Burke had been prepared by the constable for Derrick’s coming, and during the past few weeks had chafed at his delay. He wanted to talk about the Millicent case more than anything else in the world. It was the biggest and most baffling puzzle in his career, and for a day or so the eyes of England had turned curiously toward Bamberley. After the inquest they turned away to the next sensation, leaving the police force of that tiny community with the stinging sensation of having fallen grievously short. Since then, Burke, feeling his position more than he would ever admit, had explored every avenue that presented itself to his methodical mind. And always with the same result. Now, after nearly two years of silence, the thing was up again, brought up by a complete stranger who had actually taken into his employ the man suspected of the crime, against whom no definite charge could be laid. Burke secretly wondered whether by any chance Derrick and his gardener knew each other a good deal better than appeared on the surface of things. This was undoubtedly a matter for caution.
“The point is, sir,” he said slowly, “that I have no authority to tell you anything whatever, unless it is clear that the law may be aided thereby, and you have supplementary evidence with a direct bearing on the case.”
Derrick nodded. “I quite understand, sergeant, and that’s entirely reasonable. Would you sooner I looked up the counsel acting for the crown at the inquest? I’m quite willing, if you’d rather not talk about it.”
Burke reflected. He did not want to lose anything that might help himself, nor did he want to go beyond his boundaries. There was probably nothing here, but he could not get the reappearance of Martin out of his head. He had walked past the cottage at Beech Lodge only the week before and had a look at the man. Martin had nodded coolly and gone on with his work. A hard man, any way one took him.
“Please yourself, sir, about that; but if you’ll tell me what’s in your mind perhaps it won’t be necessary to go any further.”
“It may take a little time, sergeant.”
Burke glanced out of the window and along the cross-roads. “We’re not likely to be disturbed this morning.”
“Then I’ll begin with a question. Do you believe in the theory that when a serious crime has been committed, I mean one of passion or revenge, that the criminal, wherever he may be, is constantly reminded of it by the process of his own brain—that in spite of all he can do he builds up picture after picture, and lives it all over and over again?”
“There are too many proved instances of that to doubt it.”
“And do you also believe that something constantly suggests to such a man that he should go back and revisit the scene of the crime?”