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Basic Clinical
Laboratory
Techniques
6th Edition
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LESSON 1-1 The Clinical Laboratory iii
Basic Clinical
Laboratory
Techniques
6th Edition
Australia • Brazil • Japan • Korea • Mexico • Singapore • Spain • United Kingdom • United States
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Basic Clinical Laboratory Techniques, © 2012, 2008, 2000 Delmar, Cengage Learning
Sixth Edition
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this work covered by the copyright herein
Barbara H. Estridge and Anna P. Reynolds may be reproduced, transmitted, stored, or used in any form or by any means
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ISBN-13: 978-1-1111-3836-3
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Delmar
5 Maxwell Drive
Clifton Park, NY 12065-2919
USA
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Dedication
To our instructors for their guidance, our students for inspiration, our families for
their encouragement and patience, and especially to our husbands, Ron and George,
for the unconditional support they have provided through the years
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LESSON 1-1 The Clinical Laboratory vii
Contents
Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xi Lesson 1-8
How to Use This Book . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xv Laboratory Math and Reagent
Preparation............................................... 109
UNIT 1
Lesson 1-9
The Clinical Laboratory l 01 Quality Assessment.................................. 127
Lesson 4-7
UNIT 3 Rh Typing.................................................. 507
Basic Hemostasis l 365
UNIT 5
Lesson 3-1
Urinalysis l 521
Introduction to Hemostasis..................... 369
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contents ix
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x Contents
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Preface
Basic Clinical Laboratory Techniques, 6th edition, is a performance- Unit Organization
based text for use in allied health programs at postsecondary levels.
The text is appropriate for medical laboratory technician and medi- The Unit Overview at the beginning of each unit provides a
cal assistant programs, as well as for introductory survey courses or snapshot of the information contained in the unit as well as a list
orientation classes in medical or clinical laboratory science. This of references, readings, resources and web sites pertinent to that
text is also useful as a reference for personnel who perform CLIA- unit. Each unit is divided into several lessons.
waived tests in point-of-care (POC) settings or physician office Unit 1—The Clinical Laboratory, is an introduction to
laboratories (POLs). the field of clinical laboratory science. Information about chang-
Almost 30 years have passed since the first publication ing trends in clinical laboratories and credentialing for laboratory
of this text, and these years have brought many advances in the personnel is included. Emphasis is placed on safe work practices
field of medical laboratory science. Although this text includes such as Standard Precautions, hand hygiene techniques, use of an-
only the most basic procedures, the principles, skills, and tech- tiseptics and disinfectants, and prevention of healthcare-associated
niques presented continue to be core to understanding the more infections (HAIs). In addition, Unit 1 presents other general knowl-
sophisticated technologies used in the clinical laboratory. edge used in all laboratory departments, including:
● Quality assessment policies and procedures
● Medical terminology
TEXT ORGANIZATION ● Use of the metric system
Basic Clinical Laboratory Techniques, 6th edition, presents ● Use of general laboratory equipment
fundamentals of techniques used throughout the discipline of ● Preparation of reagents
clinical laboratory science as well as an introduction to current ● Use of the clinical microscope
technologies and instrumentation. The text is organized into ● Capillary and venipuncture blood collection techniques
eight units, encompassing the major departments in the clinical
laboratory: Unit 2—Basic Hematology, contains introductory informa-
● The Clinical Laboratory tion about blood and hemopoiesis, the formation of blood cells.
Lessons in the unit explain basic hematology principles and in-
● Basic Hematology
clude procedures for hemoglobin, hematocrit, blood cell counts,
● Basic Hemostasis white blood cell differential count, reticulocyte count, erythrocyte
● Basic Immunology and Immunohematology sedimentation rate, as well as information about hematology au-
● Urinalysis tomation. Two lessons on blood cell morphology provide guide-
lines for identifying normal and abnormal blood cells.
● Basic Clinical Chemistry
Unit 3—Basic Hemostasis, explains principles of hemostasis
● Basic Clinical Microbiology and coagulation, discusses diseases and disorders affecting blood
● Basic Parasitology coagulation, and presents procedures for several coagulation tests.
xi
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xii Preface
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PreFACe xiii
Q
Quality Assessment: Follow quality assessment policies ADDITIONAL STUDENT RESOURCES
and techniques
To access additional course materials including CourseMate,
Math: Use basic math skills please visit www.cengagebrain.com. At the CengageBrain.com
home page, search for the ISBN of your title (from the back cover
of your book) using the search box at the top of the page. This
Web-based activity: Use Internet to explore additional
will take you to the product page where these resources can be
learning opportunities
found.
Critical thinking: Apply principles from the lesson(s) to
make a decision or solve a problem
CourseMate
The CourseMate that accompanies Basic Clinical Laboratory
INSTRUCTOR RESOURCES Techniques, Sixth Edition helps you make the grade.
CourseMate includes:
An Instructor Resources CD accompanying the sixth edition of
Basic Clinical Laboratory Techniques contains: ● An interactive eBook, with highlighting, note taking and
search capabilities
● Instructor’s Manual, including
● Interactive learning tools including:
s Lesson plans
s Quizzes
s Answers to review questions
s Flashcards
s Answers to case studies and critical
thinking problems s PowerPoint slides
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me that the trouble might have come to a head. I hoped not, of
course, but the idea occurred to me.”
“Even yet I don’t understand. What was the cause of the bad
blood between those two and how did you come to know of it?”
“Surely,” Domlio protested, “it is not necessary to go into that? I
am only accounting for my own actions.”
“It is necessary in order to account for your own actions.”
Domlio squared his shoulders.
“I don’t think I should tell you, only that, unfortunately, it is
pretty well common property. I hate dragging in a lady’s name,
though you have already done it, but the truth is that they had had
a misunderstanding about Mrs. Berlyn.”
“About Mrs. Berlyn?”
“Yes. She and Pyke saw rather too much of each other. I don’t for
a moment believe there was the slightest cause for jealousy, but
Berlyn was a bit exacting and he probably made a mountain out of a
molehill. I knew Mrs. Berlyn pretty well myself, and I am certain that
Berlyn had no real cause for complaint.”
“You haven’t explained how you came to know of the affair?”
“It was common property. I don’t think I can tell you where I first
heard of it.”
French considered for a moment.
“There is another thing, Colonel Domlio. You said that when you
heard the sergeant’s story you suspected the trouble between the
two men had come to a head?”
“Might have come to a head. Yes.”
“Suppose it had. Why, then, did you fear that the sergeant might
have suspected you?”
