The Documents in the Case

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  I produced the tumbler from under the bedclothes, and explained about the whisky-bottle.

  ‘Oh, yes. Here, Sergeant – you’d better take charge of these.’

  ‘The whisky is all right,’ I volunteered. ‘At least, we both had some about three or four hours ago, without any ill effects.’

  ‘That was rash of you,’ said Dr Hughes, with a sort of grim smile. ‘We’ll have to impound it, all the same.’

  ‘The mushrooms are in here, doctor,’ said Lathom, anxiously.

  ‘Just a moment. I’ll finish here first.’ He felt and flexed the body, and looked it over carefully. ‘Was this bed like this when you left him? No. Broken in a convulsion, probably. Yes. All right, Sergeant, you can carry on here. I shall want the body and these bedclothes taken down to the mortuary, just as they are. And any other utensils—’

  Lathom pulled my arm. ‘Let’s clear out of this,’ he urged. I stood my ground. Something – either inquisitiveness or the novelist’s greed for copy – impelled me to hang about and get in the way.

  The doctor finished his investigations and covered the body up again.

  ‘Now then,’ he said, ‘that’s about all I can do for the moment. Where’s this saucepan you were telling me about? Oh, yes. Fungus of some sort, obviously, but I can’t say what by looking at it. That will all have to go to London, Sergeant. When the Superintendent comes he’ll see the things packed up. I’ll give you the address they’re to go to. Sir James Lubbock, the Home Office Analyst – here you are, and you’ll see they telephone him to expect them, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What will you do, Sergeant? Hold the fort here till they send down to relieve you?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The Superintendent will be here very soon, sir, I expect. They’ve called him up.’

  ‘Very well. Now I’d better be off. I’m wanted for a baby case. You’ll find me at Forbes’s place if you want me. Lucky I hadn’t started. I don’t for a moment suppose anything will happen for hours, but it’s her first, and they’re naturally fidgety. If I don’t get there pronto, it’ll be B.B.A., out of pure cussedness, and I shall never hear the last of it. Well, good-night. Sorry I can’t give anybody a lift, but I’m going out in the opposite direction.’

  He hastened out, and we heard his car chug away down the lane. The sergeant observed that it was a bad business all round, and suggested that he should take down notes of what Lathom and I could tell him. I found some logs in an outhouse and piled them on the fire till it roared up the chimney. More and more I began to feel this was a scene from a book; it was like nothing in life at all. It was – hang it – it was almost cosy. I should have ended, I think, by almost enjoying it – the policeman’s voice cooing like the note of a fat wood-pigeon, the ruddy blaze on his round face, the thick thumb that turned the pages of his notebook, the pink tongue licking the stubby pencil, and Lathom, talking, answering, explaining so lucidly (he had got over his nervousness and was childishly eager to tell his story) – I could have enjoyed it, if it had not been for a fear in the back of my mind.

  The sun . . .

  You do not want a description of that stiff, cold sunrise. I was facing the window, and saw it – first a whiteness, then a hardening of the skyline – then a bluish reflection on the ceiling – then an uncertain gleam under the blanket of cloud. The weather was going to change.

  I got up and wandered out across the fields. The stream, far off, was the only voice in the silence, and that was impersonal. It had no blood nor life behind its chatter.

  I wandered to the edge of the slope, where the valley plunged down, gorse and heath and bracken all jumbled among the grey boulders, and looked across to where the huge tors humped their granite shoulders over the heights of Lustleigh Cleave. They looked grim enough.

  What I was wondering was just this: Had Harrison ever guessed about his wife and Lathom? What had Lathom said to him in those long, solitary days? Had Harrison decided that his best way out was to clear out from the place where he was not wanted? I knew that, for all his irritating mannerisms, the man had a sterling unselfishness in him – and it would have been so easy for him – with his knowledge – to make a mistake on purpose when he was gathering fungi.

