Chapter IV: Part 4

“Any number. The gentlemen up at the works, mostly. They were all glad to go with her! Colonel Domlio had been taking her about lately—I mean before Mr. Berlyn’s death—and before that it was Mr. Pyke and sometimes Mr. Cowls, the engineer. She was friends, too, with Dr. and Mrs. Lancaster, and I’ve often seen her out with people called Tucker that live close by.”

All this seemed suggestive to French and his facile brain was already building up tentative theories.

“Was there ever any suggestion of anything between Mrs. Berlyn and any of those men?”

“There was a bit of talk at one time, but I don’t believe there was anything in it.”

“But there was talk. Just tell me what was said.”

“She was talked about with Mr. Pyke. They certainly saw a deal of each other at one time. He was constantly at the house and they went out motoring together. She was a top-hole driver.”

“You say they saw a deal of each other at one time. Did that not continue?”

“It was supposed to come to an end about four months before the tragedy. But that’s only local gossip and I can’t vouch for it. All the same, I don’t remember seeing them motoring since, except once when Mr. Pyke’s cousin came for three or four days.”

“And you have no idea what happened?”

“No, sir. Some said the lady heard of the talk and thought she had gone far enough; others, that Mr. Berlyn got wise to it; and others again, that they got tired of each other. I don’t know. Whatever happened, it was all quite amicable, for I’ve seen them together different times since.”

“And was that the only time there was talk?”

“After that there was talk about her and Colonel Domlio. But you know, Mr. French, in a place this size they’re hard up for something to talk about. I don’t believe there was anything in either story.”

“Tell me what was said anyway.”

“Well, that she used to go out to see him in the afternoons. The colonel was believed to be very fond of her, but she was only supposed to be amusing herself with him.”

“You say this took place recently?”

“That was the rumour.”

French shrugged.

“Safety in numbers, Sergeant. I agree it doesn’t sound hopeful. Did Mr. Berlyn seem upset about it?”

“Not that I ever heard of.”

“No good for us, Sergeant. Now about these others. Mr. Pyke was not married, was he?”

“No, Mr. Pyke was not married, nor were Mr. Cowls nor Mr. Samuel nor Mr. Leacock, other young men about the works with whom Mrs. Berlyn had seemed on good terms. Mr. Pyke had been with the firm for several years and was said to be highly thought of. He was pleasant-mannered and jolly and a general favourite. He lodged in the town; in fact, his rooms were nearly opposite the hotel.”

“Is Mrs. Berlyn still here?”

“She left three or four days ago. There was an auction and she waited till it was over. I heard she had gone to London.”

“Will she be well off?”

“I believe so. They say Mr. Berlyn left her everything.”

“You spoke of Mr. Pyke’s cousin. Who is he?”

“A Mr. Jefferson Pyke, a farmer in the Argentine. Rather like the late Mr. Pyke, that’s Mr. Stanley, in appearance, but a bit taller and broader. He was on a visit to England and was down here twice. First he came and stayed with Mr. Stanley for three or four days about a couple of months before the tragedy; that was when Mrs. Berlyn took them both out motoring. I wasn’t speaking to him then, but I saw him with Mr. and Mrs. Berlyn and Mr. Stanley in the car. Then the morning after the tragedy Mrs. Berlyn gave me his London address and told me to wire for him. I did so and he came down that evening. He stayed for three or four days in Torquay and came over to make enquiries and to look after Mr. Stanley’s affairs. A very nice gentleman I found him, and a good business man, too.”

French noted the London address and then asked what servants the Berlyns had.

“They had three—two house servants and the gardener.”

“Any of them available?”

“One of the girls, Lizzie Johnston, lives not far away. The others were strangers.”

French continued his inquisitions in his slow, painstaking way, making notes about everyone connected with the Berlyns and Pyke. But he learned nothing that confirmed his suspicions or suggested a line of research. It was true that in Mrs. Berlyn he had glimpsed a possible source of trouble between her husband and Pyke. All the essentials of a triangle drama were there—except the drama itself. Mrs. Berlyn might easily have hated her husband and loved one of these other men, but, unfortunately for theorising detectives, if not for moralists, there was no evidence that she had done so. However, it was a suggestive idea and one which could not be lost sight of.