Again Domlio hesitated.
“That is a nasty question, Inspector,” he said at last, “but from
what you asked me in my study you might guess the answer. As a
matter of fact, I had myself seen a good deal of Mrs. Berlyn for
some time previously. About this there was nothing in the slightest
degree compromising. All through we were merely friends. Not only
that, but Berlyn knew of our meetings and excursions. When he
could he shared them, and he had not the slightest objection to our
intimacy. But Daw wouldn’t know that. For all I could tell, the
excellent scandalmongers of the district had coupled Mrs. Berlyn’s
name with mine. Berlyn was dead and gone and he could not state
his views. My word would not be believed, nor Mrs. Berlyn’s, neither,
if she were dragged into it. I thought, at all events, I had better
keep secret a mysterious excursion which might easily be
misunderstood.”
Not very convincing, French thought, as he rapidly considered
what the colonel had told him. However, it might be true. At all
events, he had no evidence to justify an arrest. He therefore
pretended that he fully accepted the statement, and, wishing the
colonel a cheery good evening, stood aside to let the car pass.
As he cycled slowly into Ashburton he kept turning over in his
mind the question of whether there was any way in which he could
test the truth of Colonel Domlio’s statement. Frankly, he did not
believe the story. But unbelief was no use to him. He must prove it
true or false.
All the evening he puzzled over the problem, then at last he saw
that there was a line of research which, though it might not solve
the point in question, yet bade fair to be of value to the enquiry as a
whole.
Once again it concerned a time-table—this time for Domlio’s
presumed movements. Assume that Berlyn and Pyke reached the
point at which the car was abandoned about 11.30. To convince
Pyke of the bona fides of the breakdown, Berlyn would have to
spend some time over the engine, say fifteen minutes. In the dark
they could scarcely have reached Torview in less than another
fifteen; say that by the time Domlio had admitted them it was close
on midnight. Some time would then be consumed in explaining the
situation and in getting out the car; in fact, the party could scarcely
have left Torview before 12.10. Running to the works would have
occupied the most of another half hour; say arrive 12.40. Domlio
reached his home about 2.10, which, allowing half an hour for the
return journey, left an hour unaccounted for. In this hour Pyke’s
murder must have been committed, the duplicator taken to pieces
and the parts left in the store, fresh tea put into Gurney’s flask,
Pyke’s clothes and the small parts of the duplicator got rid of, and
the magneto on Berlyn’s car changed.
French wondered if all these things could have been done in the
time. At last, after working out a detailed time-table, he came to the
conclusion that they could, on one condition: that the clothes and
duplicator parts were got rid of on the way to Torview; that is, if no
time were lost in making a detour.
Where, then, could this have been done?
French took his map and considered the route. The Dart River
was crossed three times and a part of the way lay through woods.
But he believed that too many tourists strayed from the road for
these to be safe hiding-places, though he realised that they might
have to be searched later.
There remained two places, either of which he thought more
promising—the works and Domlio’s grounds.
The fact that elaborate arrangements had been made to get
Pyke’s body away from the works indicated that the disposal of it
there was considered impossible. Nevertheless, French spent the
next day, which was Sunday, prowling about the buildings, though
without result.
This left Domlio’s little estate, and early the following morning
French borrowed the sergeant’s bicycle and rode out to his former
hiding-place outside the gates. History repeated itself, for after
waiting for nearly two hours he saw Domlio pass out towards
Ashburton.
As the car had not been heard by either Coombe or Mee on the
night of the tragedy, it followed that it had almost certainly entered
by the back drive. French now walked up this lane to the yard,
looking for hiding-places. But there were none.
He did not see any of the servants about and he stood in the
yard, pondering over his problem. Then his glance fell on the old
well, and it instantly occurred to him that here was the very kind of
place he was seeking. There was an old wheel pump beside it, rusty
and dilapidated, working a rod to the plunger below. He imagined
the well was not used, for on his last visit he had noticed a well-oiled
force pump a hundred yards away at the kitchen door.
The well was surrounded by a masonry wall about three feet
high, coped with roughly dressed stones. On the coping was a flat
wooden grating, old and decaying. Ivy covered about half of the wall
and grating.
French crossed the yard and, leaning over the wall, glanced
down. The sides were black with age and he could distinguish no
details of the walls, but there was a tiny reflection from the water far
below. Then suddenly he noticed a thing which once again set him
off into a ferment of delight.
The cross-bars of the grating were secured by mortar into niches
cut in the stone. All of these bore signs of recent movement.
Satisfied that he had at last solved his problem, French quietly
left the yard and, recovering his bicycle, rode back to the police
station at Ashburton.
“I want your help, Sergeant,” he said as Daw came forward. “Can
you get some things together and come out with me to Colonel
Domlio’s to-night?”
“Of course, Mr. French.”
“Good. Then I want a strong fishing-line and some hooks and
some twenty-five or thirty yards of strong cord. I should like also a
candle-burning lantern and, of course, your electric torch. I want to
try an experiment.”
“I’ll have all those ready.”
“I want to be there when there’s no one about, so, as the Colonel
sits up very late, I think we’ll say three o’clock. That means we
ought to leave here about one-fifteen. Can you borrow a second
bicycle?”
The sergeant looked completely mystified by these instructions,
but he answered, “Certainly,” without asking any questions. It was
agreed that they should meet in the evening at his house, sitting up
there until it was time to start.
Having explained at the hotel that he had to go to Plymouth and
would be away all night, French started out for a tramp on the moor.
About eleven he turned up at Daw’s cottage, and there the two men
spent the next couple of hours smoking and chatting.
Shortly before three they reached Torview. They hid their bicycles
in the brushwood and walked softly up the back drive to the yard.
The night was fine and calm, but the sky was overcast and it was
very dark. Not a sound broke the stillness.
Silently they reached the well, and French, with his electric torch,
examined the wooden cover.
“I think if we lift together we can get it up,” he whispered. “Try at
this side and use the ivy as a hinge.”
They raised it easily and French propped it with a billet of wood.
“Now, Sergeant, the fishing line.”
At the sergeant’s cottage they had tied on a bunch of hooks and
a weight. French now let these down, having passed the line
through one of the holes in the grating to ensure its swinging free
from the walls. Gradually he paid out the cord until a faint plop
announced that the water had been reached. He continued lowering
as long as the cord would run out; then he began jerking it slowly
up and down.
“Swing it from side to side, Sergeant, while I keep jerking it. If
there’s anything there we should get it.”
