The Accomplice?
French’s new idea had been subconsciously in his mind from the very
first, but probably owing to his theory of the guilt of one of the two
men supposed to be lost, he had never given it the consideration he
now saw that it deserved.
Suppose that on the night of the tragedy the lines of footprints had
not been faked. Suppose that after leaving the car the two men had
walked across the moor _and reached Domlio’s_. Suppose that Domlio was
the moving spirit in the affair and Berlyn merely the accomplice.
This idea, French thought, would account not only for the facts which
his previous theory had covered, but also for nearly all of those
which the latter had failed to meet.
As before, the affair hinged on the fatal attractiveness of Phyllis
Berlyn, but in this case Domlio was the victim. Suppose Domlio had
fallen desperately in love with Phyllis and that she had encouraged
him. So far from this being unlikely, the facts bore it out. Different
witnesses had testified to the flirtation and Mrs. Berlyn herself had
not denied it.
Domlio then would see that there was a double barrier to the
realisation of his desires. There was of course Berlyn, but if Berlyn
were out of the way there was still Pyke. How far Mrs. Berlyn loved
Pyke, Domlio might not know, but their “affair” was common knowledge
and he would want to be on the safe side. If murder were the way out
in one case, why not in both? The risk was probably no greater, and
once both his rivals were out of the way, his own happiness was
secured.
His plan decided on, he would approach his friend Berlyn with
insidious suggestions as to the part Pyke was playing with his wife.
Gradually he would let it be known that he also had occasion to hate
Pyke—obviously for some quite different reason. He would feed the
other’s jealousy until at last Berlyn would be as ready for the crime
as he was himself. Then he would put forward his proposals.
Pyke was a cause of misery in both their lives; they would combine to
remove his evil influence.
Between them they would obtain and damage the spare magneto, then
arrange the visit to Tavistock and the ordering of the crate and crane
lorry. Berlyn would require Pyke to accompany him to Tavistock. All
would be done without raising suspicion.
On the fatal night Domlio would go to the works and drug Gurney’s
supper. Later on, during the run back from Tavistock, Berlyn would
stop the car and pretend to Pyke that it had broken down. He would
suggest looking up Domlio, who would certainly run them into Ashburton
in his own car. A light in the colonel’s study would lead them direct
to his French window and Domlio would admit them without letting his
servants know of their call.
Domlio would immediately get out his car and they would start for the
town. A sandbag would be in the car and on the way Pyke would be done
to death. The two men would then leave the car in some deserted place,
and carrying the body to the works, would pack it in the crate. When
the ghastly work was done they would return to the car, taking with
them Pyke’s suit and the small parts of the duplicator. These they
would get rid of later. Lastly they would change the magneto on
Berlyn’s car.
So far French was well pleased with his new theory, but he realised
that it contained a couple of nasty snags.
In the first place, it did not account satisfactorily for the
disappearance of Berlyn. Presumably Domlio had manœuvred his colleague
into such a position that he could give him away to the police with
safety to himself. Berlyn would therefore have to do the other’s
bidding, which would be to disappear and to get rid of the crate. This
was possible, but there was not a shred of proof that it had happened.
Secondly, the theory did not explain how the letters were posted in
London. However, though French was not entirely satisfied, he grew
more and more convinced that he was on sure ground in suspecting
Domlio. At all events, his next job must be to test the point.
First he decided to find out what Sergeant Daw could tell him about
the colonel and early next morning saw him at the police station. The
sergeant greeted him with a peculiar smile.
“I suppose, sir, you’ve heard the rumor that’s going round?” he asked
at once.
“What’s that, Sergeant?”
“They say you’ve found out that Mr. Berlyn murdered Mr. Pyke out on
the moor that night. Mrs. Billing, Pyke’s landlady, is supposed to
have recognised the underclothes.”
French smiled.
“Well it’s quite true,” he admitted. “I didn’t mean to keep it from
you, Sergeant, but I went off to London as soon as I discovered it. I
warned Mrs. Billing not to talk, but I hardly believed she could help
herself.”
The sergeant was evidently upset.
“I’m sorry about the whole thing, Mr. French. I should have thought
Mr. Berlyn was the last man who would do such a thing.”