As these thoughts passed through French’s mind a further consideration struck him, a consideration which he saw might not only prove a fifth test of the case he was trying to make, but which, if so, would undoubtedly be the most conclusive of them all. He turned once more to Daw.

“There’s a point which is worrying me rather, Sergeant,” he declared. “Suppose one of these two men murdered the other on that night. Now why would the murderer go to the trouble of getting the body into the works and sending it off in the crate? Could he not simply have thrown it into one of these mires?”

Daw nodded.

“I thought of that when you suggested your idea, but I don’t believe there’s anything in it. It wouldn’t be so easy as it sounds. In fact, I couldn’t see any way it could be done.”

“I’m glad to hear you say so, Sergeant. Explain, please.”

“Well, if you go into one of those places and begin to sink you throw yourself on your back. As long as your weight is on the small area of your feet you go down, but if you increase your area by lying on your back you reduce the weight per unit of area and you float—because it really is a kind of floating. You follow me, sir?”

“Quite. Go ahead.”

“Now if you walk to a soft place carrying a body you have doubled the weight on your feet. You will go down quickly. But the body won’t go down. A man who tried to get rid of his victim that way would fail, and lose his own life into the bargain.”

“That sounds conclusive. But I didn’t know you could save yourself by throwing yourself down. If that is so wouldn’t Berlyn and Pyke have escaped that way? Why did you then accept the idea that they had been lost?”

“There were two reasons. First there was nothing to make me doubt it, such as knowing about the crate, and secondly, though the accident was not exactly likely, it was possible. This is the way I figured it out. Suppose one of these mists had come on. They do come on unexpectedly. One of the men gets into a soft place. Mists are confusing, and in trying to get out, he mistakes his position and flounders in further. That’s all perfectly possible. Then he calls to the other one, and in going to the first one’s help the other gets in also—both too far to get out again.”

“But you said it was a clear night?”

“So it was when I got there. But three or four hours earlier it might have been thick.”

“Now, Sergeant, there’s another thing. Could the murderer not have used some sort of apparatus, a ladder or plank to lay on the soft ground, over which he could have carried the body and escaped himself? Same as you do on ice.”

“I thought of that too, but I don’t believe it would be possible. A ladder wouldn’t do at all. With its sharp edges it would go down under the weight. And I don’t think a man could handle a big enough plank. It would have to be pretty wide to support the weight of two men and it would have to be long to get beyond the edge of the mire. You see, Mr. French, it’s only well out into the big mires that a flat body will sink. Near the edges it would have to be kept upright with the weight on the feet. That couldn’t be done off the end of a plank which would itself be sinking; in fact, I don’t think it could be done at all.”

French nodded. This was certainly very satisfactory.

“Besides, sir,” Daw went on, “think of a plank laid as you’ve suggested and with the end of it partly sunk. It’ll not be easy to pull out, particularly when the ground you’re pulling from is not very firm. You won’t do it without leaving pretty deep footmarks, and the plank will leave a sort of trough where it was slid out. If that had been done that night the marks would have been there next morning, and if they had been there I should have seen them. No, sir, I think you may give up that idea. You couldn’t get rid of a body by hiding it in a mire.”

“I’m uncommonly glad to hear you say so,” French repeated. “If the thing had been possible it would have knocked my case into a cocked hat. Well, Sergeant, I’ve bothered you enough for one morning. I’ll go along and have a word with Mrs. Berlyn’s maid.”

Lizzie Johnston lived with her mother in a little cottage on the hill behind the railway station. She proved to be a dark, good-looking girl of about five and twenty, and when French talked with her he soon discovered she was observant and intelligent also.

She had lived, she said, with Mrs. Berlyn for about two years, and French, in his skilful, pleasant way drew her out on the subject of the household. It consisted of the two Berlyns, herself, and cook, unless Peter Swann, the gardener, might be included.

