The Case of the Abominable Snowman

by Nicholas Blake

  ‘And where does Miss Ainsley come into this?’ asked Nigel.

  ‘Why, damn it, I’ve just told you. She saw me going along –’

  ‘What was she talking about this afternoon, then?’

  Nigel interrupted a glance from Hereward to Charlotte that said S.O.S. as plain as a pikestaff. But Charlotte remained silent. Finally, Hereward mumbled:

  ‘Oh, that didn’t mean anything. You know how it is with these nervy women. I mean –’

  ‘No, Hereward.’ Mrs Restorick had merely been holding her fire till he was in the most favourable position. ‘You Englishmen are so absurdly chivalrous, Mr Strangeways. Hereward would rather cut off his hand than say anything bad about a lady.’

  ‘Eh? Oh, come, my dear!’

  ‘It’s true, and you know it. I shall have to explain for him. After poor Betty was killed, Eunice came to my husband, told him she’d seen him going stealthily to Betty’s room just before she was murdered, and promised to say nothing about it if he’d hand over Betty’s income to her. It was downright blackmail, of course, and I told Hereward he mustn’t let himself be intimidated.’

  ‘When did you first hear of this, Mrs Restorick?’

  ‘My husband came in just now, half an hour ago, and asked my advice. I’d seen he was badly worried before this, of course, but I’d no idea Eunice was back of it.’

  Nigel contemplated the two of them for a moment. ‘Why should Miss Ainsley ask you to hand over Betty’s income? I mean, why should she blackmail you in those particular terms? I’d have expected her just to ask for a given sum of money – and then probably come back for more.’

  ‘Surely, the best person to ask about that would be Miss –’ Charlotte began to say, but Hereward, with unusual firmness, broke in on her.

  ‘No. Must give Strangeways all the facts now. According to Eunice, Betty had promised to leave her the money in her will, so she thought she had a claim to it.’

  ‘That was the first you’d heard of Betty’s intentions?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Yes. Rather,’ said Hereward, with a certain overacted negligence, as though he had been asked in the witness-box a question whose crucial nature he must not appear to recognize.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Nigel. ‘How did Miss Ainsley know that your sister had not carried out her promise? Nothing has been said in this house to suggest that she died intestate, has it?’

  ‘Well, as a matter of fact it has. A few days before Betty died, we were all talking about the war. At lunch it was. I happened to say that, with air-raids likely to occur any time now, everyone ought to make a will. Betty agreed – said she’d see her solicitors about it when she returned to London. You remember, Charlotte?’

  ‘Yes. Mr Dykes made rather a harangue about private property and how immoral it was for people to inherit money they’d never worked for.’

  ‘Fellow’s a bit of a Bolshie,’ said Hereward apologetically. ‘But not a bad sort when you get to know him.’

  ‘I wonder did it occur to anyone,’ remarked Nigel, staring at his toes, ‘that Betty might make a will in Mr Dykes’ favour. After all, they were engaged, more or less.’

  The Restoricks made no comment on this, so Nigel added, ‘I take it, since she died intestate, her property will be divided equally between you and Andrew?’

  ‘That’s so, I believe,’ replied Hereward. ‘Wish I knew what to do about it. I mean, if Betty really did promise it to Eunice, I feel I ought to hand it over. But, tell you the truth, I need it myself. The way securities are depreciating, it’s a job to keep up a place like this.’

  ‘I tell Hereward he should offer Easterham to the government for a hospital,’ said Charlotte. ‘But, of course, they don’t seem to need hospitals yet. I wonder when the war is really going to start in earnest.’

  Hereward grinned. ‘Charlotte fancies herself as a Matron. She’d keep ’em in order all right, eh?’

  ‘Don’t be absurd, Hereward.’

  On this playful note, Nigel left them. The last glimpse, as he closed the door, of Charlotte queenly and capable in her black dress and Hereward with his drooping moustache that might have graced the Thane of Cawdor, made Nigel contemplate even more seriously the possibility that the drama being enacted here might resemble Macbeth rather than Hamlet.

