He breakfasted at his leisure, then lighting his pipe, he sauntered out into the little town to take what he called ‘a turn’ before settling down to the serious work of the day.
Though his conclusions of the previous evening still seemed incontrovertible, he was surprised to find that his sense of disappointment had vanished. At first he thought this was due simply to his night’s rest, then gradually he realised the reason.
In his heart of hearts he distrusted these conclusions. In spite of the difficulties involved, he was not satisfied that the Berlyn-Pyke affair should be eliminated from the case.
The murderer had shown himself an extremely ingenious man. Could it not be that these seeming impossibilities were really intentionally designed to throw investigating detectives off the scent?
French reconsidered the strength of the coincidences otherwise involved.
A disappearance at a certain time and place was required to account for the body in the crate. At that very time and place, and there only, a disappearance was known to have occurred. French could not bring himself to dismiss the possibility of a connection between the two facts.
He decided that he had not exhausted the possibilities. He must learn more about Berlyn and Pyke.
For preliminary inquiries Sergeant Daw seemed the most hopeful source of information, and he lost no time in walking down to the police station and asking his help.
‘I want to know who everybody is, Sergeant. You know the local people and you might tell me something which would give me the hint I am looking for.’
The sergeant did not think this likely, but he was willing to do anything to oblige.
‘Very good. Then I’ll ask questions. First of all, will you tell me what you can about Mr Berlyn?’
Daw put on his best police court manner and proceeded to deliver himself.
‘Mr Berlyn was junior partner at the works. I understand that some eight or nine years ago he and Colonel Domlio bought up nearly the whole of the stock between them. Mr Berlyn dealt with the commercial side and attended the office every day as if he was an official, but the Colonel looked on the business as a hobby. He acted as a sort of consulting engineer, and only went to the works when it pleased him. I believe there are other directors, but in practice they don’t amount to anything.’
‘Was Mr Berlyn liked?’
‘As a matter of fact, sir, he wasn’t altogether popular among the work-people. From what I’ve heard he wanted too much and he wouldn’t make allowances for people making mistakes. It was get on or get out with him, and you know yourself, Mr French, that if that’s pushed too far it doesn’t always work. But he was straight enough, and what he said he stuck to.’
‘A man like that would make enemies. Do you know of anyone he was on bad terms with?’
‘No, sir. No one.’
‘He hadn’t his knife in Mr Pyke, for instance?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘Was Mr Berlyn married?’
‘Yes, four or five years ago. Very pleasant lady, Mrs Berlyn.’
‘Any children?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Where did they live?’
‘Out along the Buckland road about ten minutes walk from the works. Place called Soller. They say it’s the name of some foreign town where he’d met the lady and popped the question, but of course I don’t know anything about that.’
‘Then he was a traveller, Mr Berlyn?’
‘Yes; used to go away to France and such places when he had holidays.’
‘Wise man,’ French commented. ‘And how did the match turn out?’
For the first time the sergeant hesitated.
‘There, Mr French, you have me. I couldn’t really tell you. From all accounts they got on as well as most people whose tastes differ. He was quiet and liked sitting at home in the evenings, and she wanted a bit of life. There’s not much of what you might call gaiety in this town, as you may guess, but whatever there was Mrs Berlyn was in the centre of it. At first he used to go out with, her to Torquay and so on, but he gradually gave that up and she had to find someone else to go with or stay at home.’
‘And she found someone?’
‘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 seen her often 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 just 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 inquiries 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 inquisition 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 farther. 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 should have been the maid’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 gone to bed almost at once, and a few minutes later she had heard Mrs Berlyn go up to her room.
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. ‘Someone 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?’
Inspector French and the Sea Mystery Page 9