Adders on the Heath (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  “You mean the place where they would otherwise have been found would have given away the identity of the murderer, ma’am?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you think they would have been found at Campden-Towne’s place?”

  “No, but I think they might have been found on the back seat of his car.”

  “In the back of his car? But…”

  “I should not be surprised if you found that he and his wife entertained the two young men at whichever house or hotel they patronised while they were supposed to be staying in London.”

  “And the poison was administered there? Too dangerous, surely? The two men might have dropped dead in the hotel. That would have taken some explaining.”

  “I envisage something more in the nature of a stirrup cup, after they were all in the car.”

  “Two flasks, you mean, one for the Campden-Townes and the other for the victims? The difficulty there, ma’am, is that two different, although, I suppose, related poisons were used. They’d have needed three flasks.”

  “I do not think the point need trouble us at present. Let us take the broad view. And, speaking of the broad view, what did you make of the Maidstons?”

  “Well, they denied that they stayed in that London hotel, but I don’t think they’ve got anything more to hide except, as you say, concerning the boy. Your suggestion that he may have pinched or purchased the poisons I find very interesting, but we’ve yet to prove it, and I don’t like frightening kids.”

  “I agree, and on the major issue of the murders I do not think we shall need to involve the boy. On the other hand, if we can trace those poisons to him, we may be in a strong position to find out what happened to them afterwards. The Maidstons and the Campden-Townes seem to be very close friends.”

  The Superintendent said nothing, but drummed on the arm of his chair. Dame Beatrice realised what he must be thinking, but she waited for him to speak.

  “Of course, ma’am,” he said at last, “you do see that, if the lad was in Mr. Richardson’s form at school, and got hold of the poisons, it is more likely, on the face of it, for Mr. Richardson to have confiscated the stuff and so got it into his possession, than that the foster-parents found out about it and took it away from the lad, don’t you?”

  “I admit the possibility, Superintendent,” replied Dame Beatrice blandly. “Schoolmasters do confiscate the dangerous, illegal, or irritating property of boys. You would have to prove, however, that Mr. Richardson knew that Clive had possession of these lethal substances. Besides, there is the evidence supplied by the boy himself.”

  “A first-rate little liar I should class him as,” commented the Superintendent sourly. “Anyway, ma’am, if I might involve you a little deeper in the affair, I’d like to suggest that you undertake another enquiry at the school. You are known to the Headmaster and would find him less difficult of approach, perhaps, than I should. Prompted by you, a question or two from him to the other boys who were in Clive’s form at the time should establish whether Mr. Richardson could have known that Clive had the poisons in his possession.”

  “You regard me as impartial in this affair, Superintendent?”

  “No, ma’am. I know you’re all out to put Mr. Richardson in the clear, but I also know that you won’t tamper with the truth.”

  “Hear, hear!” said Laura unnecessarily. Dame Beatrice nodded.

  “Very well,” she said. “The Scylla shall be my wash-pot and upon the Headmaster will I cast out my shoe. What is more, I will pay another visit to the Maidstons and will find out, if possible, whether Clive did take samples from the poisons cupboard in the chemistry laboratory and, if he did, what happened to them. I intend to promise the child diplomatic immunity if he betrays guilty knowledge of the exploit.”

  The Superintendent looked a little doubtful.

  “I don’t want to put wind up the little so-and-so,” he said, “but, of course, do as you like, ma’am. It all comes under the same heading, I suppose.”

  “That angels can rush in where—er—the police fear to tread,” said Laura. “May I come with you on these expeditions, Mrs. Croc. dear? Only to be in the car, not to be present at the interviews.”

  “Your presence will be a solace in the case of disappointment, an inspiration if I meet with success,” Dame Beatrice replied.

  The Superintendent unlocked the door and bowed the ladies out.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  War on Four Fronts

  “Poison, poison!” she murmured, and threw the food in handfuls to the foxes, who were snuffing on the heath.