  The Restoricks had been remarkably candid with him, but that might have been because Miss Ainsley had forced their hand. Hereward’s evidence had seemed ingenuous enough, but maybe his wife had coached him in it. It was difficult to believe that, however precarious his financial affairs, Hereward would murder his sister for a half-share in property which only brought her two thousand pounds a year. On the other hand, if Hereward had had some other motive, his wife might attempt to distract attention from it by stressing the inadequate motive of the inheritance. If so, she was playing an audacious game. But Nigel fancied she was an audacious as well as a clever woman.

  Something else in Hereward’s statement, however, was nagging at him. As he walked towards the drawing-room, he was trying to assess the significance of Betty’s door being locked at 11.30 that night. Deep in thought, he bumped into Andrew, who emerged suddenly from the drawing-room.

  ‘What the –? Oh, it’s you,’ exclaimed Andrew. ‘Where’s the inspector? Some — has just tried to poison me.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ‘Revolving in his altered soul

  The various turns of chance below.’

  DRYDEN

  AS IF IT had been a signal, Andrew’s remark released a babble of voices within the drawing-room.

  ‘In my milk,’ he jerked out to Nigel. ‘Scribbles wouldn’t take it. Smell of bitter almonds. I’ll fetch Blount.’

  He ran upstairs. As Nigel turned the knob of the door, it was opened from inside, and Will Dykes and Miss Ainsley appeared. Eunice, deathly white, clutched Nigel’s sleeve.

  ‘I can’t stand any more of this!’ she cried. ‘You’ve got to stop it.’

  ‘It’s a queer do, I must say,’ murmured Dykes.

  Dr Bogan was standing in the middle of the room, looking mightily perplexed, and shaken out of his normal calm. Nigel’s eye took in the tea-table, with a glass half-full of milk on it in addition to the tea-things, a saucer of milk on the floor, and the cat Scribbles gazing at it resentfully from the hearthrug.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he asked.

  All three of them started speaking at once, then stopped. Dr Bogan took an authoritative step forward.

  ‘Restorick poured a little milk from his glass into a saucer for the cat. The cat sniffed at it and backed away. Dykes made some remark about Scribbles being wary of saucers of milk nowadays. Restorick took up the saucer and smelt it. “Bitter almonds,” he said, “that’s some kind of poison, isn’t it?” I told him potassium cyanide. We kind of hadn’t taken it in yet. Then I took up his glass and smelt that. It’s potassium cyanide all right.’

  ‘Oh God!’ exclaimed Eunice. ‘We might all have been poisoned.’

  She ran over to the hearthrug, plumped down beside Scribbles with an ungainly movement, and snatched him to her breast, babbling stupidly.

  ‘I don’t think there was any fear of that,’ said Bogan. ‘It looks as if this was aimed at Restorick alone. He never took tea – always had a glass of milk brought in specially for him, you see. Unless –’

  He broke off. As if by common consent, he and Nigel moved quickly to the tea-table. With a gesture, Bogan left it to Nigel, who bent over the delicate milk-jug and delicately sniffed it. Then he sniffed at the cat’s saucer.

  ‘Yes. I’m afraid so. In both of them. The jug smells less strongly than the saucer. More diluted there, of course.’

  At this moment Hereward and Charlotte came in, and the incident had to be narrated over again. Hereward’s expression changed from bewilderment to outrage. He cleared his throat once or twice, but before he could get any words out Andrew returned with Blount and the detective-sergeant.

  His eyes glittering frostily, Blount at once a
ssumed control, his presence seemed to pull the unnerved company together.

  ‘Mr Restorick has put me in possession of the facts,’ he snapped out. ‘Please sit down, all of you. Those of you who were in the room, sit where you were when Mr Restorick poured out the milk.’

  Eunice and Bogan moved to a sofa near the tea-table, Dykes to a chair on their left, while Andrew sat down on the opposite side of the table. Blount gingerly sniffed at the saucer and the glass.

  ‘The milk jug, too,’ murmured Nigel.

  ‘What’s that?’ exclaimed Andrew, so fiercely that Eunice gave a little cry.

  ‘Yes. The milk in the jug is poisoned too,’ said Blount, wrinkling his nose over it.