“You may be right. Indeed, it’s a matter arising out of that very
point that I want to see you about. I have a notion there was a second
person in it—some one who might even have taken the lead. Tell
me”—French’s voice became very confidential—“what sort of a man is
Colonel Domlio?”
The sergeant looked shocked.
“Colonel Domlio?” he repeated. “Surely, sir, you don’t mean to suggest
that the colonel was mixed up in a murder?”
“You don’t think it likely?”
“I don’t, sir, and that’s a fact. The colonel’s a very quiet man and
peculiar in some ways, but he’s well respected in the district.”
“So was many a murderer.”
The sergeant was clearly sceptical, though anxious to be polite. He
said he was sure Mr. French would not speak without good reason, but
his own view was evident.
“Well, tell me all you know about him, anyway.”
Domlio, it appeared, was a man of about forty-five, short, thickset,
and dark. (Not the man who called for the crate, thought French.) He
was very well off, and since his wife had died some six years earlier,
had lived alone with his servants in his house on the moor. He held
sufficient Veda stock to give him a controlling interest in the firm,
acted as consulting engineer, and was usually referred to as the
senior partner. Entomology was his pet hobby and it was believed that
he was writing a book on the insect life of the moor.
He had four servants. Inside was John Burt, valet, butler, and general
factotum, and his wife, Sarah Burt, who combined the offices of cook
and general servant. Outside was an ex-service man named Coombe, who
acted as chauffeur and general handy man, and an old gardener called
Mee. Mee lived with his wife and daughter in the gate lodge and Coombe
boarded with them. All, so far as the sergeant knew, were reliable
people of good character.
“I’ll go out and see the colonel after lunch,” French announced.
“Could you lend me a push bicycle? I don’t want all my movements
reported on by the driver of a car.”
“I can borrow one for you, but it’ll not be much use on these hilly
roads.”
“It’ll do all I want.”
A couple of hours later French set out. When near Colonel Domlio’s
gate he hid the bicycle in the brushwood and approached the house on
foot. It was a smallish, creeper-covered building, L-shaped, with
thick walls and heavy overhanging eaves. At least a hundred years old,
French thought. It stood some two hundred yards back from the road and
was approached by a drive which wound between clumps of stunted trees
and shrubs. In front was a small lawn of mown grass, while between the
trees to the right French glimpsed the roofs of outbuildings. The
place had a cared-for appearance. The woodwork of the house had been
freshly painted, the flower beds were tidy, and the grass edges had
recently been cut.
The door was opened by an elderly man in butler’s dress, honest and
kindly-looking, but rather stupid. John Burt, evidently. He asked
French to step inside while he took his card to his master.
The hall was of fair size, with a large, old-fashioned fireplace and
lead-lighted windows. French had not much time to observe it, for Burt
called him almost immediately into a room on the left of the hall
door.
It was long, low, and delightfully furnished as a study. Bookcases
lined the walls and a couple of deep saddle-bag armchairs stood on the
soft Chinese carpet in front of the fireplace. A collector’s
entomological cabinet was in one corner, with close by a table bearing
books and a fine microscope. The room was evidently in the corner of
the house, for there were French windows in adjacent walls. In one of
these was a leather-topped desk and at the desk was seated a shortish
man with a strong, clean-shaven face, iron grey hair, and a not too
amiable expression. He rose as French entered.
“Inspector French of Scotland Yard, is it not? I have heard that you
were in the town.”
“That’s correct, sir,” French answered, taking the chair to which the
other pointed. “You’ve probably heard enough, then, to guess my
business?”
Colonel Domlio squared his shoulders.
“I heard you were investigating the deaths of Mr. Berlyn and Mr. Pyke.
I don’t know the object of this call.”
“I’ve come, Colonel Domlio, in connection with my investigation. I
want to ask for your help in it.”
“What do you wish me to do?”
“Two things, sir. In the first place, I want any information you can
give me about either of the two gentlemen you mentioned or anything
which might throw light on the tragedy. Secondly, I would be obliged
if you would answer the purely formal question that we inspectors have
to ask all who were in any way connected with the victim of such a
tragedy. Where were you yourself at the time of the occurrence?”