  Would anyone choose a death so painful? Well – a man only the other day had committed suicide by pouring petrol over his clothes and setting himself on fire. And nothing could be made to appear more natural than this poison-death of Harrison’s. Why had Lathom been so anxious for me to come down with him? Had he had doubts about his reception? Had he expected something? Had Harrison – possibly – agreed, promised, even hinted that Lathom might return to find the way clear? Or had Lathom spoken some shattering word – shown irrefutable evidence – and left the facts to do their bitter work?

  A cock crew in the valley. A sheep said ‘Baa!’ just behind me, so that I started and laughed. This kind of thing was morbid, and Harrison was the very last man to lay violent hands on himself. He clear meekly out to make way for a rival? Not likely!

  I hurried back to the shack. The sergeant was dozing, his belt off and his tunic unbuttoned. Lathom was staring into the fire with his chin on his hands.

  ‘Hullo, you two!’ I said with unnecessary heartiness. The policeman jerked awake. ‘Lor’ bless me,’ he muttered apologetically. ‘I must ’a’ dropped off.’

  ‘Why not?’ said I. ‘Best way to pass the time. Look here, there’s a pound of sausages in our kit that we brought down last night. How about a bit of grub?’

  We did not care about using any of the pots and pans in that place, so whittled a stick to a point, and toasted the sausages on that. They tasted none the worse.

  2

  Analysis

  46. Margaret Harrison to Harwood Lathom

  15, Whittington Terrace, Bayswater

  20.10.29

  Oh, Petra, my dear, my own dear at last!

  When I heard your voice on the phone this morning, telling me what had happened, I didn’t know how to believe it. It all seemed so strange. And when I hung the receiver up, I had to pinch myself to be sure it wasn’t a dream. I went upstairs, and there was the girl in her dressing-gown on the landing. She must have been hanging over the stairs, for she said, ‘Oh, ma’am. Whatever’s happened? I heard the telephone a-ringing and looked out and heard you talking. Has there been an accident ma’am?’ I said, ‘Yes; a dreadful accident. Mr Harrison’s dead.’ She stared at me, and I said, ‘He’s poisoned himself with eating some of those nasty toadstools.’ She began to cry. ‘I knew he would! Oh, ma’am, what an awful thing. Such a nice gentleman as he was.’ That seemed to make it real, somehow. ‘A nice gentleman’ – well, she wasn’t married to him. She couldn’t know how I was feeling. That was just as well, wasn’t it, Petra? She hung about and brought me some tea, sniffing and sobbing over it. I couldn’t say anything, but that was all right. She thought I was stunned with grief, I suppose. I did feel stunned. I can’t realise, even now – though I’ve just seen it in the paper. Fancy that! People keep on calling, but I’ve said I can’t see them. I want to be alone with my freedom.

  Oh, Petra – didn’t I tell you that God was on our side? Our love is so beautiful, so right – He had to make a miracle happen to save it. Isn’t it wonderful – without our doing anything at all! That shows how right it was. I am so glad, now, that we didn’t do anything of the terrible things we thought about. It would have been so dangerous – and we might – I don’t know – we might have wondered afterwards. It would have been like living over a volcano. And now, Heaven has stepped in and made everything all right for ever and ever.

  How glad I am you weren’t there when it happened. That seems like a special providence, too, doesn’t it? Because you would have had to go for a doctor, and then he might have recovered. And besides, people might have thought you had something to do with it – if they ever found out about you and me, I mean. Doesn’t it seem like a judgement on him, Petra? And I used to be so angry about his cooking and
his toadstool book and everything – and all the while he was digging a pit for himself to fall into, like the wicked man in the Bible! It was all planned out from the beginning, to set us free for our beautiful life together. What was that thing people used to say – something in Latin about when God wishes to destroy anybody He first makes him mad. He was mad about the toadstools and things, you know. Sometimes, when he had those dreadful fits of temper, I used to think he was really and truly mad. I was afraid of him then, but I see now there was nothing to be afraid of. It was all meant to help us in the end.

