Chapter 3

They took me at my word and placed a gendarme with a bared sabre at the gateway by the hedge.

“Give me your parole,” said poor Durand, “and I will let you go where you wish.” But I refused, and began prowling about the cottage looking for clews. I found lots of things that some people would have considered most important, such as ashes from the Red Admiral’s pipe, footprints in a dusty vegetable bin, bottles smelling of Pouldu cider, and dust--oh, lots of dust!--but I was not an expert, only a stupid, everyday amateur; so I defaced the footprints with my thick shooting boots, and I declined to examine the pipe ashes through a microscope, although the Red Admiral’s microscope stood on the table close at hand.

At last I found what I had been looking for, some long wisps of straw, curiously depressed and flattened in the middle, and I was certain I had found the evidence that would settle Yves Terrec for the rest of his life. It was plain as the nose on your face. The straws were sabot straws, flattened where the foot had pressed them, and sticking straight out where they projected beyond the sabot. Now nobody in St. Gildas used straw in sabots except a fisherman who lived near St. Julien, and the straw in his sabots was ordinary yellow wheat straw! This straw, or rather these straws, were from the stalks of the red wheat which only grows inland, and which, everybody in St. Gildas knew, Yves Terrec wore in his sabots. I was perfectly satisfied; and when, three hours later, a hoarse shouting from the Bannalec Road brought me to the window, I was not surprised to see Yves Terrec, bloody, dishevelled, hatless, with his strong arms bound behind him, walking with bent head between two mounted gendarmes. The crowd around him swelled every minute, crying: “Parricide! parricide! Death to the murderer!” As he passed my window I saw great clots of mud on his dusty sabots, from the heels of which projected wisps of red wheat straw. Then I walked back into the Red Admiral’s study, determined to find what the microscope would show on the wheat straws. I examined each one very carefully, and then, my eyes aching, I rested my chin on my hand and leaned back in the chair. I had not been as fortunate as some detectives, for there was no evidence that the straws had ever been used in a sabot at all. Furthermore, directly across the hallway stood a carved Breton chest, and now I noticed for the first time that, from beneath the closed lid, dozens of similar red wheat straws projected, bent exactly as mine were bent by the weight of the lid.

I yawned in disgust. It was apparent that I was not cut out for a detective, and I bitterly pondered over the difference between clews in real life and clews in a detective story. After a while I rose, walked over to the chest and opened the lid. The interior was wadded with the red wheat straws, and on this wadding lay two curious glass jars, two or three small vials, several empty bottles labelled chloroform, a collecting jar of cyanide of potassium, and a book. In a farther corner of the chest were some letters bearing English stamps, and also the torn coverings of two parcels, all from England, and all directed to the Red Admiral under his proper name of “Sieur Louis Jean Terrec, St. Gildas, par Moëlan, Finistère.”

All these traps I carried over to the desk, shut the lid of the chest, and sat down to read the letters. They were written in commercial French, evidently by an Englishman.

Freely translated, the contents of the first letter were as follows:

“LONDON, June 12, 1894.

“DEAR MONSIEUR (sic): Your kind favour of the 19th inst.

received and contents noted. The latest work on the

Lepidoptera of England is Blowzer’s How to catch British

Butterflies, with notes and tables, and an introduction by

Sir Thomas Sniffer. The price of this work (in one volume,

calf) is £5 or 125 francs of French money. A post-office

order will receive our prompt attention. We beg to remain,

“Yours, etc.,

“FRADLEY & TOOMER,

“470 Regent Square, London, S. W.”

The next letter was even less interesting. It merely stated that the money had been received and the book would be forwarded. The third engaged my attention, and I shall quote it, the translation being a free one:

“DEAR SIR: Your letter of the 1st of July was duly received,

and we at once referred it to Mr. Fradley himself. Mr. Fradley

being much interested in your question, sent your letter to

Professor Schweineri, of the Berlin Entomological Society,

whose note Blowzer refers to on page 630, in his How to catch

British Butterflies. We have just received an answer from

Professor Schweineri, which we translate into French--(see

inclosed slip). Professor Schweineri begs to present to you

two jars of cythyl, prepared under his own supervision. We

forward the same to you. Trusting that you will find

everything satisfactory, we remain,

“Yours sincerely,

“FRADLEY & TOOMER.”

