There was, of course, her alibi. If she had been at the party at her house at ten o’clock she could not have drugged Gurney’s tea. But was she at her house?
Experience had made French sceptical about alibis. This one certainly seemed water-tight, and yet was it not just possible that Mrs Berlyn had managed to slip away from her guests for the fifteen or twenty minutes required?
It was evident that the matter must be tested forthwith, and French decided that, having already questioned Mr Fogden, he would interview the Dr and Mrs Lancaster whom Lizzie Johnston had mentioned as also being members of the party. They had lived on the Buckland road, half a mile beyond the Berlyns’, and next morning French called on them.
Dr Lancaster, he had learned from Daw, was a newcomer to the town, a young medical man who had been forced by a break-down in health to give up his career. He received French at once.
‘I want to find out whether any member of the party could have left the house about ten o’clock for fifteen or twenty minutes,’ French explained. ‘Do you think that you or Mrs Lancaster could help me out?’
‘I can only speak for myself,’ Dr Lancaster smiled. ‘I was there all the time, and I’m sure so was Mrs Lancaster. But I’ll call her and you can ask her.’
‘A moment, please. Surely you can speak for more than yourself? Were you not with the others?’
‘With some of them. You see, what happened was this. When we went in Mrs Berlyn said that she had been disappointed in that three London friends, who were staying at Torquay and whom she expected, had just telegraphed to say they couldn’t come. That made our numbers wrong. She had intended to have three tables of bridge, but now as some of us played billiards she suggested one bridge table and snooker for the other five. She and I, and, let me see, Fogden and a Miss Pym, I think, and one other—I’m blessed if I can remember who the other was—played snooker. So I wasn’t with the other four between the time that we settled down to play and supper.’
‘What hour was supper?’
‘About half-past ten, I think. We broke up when it was over—rather early, as a matter of fact. We reached home shortly after eleven.’
‘And you played snooker all the evening until supper?’
‘No. After an hour or more we dropped it and played four-handed billiards.’
‘Then some player must have stood out?’
‘Yes. Mrs Berlyn said she must go and see how the others were getting along. She watched us play for some time, then went to the drawing-room. She came back after a few minutes to say that supper was ready.’
‘Now, Dr Lancaster, just one other question. Can you tell me at what time Mrs Berlyn went into the drawing-room?’
‘I really don’t think I can. I wasn’t paying special attention to her movements. I should say perhaps half an hour before supper, but I couldn’t be sure.’
‘That’s all right,’ said French. ‘Now, if I could see Mrs Lancaster for a moment I should be done.’
Mrs Lancaster was a dark, vivacious little woman who seemed to remember the evening in question much more clearly than did her husband.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I was playing bridge with Miss Lucy Pym, Mr Cowls and Mr Leacock. I remember Mrs Berlyn coming in about ten. She laughed and said, “Oh, my children, don’t be frightened. I couldn’t think of disturbing such a serious game. I’ll go back to our snooker.” She went away and presently came back and called us to the library to supper.’
‘How long was she away, Mrs Lancaster?’
‘About twenty minutes, I should think.’
This seemed to French to be all that he wanted. However, he thought it wise to get the key of the Berlyns’ house and have a look at the lay-out. The drawing-room was in front with the library behind it, but between the two there was a passage with a side door leading into the garden. He felt satisfied as to the use to which that passage had been put on the night in question. He could picture Mrs Berlyn fixing up the uneven number of guests, among whom would be some who played billiards and some who did not. The proposals for snooker and bridge would almost automatically follow, involving the division of the party in two rooms. Mrs Berlyn, as hostess, would reasonably be the odd man out when the change was made from snooker to billiards. The result of these arrangements would be that when she slipped out to the works through the side door each party would naturally assume she was with the other, while if any question as to this arose, her re-entry at supper time would suggest to both that she had gone out to overlook its preparation.
These discoveries justified French’s theory, but they did not prove it, and he racked his brains for some test which would definitely establish the point.
