“No, I was thinking of something else,” he answered.
“We must look up Brett,” said Crewe. “Just write down his address, inspector—if you don’t mind.”
“He lives at No. 41 Whitethorn Gardens,” said the police officer. “But I don’t think you will find him there to-day. His landlady, Mrs. Penfield, promised to send me word as soon as he got back. When I heard of this murder I went down to see Brett to find out when he had last seen Lumsden, and to get a statement from him. But he had gone up to London or Liverpool the day before the murder. Mrs. Penfield expects him back early next week, but it is impossible to be certain about his return. The fact is, Mr. Crewe, that he does some secret service work for the Foreign Office, and naturally doesn’t talk much about his movements. He is an excellent linguist I’m told, knows French and Russian and German—speaks these languages like a native.”
“There is no hurry about seeing him,” said Crewe. “I’ll look him up when he returns. In the meantime will you write down his address for me?”
Marsland, who was nearer the inspector, took the paper on which the police officer wrote Brett’s address, and before handing it to Crewe looked at it carefully.
“And now can you tell me anything about an old boatman who wears a scarlet coat?” asked Crewe. “A tall old man, with a hooked nose and white beard?”
“That’s old Pedro,” replied Inspector Murchison. “He’s well known on the front, although he’s not been here very long, certainly not more than twelve months. But I hope you don’t think Pedro had anything to do with the Cliff Farm murder, Mr. Crewe? We’re rather proud of Pedro on the front, he’s an attraction to the place, and very popular with the ladies.”
“Marsland and I saw him in his boat at an old landing-place near the farm a few days ago,” replied Crewe. “He’s a man not easily forgotten—once seen. I’d like to find out what took him over in the direction of Ashlingsea.”
“He’s often over there,” said the inspector. “That is his favourite trip for his patrons—across the bay and over to the cliff landing, as we call it. That is the landing at the foot of the cliffs near Cliff Farm—I daresay you noticed it, Mr. Crewe?”
“Yes. They told me at Ashlingsea that the landing-place and boat-house belong to Cliff Farm—that they were put up by old James Lumsden.”