  ‘Good Christmas!’ Andrew said. ‘D’you mean to say –? It’s mass-murder. Why, I assumed –’

  ‘No, you were not specially favoured, Mr Restorick,’ Blount commented dryly. He gazed round the company, with a slow, formidable look that made even Nigel curl up a little inside. ‘This is a stupid job. Untidy. Botched-up on the spur of the moment. Someone’s hand has lost its cunning. Anyone could smell this stuff through milk and tea. All the chances were against your drinking it. And we shall soon find out who was in a position to tamper with the milk. Hadn’t you better confess now, and save trouble?’

  Dead silence, broken by Hereward, who had found his voice at last.

  ‘I – this is outrageous! Are you suggesting that one of my guests –? These are all friends of mine. What about the servants? Didn’t they have access to –?’

  ‘Aye. Shuffle it off on them,’ muttered Will Dykes. ‘Ladies and gentlemen don’t poison each other. It’s not done.’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Dykes,’ Andrew exclaimed angrily. ‘This is no time for your ridiculous class-consciousness.’

  They all stared at him. It was a strange outburst from the usually equable Andrew.

  ‘I’ll attend to that,’ Blount said to Hereward. ‘Now will you four just go through the several actions you performed when Mr Restorick poured out the milk.’

  Bogan, Dykes, and Eunice sat still. Andrew, who had recovered himself, said:

  ‘Cue please, Eunice.’

  ‘What? Oh, I see,’ she said faintly. ‘Hallo, pussy-cat.’

  Dykes said, ‘I’m glad I haven’t got nine lives. One’s enough for me on this bloody planet.’

  Andrew said: ‘I wonder is he a bit more cautious of saucers of milk nowadays.’ He lifted the glass, and pretended to tip some milk into an imaginary saucer. A pause.

  Dykes said: ‘Nay. He looks gift saucers in the mouth. Sensible cat.’

  ‘That’s funny,’ remarked Andrew. They had been re-enacting the episode in stiff, self-conscious voices; but Andrew’s tone had suddenly, alarmingly altered. ‘That is funny,’ he said. ‘There’s not so much milk in my glass.’

  ‘Of course there isn’t,’ said Dykes. ‘Some of it’s in the cat’s saucer.’

  ‘No, I don’t mean that. There’s less milk in my glass now than there was when I left the room to fetch Blount. I’m certain there is. What do you say, Bogan?’

  He lifted the tumbler and held it out to the doctor, balanced on his palm.

  ‘I couldn’t say. I didn’t notice the level particularly before.’

  Blount had already rung the bell. A maid appeared.

  ‘Did you bring in these tea-things?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Just take a look at the milk jug. Did you fill it to the top?’

  ‘Oh no, sir. Not right up. It might spill over, you see. It’s fuller now than when I brought it in.’

  ‘You’re sure of that?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Blount dismissed her for the present. ‘You see what that means?’ he said. ‘Somebody poured some milk from the glass into the milk jug, presumably between Mr Restorick’s finding his milk was poisoned and Mr Strangeways’ entering the room. Why? The only possible reason is to give the impression that both lots of milk had been poisoned. The attempt to poison Mr Restorick had failed. The criminal hoped to confuse the issue by making it seem that the attempt had been directed against anyone or everyone who would be sitting down to tea. And the criminal –’ Blount gazed at them coldly through his pince-nez ‘– must be one of you three in the room, Miss Ainsley, Mr Dykes, Dr Bogan.’

  Dykes grunted. Eunice cowered back against the sofa. The doctor remarked, ‘Your argument is logically correct. But –’

  ‘Of course it is. Now, did any of you three see it happen?’

  But, hard as Blount tried, he could not establish anything. In the short interval during which the milk jug could have been touched, they had all – apparently – been upset and moving about every whither. None of them could vouch for having had any other one under his observation all the time. They had been too bemused by the unexpected shock. Nigel privately was inclined to put his money on Bogan. When he entered the room, Eunice and Dykes had been at the door, facing him, their back to Bogan, who was standing near the table. They would presumably have gone out of the room, if they hadn’t met Nigel, and this would give Bogan a better chance than anyone had had while all three were still there.