Mr. Berlyn she had not greatly liked. He was quiet in the house, but was rather exacting. He was not socially inclined and preferred an evening’s reading over the fire to any dinner party or dance. He had been civil enough to her, though she had really come very little in contact with him.

About Mrs. Berlyn the girl was not enthusiastic, either, though she said nothing directly against her. Mrs. Berlyn, it appeared, was also hard to please, and no matter what was done for her, she always wanted something more. She was never content to be alone and was continually running over to Torquay to amusements. After their marriage Mr. Berlyn had gone with her, but he had gradually given up doing so and had allowed her to find some other escort. This she had had no difficulty in doing, and Mr. Pyke, Mr. Cowls and others were constantly in attendance.

No, the girl did not think there had been anything between Mrs. Berlyn and any of these men, though for a time Mr. Pyke’s attentions had been rather pronounced. But some four months before the tragedy they appeared to have had a disagreement, for his visits had suddenly fallen off. But it could not have been very serious, for he still had occasionally come to dinner and to play bridge. She remembered one time in particular when Mr. Pyke had brought a relative; she heard it was a cousin. There were just the four, the two Pykes and the two Berlyns, and they all seemed very friendly. But there was a coolness all the same, and since it had developed, Colonel Domlio had to some extent taken Mr. Pyke’s place.

About the Berlyns’ history she could not tell much. Mr. Berlyn had lived in the town for several years before his marriage. He seemed to have plenty of money. He had bought the house on the Buckland road just before the wedding and had had it done up from top to bottom. It was not a large house, but beautifully fitted up. At the same time he had bought the car. Peter Swann, the gardener, washed the car, but he did not drive it. Both Mr. and Mrs. Berlyn were expert drivers and good mechanics. Mrs. Berlyn also used her push bicycle a good deal.

French then came to the evening of the tragedy. On that evening dinner had been early to allow Mr. Berlyn to get away in the car at seven o’clock. It had been her, Lizzie Johnston’s, evening out, but Mrs. Berlyn had told her she would have to take the next evening instead, as some friends were coming in and she would be wanted to bring up supper. About eight o’clock Mr. Fogden, Mr. Cowls, a Dr. and Mrs. Lancaster, and three or four other people had arrived. She had brought them up coffee and sandwiches about half past ten. They had left about eleven. She had got to bed almost at once, and a few minutes later she had heard Mrs. Berlyn go up to her room.

The next thing she remembered was being wakened in the middle of the night by Mrs. Berlyn. The lady was partly dressed and seemed agitated. “Lizzie,” she had said, “it’s nearly three o’clock and there’s no sign of Mr. Berlyn. I’m frightened. I’ve just been out to the garage to see if the car has come back, but it’s not there. What do you think can be wrong?”

They hurriedly discussed the matter. Mr. Berlyn was the last man to alter his plans, and both were afraid of an accident on that dangerous Tavistock road.

In the end they decided that Mrs. Berlyn should knock up Sergeant Daw, who lived near. This she did, while Lizzie dressed. Presently Mrs. Berlyn came back to say that the sergeant was going out to investigate. They had some tea and lay down without taking off their clothes. In the early morning a policeman brought the news of the tragedy.

Mrs. Berlyn was terribly upset. But she grew calmer in time, and the arrangements for the auction and for her removal to London taking her out of herself, in a week she was almost normal.

She had been very nice to Lizzie at the last, giving her an excellent testimonial and an extra month’s wages.

French thanked the girl for her information and rose as if to take his leave.

“I suppose Mrs. Berlyn was something of a needlewoman?” he said, carelessly. “Some one told me she made her own dresses.”

Lizzie laughed contemptuously.

“Made her dresses, did she?” she repeated. “I don’t think. She didn’t hardly know how to wear a thimble, she didn’t. She wouldn’t have sat down to a job of sewing, not for no person on earth she wouldn’t.”

“Then who did the household mending?”

“Yours truly. Anything that was done I had to do.”

“But not the clothes, surely? Who darned Mr. Berlyn’s socks, for instance?”