At last an idea occurred to him which he thought might at least help.
In considering Mrs Berlyn as her husband’s accomplice he had been doubtful whether there would have been sufficient time for the various actions. If, after Berlyn’s arrival at the works with the body, Mrs Berlyn had driven the car back to where it was found, changed the magneto and made the footprints, he did not believe she could have walked home in time to wake the servant at the hour stated. Nor did he believe that Berlyn, after disposing of the body in the works, would have been able on foot to make Domlio’s in time to hide the clothes in the well before the sergeant’s call.
He now wondered whether Mrs Berlyn’s bicycle could have been pressed into the service. Could the lady have brought the machine to the works, lifted it into the tonneau of the car, carried it out on the moor and ridden back on it to the works? And could her husband have used it to reach, first Domlio’s, and then Plymouth or some other large town from which he had escaped?
To test the matter, French returned to Lizzie Johnston and asked her if she knew what had become of the bicycle.
But the girl could not tell him. Nor could she recall when or where she had seen it last. She supposed it had been sold at the auction, but in the excitement of that time she had not noticed it.
‘Where did Mrs Berlyn get it, do you know?’
‘From Makepeace’s. He has bicycles, same as motors. He’ll tell you about it.’
Half an hour later French was talking to Mr Makepeace. He remembered having, some five years earlier, sold the machine to Mrs Berlyn. He looked up his records and after considerable trouble found a note of the transaction. The bicycle was a Swift, number 35,721. It had certain dimensions and peculiarities, of which he gave French details.
French’s next call was with the auctioneer who had conducted the sale of the Berlyn effects. Mr Nankivell appeared au fait with the whole case and was obviously thrilled to meet French. He made no difficulty about giving the required information. A bicycle had not been among the articles auctioned, nor had he seen one during his visits to the house.
This was all very well as far as it went, but it was negative. French wanted to find someone who could say definitely what had happened to the machine. He consulted with Sergeant Daw and at last came to the conclusion that if Peter Swann, the gardener-chauffeur, could be found, he might be able to give the information. Daw believed he had gone to Chagford and he telephoned to the sergeant there, asking him to make inquiries.
In the afternoon there was a reply to the effect that the man was employed by a market gardener near Chagford and French at once took a car over to see him. Swann remembered the bicycle well, as he had had to keep it clean. He had seen it in the wood-shed on the day before the tragedy, but next morning it was gone. He had looked for it particularly, as he wished to use it to take a message to the town, and he had wondered where it could have got to. He had never seen it again. He had not asked about it as he had not considered that his business.
Once again French experienced the keen delight of finding his deductions justified by the event. In this whole case he had really excelled himself. On several different points he had imagined what might have occurred, and on a test being made, his idea had been proved correct. Some work, that! As he did not fail to remind himself, it showed the highest
type of ability.
The next thing was to find the bicycle. He returned for the night to Ashburton and next morning went down to see the superintendent of police at Plymouth. That officer listened with interest to his story and promised to have a search made without delay. When he had rung up and asked for similar inquiries to be made in the other large towns within a cycle ride of the moor, French found himself at a loose end.
‘You should have a look round the place,’ the superintendent advised. ‘There’s a lot to see in Plymouth.’
French took the advice and went for a stroll round the city. He was not impressed by the streets, though he admired St Andrew’s Church, the Guildhall and some of the other buildings in the same locality. But when, after wandering through some more or less uninteresting residential streets, he unexpectedly came out on the Hoe, he held his breath. The promenade along the top of the cliff was imposing enough, though no better than he had seen many times before. But the view of the Sound was unique. The sea, light blue in the morning sun, stretched from the base of the cliff beneath his feet, out past Drake’s Island and the long line of the Breakwater to a clear horizon. On the right was Mount Edgcumbe, tree-clad to the water’s edge, while far away out to the south-west was the faint white pillar of the Eddystone lighthouse. French gazed and admired, then going down to the Sutton Pool, he explored the older part of the town for the best part of an hour.