For twenty minutes they worked, and then, just as French was
coming to the conclusion that a daylight descent into the well would
be necessary, the hooks caught. Something of fair weight was on the
line.
“Let it stay till it stops swinging, or else we shall lose the hooks in
the wall, Mr. French,” the sergeant advised, now as keenly interested
as was French himself.
“Right, Sergeant. The water will soon steady it.”
After a few seconds, French began to pull slowly up, the drops
from the attached object echoing loudly up the long funnel. And
then came into the circle of the sergeant’s torch a man’s coat.
It was black and sodden and shapeless from the water, and slimy
to the touch. They lifted it round the well so that the wall should be
between them and the house and examined it with their electric
torches.
In the breast pocket was a letter case containing papers, but it
was impossible to read anything they bore. A pipe, a tobacco pouch,
a box of matches, and a handkerchief were in the other pockets.
Fortunately for French, there was a tailor’s tab sewn into the
lining of the breast pocket and he was able to make out part of the
legend: “R. Shrubsole & Co., Newton Abbot.” Beneath was a smudge
which had evidently been the owner’s name, but this was
undecipherable.
“We’ll get it from the tailor,” French said. “Let’s try the hooks
again.”
Once again they lowered their line, but this time without luck.
“No good,” French declared at last. “We’ll have to pump it out.
You might get the depth, and then close up and leave it as we found
it. We’d better bring a portable pump, for I don’t suppose that old
thing will work.”
They replaced the grating and the billet of wood, and stealing
silently out of the yard, rode back to Ashburton.
With the coat wrapped in paper and packed in his suitcase,
French took an early bus to Newton Abbot. There he soon found
Messrs. Shrubsole’s establishment and asked for the proprietor.
“It’s not easy to say whose it was,” Mr. Shrubsole declared when
he had examined the coat. “You see, these labels of ours are printed
—that is, our name and address. But the customer’s name is written
and it would not last in the same way. I’m afraid I cannot read it.”
“If it had been possible to read it, I should not have come to you,
Mr. Shrubsole. I want you to get at it from the cloth and size and
probable age and things of that kind. You can surely find out all
those things by examination.”
This appeared to be a new idea to Mr. Shrubsole. He admitted
that something of the kind might be done, and calling an assistant,
fell to scrutinising the garment.
“It’s that brown tweed with the purple line that we sold so much
of last year,” the assistant declared. He produced a roll of cloth.
“See, if we lift the lining here it shows clear enough.”
“That’s right,” his employer admitted. “Now can we get the
measurements?”
“Not so easy,” said the assistant. “The thing will be all warped
and shrunk from the water.”
“Try,” French urged, with his pleasant smile.
An orgy of measuring followed, with a subsequent recourse to
the books and much low-voiced conversation. Finally Mr. Shrubsole
announced the result.
“It’s not possible to say for sure, Mr. French. You see, the coat is
shrunk out of all knowing. But we think it might belong to one of
four men.”
“I see your difficulty, Mr. Shrubsole, but if you tell me the four it
may help me.”
“I hope so. We sold suits of about this size to Mr. Albert
Cunningham of Twenty-seven, Acacia Street, Newton Abbot; Mr.
John Booth of Lyndhurst, Teignmouth; Mr. Stanley Pyke, of East
Street, Ashburton; and Mr. George Hepworth, of Linda Lodge,
Newton Abbot. Any of those any good to you?” Mr. Shrubsole’s
expression suddenly changed. “By Jove! You’re not the gentleman
that’s been making these discoveries about Mr. Berlyn and Mr. Pyke?
We’ve heard some report that some Scotland Yard man was down
and had found out that that tragedy was not all it was supposed to
be. That it, sir?”
“That’s it,” French replied, feeling that it was impossible to keep
his business private. “But I don’t want it talked about. Now you see
why I should like to be sure whether that was or was not Mr. Pyke’s
coat.”
But in spite of the tailor’s manifest interest, he declared that the
point could not be established. He was fairly sure that it belonged to
one of the four, but more than that he could not say.
But French had no doubt whatever, and, well pleased with his
progress, he left the shop and took the first bus back to Ashburton.
Chapter Fifteen: Blackmail
“Have you been able to get the pump, Sergeant?” asked French
as he reached the police station that afternoon.
“I’ve got the loan of one, Mr. French, or at least I’ll get it first
thing to-morrow. From a quarry close by. It’s a rotary hand-pump,
and Mr. Glenn, the manager, tells me that it will throw far faster than
anything we’ll want.”
“We shall have to fix it down in the well?”
“Yes, the well’s forty-two feet deep. It’s thirty to the water and
there’s twelve feet of water. But there’ll be no trouble about that.
The beams that carry the old pump will take it, too.”
“You think they’re strong enough?”
“We’ll just have to try them.”
“What about ladders?”
“I’ve got a fifty-foot length of rope ladder from the same quarry.”
“Good. What time can we start to-morrow?”
“I shall have the pump by half past eight.”
“Then we should be at the colonel’s shortly after nine.”
This time French thought it would be wise to have Domlio
present at their experiment. He therefore rang him up and made an
appointment for nine-thirty.
Early next morning a heavily loaded car left Ashburton. In
addition to the driver it contained French, Daw, and two constables
in plain clothes, as well as a low, squat pump with detachable
handle, an immense coil of armoured hose, another huge coil of
rope ladder, and several tools and small parts.
“Another rush to Klondyke,” said French, at which priceless pearl
of humour Daw smiled and the plain clothes men guffawed heavily.
“I should have thought that tailor could have fixed up the
ownership of the coat,” Daw remarked, presently. “Shouldn’t you,
sir?”
“Of course, Sergeant. But we shall get it, all right, even if we
have to do all the work ourselves. I thought it wasn’t worth troubling
about. It’s pretty certain the coat is not the only thing that was
thrown into the well and we shall get our identification from
something else.”
The car was run into the yard, unloaded, and dismissed, while
French went to the hall door and asked for Colonel Domlio.
“Sorry to trouble you at this hour, Colonel, but I want you to be
present at a small experiment I am carrying out.” He watched the
other keenly as he spoke. “Will you please come out into the yard,
where I have left Sergeant Daw and some men?”
Surprise showed on the colonel’s face, but not, so far as French
could see, apprehension.
“This is very interesting, Inspector. I’m glad I’m at least being
informed of what is taking place on my own ground. I shall certainly
see what you are doing.”