The colonel raised his eyebrows.
“Do you suspect me of murdering Mr. Pyke?” he asked, drily.
“I think, sir, you needn’t take up that line.” French’s tone was also
a trifle dry. “I have explained that my question is a formal one,
invariably put. You are not bound to answer it unless you wish.”
“If I don’t you will suspect me in reality, so I don’t see that I have
much option. I was here, in this room.”
“Between what hours?”
“During the whole evening. I finished dinner about eight or a quarter
past. Then I came in here and stayed here until I went to bed between
one and two.”
“And no one came in during that time?”
“No one came in. I take nothing after dinner except a little whisky
going to bed, and I have everything I want in the cupboard there. I’m
writing a book at present and I don’t like to be disturbed in the
evenings.”
“Then in the face of what you’ve said I presume I needn’t ask you if
you heard any sound at the door or windows?”
“You need not.”
“And—excuse this question—you didn’t sleep at all during the evening?
No one could have knocked while you were asleep?”
The Colonel smiled slightly.
“Ingenious,” he remarked, “but unproductive. No, I didn’t sleep at
all.”
“Thank you,” said French, “that disposes of one question. Now the
other. Can you tell me anything likely to be helpful to me about
either of the two gentlemen?”
The colonel regretted that in this case also he could do nothing to
oblige. He would answer Mr. French’s questions so far as he could, but
he had nothing to volunteer. And French found that after half an
hour’s interrogation he had learnt just nothing whatever.
“There is one other matter to which I must refer,” he said. “I regret
the necessity, as it’s somewhat delicate. Common report says that Mrs.
Berlyn was on very intimate terms first with Mr. Pyke and then with
yourself. Would you tell me how far that is true?”
The colonel squared his shoulders again and French presently saw that
it was an unconscious nervous trick.
“Is it really necessary that Mrs. Berlyn’s name should be dragged in?”
he asked, stiffly.
“I’m afraid so. You will recognise that I am trying to find motives.”
“I don’t think you will find one there.”
“On the contrary, Colonel Domlio, I have evidence that Mr. Berlyn was
acutely jealous.”
But the colonel was not to be drawn.
“That is news to me,” he declared.
“Well,” said French, doggedly, “I should like to have your definite
statement as to whether such jealousy would or would not have been
justified, in so far, at all events, as you yourself were concerned.”
The colonel smiled sardonically.
“I should say that it would not have been justified.”
“Very good, Colonel. I have now only one other request to make. I
should like to interrogate your servants. Some of them may have seen
or heard something which might be useful to me. Would you oblige me by
calling them in and instructing them to reply to me?”
For the first time an uneasy look appeared in the colonel’s eyes.
“Surely that is unnecessary?” he demurred. “What could they possibly
tell you?”
“Nothing, I very greatly fear,” French admitted. “But it is a routine
enquiry and as such I dare not omit it.”
With an evident ill grace Colonel Domlio rang the bell. French,
sensing his opposition, had become keenly alert. It seemed to him that
he might be on the brink of learning something important. But
instantly he decided that he would postpone serious examination of the
staff until he had them to himself.
The butler, Burt, answered the bell.
“This gentleman is Mr. French, Burt,” said the colonel. “He wants to
ask you some questions. You might answer him so far as you can.”
“It was only to know whether you heard or saw anything unusual on the
night of the deaths of Mr. Berlyn and Mr. Pyke,” French explained.
The man denied with what French thought was over-earnestness.
Moreover, he looked acutely uneasy, even scared. French felt a sudden
thrill, but he merely nodded and said:
“You didn’t see any traces on the moor the next day?”
“Nothing whatever, sir,” said the man with evident relief.
“Thank you. That’s all I want. Now, Colonel, if I could see the others
to put the same questions I should be finished.”
Mrs. Burt and the two outside men were produced in turn, and each
denied having heard or seen anything unusual. Coombe and Mee, the
chauffeur and gardener, were interested, but evidently nothing more.
But Mrs. Burt reproduced all the signs of uneasiness which her husband
had exhibited, only in an intensified degree. She was obviously
terrified when French questioned her, and her relief when her ordeal
was over was unmistakable.
