by W E Johns
“What were they?”
“First, the gloves he’d left in Vera’s sitting-room. It was a hot night. I asked him why he had put them on. He said it was to protect his hands from the thorns on the roses. I let that pass although I wasn’t entirely convinced, because wherever he’d bought the roses the stalks at least would have been given some sort of protective covering. No one could be expected to carry a bunch of roses in the bare hand.”
“I see that. I didn’t know about him pinching the roses.”
“Of course not. That was where I had the advantage of you. But it was the second question be found harder to answer, and I broke him down on it. Then it answered both my questions. It was the time factor. The times of Paul’s movements that night tied up well enough in every statement, his own, that of Miss Lewis, and his parents. They all agreed. But there was a flaw. You will remember he left here to go to Vera at nine-thirty. Payne here confirmed that. He arrived at ten. Miss Lewis confirmed that. Paul says he left Vera at ten-thirty and his parents stated he was back in the hotel at ten-forty.”
“That fitted like a jigsaw.”
“It fitted too well for Paul. If it hadn’t he might have got away with it. Why had it taken him half an hour to walk to the Thatched House yet only ten minutes to walk back? I put it to him. At first he tried to explain it by saying the going was uphill. I wouldn’t accept that. I told him he was lying. Then the truth came out and it answered the question as to why he wore gloves.”
“He’d been into the garden next door and pinched some of the Doctor’s roses.”
“Exactly. Naturally, being ashamed of it, he didn’t want that to be known. Now let’s move on a bit further. He went into the house still carrying the roses in a gloved hand and laid them on the table with the chocolates. They weren’t touched again while he was there. Had they been moved the situation might have been very different. Paul would have taken his gloves off, so had he been the one to prick his finger—but that didn’t happen so we needn’t talk about it. He stayed half an hour, When he left he forgot the gloves, no doubt because he no longer had any need of them.
“Now let’s go back a bit. Thinking things over I had decided there must be something in that house capable of causing death. Moreover, it could have been introduced only recently. What was it? I went over everything that had been taken in during the twenty-four hours prior to Vera’s death. You told me, Chief, that everything had been checked and cleared by analysis. One item only hadn’t been mentioned. The roses. Nobody had looked twice at them. That was understandable. People don’t eat roses. Paul had confessed to me where the roses came from. Vera’s last words to Paul were to the effect that she’d put the roses in water before going to bed. They must have been literally her last words. Again, you’ll notice, we come back to those roses. It was roses, roses, all the way. It was hard to see how they could have had anything to do with what happened, but by this time I was getting suspicious of that bunch of flowers. Absurd as it seemed I couldn’t escape the conclusion that in some way they came into the picture.”
“Go on, I’m with you.”
“There was now a glimmer of light. The roses had come from the Doctor’s garden. He was at loggerheads with the village over the Flower Show. He had spent most of his life in British Guiana where as a medical man he would certainly came into contact with native poisons. I’ve been there too, and know a little about them. But let’s go back to Vera. We know that she started to do what she said she was going to do, put the roses in water. She fetched a vase and put some of the roses in it. But not all. Why didn’t she finish the job while she was at it? It’s easy now to see the reason. She’d run a poisoned thorn into one of her fingers. The rest is surmise. Why she went upstairs I can’t tell you. She may have felt faint, or sick, and went up to her room for some sort of medicine. She may have intended to call Miss Lewis. We don’t know and we shall never know. The reason is not important. The fact is, when she went upstairs she obviously expected to come down again or she would have put the sitting-room light out. We know why she didn’t. Apparently nobody else touched those flowers until Miss Lewis, in a final clear up, threw them on the rubbish heap at the end of the garden. She must have pricked or scratched a finger and that was it.”
“What about the cat?”
“It may have followed her to the rubbish heap, in which case it’s a question of which of them died first, Miss Lewis or the cat. Miss Lewis managed to get back to the house, where, like Vera in her bedroom, she collapsed on the kitchen floor and died. The cat, which must have stepped on one of those same thorns—I’ll come back to this presently—walked as far as the road where Gower saw it die. No doubt it would have gone into the house had the door been open, in which case both bodies would have been found together. As it was, the cat was found first. Miss Lewis was already dead or dying but her body wasn’t discovered until you went the second time to call for her.”
“I told her not to allow anyone in the house.”
“Certainly nobody could have gone in or her body would have been found before it was.”
“What gave you the idea the cat had stepped on one of those damned thorns?”
“I only realized that when it hooked up with something I’d seen.”
“Where?”
“In Vera’s garden, on the rubbish heap. Looking over the back gate I saw the roses lying there. I counted six, which was the number Paul told me he had taken. With one exception they were lying in a bunch, as one would expect. The odd one was lying a little distance away looking as if it had been dragged. Near it was a dead mouse, somewhat mutilated. The cat must have pounced on the mouse, possibly at the time Miss Lewis was at the dump, and in so doing had landed on a thorn. It walked to the road and died. It’s unlikely Venner knew about that. He may not have been certain how many roses had been stolen, but he appears to have been satisfied with five.”
“What do you mean? I don’t get it.”
“When I felt sure of my ground I slipped back to collect those roses; but I was too late; they’d gone.”
“You mean they’d been taken away?”
“Exactly that.”
“By whom?”