As they turned the corner and the purpose of the visit became
apparent to Domlio, his surprise seemed to deepen, but still there
was no appearance of uneasiness. The police had lifted the cover of
the well and were getting the pump rigged. Coombe and Mee had
joined the others and stood speechlessly regarding the preparations.
“Ah, an invasion? I presume, Inspector, you have adequate
authority for these somewhat unusual proceedings?”
“I think you’ll find that’s all right, sir. With your permission we’re
going to pump out the well.”
“The removal of the well cover and the pump rather suggested
something of the kind, but for the moment I can’t quite recall the
permission.”
“I feel sure that under the circumstance you won’t withhold it.
Better lower that lantern with the candle, Sergeant, before you send
a man down. We want to be sure the air is good.”
“If it’s not an impertinence,” Domlio remarked, with ironic
politeness, “I should be interested to know why you are not using
the existing pump.”
“I didn’t think it was in working order. Is the well used?”
“An explanation, complete, no doubt, but scarcely satisfying. It
did not occur to you to try it?”
“No, sir. Too noisy. But what about the well?”
“Ah yes, the well. The well is used—in summer. We have a
gravity supply from the hill behind the house, but it fails in summer;
hence pumping from the well.”
This statement was very satisfactory to French. It cleared up a
point which had been worrying him. If it were possible to get rid of
the clothes by throwing them down the well, why had Pyke’s body
not been disposed of in the same way? But now this was explained.
The condition of the water in the following summer would have led
to investigation.
“Try the fixed pump, Sergeant. It may save us rigging the other.”
But a test showed that the valve leathers were dry and not
holding, and they went on with their original program.
French had been puzzled by the colonel’s attitude. If beneath his
cynical manner he were consumed by the anxiety which, were he
guilty, he could scarcely help feeling, he was concealing it in a way
that was little short of marvellous. However, the preparations would
take time and it was impossible that if the man knew what would be
found he could hide all signs of tension.
The candle, lowered to the surface of the water, burned clearly,
showing that the air was fresh. The rope ladder was then made fast
to the stonework and Sergeant Daw climbed down. Presently he
returned to say that the beams on which the old pump rested were
sound. The new pump was therefore lowered and one of the
constables sent down to begin work.
Getting rid of the water turned out a bigger job than French had
anticipated. Slowly the level dropped. At intervals the men spelled
each other, French and Daw taking their turns. By lunch-time the
water had gone down seven feet, though during the meal it rose six
inches. After that they worked with renewed energy to get the
remaining five feet six inches out before dusk.
“You have a second well, have you not, Colonel?” French
enquired. “I noticed a pump near the kitchen door.”
“Yes. We use it for drinking purposes. This is only good enough
for washing the car and so on.”
On more than one occasion Domlio had protested against what
he called the waste of his time in watching the work. But French
insisted on his remaining till the search was complete.
About four o’clock the water was so far lowered as to allow an
investigation of the bottom, and the sergeant, squeezing past the
man at the pump, went down with his electric torch. French, leaning
over the wall, anxiously watched the flickering light. Then came the
sergeant’s voice: “There’s a waistcoat and trousers and shoes here,
Mr. French.”
“That all?” called French.
“That’s all that I see. I’ve got everything of any size, anyhow.”
“Well, tie them to the rope and we’ll pull them up.”
How Domlio would comport himself when he saw the clothes was
now the important matter. French watched him keenly as the
dripping bundle appeared and was carried to a bench in the garage.
Though the day’s work had prepared the man for some
dénoûment, he certainly appeared to French to be genuinely amazed
when the nature of the find was revealed.
“Good Heavens! Inspector! What does this mean?” he cried,
squaring his shoulders. “Whose are these and how did you know
they were there?”
French turned to the plain-clothes men. “Just wait outside the
door, will you,” he said, then went on gravely to the other: “That is
what I have to ask you, Colonel Domlio.”
“Me?” The man’s sardonic calm was at last broken. “I know
nothing about them. The thing is an absolute surprise to me. I swear
it.” His face paled and he looked anxious and worried.
“There is something I should tell you,” French continued. “On
considering this Berlyn-Pyke case I formed a theory. I don’t say it is
correct, but I formed it from the facts I had learnt. According to that
theory you took out your car on the night of the tragedy, drove into
Ashburton, picked up Mr. Pyke’s coat, waistcoat, trousers, shoes, and
certain other things, brought them here and threw them into the
well. A moment, please.” He raised his hand as Domlio would have
spoken. “Rightly or wrongly, that was my theory. But there was a
difficulty. You had stated to the sergeant that you had not gone out
that night. I came here and found that that statement was not true.
You had been out. Then I made further enquiries and learnt that you
had taken out your car. You explained that, but I regret to say that I
was unable to accept your explanation. I thought, however, that the
presence or absence of these objects in the well would settle the
matter. I looked at the well and saw that the cover had recently
been moved. Two nights ago Sergeant Daw and I came out, and
after trying with a line and fish-hooks, we drew up a coat—Pyke’s
coat. Now, Colonel, if you wish to make a statement I will give it
every consideration, but it is my duty again to warn you that
anything you say may be used in evidence against you.”
“What? Are you charging me with a crime?”
“Unless you can satisfy me of your innocence you will be charged
with complicity in the murder of Stanley Pyke.”
The Colonel drew a deep breath.
“But, good Heavens! How can I satisfy you? I don’t even know
what you have against me, except this extraordinary business which
I can make neither head nor tail of. You must know more about it
than you have said. Tell me the rest.”
“You tell me this: Was your statement about the loss of the
locket on that night true?”
Colonel Domlio did not reply. He seemed to be weighing some
problem of overwhelming difficulty. French waited patiently,
wondering how far his bluff would carry. At last the colonel spoke.
“I have lied to the sergeant and to you, Inspector, with what I
now believe was a mistaken motive. I have been turning over the
matter in my mind and I see that I have no alternative but to tell
you the truth now or to suffer arrest. Possibly things have gone so
far that this cannot be avoided. At all events, I will tell you
everything.”
“You are not forgetting my warning, Colonel Domlio?”
“I am not forgetting it. If I am acting foolishly it is my own
lookout. I tried to put you off, Inspector, to save bringing Mrs.
Berlyn’s name further into the matter, because, though there was
nothing against her character, I was sure you would have bothered
her with annoying questions. But, though I thought it right to lie
with this object, I don’t feel like risking prison for it.”
“I follow you,” said French.
“You will remember then what I told you about Mrs. Berlyn, that
she had been seeing a good deal first of Pyke and then of myself.
