First he should satisfy himself that everything possible had been done to trace the letter-writers of the Euston and St. Pancras hotels and the purchaser of the money order for £62 10s. 0d. Next he must visit the manufacturers of the Ardlo magneto and get their views on short-circuited windings. Lastly he must have an interview with Mrs. Berlyn.
As it happened, he took the last of these items first, and that afternoon found him ascending the stairs of No. 70b Park Walk, Chelsea. The house was divided into a number of what seemed small but comfortable flats. Pretty expensive, French thought, as he rang.
A neatly dressed maid opened the door and, after taking in his card, announced that Mrs. Berlyn would see him. He followed her to a tiny, but pleasantly furnished drawing room, and there in a few minutes he was joined by the lady of the house.
French looked at her with some curiosity. Of medium height and with a slight, graceful figure, she still gave an impression of energy and competent efficiency. She was not beautiful, but her appearance was arresting and French felt instinctively that she was a woman to be reckoned with. Her manner was vivacious and French could imagine her dancing all night and turning up next morning to breakfast as cool and fresh and ready for anything as if she had had her accustomed eight hours’ sleep.
“Inspector French, Scotland Yard,” she said, briskly, glancing at the card in her hand. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. French, and tell me what I can do for you?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Berlyn. I am sorry to say I have called on distressing business. It may or may not concern your late husband. I am hoping for information from you which may decide the point.”
The lady’s expression became grave.
“Suppose you give me the details,” she suggested.
“I am about to do so, but I warn you that you must prepare yourself for a shock. It is in connection with the tragedy by which Mr. Berlyn and Mr. Pyke were believed to have lost their lives.”
Mrs. Berlyn started and her gaze became fixed intently on French.
“It has been discovered that Mr. Pyke was not lost on the moor as was supposed. Of Mr. Berlyn’s fate nothing new has been learnt. But I deeply regret to inform you that Mr. Pyke was murdered.”
“Stanley Pyke murdered! Oh, impossible!” Horror showed on the lady’s face and her lips trembled. For a moment it looked as if she would give way to her emotion, but she controlled herself and asked for details.
French told her exactly what had occurred, from the discovery of the crate to Jefferson Pyke’s identification of the birthmark.
“I’m afraid it must be true,” she said, sadly, when he had finished. “I remember that birthmark, too. We were children together, the Pykes and I, and I have often seen it. Oh, I can’t say how sorry I am! Who could have done such a terrible thing? Stanley was so jolly and pleasant and kind. He was good to everyone and everyone liked him. Oh, it is too awful for words!”
French made a noncommittal reply.
“But what about my late husband?” Mrs. Berlyn went on. “You said nothing had been learnt about him. But—if they were together—?”
She paused suddenly, as if seeing that a meaning which she had not intended might be read into her words. But French replied, soothingly:
“That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about, Mrs. Berlyn. Did you know if either he or Mr. Pyke had any enemies? You need not fear to tell me the merest suspicions. I will act only on knowledge that I obtain, but your suspicion might suggest where to look for that knowledge.”
“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