“Yours truly. I tell you Mrs. Berlyn wouldn’t have touched a sock or a bit of wool not to save her life.”

This was a piece of unexpected luck. French turned away.

“You are a good girl,” he declared. “Would half a sovereign be of any use to you?”

Miss Johnston left him in no doubt on the point.

“Very well,” he went on. “You come down to the hotel after dinner to-night and ask for me. I want you to mend some clothes and socks for me. Or rather,” he paused, “I have to come up in this direction after lunch to-day in any case, and I’ll bring them.”

No object in advertising the lines on which he was working, he thought. The less that was known of his researches, the more hope there was of their proving fruitful.

A couple of hours later he returned with a small suitcase.

“Here are the clothes,” he said. “I wish you’d see what they want, so that I’ll know when I’m likely to get them.”

He laid four pairs of socks on the table—three brown pairs of his own and the grey pair found in the crate. The girl looked them over one by one. French watched her in silence. He was anxious, if possible, to give her no lead.

“There isn’t much wrong with these,” she said, presently. “They don’t want no darning.”

“Oh, but they have been badly mended. You see these grey ones have been done with a different-coloured wool. I thought perhaps you could put that right.”

Miss Johnston laughed scornfully.

“You’re mighty particular, mister, if that darning ain’t good enough for you. I’d just like to know what’s wrong with it.”

“You think it’s all right?” French returned. “If so, I’m satisfied. But what about these underclothes?”

The girl examined the clothes. They were almost new and neatly folded, just as they had come back from the laundry, so that her contemptuous reply was not inexcusable. At all events, it was evident that no suspicion that they were other than her visitor’s had crossed her mind.

French, with his half formed theory of Berlyn’s guilt, would have been surprised if she had answered otherwise. The test, however, had been necessary, and he felt he had not lost time. Mollifying her with a tip, he returned to the hotel.

Chapter Nine

A Step Forward

French believed that he had obtained all the available information about the Berlyns from his interview with the sergeant and Lizzie Johnston. Pyke was the next name on his list and he now crossed East Street to the house in which the travelling representative had lodged. The door was opened by a bright-eyed, bustling little woman at sight of whom French’s emotional apparatus registered satisfaction. He knew the type. The woman was a talker.

But when for the best part of an hour he had listened to her, satisfaction was no longer the word with which to express his state of mind. He had no difficulty in getting her to talk. His trouble was to direct the flood of her conversation along the channel in which he wished it to flow.

He began by explaining that he was staying at the hotel, but that as he liked the district and might want to remain for some time, he was looking about for rooms. He had heard she had some to let. Was this so, and if it was, could he see them?

It was so and he could see them. She had had a lodger, a very nice gentleman and a very good payer, but she had lost him recently. Mr. ——? She had heard his name: was it not Mr. French? Mr. French must have heard about his dreadful death? His name was Mr. Pyke. Had Mr. French not heard?

Mr. French had heard something about it. It seemed a very sad affair.

It was a very sad affair. Mr. Pyke had gone out that evening as well as Mr. French or herself, and he had never come back, had never been seen again. Terrible, wasn’t it? And a terrible shock to her. Indeed, she didn’t feel the same even yet. She didn’t believe she ever would. Between that and the loss of the letting. . . .

What had he said before he started? Why, he hadn’t said anything! At least he had said he wouldn’t be home until about midnight, and for her not to forget to leave the hall door on the latch and to put some supper on the table in his room. And she had done. She had left everything right for him, and then she had gone to bed. And she had slept. She was a good sleeper, except that one time after she had had scarlet fever, when the doctor said . . .

Yes, the rooms were ready at any time. She believed in keeping her house clean and tidy at all times, so that everything was always ready when it was wanted. She had once been in service with Mrs. Lloyd-Hurley in Chagford and she had learnt that lesson there. Mrs. Lloyd-Hurley was very particular. She . . .

Mr. Pyke’s things? Oh yes, they were gone. She thought that would be understood when she said the rooms were ready. She . . .