When he presently reached the police station he was delighted to find that news had just then come in. The bicycle had been found. It had been pawned by a man, apparently a labourer, shortly after the shop opened on the morning of Tuesday, the 16th August; the morning, French reminded himself delightedly, after the crime. The man had stated that the machine was his daughter’s and had been given two pounds on it. He had not returned since, nor had the machine been redeemed.
‘We’re trying to trace the man, but after this lapse of time I don’t suppose we shall be able,’ the superintendent declared. ‘I expect this Berlyn abandoned the machine when he reached Plymouth, and our friend found it and thought he had better make hay while the sun shone.’
‘So likely that I don’t think it matters whether you find him or not,’ French returned.
‘I agree, but we shall have a shot at it, all the same. By the way, Mr French, it’s a curious thing that you should call today. Only yesterday I was talking to a friend of yours; an ass, if you don’t mind my saying so, but married to one of the most delightful young women I’ve ever come across. Lives at Dartmouth.’
‘Dartmouth?’ French laughed. ‘That gives me a clue. You mean that cheery young optimist, Maxwell Cheyne? He is an ass, right enough, but he’s not a bad soul at bottom. And the girl’s a stunner. How are they getting along?’
‘Tip-top. He’s taken to writing tales. Doing quite well with them, too, I believe. They’re very popular down there, both of them.’
‘Glad to hear it. Well, Superintendent, I must be getting along. Thanks, for your help.’
Next day he showed the bicycle to Lizzie Johnston, and was delighted when she unhesitatingly identified it as Mrs Berlyn’s.
French was full of an eager optimism as the result of these discoveries. The episode of the bicycle, added to the break-down of the alibi, seemed definitely to prove his theory of Mrs Berlyn’s complicity.
But when he considered the identity of the person whom Mrs Berlyn had thus assisted, he had to admit himself staggered. That Berlyn had murdered Pyke had seemed an obvious theory. Now, French was not so certain of it. The lady had undoubtedly been in love with Pyke. Surely, it was too much to suppose she would help her husband to murder her lover?
Had it been the other way round, had Phyllis and Pyke conspired to kill Berlyn, the thing would have been easier to understand. Wife and lover against husband was a common enough combination. But the evidence against this idea was strong. Not only was there the identification of the clothes and birth-mark, but there was the strong presumption that the man who disposed of the crate in Wales was Berlyn. At the same time, this evidence of identification was not quite conclusive, and French determined to keep the possibility in view and test it rigorously as occasion offered.
And then another factor occurred to him, an extremely disturbing factor, which bade fair to change his whole view of the case. He saw that even if Pyke had murdered Berlyn it would not clear up the situation. In fact, this new idea suggested that it was impossible either that Pyke could have murdered Berlyn or that Berlyn could have murdered Pyke.
What, he asked himself, must have been the motive for such a crime? Certainly not merely to gratify a feeling of hate. The motive undoubtedly was to enable the survivor to claim Phyllis as his wife and to live with her in good social standing and without fear of his rival. But the crime, French reminded himself, had a peculiar feature. The staged accident on the moor involved the disappearance of both actors, the murderer as well as the victim. If, then, the murderer disappeared, he could not live with Phyllis. If either Berlyn or Pyke were guilty, therefore, he had carried out the crime in a way which robbed him of the very results for which he had committed it.
French saw that he was up against a puzzling dilemma. If Berlyn had murdered Pyke it was unlikely that Mrs Berlyn would have assisted. If, on the other hand, Pyke had murdered Berlyn, Mrs Berlyn’s action was clear, but not Pyke’s, for Pyke could get nothing out of it.
French swore bitterly, as he realised that in all probability his former view of the case was incorrect, and that he was once again without any really satisfactory theory on which to work. Nor did some hours’ thought point the way to a solution of his problem.
At least, however, he saw his next step. Mrs Berlyn was the accomplice of someone. That someone was doubtless alive and biding his time until he thought it safe to join the lady. If so, she was pretty sure to know his whereabouts. Could she be made to reveal it?