I’m sorry to have to drag this in again, but otherwise you wouldn’t
understand the situation.
“About—let me see—four months before the tragedy Mrs. Berlyn
came out here one afternoon. She said that she had been in London
to a lecture on entomology and that she had been so much
interested that she had read one or two books on the subject. She
said that she knew I was doing some research in it and she
wondered whether I would let her come and help me and so learn
more. I naturally told her I should be delighted, and she began to
come out here quite often. On different occasions she has
accompanied me on the moor while I was searching for specimens,
and she has spent several afternoons with me in my library
mounting butterflies and learning to use the microscope. This went
on until the day of the tragedy.”
Colonel Domlio paused, squared his shoulders, and continued:
“On that morning I had received by post a letter addressed in a
strange hand and marked ‘Personal.’ It was signed ‘X.Y.Z.’ and said
that the writer happened to be walking about four P.M. on the
previous Tuesday in the Upper Merton glen at a certain point which
he described; that he had seen me with Mrs. Berlyn in my arms;
that, having a camera, he had at once taken two photographs, one
of which had come out; and that if I cared to have the negative he
would sell it for fifty pounds. If I wished to negotiate I was to meet
him on the Chagford–Gidleigh road at the gate of Dobson’s Spinney
at one o’clock that night. Should I not turn up, the writer would
understand that I was not interested and would take his picture to
Mrs. Berlyn, who, he thought, would prefer to deal rather than have
it handed to Mr. Berlyn.
“At first I could not think what was meant; then I remembered
what had taken place. We had been, Mrs. Berlyn and I, searching for
a certain butterfly at the place and time mentioned. Suddenly she
had cried out that she had seen a specimen and she had rushed
after it past where I was standing. Just as she reached me she gave
a cry and lurched against me. ‘Oh, my ankle!’ she shouted and clung
to me. She had twisted her foot in a rabbit hole and she could not
put her weight on it. I supported her in my arms for a few seconds,
and it must have been at this moment that my blackmailer came on
the scene. I laid Mrs. Berlyn down on the grass. She sat quiet for
some minutes, then with my arm was able to limp to the car. She
said her ankle was not sprained, but only twisted, and that she
would be all right in a few hours. Next day when I rang up to
enquire she said it was still painful but a good deal better.
“At first I was doubtful whether I should act on the letter; then I
thought that if there was a genuine photograph it would be better
for me to deal with the owner. I therefore went out to the
rendezvous at the time mentioned. But I might have saved myself
the trouble, for no one was there. And from that day to this I never
heard another word about the affair, nor did I mention it to a soul.
Indeed, the Berlyn-Pyke tragedy put it out of my head, and the
same thing, I suppose, robbed the photograph of its value.”
“You told me,” said French, “something about Mrs. Berlyn’s
relations with Mr. Pyke and yourself, saying that I would not
understand your story otherwise. Just what was in your mind in
that?”
“Because these relations complicated the whole situation. Do you
not see that? Had everything been normal I could have treated the
thing as a joke and shown the photograph to Berlyn. As things were,
he would have taken it seriously.”
French felt a little puzzled by this statement. If the man were
lying, it was just the sort of story he would expect to hear, except for
one thing. It was capable of immediate confirmation. If it were not
true he would soon get it out of Mrs. Berlyn.
“I don’t want to be offensive, Colonel,” he said, “but by your own
admission you have twice lied about what took place that night. Can
you give me any proof that your present statement is true?”
Domlio squared his shoulders.
“I can’t,” he admitted. “I can show you the letter and you can ask
Mrs. Berlyn, but I don’t know that either of those would constitute
proof.”
“They wouldn’t in themselves, but from either I might get some
point which would. Now I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll see first
whether Sergeant Daw has made any further discoveries; then you
can show me the letter and we’ll drive out to the place where Mrs.
Berlyn fell.”
“That’s easily done.”
They returned to the well, and there, to French’s satisfaction,
found the missing duplicator parts laid out on the coping of the wall.
“Excellent, Sergeant. That’s all we want. I take it you will get the
pump away? You needn’t wait for me. I’m going out with Colonel
Domlio.”
While Coombe was bringing round the car the two men went to
the study for the letter. It was just as the colonel had described, and
French could see no clue to the sender.
They ran out then to the Upper Merton glen and Domlio pointed
out the spot at which the alleged incident had taken place. French
insisted on his describing the occurrence in the most minute manner.
He wished to form an opinion as to whether the man was relating
what he had seen or inventing the details as he went along.
After half an hour of close questioning on the lines of the
American third degree, French had to admit that the affair had either
happened as Domlio had said or that it had been rehearsed with
great care. On no point was he able to trip the colonel up, and
knowing the difficulty of inventing a story in which every detail is
foreseen and accounted for, he began to think the tale true. At all
events, with the mass of detail he now possessed, a similar
examination of Mrs. Berlyn should set the matter at rest.
French was in a thoughtful mood as they drove back to Torview.
He was up against the same old question which had troubled him so
many times in the past. Was his suspect guilty or was he the victim
of a plot?
The evidence against the man was certainly strong. Seven
separate facts pointed to his guilt. French ran over them in his mind:
1. Domlio had the necessary qualifications for partnership in the
crime. He knew the dramatis personæ and he was acquainted with
the works. He could have ordered the duplicator, and arranged for
Berlyn and Pyke to visit Tavistock on the night in question.
2. He was out in his car on that night at the time and for the
distance required.
3. He had denied this.
4. When cornered he had told a false story of a search for a lost
locket.
5. The clothes of the dead man had been found in the very place
where French imagined Domlio would have hidden them.
6. There was a quite adequate motive if, as might well be,
Domlio was really attached to Mrs. Berlyn.
7. There was no other person whom French knew of who could
have been Berlyn’s confederate.
Many and many a man had been hanged on far less evidence
than there was here. With this mass of incriminating facts an arrest
was amply justifiable. Indeed, a conviction was almost assured.
On the other hand, every bit of this evidence was circumstantial
and could be explained on the assumption of Domlio’s innocence, by
supposing him to be the victim of a conspiracy on the part of the
real murderer.
French wondered if he could make the man reveal his own
outlook on the affair.
“Tell me, Colonel,” he said, “did it not strike you as a strange
thing that Mrs. Berlyn should stumble at just the point which
ensured her falling into your arms?”
Domlio slackened speed and looked around aggressively.
“Just what do you mean by that?”
“As a matter of fact,” French answered, sweetly, “what I mean is,
was the accident genuine or faked?”