It was his cousin. His cousin had come down from London and taken everything there was. That was Mr. Jefferson Pyke. Her Mr. Pyke was Mr. Stanley. Mr. Jefferson was the only remaining relative, at least so she understood. He packed up everything and took it away. Except a few things that he said he didn’t want. These she had kept. Not that she wanted them, but if they were going begging, as Mr. French might say, why, then. . . .

No, she had only seen Mr. Jefferson once before. He lived in the Argentine, or was it Australia? She wasn’t rightly sure—she had no memory for places—but he lived away in some strange foreign country, anyhow. He happened to be over on a visit and was going back again shortly. Her brother James lived in Australia and she had asked Mr. Jefferson . . .

So French sat and listened while the unending stream poured about his devoted head. At times by summoning up all his resolution he interposed a remark which diverted the current in a new direction. But his perseverance was rewarded as from nearly all of these mutations he learned at least one fact. When at last, exhausted but triumphant, he rose to take his leave, he had gained the following information:

Mr. Stanley Pyke was a jolly, pleasant-mannered man of about five-and-thirty, who had lodged with the talkative landlady for the past four years. He had been connected with the works for much longer than that, but at first had had other rooms farther down the street. Hers, the landlady modestly explained, were the best in the town, and Mr. Pyke’s removal was an outward and visible sign of his prosperity. For the rest, he was satisfactory as lodgers go, easy to please, not stingy about money, and always with a pleasant word for her when they met.

On the evening of the tragedy he had dined at six-fifteen instead of seven, his usual hour. He had gone out immediately after, giving the instruction about the door and his supper. The landlady had gone to bed as usual, and the first intimation she had had that anything was wrong was the visit of the police on the following morning.

Some one, she did not know who, must have informed the cousin, Mr. Jefferson Pyke, for that evening he turned up. He had stayed at Torquay for three or four days, coming over to Ashburton to see the police and make enquiries. On one of these visits he had called on her and stated that, as he was the only surviving relative of his cousin, he would take charge of his personal effects. He had packed up and removed a good many of the dead man’s things, saying he did not want the remainder and asking her to dispose of them.

It had not occurred to her to question Mr. Jefferson Pyke’s right to take her lodger’s property. She had seen him once before, in Mr. Stanley’s lifetime. Some two months before the tragedy Mr. Stanley had told her that his cousin was home on a visit from the Argentine—she believed it was the Argentine and not Australia—and that he was coming down to see him. He asked her could she put him up. Mr. Jefferson had arrived a day or two later and she had given him her spare bedroom. He stayed for four days and the cousins had explored the moor together. Mrs. Berlyn, she had heard, had driven them about in her car. The landlady had found Mr. Jefferson very pleasant; indeed, when the two men were together they had nearly made her die laughing with their jokes and nonsense. Mr. Jefferson had told her that he owned a ranch in the Argentine and that he was thinking of starting flower gardens from which to supply the cities. He was then on his way back from the Scillys, where he had gone to investigate the industry. A week after Mr. Jefferson left, Mr. Stanley took his holidays, and he had told her he was going with his cousin to the south of France to a place called Grasse, where there were more gardens. He was only back some three weeks when he met his death.

All this was given to French with a wealth of detail which, had it been material to his investigation, he would have welcomed, but by which, as it was, he was frankly bored. However, he could do nothing to stop the stream and he simulated interest as best he could.

“By the way, Mrs. Billing,” he said, pausing on his way out, “if I take these rooms could you look after the mending of my clothes? Who did it for Mr. Pyke?”

Mrs. Billing had, and she would be delighted to do the same for Mr. French.

“Well, I have some that want it at the present time. Suppose I bring them over now. Could you look at them?” Five minutes later he returned with his suitcase and spread out the clothes as he had done for Lizzie Johnston an hour or two before. Like the maid, Mrs. Billing glanced over them and remarked that there didn’t seem to be much wrong.

French picked up the grey sock.

“But you see they have not been very neatly darned. This grey one has been done with a different coloured wool. I thought perhaps you could put that right.”