But French apparently saw nothing amiss and when the quartet had gone
he thanked Colonel Domlio for his assistance and apologised for the
trouble he had given. And in the colonel’s manner he noticed the same
repressed evidences of relief. That something had taken place that
night of which the master of the house and the two domestics were
aware, French was positive.
He left the house and regained the clump of brushwood in which he had
hidden the bicycle. But he did not withdraw the machine. Instead,
after a quick glance round he crept in beside it, pulling the bushes
over him to make sure that he was invisible from the road. From his
hiding-place he could see the entrance to “Torview,” as the colonel
had named his house.
He was waiting on a pure chance, but after an hour he found that his
luck was in. He heard the sounds of an engine being started up, and
presently saw a small green car turn out of the drive and disappear in
the direction of Ashburton. In the car was Colonel Domlio.
French allowed another twenty minutes to pass, then crawling out of
the brushwood, he returned to the house. Burt again opened the door.
“I’m sorry to trouble you again, Mr. Burt,” he apologised, with his
pleasant smile, “but I forgot to ask Colonel Domlio a question. Could
I see him again just for a moment?”
“Colonel Domlio went out about half an hour ago, sir.”
“Ah, that’s very unfortunate.” French paused and looked disappointed,
then brightened up. “Perhaps you could give me the information, if you
would be so kind? I don’t want to have to come back another day.”
Burt was obviously disconcerted. But he tried to hide his feelings and
reluctantly invited the caller into the study.
“Yes, sir?” he said.
French instantly became official and very stern. He swung round,
frowning at the other and staring him full in the face. Then he said,
harshly: “It is you I want to see, Burt. You lied to me this
afternoon. I have come back to hear the truth.”
The man started and fell back a pace, while dismay and something like
terror showed on his features.
“I don’t understand,” he stammered. “What do you mean?”
“It’s no use, Burt. You’ve given yourself away. You saw or heard
something that night. What was it?”
“You’re mistaken, sir,” he declared, with a look of relief. “I neither
saw nor heard anything. I swear it.” And then gaining confidence: “I
don’t know what right you have to come here and tell me I was lying.
I’m sure——”
“Cut it out,” French said, sharply. “Look here, Burt, do you want to
be arrested on a charge of conspiracy to murder?”
Burt’s jaw dropped, but French did not give him time to reply.
“Because if you don’t you’ll tell what you know. Mr. Pyke was murdered
that night, and perhaps Mr. Berlyn as well. They were not lost on the
moor and it is believed they came here. If you keep back any
information that might lead to the arrest of the murderer, it’s
conspiracy—accessory after the fact. Ten years penal for that, Burt!
Come along, now. Make up your mind whether you’re going to tell or
face the judge.”
Burt’s face had grown pale, but he stuck to it that he had neither
seen nor heard anything. French cut his protestations short.
“Fetch your wife,” he ordered.
The man’s manner as he heard these words, coupled with Mrs. Burt’s
evident fear when originally questioned, assured French that this time
he was on the right track. With evident unwillingness the woman
appeared.
“Now, Mrs. Burt, I want to know what you heard or saw on the night of
the tragedy. There is no use in telling me there was nothing. Now out
with it!” And in terse language he explained what accessory after the
fact meant, and its penalty.
Mrs. Burt was of less stern stuff than her husband. Under French’s
examination she was soon in tears and presently, disjointed and in
fragments, her story came out.
It appeared that on the night of the tragedy she slept badly, owing to
some small indisposition. Shortly after one she woke in considerable
pain. She endured it for a time, then thinking that perhaps a hot
drink would help her, she decided to go down to the kitchen and heat
some milk. She got up quietly so as not to awake her husband, and left
the bedroom. A quarter-moon dimly lit up the staircase and hall, so
she carried no light. Just as she reached the head of the lower flight
of stairs she heard the front door open. Startled, she drew back into
the shadows, peering down at the same time into the hall. She was
relieved to see that it was Colonel Domlio. He wore a hat and
overcoat, and taking these off, he moved very quietly across the hall.