French thought that, if in some way he could give her a thorough fright, she might try to get a warning through. It would then be up to him to intercept her message, which would give him the information he required.
This meant London. Next day, which was Saturday, he travelled up to Paddington.
17
‘Danger!’
Before leaving Plymouth, French had wired to Mrs Berlyn, asking for an interview for the following Monday morning. On reaching the Yard he found a reply. If he called round about half-past ten the lady would see him. He rang his bell for Sergeant Carter.
‘I shall want you with me today, Carter,’ he explained. ‘Have a taxi ready at 10.15 a.m.’
As they were driving towards Chelsea he explained the business.
‘It’s to help me to shadow a woman, a Mrs Phyllis Berlyn. Lives at 70b Park Walk. There’s her photograph. When I go in you keep this taxi and be ready to pick me up when I want you.’
If he were to tap a possible S.O.S., he must begin by finding out if his victim had a telephone. He therefore got out at the end of Park Walk, and, passing the house, turned into an entry leading to the lane which ran along behind the row. The absence of wires, front and rear, showed that the house was not connected up. Then he went to the door and knocked. Mrs Berlyn received him at once.
‘I am very sorry, madam,’ he began gravely, ‘to have to come on serious and unpleasant business. In my inquiries into the death of Mr Pyke, certain facts have come out. These facts require an explanation, and they point to you as being perhaps the only person who can give it. I have, therefore, called to ask you some questions, but I have to warn you that you are not bound to answer them, as in certain eventualities anything you say might be used against you.’
Mrs Berlyn looked startled.
‘Whatever do you mean, Inspector?’ she demanded. ‘You don’t mean against me personally, I suppose, but against my husband? I do not forget the terrible suggestion you made.’
‘I mean against you personally, madam. As I say, I want an explanation of certain facts. If you care to give it I shall hear it with atte
ntion, but if you would prefer to consult a solicitor first, you can do so.’
‘Good gracious, Inspector, you are terrifying me! You are surely not suggesting that you suspect me of complicity in this awful crime?’
‘I make no accusations. All I want is answers to my questions.’
Mrs Berlyn grew slowly dead white. She moistened her dry lips.
‘This is terrible,’ she said in low tones. French had some twinges of conscience; for, after all, he was only bluffing. He recognised, however, that the greater the effect he produced, the more likely he was to get what he wanted. He therefore continued his third degree methods.
‘If you are innocent, madam, I can assure you that you have nothing to fear,’ he encouraged her, thereby naturally increasing her perturbation. ‘Now, would you like to answer my questions or not?’
She did not hesitate. ‘I have no option,’ she exclaimed in somewhat shaky tones. ‘If I do not do so your suspicions will be confirmed. Ask what you like. I have nothing to hide, and therefore cannot give myself away.’
‘I am glad to hear you say so,’ French declared grimly. ‘First, I want you to give me a more detailed account of your relations with Colonel Domlio.’
‘Why,’ the lady explained, ‘I told you all about that on your last visit. Colonel Domlio was very friendly, exceedingly friendly, I might say. But we had no relations,’ she stressed the word, ‘in the sense which your question seems to indicate.’
‘How did your friendship begin?’
‘Through my husband. He and Colonel Domlio were old friends and it was natural that we should see something of the Colonel. He visited at our house and we at his.’
‘That was when you first went to Ashburton, was it not?’
‘Not only then. It was so all the time I lived there.’
‘But I don’t mean that. I understand that about four months before the tragedy your friendship became much more intense, if I may use the word?’
‘Intense is certainly not the word, but it is true that we met more frequently after the time you mention. I thought I had explained that. It was then that my husband became dissatisfied about my perfectly harmless friendship with Mr Pyke. As I told you, Mr Pyke and I decided to see less of each other. I was therefore thrown more on my own resources and, frankly, I was bored. I filled a little more of the time with Colonel Domlio than formerly. That is all.’
Inspector French and the Sea Mystery Page 18
