‘Now, Mr Berlyn. Could he have had a down on your cousin?’
‘But he was lost, too,’ Pyke rejoined, then stopped and looked keenly at French. ‘By Jove, Inspector, I get your idea! You think Berlyn may have murdered him and cleared out?’ He shook his head. ‘No, no, you are wrong. It is impossible. Berlyn wasn’t that sort. I knew him slightly and I confess I didn’t care for him, but he was not a murderer.’
‘Why did you not like him, Mr Pyke?’
Pyke shrugged.
‘Hard to say. Not my style, perhaps. A good man, you know, and efficient and all that, but—too efficient, shall I say? He expected too much from others: didn’t make allowances for human errors and frailties. Poor Mrs Berlyn had rather a time with him.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, an example will explain what I mean. On this last holiday after Stanley and I got back to London we met Berlyn and his wife who were in town. The four of us dined together and went to a theatre. We were to meet at the restaurant at seven. Well, Mrs Berlyn had been off somewhere on her own, and she was five minutes late. What was that for a woman? But Berlyn was so ratty about it that I felt quite embarrassed. You see, he wouldn’t have been late himself. If he had said seven, he would have been there—on the tick. He couldn’t see that other people were not made the same way.’
‘I follow you. You say that Mrs Berlyn had rather a time with him. Did they not get on?’
‘Oh, they got on—as well as fifty per cent of the married people get on. Berlyn did his duty to her strictly, even lavishly, but he expected the same in return. I don’t know that you could blame him. Strictly speaking, of course, he was right. It was his instinct for scrupulously fair play.’
‘Your late cousin and Mrs Berlyn were very good friends, were they not?’
‘We were both good friends with Mrs Berlyn. Stanley and I knew her as children. In fact it was through Stanley that Berlyn met her. I was in the Argentine at the time, but he told me about it. Berlyn was going for a holiday—one of those cruises round the Western Mediterranean. Stanley happened to have met Phyllis Considine, as she was then, in London, and she had mentioned she was going on the same trip. So he gave Berlyn an introduction. Berlyn, it appears, fell in love with her and was accepted before the cruise was over.’
‘Do you think Berlyn could have been jealous of your cousin?’
‘I’m sure he could not, Inspector. Don’t get that bee into your bonnet. Stanley certainly went often to the house, but Berlyn was always friendly to him. I don’t for a moment believe there was anything to be jealous about.’
‘There was enough intimacy for them to be talked about.’
‘In Ashburton!’ Pyke retorted scornfully. ‘In a little one-horse place like that they’d talk no matter what you did.’
‘It was believed that there was something between them until about four months before the tragedy; then, for some unknown reason, the affair stopped.’
‘That so?’ Pyke retorted. ‘Well, if it stopped four months before the tragedy, it couldn’t have caused it.’
‘Do you know where Mrs Berlyn is now?’
‘Yes, in London, at 70b Park Walk, Chelsea, to be exact.’
French continued his questions, but without learning anything further of interest, and after cautioning Pyke to keep his own counsel, he took his leave.
So he had reached certainty at last! The body was Stanley Pyke’s. He had admittedly made four ghastly blunders in his test-points and these he must now try to retrieve. There was also a reasonable suspicion that Charles Berlyn was the murderer. Splendid! He was getting on. As he went down to the Yard he felt he had some good work behind him to report.
10
London’s Further Contribution
Now that he was in London, French decided that he should complete certain inquiries.
First, he should satisfy himself that everything possible had been done to trace the letter-writers of the Euston and St Pancras hotels and the purchaser of the money order for £62 10s. Next, he must visit the manufacturers of the Ardlo magneto and get their views on short circuited windings. Lastly, he must have an interview with Mrs Berlyn.
As it happened he took the last of these items first, and three o’clock that afternoon found him ascending the stairs of No. 70b Park Walk, Chelsea. The house was divided into a number of what seemed small but comfortable flats. Pretty expensive, French thought, as he rang.
A neatly dressed maid opened the door, and after taking in his card, announced that Mrs Berlyn would see him. He followed her to a tiny but pleasantly furnished drawing-room, and there in a few minutes he was joined by the lady of the house.
French looked at her with some curiosity. Of medium height and with a slight, graceful figure, she still gave an impression of energy and competent efficiency. She was not beautiful, but her appearance was arresting and French felt instinctively that she was a woman to be reckoned with. Her manner was vivacious and French could imagine her dancing all night and turning up next morning to breakfast as cool and fresh and ready for anything as if she had had her accustomed eight hours’ sleep.
‘Inspector French, Scotland Yard,’ she said briskly, glancing at the card in her hand. ‘Won’t you sit down, Mr French, and tell me what I can do for you?’
‘Thank you, Mrs Berlyn. I am sorry to say I have called on distressing business. It may or may not concern your late husband. I am hoping for information from you which may decide the point.’
The lady’s expression became grave.
‘Suppose you give me the details,’ she suggested.
‘I am about to do so, but I warn you that you must prepare yourself for a shock. It is in connection with the tragedy by which Mr Berlyn and Mr Pyke were believed to have lost their lives.’
Mrs Berlyn started and her gaze became fixed intently on French.
