The huddled cottages of Sarn were already in sight. Then odours, a complex of stale fish and the filth of beast and man, could be smelt. Women clattered in sabots and laboured. Men lounged against the wall above the mess of the beach. A few small and ancient boats lay at anchor in the cove, and one of a larger size, and better condition, which had a motor engine.
They found a dirty estaminet and obtained from the landlord a bottle of nameless red wine. He said it was old, it was marvellous, but, being urged to share it, preferred a glass of the apple spirit, Calvados. “Marvellous, it is the word,” Dubois grinned. “You are altogether right. Calvados for us also, my friend. It is more humane.”
The landlord was slow of speech, and a pessimist.
Even with several little glasses of Calvados inside him he would talk only of the hardness of life and the poverty of Sarn and the curse upon the modern sardine. Reggie agreed that life was dear and life was difficult, but, after all, they had still their good boats at Sarn - motor - boats indeed. The landlord denied it with gloomy vehemence: motors - not one - only in the Badebec, and that was no fishing - boat, that one. It was M. David’s.
“Is it so? “Reggie yawned, and lit his pipe. He gazed dreamily down the village street to the hideous little church. From that - under a patched umbrella, to keep off the wind, which was high, or the sun, which was grown faint - came a fat and shabby cure. “Well, better luck my friend,” Reggie murmured, left Dubois to pay the bill, and wandered away.
He met the cure by the church gate. Was it permitted to visit that interesting church? Certainly, it was permitted, but monsieur would find nothing of interest - it was new; it was, alas! a poor place.
The cure was right - it was new; it was garish, it was mean. He showed it to Reggie with an affecting simplicity of diffident pride, and Reggie was attentive. Reggie praised the care with which it was kept. “You are kind, sir,” the ewe beamed. “You are just. In fact they are admirably pious, my poor people, but poor - poor.”
“You will permit the stranger - - “Reggie slipped a note into his hand.
“Ah, monsieur! You are generous. It will be recorded, please God.”
“It is nothing,” said Reggie quickly. “Do not think of it.” They passed out of the church. “I suppose this is almost the last place in France?”
“Sometimes I think we are forgotten,” the cure agreed. “Yes, almost the last. Certainly we are all poor folk. There is only M. David, who is sometimes good to us.”
“A visitor?” Reggie said.
“Ah, no. He lives here. The Maison des Iles, you know. No? It is a school for young children - a school of luxury. He is a good man, M. David. Sometimes he will take, for almost a nothing, children who are weakly, and in a little while he has them as strong as the best. I have seen miracles. To be sure it is the best air in the world, here at Sarn. But he is a very good man. He calls his school ‘of the islands’ because of the islands out there” - the cure pointed to what looked like a reef of rocks. “My poor people call them the islands of the blessed. It is not good religion, but they used to think the souls of the innocent went there. Yes the Maison des Iles, his school is. But you should see it sir. The children are charming.”
“If I had time - -” said Reggie, and said good - bye.
Dubois was at the gate. Dubois took his arm and marched him off. “My friend, almost thou persuadest me - -” He spoke into Reggie’s ear. “Guess what I have found, will you? That motor - yacht, the yacht of M. David, she was away a week ten days ago. And M. David on board. You see? It is possible she went over to England. A guess, yes, a chance, but one must avow it fits devilish well, if one can make it fit. A connection with all your fantasy - M. David over in England when Farquhar was drowned. Is it possible we arrive at last?”
“Yes, it could be. Guess what I’ve heard. M. David keeps school. That wasn’t a bandstand. Open - air class - room. M. David is a very good man, and he uses his beautiful school to cure the children of the poor. He does miracles. The old cure has seen ‘em.”
“The devil!” said Dubois. “That does not fit at all. But a priest would see miracles. It is his trade.”
“Oh, no. No. Not unless they happen,” Reggie murmured.
“My friend, you believe more than any man I ever knew,” Dubois rumbled. “Come, I must know more of this David. The sooner we were back at Quimper the better.”
“Yes. That is indicated. Quimper and telephone.”
He checked a moment, and gazed anguish at Dubois. “Oh, my hat, how I hate telephones.”
Dubois has not that old - fashioned weakness. Dubois, it is beyond doubt, enjoyed the last hours of that afternoon, shut into privacy at the post office with its best telephone, stirring up London and Paris and half France till sweat dripped from his big face and the veins of his brow dilated into knotted cords.
When he came into Reggie’s room at the hotel it was already past dinner - time. Reggie lay on his bed, languid from a bath. “My dear old thing,” he moaned sympathy. “What a battle! You must have lost pounds.”
“So much the better,” Dubois chuckled. “And also I have results. Listen. First. I praise the good Bell. He has it that a French boat - cutter rig with motor - was seen by fishermen in the bay off Lyncombe last week. They watched her, because they had suspicions she was poaching their lobsters and crabs, which they unaccountably believe is the habit of our honest French fishermen. She was lying in the bay the night of Tuesday - you see, the night that Farquhar disappeared. In the morning she was gone. They are not sure of the name, but they thought it was Badboy. That is near enough to Badebec, hein? In fact, myself, I do not understand the name Badebec.”
“Lady in Rabelais,” Reggie murmured. “Rather interestin’. Shows the breadth of M. David’s taste.”
“Aha. Very well. Here is a good deal for M. David to explain. Second, M. David himself. He is known; there is nothing against him. In fact he is like you, a man of science, a biologist, a doctor. He was brilliant as a student, which was about the same time that Farquhar studied art - and other things - in the Quartier Latin. David had no money. He served in hospitals for children; he set up his school here - a school for delicate children - four years ago. Its record is very good. He has medical inspection by a doctor from Quimper each month. But, third, Weber’s nephew was at this school till July. He went home to Paris, they went out to Fontainebleau, and - piff!” Dubois snapped his fingers. “He is dead like that. There is no doubt it was diphtheria. Do you say fulminating diphtheria? Yes, that is it.”
“I’d like a medical report,” Reggie murmured.
“I have asked for it. However - the doctors are above suspicion, my friend. And now, fourth - the Bernals are found. They are at Dijon. They have been asked what has become of their dear little boy, and, they reply, he is at school in Brittany. At the school of M. David, Maison des Iles, Quimper.”
“Yes. He would be. I see.”
“Name of a name! I think you have always seen everything.”
