This was something more than a blow to French, and his self-esteem reeled under it. For the nth time he marvelled at the amazing knowledge of other people’s business to be found in country districts. The small country town, he thought, was the absolute limit! There he was, moving continually among the townspeople, none of whom gave the least sign of interest in his calling, yet evidently they had discussed him and his affairs to some purpose. The garrulous landlady, Mrs. Billing, was no doubt responsible for the murder of Pyke becoming known, but the belief that he, French, suspected Berlyn of murdering him was really rather wonderful.
“It seems to me,” he said with a rather sickly smile, “that your townspeople are better detectives than ever came out of Scotland Yard. So your young man thinks I’m police and wants to turn an honest penny, does he? Where am I to find him?”
“He’ll be at home. He’s living with his father at the head of East Street—a single red house on the left-hand side just beyond the town.”
In the leisurely, holiday-like way he had adopted, French crossed the town and half an hour later had introduced himself to Mr. Alfred Beer. Lizzie’s Alf was a stalwart young man with a heavy face and a sullen, discontented expression. French, sizing him up rapidly, decided that the suave method would scarcely meet the case.
“You are Alfred Beer, engaged to Lizzie Johnston, the former servant at Mr. Berlyn’s?” he began.
“That’s right, mister.”
“I am a police officer investigating the deaths of Mr. Berlyn and Mr. Pyke. You have some information for me?”
“I don’t altogether know that,” Beer answered, slowly. “Just wot did you want to know?”
“What you have to tell me,” French said, sharply. “You told Miss Johnston you had some information and I’ve come up to hear it.”
The man looked at him calculatingly.