‘It has been discovered that Mr Pyke was not lost on the moor as was supposed. Of Mr Berlyn’s fate nothing new has been learnt. But I deeply regret to inform you that Mr Pyke was murdered.’
‘Stanley Pyke murdered! Oh, impossible!’ Horror showed on the lady’s face and her lips trembled. For a moment it looked as if she would give way to her emotion, but she controlled herself and asked for details.
French told her exactly what had occurred, from the discovery of the crate to Jefferson Pyke’s identification of the birthmark.
‘I’m afraid it must be true,’ she said sadly, when he had finished. ‘I remember that birthmark too. We were children together, the Pykes and I, and I have often seen it. Oh, I can’t say how sorry I am. Who could have done such a terrible thing? Stanley was so jolly and pleasant and kind. He was good to everyone and everyone liked him. Oh, it is too awful for words!’
French made a non-committal reply.
‘But what about my late husband?’ Mrs Berlyn went on. ‘You said nothing has been learned about him. But—if they were together—?’
She paused suddenly, as if seeing that a meaning which she had not intended might be read into her words. But French replied soothingly:
‘That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about, Mrs Berlyn. Did you know if either he or Mr Pyke had any enemies? You need not fear to tell me the merest suspicions. I will act only on knowledge that I obtain, but your suspicion might suggest where to look for that knowledge.’
‘Are you suggesting that my husband might have been murdered also?’ she said in a low voice.
‘Not necessarily. I am asking if you can think of anything which could sustain that view?’
Mrs Berlyn could not think of anything. She did not know of anyone who had a grudge against either of the men. Indeed, only for the inspector’s assurance, she could not have brought herself to believe that Mr Pyke had met so dreadful an end.
French then began pumping her in his quiet, skilful way. But though she answered all his questions with the utmost readiness, he did not learn much that he had not already known.
Her father, she told him, wa
s a doctor in Lincoln, and there she had known the Pykes. Stanley’s mother—his father was dead—lived about a mile from the town, and he and his cousin Jefferson, who boarded with them, used to walk in daily to school. The three had met at parties and children’s dances, and had once spent a holiday together at the seaside. The Pykes had left the town when the boys had finished their schooling and she had lost sight of them. Then one day she had met Stanley in London, and he told her that he was at the Vida Works. She had mentioned that she was going on a cruise to the Mediterranean, and he had said that his employer, Mr Berlyn, was going on the same trip and to be sure to look out for him. That was the way she had met Mr Berlyn. He had proposed to her on the trip, and she had accepted him.
French then delicately broached the question of her relations with Stanley Pyke. And here for the first time he was not satisfied by her replies. That there had been something more between them than friendship he strongly suspected. Indeed, Mrs Berlyn practically admitted it. As a result of French’s diplomatic probing it came out that Mr Berlyn had shown marked disapproval of their intimacy and that about four months prior to the tragedy they had decided that for the sake of peace they should see less of each other. They had carried out this resolve, and Berlyn’s resentment had apparently vanished.
French next turned to the subject of Colonel Domlio, but here Mrs Berlyn had as good as laughed. It appeared that the man had tried to flirt with her, but her opinion was evidently that there was no fool like an old fool. French had no doubt that any love-making that might have taken place was not serious, on the lady’s side at all events.
Thinking that he had obtained all the information that he was likely to get, French at last rose to go. But Mrs Berlyn signed to him to sit down again, and said gravely:
‘If that is all, Mr French, I want to ask you a question. I never think there is any use in pretending about things, and from your questions I cannot but guess what is in your mind. You think my late husband may have murdered Mr Pyke?’
‘I take it from that, Mrs Berlyn, that you want a perfectly straight answer? Well, I shall give it to you. The idea, of course, occurred to me, as it would to anyone in my position. I am bound to investigate it, and I am going to do so. But I can say without reservation that so far it remains an idea.’
Mrs Berlyn bowed.
‘Thank you for that. Of course, I recognise that you must investigate all possibilities, and I recognise too that you will not give any weight to what I am going to say. But I must tell you that if you suspect Mr Berlyn you are making a mistake. Though he was not perfect, he was utterly incapable of a crime like that—utterly. If you had ever met him you would have known that. I wish I could say or do something to convince you. Besides, if he were alive, why did he disappear? If he were guilty would he not have come forward with a story that Mr Pyke had gone alone across the moor and been lost in the mires?’
French had already noted the point as the chief difficulty in his theory and he admitted it fully. He added that Mrs Berlyn’s statement had made an impression on him and that he would not fail to bear it in mind. Then promising to let her know the result of his inquiry, he took his leave.
He had not lied when he said her statement had impressed him. That it represented her firm conviction he had not the least doubt. And it certainly was a point in Berlyn’s favour that such testimony should be forthcoming from his wife, when it was evident that their married life had been an indifferent success. Of course, it might be simply that the woman did not wish to be involved in the misery and disgrace which would come with proof of Berlyn’s guilt. But French did not think it was this. Her thought had seemed to be for her husband rather than herself.
