The Sea Mystery

The Burry Inlet, on the south coast of Wales, looks its best from the sea. At least so thought Mr. Morgan as he sat in the sternsheets of his boat, a fishing-line between his fingers, while his son, Evan, pulled lazily over the still water.

In truth, the prospect on this pleasant autumn evening would have pleased a man less biased by pride of fatherland than Mr. Morgan. The Inlet at full tide forms a wide sheet of water, penetrating in an easterly direction some ten miles into the land, with the county of Carmarthen to the north and the Gower Peninsula to the south. The shores are flat, but rounded hills rise inland which merge to form an undulating horizon of high ground. Here and there along the coast are sand-dunes, whose grays and yellows show up in contrast to the greens of the grasslands and the woods beyond.

To the southeast, over by Salthouse Point and Penclawdd, Mr. Morgan could see every detail of house and sand-dune, tree and meadow, lit up with a shining radiance, but the northwest hills behind Burry Port were black and solid against the setting sun. Immediately north lay Llanelly, with its dingy colored buildings, its numberless chimneys, and the masts and funnels of the steamers in its harbor.

It was a perfect evening in late September, the close of a perfect day. Not a cloud appeared in the sky and scarcely a ripple stirred the surface of the sea. The air was warm and balmy, and all nature seemed drowsing in languorous content. Save for the muffled noise of the Llanelly mills, borne over the water, and the slow, rhythmic creak of the oars, no sound disturbed the sleepy quiet.

The thought had scarcely passed through his mind when the line he was holding tightened suddenly and began to run out through his fingers. At the same moment the next line, which was made fast round the after thwart, also grew taut, strained for a second, then with a jerk slackened and lay dead. Evan leaped to his feet and screamed out in excitement:

“Hold, daddy, hold! Back water quick! I’ve got something big!”

The line continued to run out until Mr. Morgan, by rowing against the tide, brought the boat relatively to a standstill. Then the line stopped as if anchored to something below, twitching indeed from the current, but not giving the thrilling chucks and snatches for which the boy was hoping.

“Oh, blow!” he cried, disgustedly. “It’s not a fish. We’ve got a stone or some seaweed. See, this one caught it, too.”

He dropped the line he was holding and pulled in the other. Its hooks were missing.

“See,” he repeated. “What did I tell you? We shall probably lose the hooks of this one, too. It’s caught fast.”

“Steady, old man. Take the oars and let me feel it.”

Mr. Morgan moved into the stern and pulled the resisting line, but without effect.

“Rather curious this,” he said. “All this stretch is sand. I once saw it uncovered at very low springs. Keep rowing till I feel round the thing with the grappling and see if I can find out what it is.”

The crate was strongly made, and though Mr. Morgan was a good amateur carpenter, it took him several minutes to open it. But at last one of the top boards was prized up. Instantly both became conscious of a heavy, nauseating smell.

“A case of South American meat or something gone west,” Mr. Morgan commented. “I don’t know that I’m so keen on going on with this job. Perhaps we can see what it is without opening it up further.”

Holding his breath, he put his eye to the slit and shone in a beam from the electric torch. Then with a sharp intaking of the breath he rose.

“It’s a disgusting smell,” he said in rather shaky tones. “Let’s go round and ask Manners to finish the job.”

“Let me look in, dad.”

“Right, old man. But come round with me first to see Manners.”

With some difficulty Mr. Morgan drew his son away. He was feeling sick and shaken. For beneath that well-fitting lid and sticking up out of the water which still remained in the crate was a gruesome and terrible object⁠—the bent head and crouching body of a man dressed in underclothes only and in an advanced state of decomposition!

It was all Mr. Morgan could do to crush down the horror which possessed him and to pretend to the boy that nothing was amiss. Evan must not be allowed to see that ghastly sight! It would haunt his young mind for weeks. Mr. Morgan led the way round the harbour, across the dock gates and towards the road leading to the town.

“But aren’t we going to Manners?” Evan queried, hanging back.

“Now, Gurney, do you know who I am?” he went on. “I’m an inspector from Scotland Yard and I’m down here to try to solve these two mysteries. Because, Gurney, do you know what I think? I think that on that night the body of one of these two gentlemen was taken to the works and put into the crate.”

Gurney started and paled. “Lord save us!” he muttered. “But wot about the accident?”

“There was no accident,” French replied, sternly. “There was murder. Who committed it, I don’t know at present. Where the other body is, if there is another body, I don’t yet know. But I have no doubt about one of the bodies. It was put into the crate on that night.”

Gurney moistened his dry lips.

“But⁠—” he began, and his voice died away into silence.

“That’s it,” French went on, impressively. “Now, Gurney, I’m not accusing you of anything. But you know something. You needn’t attempt to deny it, because it has been plain to me from the first moment I spoke to you. Come now. Something out of the common took place that night. What was it?”

Gurney did not deny the charge. Instead he sat motionless, with scared, unhappy eyes. French remained silent also; then he said, quietly:

“What was it? Were you away from your post that night?”

“No, sir, not that. I was there all the time,” the other answered, earnestly.

Burt was obviously disconcerted. But he tried to hide his feelings and reluctantly invited the caller into the study.

“Yes, sir?” he said.

French instantly became official and very stern. He swung round, frowning at the other and staring him full in the face. Then he said, harshly: “It is you I want to see, Burt. You lied to me this afternoon. I have come back to hear the truth.”

The man started and fell back a pace, while dismay and something like terror showed on his features.

“I don’t understand,” he stammered. “What do you mean?”

“It’s no use, Burt. You’ve given yourself away. You saw or heard something that night. What was it?”

“You’re mistaken, sir,” he declared, with a look of relief. “I neither saw nor heard anything. I swear it.” And then gaining confidence: “I don’t know what right you have to come here and tell me I was lying. I’m sure⁠—”

“Cut it out,” French said, sharply. “Look here, Burt, do you want to be arrested on a charge of conspiracy to murder?”

Burt’s jaw dropped, but French did not give him time to reply.

“Because if you don’t you’ll tell what you know. Mr. Pyke was murdered that night, and perhaps Mr. Berlyn as well. They were not lost on the moor and it is believed they came here. If you keep back any information that might lead to the arrest of the murderer, it’s conspiracy⁠—accessory after the fact. Ten years penal for that, Burt! Come along, now. Make up your mind whether you’re going to tell or face the judge.”