Then she heard the click of the cloakroom door and slight sounds of
movement as he approached the stairs. She slipped back into the
passage which led to the servants’ quarters and in a few seconds the
colonel’s bedroom door closed softly. This was a few minutes past two
o’clock.
It was unusual for the colonel to be out at night and her woman’s
curiosity led her to examine the hat and coat. They were soaking wet.
Rain was falling, but only very slightly, and she realised, therefore,
that he must have been out for a considerable time.
She thought no more of the incident, and having had her hot milk,
returned to bed. But she had not slept, and soon Sergeant Daw appeared
with his story of the missing men. This excited but did not perturb
her, but when, a few minutes later, she heard Colonel Domlio assuring
the sergeant that he had spent the whole evening in his study until
going up to bed, she felt that something was wrong. But it was not
until the next day, when she had learnt the full details of what had
happened and had talked the matter over with her husband, that any
possible sinister significance of her master’s action occurred to her.
Burt, however, had pointed out that it was not their business and that
their obvious policy was silence.
Mrs. Burt did not state that she had coupled the colonel’s nocturnal
excursion with the tragedy, but French could sense that this was in
both her and her husband’s minds. He wondered what motive they could
have suspected and further questions showed that it was connected with
the colonel’s intimacy with Mrs. Berlyn. According to Mrs. Burt this
had been more serious than he had imagined. Mrs. Berlyn had spent
several afternoons and an occasional evening with the colonel in his
study and they were known to have had many excursions together on the
moor. Since the tragedy, moreover, both the Burts noticed a change in
their master. He had developed fits of abstraction and brooding and
acted as if he had a weight on his mind.
Believing he had got all he could from the couple, French warned them
to keep his visit to themselves and immensely comforted Mrs. Burt by
assuring her that she had told him little that he had not known
before. Then saying he wished to have another word with the two
outside men, he left the house and walked round the outbuildings.
At the back of the main house was a large walled yard with an
old-fashioned stone-built well in the center and farm buildings along
one side. Wheel tracks leading into one of these indicated that it was
the garage, and there, polishing up some spare parts, was Coombe.
French repeated his explanation about having forgotten to ask Colonel
Domlio a question, then, after chatting for some moments, he returned
to the night of the tragedy. Putting up a bluff, he asked at what
hours the colonel had taken out and brought back the car.
Coombe was considerably taken aback by the question and said at once
that he knew nothing about it.
“But,” said French, in apparent surprise, “you must have known that
the car was out?”
To his delight, the man did not deny it. Oh yes, he knew that, but he
had not heard it pass and he didn’t know when it had left or returned.
“Then how did you know it had been out? Did Colonel Domlio tell you?”
“No, he didn’t say naught about it. I knew by the mud on the car and
the petrol that had been used.”
“Pretty smart of you, that,” French said, admiringly. “So there was
mud on her? Was she clean the night before?”
“No. He had her out in the afternoon and got her a bit dirty. But he
said it was late and for me not to bother with her till the next day,
and so I let her alone.”
“Naturally. And was much petrol gone?”
“’Bout two gallons.”
“Two gallons,” French repeated, musingly. “That would run her about
forty miles, I suppose?”
“Easy that and more.”
“You live at the lodge gate, don’t you, Coombe?”
“That’s right.”
“Then the car must have passed you twice in the night. Surely you
would have heard it?”
“I might not. Anyhow, I wouldn’t if she went out the back way.”
All this was excessively satisfactory to French. The theory he had
formed postulated that Domlio had secretly run his car to the works on
the night of the tragedy. And now it looked as if he had done so. At
least, he had taken the car out. And not only had he denied it, but he
had arranged that the machine should be left dirty so that the fresh
mud it might gather should not show. Furthermore, the hour at which he
returned exactly worked in.
For a moment French was puzzled about the quantity of petrol which had
been used. Forty miles or more was enough for two trips to the works.
Then he saw that to carry out the plan Domlio must have driven there
twice. First he must have been at the works about ten to drug Gurney’s
tea. Then he must have gone in about midnight with Berlyn and Pyke. So
this also fitted in.
French, always thorough, interviewed Mee. But he was not disappointed
when he found the man could tell him nothing. Keenly delighted with
his progress, he renewed his directions to keep his visit secret, and
took his leave.