The sea mystery

by Freeman Wills Crofts

“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.”