest till I have gone to Belgium to make inquiries about this dear mother.’ M. le commissaire, he would listen to nothing. He went away, taking with him our small savings, and since that time I have heard nothing from him.”
“Histoire très touchante,” said the commissaire, drily. “You have my sympathy, madame. But I cannot understand that your husband should be a Belgian. There were no Belgian troops engaged at the third Battle of the Marne.”
“Nevertheless, monsieur, his father may have married a Belgian. He may have Belgian relations.”
“C’est vrai. He left you no address?”
“None, monsieur. He said he would write on his arrival.”
“Ah! And he departed how? By the train?”
“Oh, yes, monsieur.”
“And you have made no inquiries? From the mayor of Dixmude, for example?”
“Monsieur, you understand that I was sufficiently embarrassed. I did not know where to begin with such an inquiry.”
“Nor of us, the police, who exist for that? You did not address yourself to us?”
“M. le commissaire, I did not know — I could not imagine — I told myself every day, ‘To-morrow he will write,’ and I waited, et enfin—”
“Et enfin—it did not occur to you to inform yourself. C’est bien remarquable. What gave you the idea that your husband was in England?”
“In England, monsieur?”
“In England, madame. You wrote to him under the name of Paul Taylor, did you not? At the town of Valbesch in the county of Laincollone?” The commissaire excelled himself in the rendering of these barbarian place-names. “At Valbesch in Laincollone you address yourself to him in the name of Paul Taylor—voyons, madame, voyons, and you tell me now that you suppose him to be all the time in Belgium. You will not deny your own handwriting, I suppose? Or the names of your two children? Or the death of the red cow? You do not imagine that you can resurrect the cow?”
“Monsieur—”
“Come, madame. During all these years you have been lying to the police, have you not? You knew very well that your husband was not a Belgian but an Englishman? That his name was actually Paul Taylor? That he had not lost his memory at all? Ah! you think that you can trifle with the police in that way? I assure you, madame, that you will find it a serious matter. You have falsified papers, that is a crime!”
“Monsieur, monsieur—”
“That is your letter?”
“Monsieur, since you have found it, I cannot deny it. But—”
“Good, you admit the letter. Now, what is this about falling into the hands of the military authorities?”
I do not know, monsieur. My husband — monsieur, I implore you to tell me, where is my husband?”
The commissaire Rozier paused, and glanced at Wimsey, who said:
“Madame, we are greatly afraid that your husband is dead.”
“Ah, mon dieu! je le savais bien. If he had been alive, he would have written to me.”
“If you will help us by telling us the truth about your husband, we may be able to identify him.”
The woman stood looking from one to the other. At last she turned to Wimsey. “You, milord, you are not laying a trap for me? You are sure that my husband is dead?”
“Come, come,” said the commissaire, “that makes no difference. You must tell the truth, or it will be the worse for you.”
Wimsey took out of the attaché case which he had brought with him the underclothing which had been found upon the corpse. “Madame,” he said, “we do not know whether the man who wore these is your husband, but on my honour, the man who wore these is dead and they were taken from his body.”
Suzanne Legros turned the garments over, her work-hardened fingers slowly tracing each patch and darn. Then, as though the sight of them had broken down something in her, she dropped into a chair and laid her head down on the mended vest and burst into loud weeping.
“You recognise the garments?” asked the commissaire presently, in a milder tone.
“Yes, they are his, I mended these garments myself. I understand that he is dead.”