  Rosa Mulholland

  The most logical sequence, Dame Beatrice decided, would be to visit the school first, then tackle the Maidstons; after that she could interview a selection of the club members and (an addition to the list and one which she had not mentioned to the Superintendent because she had not thought of it at the time) Richardson himself.

  The Headmaster received her a little coolly and listened, with a worried pucker between his brows, while she outlined her case. When she had finished, he pulled open a drawer in his desk and took out a thick and handsomely bound tablet.

  “My record book,” he explained. “I find it very useful for references of this kind. Maidston? Maidston? Here we are. See under Topley. Yes, yes, I remember. A foster-child, although hardly one of silence or slow time.” He glanced up at Dame Beatrice to make sure that she appreciated the delicate jest.

  “Hardly a Grecian urn, either,” she remarked. The Headmaster smiled, pleased to note that his witticism had not gone astray.

  “No, no. Rather an ugly little boy, I always thought,” he agreed. “Nothing very classical about him. His Latin was deplorable. Now then. Came to us September ’60, removed at end—no, he didn’t even complete the term, and, as the required notice of removal was not given, no fees were repayable—removed May ’62. Letters home mostly discontented in tone but not sufficiently so to be censored by masters on duty at letter-writing periods.” He looked up again. “We try to be liberal-minded where the boys’ personal correspondence is concerned. Well, now, you suspect that this boy abstracted a small but lethal quantity of matter from the poisons cupboard in the chemistry laboratory. May I ask you to particularise?”

  “You are asking, I think, for evidence of a kind which I do not possess.”

  “Then on what are your suspicions based?”

  “On a number of inter-related facts which, I hasten to add, do not, of themselves, involve the boy. If I can show that he did abstract the poisons, it might help the police and it might (or might not) help Mr. Richardson, who, at the moment, is under a considerable cloud. I firmly believe him to be an innocent man and I am anxious to lift this cloud of suspicion under which he lies.”

  She gave the Headmaster a résumé of the case against Richardson. He let her finish without interruption. Then he said,

  “I am a firm believer in justice and, although I was a little angry with Mr. Richardson before he left here, I most certainly do not envisage him as a poisoner. I will do as you ask, provided that I myself do the questioning. If I do it inadequately, in your view, you will oblige me by jotting down a note and not by voicing your opinion in front of the boys.”

  “Very well. It is good of you to be so co-operative.”

  The Headmaster nodded, got up and walked to the big time-table which occupied half of one entire wall of his study. He consulted it, then held the door open for Dame Beatrice, followed her out, adjusted the card, which had been marked Engaged, to the position in which it read Out, and led the way to a classroom. Fifteen boys stood up. The Headmaster waved them to their seats and turned to the master-in-charge.

  “Excuse my interruption of your lesson, Mr. Sprott,” he said. “I wonder whether you will leave the boys to me for ten minutes or so? I will send to the Staff Common Room for you when I have finished with them.”

  “Thank you, Headmaster,” said young Mr. Sprott, going gaily off to the staff-room
for an unexpected cigarette.

  “Spence, a chair for Dame Beatrice. Where are your manners, boy?” said the Headmaster to a blameless child at the end of the front row. “That’s better. Now, boys (including Radcliffe, who seems chary of according me his undivided attention), I want the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth…”

  “So help me God,” added the form funny-man, sotto voce

  “…and it will be the worse for any boy who chooses to conceal from me anything he may know or suspect. Now!” One or two boys, conscious, no doubt, of recent sin, turned pale, and on the whole classroom there descended that breathless hush which is more often associated with major rows in schools than with school cricket matches. “You, in this form, have all done two years of chemistry. You have all seen the outside (at any rate) of the poisons cupboard. Well?” There was respectful agreement from the form. “Now I come to the point. Stand up, any boy who has ever noticed that the key of that cupboard has been inadvertently left in the lock.”

  Not a boy moved. The Headmaster scanned in turn the fifteen faces in front of him. His gaze returned to the face of the form captain. He raised his eyebrows. The boy blushed and then slowly stood up.

  “Please, sir,” he said.

  “Well, Hawkins? Come along. Speak up. There is nothing to be afraid of.”