“Venner, who else? He’d burnt them. I saw the bonfire still smoking in his garden. But he hadn’t noticed the one lying by itself. It’s upstairs in my sponge-bag. Take it with you but be careful how you handle it. What looks like grey mouldy stuff on the stalk is the poison. It shows when it’s damp. I learned that from Venner.”
“He told you?”
“Yes, but I already knew it. You see, from whichever angle I looked I couldn’t get away from those roses, so I decided it was time to check up on Venner. I phoned my London office and asked to be sent a copy of his book. You saw me reading it. It told me all I wanted to know. He had dabbled in native poisons for years. There was a whole chapter on how they’re made and another about their effect on humans, as well as birds and animals. He’d seen an Indian die from a scratch by one of his own darts and described the process to the last detail. I could see Vera dying the same way. Feeling I was now right on the beam I decided to have a few words with the old man. I’ve just left him.”
“Did he admit it?”
“Not at once. But it didn’t take him long, from the questions I asked, to guess that I knew what he’d done. I told him I’d read his book.”
“How did he take it?”
“Pretty well, I thought, at first. He was full of excuses of course. He hadn’t intended to kill anyone. Perhaps make someone feel a bit queer.”
“But he must have known damn well that he’d been responsible for Vera’s death.”
“Of course he did. The fact that some of his prize blooms had disappeared would tell him that. He thought, not unnaturally, that it was Vera herself who had been in his garden and pinched them.”
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
“I asked him that. His excuse was he was a sick old man and couldn’t face the publicity. I pointed out that i
t didn’t prevent him from going out of his way to try to throw the guilt on Trelawny.”
“He didn’t mind admitting all this to you knowing you’d tell me?”
“He was hoping to be able to prevent that, and he nearly succeeded. His sitting-room is full of souvenirs, with a nice assortment of native weapons. One of these is a blowpipe for shooting darts tipped with the same hellish stuff that killed Vera and Miss Lewis. Saying that he could easily have committed murder had he wanted to, he took it off the wall to show me. But for a look in his eye he might have caught me. In one flick of a lamb’s tail it was pointing at me. I ducked just in time. The dart must have missed me by inches. It hit the wall.”
“The damned old villain. What did you do?”
“I snatched the blowpipe out of his hands and smashed it. There was no accident about that. He deliberately tried to kill me. I realized afterwards that he’d had that in mind from the moment he knew I knew and that nothing would stop me from telling you. You should have seen his face. He looked like a cornered wild beast. I told him what I thought of him and came away. That’s about all. He’s all yours. And now, Payne, if you’ll pass the word to Jimmy I’ll have my tea. I can do with it, and I feel I’ve earned it.”
“It’s time I had a word with this precious doctor myself,” said the Superintendent grimly.
“Be careful. He’s good enough, or bad enough, for anything.”
“I’ll watch it,” stated the Superintendent, trenchantly. “Come on, Smith. We might as well take the car. It’s too hot for walking, and the sooner we see this old devil before he gets into more mischief the better.”
The car went off with the Sergeant at the wheel.
Biggles was buttering a scone when, within ten minutes, to his surprise the car came back.
“That didn’t take long,” he observed.
“There was nothing for us to do except lock the house until I can get the photographers here.”
Biggles looked up, understanding in his eyes. “Ah! So it’s like that.”
“Killed himself with one of his darts. Made certain of it, too. Stuck it in the artery of his wrist.”
Biggles shrugged. “Well, it seems he was right in not being able to face publicity. Best thing he could have done. Saves him, and you, a lot of trouble. I shan’t saturate my pillow with tears over him. You might tell young Graveson he’s in the clear.”
“I’ll leave you to do that. You going to stay on here for a bit?”
“I hope so. I can now get on with what I was sent here to do.”
“And what’s that?”
“Sit on the beach and count the waves coming in, the idea being to give my nerves a rest and my brain a refresher course.”
“It seems to have worked.” The Superintendent hung back for a moment. “You’re sure you don’t want your name mentioned in connexion with this affair?”
“Quite sure, thank you.”
“As you wish. But I must give you this. It may be, after all, that you fellows at the Yard are a bit smarter than we are.”
Biggles waved the suggestion aside. “Nonsense, Chief. It’s just a matter of how these things work out. I’ve no doubt that in your own line of country you could teach us a thing or two.”
“I hope one day we may have an opportunity to prove that. I’ll be seeing you again before you go. So long for now.”
The Superintendent walked away.
Captain Gower was staring at Biggles with an extraordinary look in his eyes. “What Yard’s he talking about?” he asked, jerking a thumb at the departing police car.
“Scotland Yard.”
“Well, blow the man down! Is that where you work?”
“That’s my headquarters,” acknowledged Biggles, smiling at Gower’s expression.
“A detective, eh?”
“Sort of.”
“And the Super knew that?”
“Of course.”
“Now I get it. That’s why he’s done so much nattering with you.”
“Could be.”
“And you had me fooled all along,” accused the sailor. “This is where my faith in human nature ends. Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
“And spoil your fun? After all, you’re the thriller expert, I thought you’d enjoy having a go at the real thing.”
Gower’s face broke into a smile. He reverted to his usual breezy manner. “Fair enough. What a story I shall have to tell! Real life stuff.”
“As you say, what a story,” agreed Biggles. “Sit down and have some tea; but let’s have no more talk of murder and sudden death. I have enough of that when I’m at home.”
THE END