The inclosed slip read as follows:

“Messrs. FRADLEY & TOOMER,

“GENTLEMEN: Cythaline, a complex hydrocarbon, was first used

by Professor Schnoot, of Antwerp, a year ago. I discovered

an analogous formula about the same time and named it cythyl.

I have used it with great success everywhere. It is as

certain as a magnet. I beg to present you three small jars,

and would be pleased to have you forward two of them to your

correspondent in St. Gildas with my compliments. Blowzer’s

quotation of me, on page 630 of his glorious work, How to

catch British Butterflies, is correct.

“Yours, etc.,

“HEINRICH SCHWEINERI,

P.H.D., D.D., D.S., M.S.”

When I had finished this letter I folded it up and put it into my pocket with the others. Then I opened Blowzer’s valuable work, How to catch British Butterflies, and turned to page 630.

Now, although the Red Admiral could only have acquired the book very recently, and although all the other pages were perfectly clean, this particular page was thumbed black, and heavy pencil marks inclosed a paragraph at the bottom of the page. This is the paragraph:

“Professor Schweineri says: ‘Of the two old methods used by

collectors for the capture of the swift-winged, high-flying

Apatura Iris, or Purple Emperor, the first, which was using a

long-handled net, proved successful once in a thousand times;

and the second, the placing of bait upon the ground, such as

decayed meat, dead cats, rats, etc., was not only disagreeable,

even for an enthusiastic collector, but also very uncertain.

Once in five hundred times would the splendid butterfly leave

the tops of his favourite oak trees to circle about the fetid

bait offered. I have found cythyl a perfectly sure bait to

draw this beautiful butterfly to the ground, where it can be

easily captured. An ounce of cythyl placed in a yellow saucer

under an oak tree, will draw to it every Apatura Iris within

a radius of twenty miles. So, if any collector who possesses

a little cythyl, even though it be in a sealed bottle in his

pocket--if such a collector does not find a single Apatura

Iris fluttering close about him within an hour, let him be

satisfied that the Apatura Iris does not inhabit his country.’”

When I had finished reading this note I sat for a long while thinking hard. Then I examined the two jars. They were labelled “Cythyl.” One was full, the other nearly full. “The rest must be on the corpse of the Red Admiral,” I thought, “no matter if it is in a corked bottle--”

I took all the things back to the chest, laid them carefully on the straw, and closed the lid. The gendarme sentinel at the gate saluted me respectfully as I crossed over to the Groix Inn. The Inn was surrounded by an excited crowd, and the hallway was choked with gendarmes and peasants. On every side they greeted me cordially, announcing that the real murderer was caught; but I pushed by them without a word and ran upstairs to find Lys. She opened her door when I knocked and threw both arms about my neck. I took her to my breast and kissed her. After a moment I asked her if she would obey me no matter what I commanded, and she said she would, with a proud humility that touched me.

“Then go at once to Yvette in St. Julien,” I said. “Ask her to harness the dog-cart and drive you to the convent in Quimperlé. Wait for me there. Will you do this without questioning me, my darling?”

She raised her face to mine. “Kiss me,” she said innocently; the next moment she had vanished.

I walked deliberately into the Purple Emperor’s room and peered into the gauze-covered box which had held the chrysalis of Apatura Iris. It was as I expected. The chrysalis was empty and transparent, and a great crack ran down the middle of its back, but, on the netting inside the box, a magnificent butterfly slowly waved its burnished purple wings; for the chrysalis had given up its silent tenant, the butterfly symbol of immortality. Then a great fear fell upon me. I know now that it was the fear of the Black Priest, but neither then nor for years after did I know that the Black Priest had ever lived on earth. As I bent over the box I heard a confused murmur outside the house which ended in a furious shout of “Parricide!” and I heard the gendarmes ride away behind a wagon which rattled sharply on the flinty highway. I went to the window. In the wagon sat Yves Terrec, bound and wild-eyed, two gendarmes at either side of him, and all around the wagon rode mounted gendarmes whose bared sabres scarcely kept the crowd away.

“Parricide!” they howled. “Let him die!”

I stepped back and opened the gauze-covered box. Very gently but firmly I took the splendid butterfly by its closed fore wings and lifted it unharmed between my thumb and forefinger. Then, holding it concealed behind my back, I went down into the café.