  “Please, sir, I don’t remember ever seeing the key left in the lock, but we—we were once shown inside the cupboard, sir.”

  “Well, that’s all right. Just part of Mr. Joliffe’s chemistry course, no doubt. And then the cupboard was locked up again. Is that it?”

  “Not—not exactly, sir.”

  “Oh?”

  “It wasn’t Mr. Joliffe, sir.”

  “Who, then?”

  “The laboratory assistant, sir. He showed some of us the poisons. It was one wet dinner-time, sir, when we couldn’t be out on the field. But he did lock up again and he didn’t leave the key in the lock.”

  “I see. Thank you, Hawkins. You have done what you can to help. Stand up, all the boys who were with Hawkins when that poisons cupboard was opened.” Five children, looking vastly relieved at hearing their leader commended, however grudgingly, by the Headmaster, rose to their feet. “Now, has anybody anything to add to what Hawkins has just told me?” A small, pale boy shuffled his feet. “Yes, Resthall?”

  “Borgia told us he had enough poison in the cupboard to do in—to kill the whole school, sir.”

  “Who, boy?”

  “Borgia, sir. The lab assistant, sir.”

  “Then don’t call him by foolish nicknames. His name is Robinson. Is that all you have to tell me?”

  “Sir, yes, sir.”

  “Very well. You and Hawkins may sit down. Now I want the rest of you boys to concentrate very hard. I don’t wish anybody to use his imagination or to ‘think’ he knows. You must be absolutely certain. Each boy will search his memory diligently. It is of the utmost importance. Was your former fellow-pupil, Clive Topley, among your number when the poisons cupboard was opened?”

  “Yes, sir,” murmured the polite voices.

  “Hawkins?”

  “Yes, he was, sir.”

  “Resthall?”

  “Please, sir, yes, sir, I think so, sir.”

  “I see. Now we come to the hub of the matter, and there is no need for you to attempt to shield anybody. You are to tell me the truth. Sit down, you boys. My question now concerns everybody in the form, those who saw the cupboard opened and those who did not. Is there any possibility that any of you, including, of course, Topley, could have obtained access to that cupboard at any time, apart from the time I have been told about?”

  There was almost unbearable tension in the room. Fifteen pairs of mesmerised eyes were bent upon the Headmaster. Then a boy raised his hand. The Headmaster raised his eyebrows inviting the child to speak.

  “Please, sir, I don’t know about access, sir, but Topley did once show me two test-tubes with corks on the end, sir, and told me they had poison in them, sir.”

  “Good heavens, boy! Did you not report this to Mr. Joliffe?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “I didn’t believe Topley, sir.”

  “I see. Was any other boy shown these test-tubes?” Unwilling hands came up all over the room. “Well, really! Had none of you a sufficient sense of responsibility to report so grave a matter?” One by one the hands dropped. “Hawkins?”

  “Well, no, sir. Topley was always—always—”

  “Boasting?”

  “Yes, sir. You could hardly believe anything he said, sir. He said he opened the poisons cupboard with a hairpin, sir.”

  “Indeed? Well, go on, boy.”

  The unhappy form captain lowered his eyes.

  “Well, you couldn’t, sir.”

  “No, I believe that I could not.”

  “Please, sir, I mean one couldn’t, sir.”

  “Then why not say so? You mean you yourself tried to do this?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you in a position of trust?”

  “Please, sir, it wasn’t that, sir. I…I thought, if it was possible to do it, I ought to tell Mr. Joliffe, sir, so the lock could be changed or something.”

  “Oh, I see. I beg your pardon for doubting you, but, another time, boy, do not carry out rash experiments. You might find yourself in serious trouble.”

  “No, sir. Yes, sir.”

  “Now, a last question, Hawkins—and here there need be no hesitation. Did any master, at any time, impound or confiscate those test-tubes?”

  “No, sir. Topley never brought them into class. He kept them in the dorm, sir.”

