The Sea Mystery · Chapter 13 (1/2)

XIII

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 manoeuvred 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—someone 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 saddlebag 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.