In the afternoon there was a reply to the effect that the man was employed by a market gardener near Chagford, and French at once took a car over to see him. Swann remembered the bicycle well, as he had had to keep it clean. He had seen it in the woodshed on the day before the tragedy, but next morning it was gone. He had looked for it particularly, as he wished to use it to take a message to the town and he had wondered where it could have got to. He had never seen it again. He had not asked about it, as he had not considered that his business.
Once again French experienced the keen delight of finding his deductions justified by the event. In this whole case he had really excelled himself. On several different points he had imagined what might have occurred, and on a test being made, his idea had been proved correct. Some work that! As he did not fail to remind himself, it showed the highest type of ability.
The next thing was to find the bicycle. He returned for the night to Ashburton, and next morning went down to see the superintendent of police at Plymouth. That officer listened with interest to his story and promised to have a search made without delay. When he had rung up and asked for similar enquiries to be made in the other large towns within a cycle ride of the moor, French found himself at a loose end.
“You should have a look round the place,” the superintendent advised. “There’s a lot to see in Plymouth.”
French took the advice and went for a stroll round the city. He was not impressed by the streets, though he admired St. Andrew’s Church, the Guildhall, and some of the other buildings in the same locality. But when, after wandering through some more or less uninteresting residential streets, he unexpectedly came out on the Hoe, he held his breath. The promenade along the top of the cliff was imposing enough, though no better than he had seen many times before. But the view of the Sound was unique. The sea, light blue in the morning sun, stretched from the base of the cliff beneath his feet out past Drake’s Island and the long line of the Breakwater to a clear horizon. On the right was Mount Edgcumbe, tree clad to the water’s edge, while far away out to the southwest was the faint white pillar of the Eddystone lighthouse. French gazed and admired, then going down to the Sutton Pool, he explored the older part of the town for the best part of an hour.
When he presently reached the police station he was delighted to find that news had just then come in. The bicycle had been found. It had been pawned by a man, apparently a labourer, shortly after the shop opened on the ; the morning, French reminded himself delightedly, after the crime. The man had stated that the machine was his daughter’s and had been given two pounds on it. He had not returned since, nor had the machine been redeemed.
“We’re trying to trace the man, but after this lapse of time I don’t suppose we shall be able,” the superintendent declared. “I expect this Berlyn abandoned the machine when he reached Plymouth, and our friend found it and thought he had better make hay while the sun shone.”
“So likely that I don’t think it matters whether you find him or not,” French returned.
“I agree, but we shall have a shot at it, all the same. By the way, Mr. French, it’s a curious thing that you should call today. Only yesterday I was talking to a friend of yours—an ass, if you don’t mind my saying so, but married to one of the most delightful young women I’ve ever come across. Lives at Dartmouth.”
“Dartmouth?” French laughed. “That gives me a clue. You mean that cheery young optimist, Maxwell Cheyne? He is an ass right enough, but he’s not a bad soul at bottom. And the girl’s a stunner. How are they getting along?”
“Tip-top. He’s taken to writing tales. Doing quite well with them, too, I believe. They’re very popular down there, both of them.”
“Glad to hear it. Well, Superintendent, I must be getting along. Thanks for your help.”
French was full of an eager optimism as the result of these discoveries. The disappearance of the bicycle, added to the breakdown of the alibi, seemed definitely to prove his theory of Mrs. Berlyn’s complicity.
But when he considered the identity of the person whom Mrs. Berlyn had thus assisted, he had to admit himself staggered. That Berlyn had murdered Pyke had seemed an obvious theory. Now French was not so certain of it. The lady had undoubtedly been in love with Pyke. Surely it was too much to suppose she would help her husband to murder her lover?
Had it been the other way round, had Phyllis and Pyke conspired to kill Berlyn, the thing would have been easier to understand. Wife and lover against husband was a common enough combination. But the evidence against this idea was strong. Not only was there the identification of the clothes and birthmark, but there was the strong presumption that the man who disposed of the crate in Wales was Berlyn. At the same time this evidence of identification was not quite conclusive, and French determined to keep the possibility in view and test it rigorously as occasion offered.
And then another factor occurred to him, an extremely disturbing factor, which bade fair to change his whole view