  And Petra – that other thing I was afraid of – you know – it’s all right! Nothing is going to happen! It was just a mistake. Isn’t that splendid? Because now we shan’t have to get married in such a hurry. That might have made people talk, you know. We only have to wait a little bit now – just a little patience, my sweetheart, and then – oh, Petra! Think of the happiness! Everything has come right at once, hasn’t it, my darling? All the clouds cleared away and the sun is shining.

  Well, now, darling – you won’t mind if I talk just a little bit of business? It seems horrid to think of it, when our love ought to be the one thing in our minds, but we must be a little bit practical. Of course, I had to send for the lawyer this morning and he showed me the will. There will be about £15,000 when it is all cleared up. Half of this goes to his son, Paul, straight away, and I get the other half for my lifetime, after which it would all go to my children – his and mine – that is, if there were any, and failing them, it goes to Paul when I die. So you see, I shall only be bringing you a small income, dear, but you are making money now, so we shan’t be so badly off, shall we? It’s funny – I suppose if you and I had really had a child, the law would have presumed it was his (think of that!), and then it would have inherited the money! But I think perhaps it is better as it is. It might not have seemed quite honourable to profit by anything that wasn’t quite true, and I should like to feel that everything about our love was absolutely clear and honourable, and that we had nothing to reproach ourselves about. Of course, narrow-minded people might think our love itself was wicked – but one can’t help loving, can one, darling? One might as well tell the sun not to rise. Because you and I belong to one another, and nothing in all the world can alter that. So you won’t mind about the money, will you, Petra? I was afraid he might have made some mean condition about my not marrying again, but I suppose he didn’t think of that.

  You will have to stay for the inquest, of course. Shall I have to go? I don’t like the idea of standing up with everybody looking at me. Besides, I can’t tell them anything, can I? Do you think he ought to be buried down there or brought back to London? I want to do whatever you think would look right. I have cabled Paul, but he is so far away in the wilds, I don’t know whether I shall get an answer in time. All these things are so absurd and hateful. We surround death with such a lot of hypocrisy and formality. It ought to be made just simple and beautiful, like the leaves falling. I shall have to order mourning and a widow’s veil – think of wearing black clothes when one is happy. I should like a robe made of the rainbow – I’m wearing it in my heart, darling – all for you!

  Write quickly, dearest, and tell me what to do. And tell me that you are as glad as I am and that you love me, love me, love me as I love you!

  Lolo

  47. Extract from the ‘Morning Express’ of Tuesday, October 2nd, 1929

  MUSHROOM DEATH MYSTERY INQUEST

  —–

  Poisoned Man’s Lone Agony

  —–

  WELL-KNOWN ARTIST GIVES EVIDENCE

  —–

  The little schoolroom in the remote village of Manaton in Devon was crowded today, when Dr Pringle, the coroner for the district, opened the inquest on the body of George Harrison, aged 56, Head of the Accounts Department of Messrs Frobisher, Wiley & Teddington, Electrical Engineers, who was found dead under extraordinary circumstances in his little cottage, ‘The Shack’, on Saturday night.

  Evidence of the deceased’s curious hobbies was given by his friend, Mr Harwood Lathom, the brilliant young artist who had been staying with him in ‘The Shack’, and who discovered the body.

  The deceased, who is the author of Neglected Edible Treasures, an interesting and highly original volume, dealing with the foodstuffs to be obtained from our native woods and hedgerows, was stated to have been fond of experiments in unconventional cookery, and it was suggested that he had fallen a victim to accidental poisoning, by consuming a dish of venomous toadstools, a portion of which, it is alleged, was discovered on the table in ‘The Shack’ at the time of his death.

  The inquest was adjourned for a fortnight, to enable a chemical analysis to be made of certain organs.

  After formal evidence of identification, the first witness called was Mr Harwood Lathom. Dressed in a suit of heather-mixture plus-four tweeds and with an expression of anxiety and distress on his face, Mr Lathom gave his evidence in a subdued tone.

