It is wonderful what an effect a good night’s sleep and a bright
morning will have on the mind of a healthy man. French had gone to bed
tired and worried about this case. He woke cheery and optimistic,
philosophic as to his reverses, and hopeful for the future.
On such a morning, indeed, it was impossible that anyone could be
despondent. Though October had begun, the sun shone with a thin
brilliancy reminiscent of early summer. The air, floating up gently
from the garden in the rear of the hotel, was surprisingly warm and
aromatic for the time of year. Birds were singing in the trees and
there was a faint hum of insects from below. As he looked out of his
window French felt that life was good and that to squander it in sleep
was little better than a sin.
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 enquiries 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 some one else to
go with or stay at home.”
“And she found some one?”
“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.