Golden Stories | Page 4

"Thousands
and thousands of duck and teel and widgeon they catches at this time of
year. There's miles of nets along the road--great big nets like fowl runs.
Ye didn't happen to see any on 'em as ye came along in the train?"
"Now I come to think of it, yes," Merrick said thoughtfully. "I was
rather struck by all that netting. So they catch sea birds that way?"
"Catches 'em by the thousand, they does. Birds fly against the netting in
the dark and get entangled. Ducks they get by 'ticing 'em into a sort of
cage with decoys. There's some of 'em stan's the best part of half a mile
long. Covered in over the top like great cages. Ain't bad sport, either."
Merrick nodded. He recollected it all clearly now. He recalled the wide,
desolate mud flats running right up to the railway embankment for
some miles. At high tide the mud flats were under water, and out of
these the great mass of network rose both horizontally and
perpendicular. And in this tangle the dead body of a man had been
found after the storm.
There was nothing really significant in the fact that the body had been
discovered soon after the murder of Mr. George Skidmore. Still, there
might be a connection between the two incidents. Merrick was going to
make inquiries; he was after what looked like a million to one chance.
But then Merrick was a detective with an imagination, which was one
of the reasons why he had been appointed to the job. It was essentially
a case for the theoretical man. It baffled all the established rules of the

game.
Late the same afternoon Merrick arrived at Little Warlingham by
means of a baker's cart. It was here that the body of the drowned man
lay awaiting the slim chances of identity. If nothing transpired during
the next eight and forty hours, the corpse would be buried by the parish
authorities. The village policeman acted as Merrick's guide. It was an
event in his life that he was not likely to forget.
"A stranger to these parts, I should say, sir," the local officer said. "He's
in a shed at the back of the 'Blue Anchor,' where the inquest was held.
If you come this way, I'll show him to you."
"Anything found on the body?"
"Absolutely nothing, sir. No mark on the clothing or linen, either.
Probably washed off some ship in the storm. Pockets were quite empty,
too. And no signs of foul play. There you are, sir!"
Casually enough Merrick bent over the still, white form lying there.
The dead face was turned up to the light, Rembrandtesque, coming
through the door. The detective straightened himself suddenly, and
wiped his forehead.
"Stranger to you, sir, of course?" the local man said grimly.
"Well, no," Merrick retorted. "I happen to know the fellow quite well.
I'm glad I came here."
* * * * *
Until it was quite too dark to see any longer Merrick was out on the
mud flats asking questions. He appeared to be greatly interested in the
wildfowlers and the many methods of catching their prey. He learned,
incidentally, that on the night of the express murder most of the nets
and lures had been washed away. He took minute particulars as to the
state of the tide on the night in question; he wanted to know if the nets
were capable of holding up against any great force. For instance, if a

school of porpoises came along? Or if a fish eagle or an osprey found
itself entangled in the meshes?
The fowlers smiled. They invited Merrick to try it for himself. On that
stormy east coast it was foolish to take any risks. And Merrick was
satisfied. As a matter of fact, he was more than satisfied.
He was really beginning to see his way at last. By the time he got back
to his headquarters again he had practically reconstructed the crime. As
he stood on the railway permanent way, gazing down into the network
of the fowlers below, he smiled to himself. He could have tossed a
biscuit on to the top of the long lengths of tarred and knotted rigging.
Later on he telephoned to the London terminus of the Grand Coast
Railway for the people there to place the services of Catesby at his
disposal for a day or two. Could Catesby meet him at Lydmouth
to-morrow?
The guard could and did. He frankly admitted that he was grateful for
the little holiday. He looked as if he wanted it. The corners of his
mouth twitched, his hands were shaky.
"It's nerves, Mr. Merrick," he explained. "We all suffer from them at
times. Only we don't like the company to