Mrs. Billing took the grey sock and stared at it for some time, while a puzzled expression grew on her face. French, suddenly keenly excited, watched her almost breathlessly. But after turning it over she put it down, though the slightly mystified look remained.

“Here are some underclothes,” French went on. “Do these want any mending?”

Slowly the landlady turned over the bundle. As she did so incredulity and amazement showed on her bird-like features. Then swiftly she turned to the neck of the vest and the shirt cuffs and scrutinised the buttons and links.

“My Gawd!” she whispered, hoarsely, and French saw that her face had paled and her hands were trembling.

“You recognise them?”

She nodded, her flood of speech for once paralysed.

“Where did you get them?” she asked, still in a whisper.

French was quite as excited as she, but he controlled himself and spoke easily.

“Tell me first whose they are and how you are so sure of them.”

“They’re Mr. Pyke’s, what he was wearing the night he was lost. I couldn’t but be sure of them. See here. There’s the wool first. I darned that and I remember I hadn’t the right colour. Then these buttons.” She picked up the vest. “I put that one on. See, it’s not the same as the rest; it was the only one I could get. And then if that wasn’t enough, these are the cuff-links. I’ve seen them hundreds of times and I’d know them anywhere. Where did you get them?”

French dropped his suave, kindly manner and suddenly became official and, for him, unusually harsh.

“Now, Mrs. Billing,” he said, sharply, “I’d better tell you exactly who I am and warn you that you’ve got to keep it to yourself. I am Inspector French of New Scotland Yard; you understand, a police officer. I have discovered that Mr. Pyke was murdered and I am on the track of the murderer.”

The landlady gave a little scream. She was evidently profoundly moved, not only by surprise and excitement, but by horror at her late lodger’s fate. She began to speak, but French cut her short.

“I want you to understand,” he said, threateningly, “that you must keep silence on this matter. If any hint of it gets about, it will be a very serious thing for you. I take it you don’t want to be mixed up in a murder trial. Very well, then; keep your mouth shut.”

Mrs. Billing was terrified and eagerly promised discretion. French questioned her further, but without result. She did not believe her late lodger was on bad terms with anyone, nor did she know if he had a birthmark on his upper arm.

French’s delight at his discovery was unbounded. The identification of the dead man represented the greatest step towards the completion of his case that he had yet made. He chuckled to himself in pure joy.

But his brain reeled when he thought of his four test points. If this news were true, he had made some pretty bad mistakes! Each one of his four conclusions must be false. As he remembered the facts on which they were based, he had to admit himself completely baffled.

Presently his mood changed and a wave of pessimism swept over him. The identification of the underclothes was not, after all, the identification of the body. Such an astute criminal as he was dealing with might have changed the dead man’s clothes. But when he reminded himself that the man who called for the crate resembled Berlyn, the thing became more convincing. However, it had not been proved, and he wanted certainty.

Fortunately there was the birthmark. French had examined it carefully and was satisfied that it was genuine. Who, he wondered, could identify it?

The most likely person, he thought, was Jefferson Pyke. It would be worth a journey to London to have the point settled. That night, therefore, he took the sleeping-car express to Paddington.

Daw had given him the address—17b, Kepple Street, off Russell Square, and before ten next morning he was there.

Jefferson Pyke was a clean-shaven man of about forty, of rather more than medium height and stoutly built. He was a study in browns: brown eyes, a dusky complexion, hair nearly black, brown clothes and shoes, and a dark-brown tie. He looked keenly at his visitor, then pointed to a chair.

“Mr. French?” he said, speaking deliberately. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“I’ll tell you, Mr. Pyke,” French answered. “First of all, here is my professional card. I want some help from you in an investigation I am making.”

Pyke glanced at the card and nodded.

“A case on which I was engaged took me recently to Ashburton, and while there I heard of the tragic death of Mr. Pyke and Mr. Berlyn of the Veda Works staff. I understand that Mr. Pyke was a relative of yours?”

“That is so. My first cousin.”

