The sea mystery

by Freeman Wills Crofts

It was his cousin. His cousin had come down from London and taken everything there was. That was Mr. Jefferson Pyke. Her Mr. Pyke was Mr. Stanley. Mr. Jefferson was the only remaining relative, at least so she understood. He packed up everything and took it away. Except a few things that he said he didn’t want. These she had kept. Not that she wanted them, but if they were going begging, as Mr. French might say, why, then. . . .

No, she had only seen Mr. Jefferson once before. He lived in the Argentine, or was it Australia? She wasn’t rightly sure—she had no memory for places—but he lived away in some strange foreign country, anyhow. He happened to be over on a visit and was going back again shortly. Her brother James lived in Australia and she had asked Mr. Jefferson . . .

So French sat and listened while the unending stream poured about his devoted head. At times by summoning up all his resolution he interposed a remark which diverted the current in a new direction. But his perseverance was rewarded as from nearly all of these mutations he learned at least one fact. When at last, exhausted but triumphant, he rose to take his leave, he had gained the following information:

Mr. Stanley Pyke was a jolly, pleasant-mannered man of about five-and-thirty, who had lodged with the talkative landlady for the past four years. He had been connected with the works for much longer than that, but at first had had other rooms farther down the street. Hers, the landlady modestly explained, were the best in the town, and Mr. Pyke’s removal was an outward and visible sign of his prosperity. For the rest, he was satisfactory as lodgers go, easy to please, not stingy about money, and always with a pleasant word for her when they met.

On the evening of the tragedy he had dined at six-fifteen instead of seven, his usual hour. He had gone out immediately after, giving the instruction about the door and his supper. The landlady had gone to bed as usual, and the first intimation she had had that anything was wrong was the visit of the police on the following morning.

Some one, she did not know who, must have informed the cousin, Mr. Jefferson Pyke, for that evening he turned up. He had stayed at Torquay for three or four days, coming over to Ashburton to see the police and make enquiries. On one of these visits he had called on her and stated that, as he was the only surviving relative of his cousin, he would take charge of his personal effects. He had packed up and removed a good many of the dead man’s things, saying he did not want the remainder and asking her to dispose of them.

It had not occurred to her to question Mr. Jefferson Pyke’s right to take her lodger’s property. She had seen him once before, in Mr. Stanley’s lifetime. Some two months before the tragedy Mr. Stanley had told her that his cousin was home on a visit from the Argentine—she believed it was the Argentine and not Australia—and that he was coming down to see him. He asked her could she put him up. Mr. Jefferson had arrived a day or two later and she had given him her spare bedroom. He stayed for four days and the cousins had explored the moor together. Mrs. Berlyn, she had heard, had driven them about in her car. The landlady had found Mr. Jefferson very pleasant; indeed, when the two men were together they had nearly made her die laughing with their jokes and nonsense. Mr. Jefferson had told her that he owned a ranch in the Argentine and that he was thinking of starting flower gardens from which to supply the cities. He was then on his way back from the Scillys, where he had gone to investigate the industry. A week after Mr. Jefferson left, Mr. Stanley took his holidays, and he had told her he was going with his cousin to the south of France to a place called Grasse, where there were more gardens. He was only back some three weeks when he met his death.

All this was given to French with a wealth of detail which, had it been material to his investigation, he would have welcomed, but by which, as it was, he was frankly bored. However, he could do nothing to stop the stream and he simulated interest as best he could.

“By the way, Mrs. Billing,” he said, pausing on his way out, “if I take these rooms could you look after the mending of my clothes? Who did it for Mr. Pyke?”

Mrs. Billing had, and she would be delighted to do the same for Mr. French.