The colonel squared his shoulders indignantly.
“I consider that a most unwarrantable remark,” he said, hotly,
“and I shall not answer it. I can only suppose your abominable
calling has warped your mind and made suspicion a disease with
you.”
French glanced at him keenly. The man was genuinely angry. And
if so, it tended in his favour. Real indignation is difficult to simulate
and would not be called forth by an imaginary insult.
“If you think my remark unwarrantable, I shall withdraw it,”
French said, with his pleasant smile. “I simply wanted to know
whether you yourself believed in it. I think you do. Well, Colonel, I
think that’s all we can do to-night. I’m sorry to have given you all
this annoyance, but you can see I had no option.”
They had reached the gate of Torview. Domlio stopped the car.
“Then you are not going to arrest me?” he asked, with barely
concealed anxiety.
“No. Why should I? You have accounted in a reasonable way for
the suspicious circumstances. So far as I can see, your explanation is
satisfactory. I can’t expect any more.”
The colonel gave a sigh of relief.
“To be quite candid,” he admitted, “I scarcely hoped that you
would accept it. After what has occurred, I can’t expect you to
believe me, but for what it’s worth I give you my word of honour
that what I have told you this time is the truth. I may tell you that I
have been afraid of this very development ever since the tragedy.
How are you getting to Ashburton? Shall I run you in?”
“It would be very good of you.”
It was with considerable uneasiness that French saw Colonel
Domlio drive off from the hotel in Ashburton. He had backed his
judgment that the man was innocent, but he recognised that he
might easily have made a mistake. At the same time Domlio could
scarcely escape otherwise than by suicide, and he felt sure that his
mind had been so much eased that he would not attempt anything
so drastic. As soon, however, as the car was out of sight he walked
to the police station and asked Daw to have a watch kept on the
man’s movements.
Chapter Sixteen: Certainty at Last
That night as French was writing up his diary the question he
had asked Domlio recurred to him. “Tell me, Colonel,” he had said,
“did it not strike you as strange that Mrs. Berlyn should stumble at
just the point which ensured her falling into your arms?” He had
asked it to test the colonel’s belief in the incident. Now it occurred to
him that on its merits it required an answer.
Had the incident stood alone it might well have passed
unquestioned. But it was not alone. Two other matters must be
considered in conjunction with it.
First there was the coincidence that at the precise moment a
watcher armed with a camera should be present. What accident
should take a photographer to this secluded glen just when so
compromising a tableau should be staged? Was there here an
element of design?
Secondly, there was the consideration that if suspicion were to be
thrown on Domlio he must be made to take out his car secretly on
the fatal night. And how better could this be done than by the story
of the photograph? Once again, did this not suggest design?
If so, something both interesting and startling followed. Mrs.
Berlyn was privy to it. And if she were privy to it, was she not
necessarily implicated in the murder? Could she even be the
accomplice for whom he, French, had been searching?
There was, of course, her alibi. If she had been at the party at
her house at ten o’clock she could not have drugged Gurney’s tea.
But was she at her house?
Experience had made French sceptical about alibis. This one
certainly seemed watertight, and yet was it not just possible that
Mrs. Berlyn had managed to slip away from her guests for the fifteen
or twenty minutes required?
It was evident that the matter must be tested forthwith, and
French decided that, having already questioned Mr. Fogden, he
would interview the Dr. and Mrs. Lancaster whom Lizzie Johnston
had mentioned as also being members of the party. They lived on
the Buckland road half a mile beyond the Berlyns’, and next morning
French called on them.
Dr. Lancaster, he had learned from Daw, was a newcomer to the
town, a young LL.D. who had been forced by a breakdown in health
to give up his career at the bar. He received French at once.
“I want to find out whether any member of the party could have
left the house about ten o’clock for fifteen or twenty minutes,”
French explained. “Do you think that you or Mrs. Lancaster could
help me out?”
“I can only speak for myself,” Dr. Lancaster smiled. “I was there
all the time, and I’m sure so was Mrs. Lancaster. But I’ll call her and
you can ask her.”
“A moment, please. Surely you can speak for more than yourself?
Were you not with the others?”
“With some of them. You see, what happened was this. When we
went in, Mrs. Berlyn said that she had been disappointed in that
three London friends, who were staying at Torquay and whom she
expected, had just telegraphed to say they couldn’t come. That
made our numbers wrong. She had intended to have three tables of
bridge, but now, as some of us played billiards, she suggested one
bridge table and snooker for the other five. She and I and—let me
see—Fogden and a Miss Pym, I think, and one other—I’m blessed if
I can remember who the other was—played snooker. So I wasn’t
with the other four between the time that we settled down to play
and supper.”
“What hour was supper?”
“About half past ten, I think. We broke up when it was over—
rather early, as a matter of fact. We reached home shortly after
eleven.”
“And you played snooker all the evening until supper?”
“No. After an hour or more we dropped it and played four-
handed billiards.”
“Then some player must have stood out?”
“Yes. Mrs. Berlyn said she must go and see how the others were
getting along. She watched us play for some time, then went to the
drawing room. She came back after a few minutes to say that
supper was ready.”
“Now, Dr. Lancaster, just one other question. Can you tell me at
what time Mrs. Berlyn went into the drawing room?”
“I really don’t think I can. I wasn’t paying special attention to her
movements. I should say perhaps half an hour before supper, but I
couldn’t be sure.”
“That’s all right,” said French. “Now if I could see Mrs. Lancaster
for a moment I should be done.”
Mrs. Lancaster was a dark, vivacious little woman who seemed to
remember the evening in question much more clearly than did her
husband.
“Yes,” she said, “I was playing bridge with Miss Lucy Pym, Mr.
Cowls, and Mr. Leacock. I remember Mrs. Berlyn coming in about
ten. She laughed and said: ‘Oh, my children, don’t be frightened. I
couldn’t think of disturbing such a serious game. I’ll go back to our
snooker.’ She went away, and presently came back and called us to
the library to supper.”
“How long was she away, Mrs. Lancaster?”
“About twenty minutes, I should think.”