It was still fairly early in the afternoon and French thought he would have time to make another call. He therefore walked up the Fulham Road and took an east-bound district train at South Kensington. Half an hour later he was at the headquarters of the Ardlo Magneto Company in Queen Elizabeth Street.
When the managing director heard French’s business he touched a bell.
‘You had better see Mr Illingworth, our chief electrical engineer,’ he said. ‘I am afraid I could not help you in these technical matters.’
Mr Illingworth was a pleasant young man with a quiet, efficient manner. He took French to his office, supplied him with cigarettes, and asked what he could do for him.
French put his problem, recounting the inquiries he had already made.
‘Those people told you quite correctly,’ was Mr Illingworth’s answer. ‘Your question is this: Could a man drive a car up to a certain place and then short-circuit the magneto armature so that the car couldn’t be started again? The answer is, Yes, but not without leaving marks.’
‘But that’s just my puzzle,’ French returned. ‘That’s exactly what seems to have been done.’
‘Well,’ Mr Illingworth answered with a smile, ‘you may take it from me that it wasn’t.’
‘Then in the case that I have described, the breakdown must have been a pure accident?’
‘I should say, absolutely. Mind you, I don’t say that a breakdown couldn’t be faked without leaving traces: it could be. But not so as to stop the car then and there. The concealed injury would take time to develop.’
‘That’s a bit cryptic, isn’t it? Can you make it clearer to a lay intelligence?’
‘Well, it is possible to damage the insulation by jamming a needle into the armature winding between the wire and the iron core, and if you’re careful it’ll leave no mark. But if the damage is so slight as not to leave a mark it won’t disable the magneto straightaway. In fact, the car will run as usual, and it may be a considerable time before any defect shows. But sparking takes place at the injury, perhaps at first only when the engine is working specially hard. This causes carbonisation of the insulation, leading eventually to complete breakdown. The car begins to misfire and it gradually grows worse until it won’t run at all.’
‘I follow you. I may take it then that it is possible to cause a breakdown without leaving a mark. The fault, however, is not produced immediately, but slowly grows, and no one can foretell when it will get bad enough to stop the car.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Suppose the winding was short-circuited as you describe, could an electrician afterwards tell what had been done?’
‘No. It might have happened through some carelessness in the original winding.’
‘That seems pretty clear. Now, just one other point, Mr Illingworth. Those people, Makepeace, in Ashburton, sent the actual magneto up here to be overhauled. Can you trace it and let me know just what was wrong?’
‘Certainly. We have records of every machine which passes through our hands.’ He consulted an index, finally withdrawing a card. ‘This is it. Sent in from John Makepeace, Ashburton, on Monday, 22nd August. Would that date work in?’
‘Yes, that’s all right.’
‘We’ve not had another from Makepeace for five years previously, so it must be,’ Mr Illingworth went on, rapidly turning over the cards. ‘Well, it’s just what we were speaking of. It failed from a short-circuit in the armature winding and it might have been caused purposely or it might not; there was nothing to indicate.’
French rose.
‘That’s good enough for me,’ he declared.
He felt his brain reel as he considered the contradictory nature of the evidence he was getting. The breakdown of the car had happened, and at a time and place which made it impossible to doubt that it had been deliberately caused. To cause such a breakdown was mechanically impossible. That was the dilemma which confronted him. And the further he probed this contradiction, the more strongly he found its conflicting details confirmed.
In a dream he returned to the Yard and there with an effort switched his mind off the conundrum and on to the features of his case which had been dealt with from headquarters.
Inspector Tanner, it appeared, had handled these matters and by a lucky chance French found him jus
t about to leave for home.
‘I’ll walk with you,’ said French. ‘I don’t want to delay you, and what’s more to the point, I want to get home myself.’
Tanner was a man who liked a joke, or at least, what he considered a joke. He now chaffed French on being unable to carry on his cases by himself, and they sparred amicably for some time before coming to business. But Tanner was also exceedingly able, and when he described what he had done at the hotels and post office, French was satisfied that no further information could be extracted from these sources.
All the next day, which was Sunday, the problem of the magneto remained subconsciously in French’s mind, and when on Monday morning he took his place in the 10.30 a.m. Limited to return to Devonshire, he was still pondering it. In a dream he watched the bustle of departure on the platform, the arrival of more and ever more travellers, the appropriation of seats, the disposal of luggage. (That armature had been tampered with. It must have been, because otherwise it would not have worked in with a pre-arranged crime.) Lord! What a pile of luggage for one woman to travel with! American, he betted. (But it could not have been done at the time. In no way could it have been made to fail just when it was wanted.) What price that for a natty suit? Why, the man was a moving chess-board! What was the connection between chess-board suits and horses? (It must have been tampered with: but it couldn’t have been. That was the confounded problem.) There was the guard with his green flag, looking critically up and down and glancing first at his watch and then over his shoulder at the platform clock. It was just twenty-nine and a half minutes past. In another half minute …
Suddenly into French’s mind flashed an idea, and he sat for a moment motionless, as with a sort of trembling eagerness he considered it. Why, his problem was not a problem at all! There was a solution of the simplest and most obvious kind! How had he been stupid enough not to have seen it?
Inspector French and the Sea Mystery Page 11