“Well, Mr. Pyke,” French said, gravely, “I have to inform you that a discovery had been made which may or may not have a bearing on your cousin’s fate. A body has been found—the body of a murdered man. That body has not been identified, but there is a suggestion that it may be your cousin’s. I want to know if you can identify it?”

Mr. Pyke stared incredulously.

“Good Heavens, Inspector! That’s an astonishing suggestion. You must surely be mistaken. I went down to Ashburton directly I heard of the accident, and there seemed no doubt then about what had happened. Tell me the particulars.”

“About a fortnight ago, as you may have noticed in the papers, a crate was picked up in the sea off Burry Port in South Wales, which was found to contain the body of a murdered man. The face had been disfigured and there was no means of identification. However, I traced the crate and I learned that it was sent out from the Veda Works on the morning after your cousin and Mr. Berlyn disappeared.”

“Good Heavens!” Mr. Pyke exclaimed again. “Go on.”

“I made enquiries and the only persons known to have disappeared were those two men. You see the suggestion? I am sorry to have to ask you, but can you help me to identify the remains?”

Mr. Pyke’s face showed both amazement and horror.

“This is terrible news, Inspector. I need hardly say I hope you are mistaken. Of course you may count on me to do all I can.”

“You think you can identify the body, then?”

“Surely I ought to recognise my own cousin?”

“Otherwise than by the face? Remember the face has been disfigured. I might say, indeed, it is nonexistent, it has been so savagely battered.”

“By Heaven! I hope you will get the man who did it!” Pyke said, hotly. “But that does not answer your question.” He hesitated. “If it is not possible to recognise the features, I’m not so sure. How do you suggest it might be done?”

French shrugged.

“Identification otherwise than by the features is usually possible. It is a matter of observation. Some small physical defect, a crooked finger, the scar of an old cut, or mole on the neck—there are scores of indications to the observant man.”

Mr. Pyke sat in silence for a few minutes.

“Then I’m afraid I’m not very observant,” he said at last. “I can’t remember any such peculiarity in poor Stanley’s case.”

“Nothing in the shape of the finger nails,” French prompted. “No birthmark, no local roughness or discoloration of the skin?”

“By Jove!” Mr. Pyke exclaimed with a sudden gesture. “There is something. My cousin had a birthmark, a small red mark on his left arm, here. I remembered it directly you mentioned the word.”

“Then you have been fairly intimate with your cousin? Have you often seen this mark?”

“Seen it? Scores of times. We were boys together and I have noticed it again and again. Why, now I come to think of it, I saw it on these last holidays I spent with Stanley. We went to the south of France and shared a cabin in the steamer to Marseilles.”

“Could you describe it?”

“No, but I could sketch it.” He seized a piece of paper and drew a rough triangle.

French laid his photograph beside the sketch. There could be no doubt that they represented the same object. Pyke seized the photograph.

“That’s it. I could swear to it anywhere. You’ve found Stanley’s body right enough. Good Heavens! Inspector, it’s incredible! I could have sworn he hadn’t an enemy in the world. Have you any clue to the murderer?”

Natural caution and official training made French hedge.

“Not as yet,” he answered, assuring himself that his ideas about Berlyn were hypothetical. “I was hoping that you could give me a lead.”

“I?” Jefferson Pyke shook his head. “Far from it. Even now I can scarcely credit the affair.”

“Well, I should like you to run over his associates and see if you can’t think of any who might have hated him. Now to start with the senior partner: What about Colonel Domlio?”

Mr. Pyke had never met him and knew nothing about him, though he had heard his cousin mention his name. French went on through the list he had made at Ashburton till in the natural sequence he came to Berlyn.

“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.

Chapter Ten

London’s Further Contribution

Now that he was in London, French decided that he should complete certain enquiries.

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 £62.10.0. 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 noncommittal reply.

“But what about my late husband?” Mrs. Berlyn went on. “You said nothing had been learnt 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, was 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 Veda 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 lovemaking 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 enquiry, 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 eastbound 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 enquiries 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 it won’t disable the magneto straight away. 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, but that this is a comparatively lengthy process and cannot be done at a given time.”

“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, twenty-second 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 just 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 case 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.