This seemed to French to be all that he wanted. However, he
thought it wise to get the key of the Berlyns’ house and have a look
at the layout. The drawing room was in front, with the library behind
it, but between the two there was a passage with a side door
leading into the garden. He felt satisfied as to the use to which that
passage had been put on the night in question. He could picture
Mrs. Berlyn fixing up the uneven number of guests, among whom
would be some who played billiards and some who did not. The
proposals for snooker and bridge would almost automatically follow,
involving the division of the party in two rooms. Mrs. Berlyn as
hostess would reasonably be the odd man out when the change was
made from snooker to billiards. The result of these arrangements
would be that when she slipped out to the works through the side
door, each party would naturally assume she was with the other,
while if any question as to this arose, her reëntry at supper-time
would suggest to both that she had gone out to overlook its
preparation.
These discoveries justified French’s theory, but they did not prove
it, and he racked his brains for some test which would definitely
establish the point.
At last an idea occurred to him which he thought might at least
help.
In considering Mrs. Berlyn as her husband’s accomplice he had
been doubtful whether there would have been sufficient time for the
various actions. If after Berlyn’s arrival at the works with the body
Mrs. Berlyn had driven the car back to where it was found, changed
the magneto, and made the footprints, he did not believe she could
have walked home in time to wake the servants at the hour stated.
Nor did he believe that Berlyn, after disposing of the body in the
works, could have been able on foot to make Domlio’s in time to
hide the clothes in the well before the sergeant’s call.
He now wondered whether Mrs. Berlyn’s bicycle could have been
pressed into the service. Could the lady have brought the machine to
the works, lifted it into the tonneau of the car, carried it out on the
moor, and ridden back on it to the works? And could her husband
have used it to reach first Domlio’s and then Plymouth or some other
large town from which he had escaped?
To test the matter, French returned to Lizzie Johnston and asked
her if she knew what had become of the bicycle.
But the girl could not tell him. Nor could she recall when or
where she had seen it last. She supposed it had been sold at the
auction, but in the excitement of that time she had not noticed it.
“Where did Mrs. Berlyn get it, do you know?”
“From Makepeace’s. He has bicycles same as motors. He’ll tell
you about it.”
Half an hour later French was talking to Mr. Makepeace. He
remembered having some five years earlier sold the machine to Mrs.
Berlyn. He looked up his records, and after considerable trouble
found a note of the transaction. The bicycle was a Swift, and
number 35,721. It had certain dimensions and peculiarities of which
he gave French details.
French’s next call was on the auctioneer who had conducted the
sale of the Berlyn effects. Mr. Nankivell appeared au fait with the
whole case and was obviously thrilled to meet French. He made no
difficulty about giving the required information. A bicycle had not
been among the articles auctioned, nor had he seen one during his
visits to the house.
This was all very well as far as it went, but it was negative.
French wanted to find some one who could say definitely what had
happened to the machine. He consulted with Sergeant Daw and at
last came to the conclusion that if Peter Swann, the gardener-
chauffeur, could be found, he might be able to give the information.
Daw believed he had gone to Chagford, and he telephoned to the
sergeant there, asking him to make enquiries.
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 morning of Tuesday, the 16th August; 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 to-day. 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 of the case. He saw
that even if Pyke had murdered Berlyn it would not clear up the
situation. In fact, this new idea suggested that it was impossible
either that Pyke could have murdered Berlyn or that Berlyn could
have murdered Pyke.
What, he asked himself, must have been the motive for such a
crime? Certainly not merely to gratify a feeling of hate. The motive
undoubtedly was to enable the survivor to claim Phyllis as his wife
and to live with her in good social standing and without fear of his
rival. But the crime, French reminded himself, had a peculiar feature.
The staged accident on the moor involved the disappearance of both
actors, the murderer as well as the victim. If, then, the murderer
disappeared, he could not live with Phyllis. If either Berlyn or Pyke
were guilty, therefore, he had carried out the crime in a way which
robbed him of the very results for which he had committed it.
French saw that he was up against a puzzling dilemma. If Berlyn
had murdered Pyke, it was unlikely that Mrs. Berlyn would have
assisted. If, on the other hand, Pyke had murdered Berlyn, Mrs.
Berlyn’s action was clear, but not Pyke’s, for Pyke could get nothing
out of it.
French swore bitterly as he realised that in all probability his
former view of the case was incorrect and that he was once again
without any really satisfactory theory on which to work. Nor did
some hours’ thought point the way to a solution of his problem.
At least, however, he saw his next step. Mrs. Berlyn was the
accomplice of some one. That some one was doubtless alive and
biding his time until he thought it safe to join the lady. If so, she was
pretty sure to know his whereabouts. Could she be made to reveal
it?
French thought that if in some way he could give her a thorough
fright, she might try to get a warning through. It would then be up
to him to intercept her message, which would give him the
information he required.
This meant London. He slept the night in Plymouth, and next
day, which was Saturday, travelled up to Paddington.
Chapter Seventeen: “Danger!”
Before leaving Plymouth French had wired to Mrs. Berlyn, asking
for an interview for the following Monday morning. On reaching the
Yard he found a reply. If he called round about half past ten the lady
would see him. He rang his bell for Sergeant Carter.
“I shall want you with me to-day, Carter,” he explained. “Have a
taxi ready at ten-fifteen.”
As they were driving toward Chelsea he explained the business.
“It’s to help me to shadow a woman, a Mrs. Phyllis Berlyn. Lives
at 70b Park Walk. There’s her photograph. When I go in, you keep
this taxi and be ready to pick me up when I want you.”
If he were to tap a possible S O S, he must begin by finding out
if his victim had a telephone. He therefore got out at the end of Park
Walk, and passing the house, turned into an entry leading to the
lane which ran along behind the row. The absence of wires front and
rear showed that the house was not connected up. Then he went to
the door and knocked. Mrs. Berlyn received him at once.
“I am very sorry, madame,” he began, gravely, “to have to come
on serious and unpleasant business. In my enquiries into the death
of Mr. Pyke certain facts have come out. These facts require an
explanation, and they point to you as being perhaps the only person
who can give it. I have, therefore, called to ask you some questions,
but I have to warn you that you are not bound to answer them, as
in certain eventualities anything you say might be used against you.”
Mrs. Berlyn looked startled.
“Whatever do you mean, Inspector?” she demanded. “You don’t
mean against me personally, I suppose, but against my husband? I
do not forget the terrible suggestion you made.”
“I mean against you personally, madam. As I say, I want an
explanation of certain facts. If you care to give it I shall hear it with
attention, but if you would prefer to consult a solicitor first, you can
do so.”
“Good gracious! Inspector, you are terrifying me! You are surely
not suggesting that you suspect me of complicity in this awful
crime?”
“I make no accusations. All I want is answers to my questions.”
Mrs. Berlyn grew slowly dead white. She moistened her dry lips.