  “Dormitory, boy. I dislike these moronic shortenings. Dormitory, not dorm. Laboratory, not lab. Chemistry, not Stinks.” There was a nervous, ingratiating titter from the form at this, except from the funny-man who, under cover of the sound, muttered, “Mucous, not snot, you clot.” The Headmaster having restored himself to good temper by his own little jest, sent Hawkins to the Staff Common Room for Mr. Sprott and, having enjoined silence upon the rest of the form, combined with an admonition that a pious study of the textbook was desirable until Mr. Sprott should arrive, he took Dame Beatrice back to his study.

  “What did you think?” he asked.

  “I have an open mind,” she replied. “There is nothing to show whether Clive did or did not contrive to obtain possession of the poisons.”

  “Exactly my own opinion.”

  “I am most grateful for your help. There is just one more thing, if you will be so good.”

  “Certainly.”

  “May I have a word with the art master?”

  “I will send him to you in here. Am I permitted to ask…?”

  “Of course. I want to find out when he last used potassium cyanide.”

  “Potassium cyanide?”

  “Etchers employ it. I thought perhaps he might have done so.”

  “Oh, yes, I see. And, of course, there are always wasps’ nests,” said the Headmaster helpfully. As it turned out, there was nothing to be gained from the art master, an exquisite young man in brown corduroy trousers and a bright blue smock with lots of paint on it. He did not appear to be in the least surprised by Dame Beatrice’s questions.

  “Used the stuff? Yes, of course I have. You have to bite an acid into the metal, you know. Have I ever used it here? No, I haven’t. You don’t usually teach etching to kids. Knew Joliffe had got it in his lab? Never thought about it. How little can you know about the way the other man lives?”

  Dame Beatrice went off to interview the Maidstons. This time she was lucky. Mr. Maidston was at home. He was in the drawing-room practising tapping a golf ball into a teacup which was placed on its side. He was a tall, thin man with charming manners and a somewhat foxy smile. His wife was arranging bronze chrysanthemums in a heavily gilded, extremely ugly vase. There was neither sight nor sound of Clive.

  Dame Beatrice came to the point at once by tel
ling them that she had just come from the school. Involuntarily they exchanged glances, then Maidston said,

  “Oh, yes? In what way, Dame Beatrice, should that concern us? Our foster-son left the school, at my request, a good many months ago.”

  “In one sense it does not concern you at all,” Dame Beatrice replied in equable tones, “except in so far as it may (quite indirectly, of course), concern Clive.” The Maidstons again exchanged glances. “You see,” she continued, “I have learnt a rather disturbing fact, and so has the Headmaster. It seems that, while he was at the school, Clive informed the other boys that he had managed to obtain possession of a small quantity of hydrocyanic acid and another of potassium cyanide from a cupboard in the chemistry laboratory.”

  “He did bring home a couple of test-tubes with some stuff in them,” admitted Maidston, after a slight pause. His wife drew in her breath sharply, but her husband’s steady eyes did not waver. “He did not tell us what was in them and he did not show them to us. My wife found them under some clothing in the tall-boy in his bedroom. She brought them to me without the boy’s knowledge and we threw them away because she was afraid of broken glass among his things. Of course, we certainly never thought of them as containing poison. We simply supposed them to hold the results of some experiment or other which had been carried out in one of the chemistry lessons and which the boys had been allowed to keep.”

  “Although I wouldn’t put it past Clive to have kept the test-tubes, whether with permission or not,” said Mrs. Maidston, who appeared to have received some sort of cue from her husband. “He’s a very naughty boy at times and very disobedient. I’m afraid he also tells lies.”

  “He asked several times to be taken away from the school, I believe,” said Dame Beatrice. She had no direct evidence of this, but the Headmaster’s reference to Clive’s letters home had given her that impression. Mr. Maidston nodded, and his wife observed,

  “He said the other boys didn’t like him. He was bullied, he said, and got into trouble for the misdeeds of others.”

  “We didn’t believe him at first,” put in Maidston. “I remember saying to my wife that, if anybody did any bullying, it would be Clive, and that, if anybody got another boy into trouble, it would again be Clive.”