  SWEALED HEDGEHOG

  Mr Lathom said that he had known Mr Harrison and his family for a period of rather over twelve months. He had occupied the adjoining maisonette to theirs in Bayswater, and had there formed an acquaintance with them, which had resulted in a considerable degree of intimacy. He had painted a portrait of Mrs Harrison, which had been exhibited in the spring of 1929 at the Royal Academy. Financial and other considerations had resulted in his giving up the lease of the maisonette in February, and going to live in Paris, but the friendship with the Harrisons had been kept up by correspondence and occasional visits.

  Mr Harrison had been accustomed to take an annual holiday ‘on his own’ at ‘The Shack’, living a bachelor existence, and making the experiments in natural cookery in which he was interested. He also painted in water-colours. On Mr Lathom’s return to England, in October, Mr Harrison had suggested that he should join him in his residence at ‘The Shack’. They had gone down there together on Saturday, the 12th of October, and had passed a very enjoyable holiday.

  The Coroner: Will you explain the arrangements made about obtaining supplies of food and so on? – Bread, meat and vegetables were brought, when required, by the carrier, who called on Monday and Thursday, and took the orders for his next visit. A supply of tinned food, including condensed milk, was kept in ‘The Shack’. There was no delivery of newspapers. Letters were fetched from the post office at Manaton by anybody who happened to be walking that way, or brought by the carrier on his visits.

  Who did the cooking and housework? – We shared the work of washing up, carrying wood and so on. Mr Harrison did all the cooking. He was a first-class cook.

  Did he supplement the fresh and tinned meat and so on, with what may be called experiments in natural diet? – Oh yes. One evening we had swealed hedgehog, for example, (Laughter.)

  Was it good? – It was delicious. (Laughter.)

  ‘I NEVER ATE ANY TOADSTOOLS’

  The Coroner: Hedgehog – Was that the only unconventional dish you saw prepared? – No. On two or three occasions Mr Harrison gathered fungi of various kinds and had them for breakfast or supper.

  Did these fungi include the ordinary mushroom of commerce? – On one occasion, yes.

  Did you eat any of that dish? – I ate a small quantity. I do not care very much for mushrooms.

  And on the other occasions? – On, I think, two occasions, Mr Harrison brought in other fungi, which, he explained, were good to eat. A great number of fungi are to be found in the valleys and damp, low-lying spots in the neighbourhood. One variety was called, I believe, Chanterelles, or some such name, and there was also a purple one, called ‘Amethyst’ something-or-other.

  These were fungi of a kind not usually eaten by the ordinary person? The sort commonly called toadstools. – Yes; common, wild fungi.

  Was the flavour of them agreeable? – I do not know. They smelt very savoury, but I did not eat any of them.

  How was that? – I did not think it was safe. I was afraid of eating something po
isonous.

  You knew that a great many edible varieties of fungi exist in addition to the common mushroom? There is a Government publication dealing with them, I believe? – I believe there is.

  And Mr Harrison was considered an authority on the subject? – I do not know if he was generally so considered. He had devoted much attention to the subject and had written a book on our natural food resources.

  Had you read the book? – I had read parts of it.

  But you did not feel sufficient confidence in the deceased’s judgement to partake of the toadstools yourself? – I suppose I did not. These things are largely a matter of prejudice. I did not care about the idea of eating toadstools.

  UNHEEDED WARNINGS

  The Coroner: But Mr Harrison ate them and was none the worse. – Oh, certainly. He appeared to enjoy them very much and there were no ill-effects.

  Did you ever remonstrate with the deceased about his habit of eating these dangerous fungi? – I told him I was afraid there would be an accident some day. The subject had frequently been mentioned previously, when he was preparing his book. Mrs Harrison and his friends often said, more or less jokingly, that there would be a coroner’s inquest on him one of these days.

  And how did the deceased receive these warnings? – He laughed, and said it was all ignorance and prejudice. He said there was no danger at all for anybody who had thoroughly studied the subject.

  Can you tell us how these dishes of fungi were prepared? – He had several methods. Sometimes he would grill them with butter and garlic, and other times he would stew them with condensed milk or in beef stock. He was fond of inventing new methods of cooking things.