“This is terrible,” she said in low tones. French had some twinges
of conscience, for, after all, he was only bluffing. He recognised,
however, that the greater the effect he produced, the more likely he
was to get what he wanted. He therefore continued his third degree.
“If you are innocent, madam, I can assure you that you have
nothing to fear,” he encouraged her, thereby naturally increasing her
perturbation. “Now would you like to answer my questions or not?”
She did not hesitate. “I have no option,” she exclaimed in
somewhat shaky tones. “If I do not do so your suspicions will be
confirmed. Ask what you like. I have nothing to hide and therefore
cannot give myself away.”
“I am glad to hear you say so,” French declared, grimly. “First I
want you to give me a more detailed account of your relations with
Colonel Domlio.”
“Why,” the lady explained, “I told you all about that on your last
visit. Colonel Domlio was very friendly, exceedingly friendly, I might
say. But we had no relations”—she stressed the word—“in the sense
which your question seems to indicate.”
“How did your friendship begin?”
“Through my husband. He and Colonel Domlio were old friends
and it was natural that we should see something of him. He visited
at our house and we at his.”
“That was when you first went to Ashburton, was it not?”
“Not only then. It was so all the time I lived there.”
“But I don’t mean that. I understand that about four months
before the tragedy your friendship became much more intense, if I
may use the word?”
“Intense is certainly not the word, but it is true that we met more
frequently after the time you mention. I thought I had explained
that. It was then that my husband became dissatisfied about my
perfectly harmless friendship with Mr. Pyke. As I told you, Mr. Pyke
and I decided to see less of each other. I was therefore thrown more
on my own resources and frankly I was bored. I filled a little more of
the time with Colonel Domlio than formerly. That is all.”
“Who began this increased intimacy?”
“Our intimacy was not increased. We saw more of each other—a
very different thing. I began it; in this way. In London I heard some
lectures on insect life. I was interested in the subject and I asked
Colonel Domlio to let me see his collection. We began to talk about
it, and it ended in my going out with him occasionally to look for
specimens on the moor and also in my helping him to arrange them
afterwards. That was the beginning and end of what you are pleased
to call our ‘intimacy.’ ”
The look of fright had left Mrs. Berlyn’s eyes and she was
speaking now with more of her usual assurance.
“You sprained your ankle one day?”
“I twisted it slightly. It was painful for a few hours, but not really
much the worse.”
“You fell?”
“I did not fall. I should have done so, but Colonel Domlio sprang
forward and caught me and helped me down on to the grass. In a
few minutes I was better.”
“Now, Mrs. Berlyn,” and French’s voice was very grave, “what you
have to do is to convince me that that fall into Colonel Domlio’s arms
really was an accident.”
For a moment the lady looked at him uncomprehendingly; then
she flushed angrily.
“Oh,” she cried with a gesture of disgust, “how dare you? This is
insufferable! I shall not answer you. If you are coming here to insult
me I shall apply for protection to your superiors at Scotland Yard.”
“If I were you I should keep away from Scotland Yard as long as
you can,” French advised, drily. “In a case like this heroics will not
help you any. Tell me, did you know there was a photographer
watching the incident?”
“No,” she answered sullenly, while again her face showed fear.
“You knew there wasn’t?”
“I didn’t know anything about it.”
“But you are not surprised to hear of the photographer?”
“I am. At least I should be if you assured me one was there.”
“Did you know that the handwriting of Colonel Domlio’s letter has
been identified?”
Once again the colour ebbed away from her face.
“What letter?” she cried, faintly. “I don’t know what letter you
mean or what you are talking about. You have made me quite
confused with your questions. I scarcely know what I am saying.”
French felt that he had got the effect he wanted. He therefore
reassured her by a few innocuous questions, then with a change of
manner he apologised for having given unnecessary annoyance and
took his leave.
The taxi was standing far down the street with the bonnet open
and the driver bending over the engine. French got in and he and
Carter sat watching the house.
For half an hour they waited; then Mrs. Berlyn appeared, and
walking to King’s Road, turned in the direction of Sloan Square.
Presently she hailed a taxi, causing French to congratulate himself
on his prevision.
Mrs. Berlyn drove to Victoria, and hurriedly paying off their own
man, the detectives followed her into the station. With a rapid look
round she made her way to the telephone boxes and disappeared
into one of them.
“I’ll drop out here, Carter,” French said. “You stick to the woman
and as far as possible keep in touch with the Yard.”
Approaching the boxes, French slipped into a convenient doorway
and watched until Mrs. Berlyn reappeared. As soon as she was out
of sight he entered the box she had left.
“Inspector from Scotland Yard speaking,” he told the operator.
“Keep the number of that last call. It’s wanted in connection with a
murder case. I’ll get you the authority to divulge. Now give me
Scotland Yard, please.”
He put through the request for the number, then returned to the
Yard to wait for the reply. After a short delay he received both
number and name: Thomas Ganope, news agent and tobacconist,
27 Oakley Street, off Russell Street.
In half an hour he reached the place. Ganope’s was a small,
untidy shop, and Ganope a ruffianly-looking man with purple cheeks
and a cast in his left eye. He was the only occupant of the shop.
“Can I use your telephone?” French asked, laying a shilling on
the counter.
“Sure.”
French rang up his wife to say that he had mislaid Mr. Walker’s
address and could she let him have it again, a code message
designed for such occasions and to which no attention was paid, but
which enabled him to use a telephone without arousing suspicion, as
well as a writing pad, should such be available. For in this case his
quick eye had seen such a pad on the instrument and from many a
pad he had read the last message to be written from the impression
left on the paper. On chance, therefore, he made a pretense of
noting the mythical Mr. Walker’s address, and removing the top
sheet, put it in his pocketbook. Then he turned to Mr. Ganope.
“Say,” he said, confidentially, “what would you charge for taking
in telephone messages and sending them to an address? Private,
you know.”
Mr. Ganope looked him over keenly with one of his shrewd little
eyes.
“A bob a message, if it’s near by.”
“That’s a lot. Do you never do it for less?”
Mr. Ganope seemed disgusted.
“If you can get anyone to do it for less you’d better go to them,”
he advised, sourly.
“I might manage the money if I was sure the thing would be
done right,” French went on. “How do you send out the messages? I
mean is your arrangement reliable? Do you do it yourself or have
you a messenger?”
“Wot do you tyke me for, mister? Do you think the shop would
run itself while I was away? You don’t need to worry. You pay your
bob and you’ll get your message all right.”