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.