  ‘Did you make a habit of giving the cat milk, Mr Restorick?’ Blount was asking.

  ‘No. Never did. It sort of arose out of that conversation we were having. Lucky for me, too.’

  ‘Chance has played an – e’eh – capricious rôle in this episode,’ remarked Blount rather pedantically. ‘Now then, does anyone know of the existence of any potassium cyanide in this house?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hereward. ‘Yes. I have some. Use it for photography, y’know.’

  ‘Will you be so good as to see if it’s still where you keep it, sir?’ Blount signed the sergeant to accompany Hereward. It was less than two minutes – and seemed hours – before they returned.

  ‘The bottle’s gone,’ announced Hereward, almost wildly. ‘Kept it in that cupboard on my study wall. It’s not there any more.’

  ‘When did you see it last?’

  ‘Eh? Oh, see it last. Let me think. Why, only this morning. Opened the cupboard to get a packet of pipe cleaners.’

  ‘You keep the cupboard locked, I presume?’

  ‘No. As a matter of fact I don’t.’

  ‘You ought to. Potassium cyanide’s dangerous stuff to leave about.’

  ‘But, damn it, the bottle had POISON on it. Red label. Anyone could see –’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Blount, with the faintest twinkle of amusement in his eyes. ‘Well, we’ve got to find that bottle and find out when there were opportunities to poison Mr Restorick’s glass of milk. I must ask you all to stay here. Sergeant Phillips, don’t leave this door and don’t take your eyes off them.’

  ‘Damn it!’ exclaimed Hereward heatedly. ‘You’re treating us all like criminals.’

  His wife said: ‘My dear, I’m afraid someone here is a criminal. I suppose you will want to have us searched, Inspector?’

  ‘If I don’t find the bottle elsewhere,’ Blount replied.

  ‘Then – you will want someone to search Miss Ainsley and myself – I suggest asking my housekeeper.’

  Blount stared at her dourly. He did not approve of people taking control over his head. But Mrs Restorick’s charming smile softened him a little.

  ‘Thank you, ma’am. I’ll bear it in mind. Mr Strangeways, I’d like you to come with me.’

  Nigel followed him out, and along the hall towards the servants’ quarters. Blount was muttering, ‘Preposterous! Wouldn’t deceive a bairn! Lost his grip. Or –’ He jerked out over his shoulder to Nigel: ‘D’you suppose it was another practical joke?’

  ‘With potassium cyanide? This is England, not North Britain. We like our practical jokes to have a lighter touch this side of the border.’

  ‘T’chah!’ said Blount. He was the only person Nigel had ever met who pronounced this precisely as it is spelt in works of fiction. ‘T’chah ! That Andrew had a nasty little twinkle in his eye. Probably put the stuff in th
e glass himself. Just to make things more difficult for me. Scoundrel. Coincidence. Chance. Just happened to pick on the one afternoon he had poison in his milk to offer some to the cat. No animal lover. Oh well now, oh well now.’

  Blount employed the figure of asyndeton only when he was in a cheerful mood. Rubbing his hands briskly, he marched into the housekeeper’s room, where she was having tea with the butler: their scandalized looks at this intrusion quite failed to deter him.

  ‘Aha! Having tea? Splendid. Delicious. Now, Mr Butler, sir, if I may take you away a wee while from your cookies – I’m sure Mrs, er-um, Lake will excuse you – I want your co-operation.’

  The butler, gaping fishily, seemed to be dragged in his wake like one of those celluloid fish that follow a magnet. Presently they were in the pantry, at the back of the hall, where the tea-things had been put ready. The maid who had brought in the tea was summoned again, and the following facts came to light. At 3.45 she had begun to prepare the tray. The milk had been taken from a refrigerator in the kitchen: several of the servants had milk from the same source for their tea, so it could not have been tampered with at that end. The tray, with the milk jug and Andrew’s glass of milk, had been left unattended in the pantry between 3.50, roughly, and 4.15 when the maid carried the tray into the drawing-room. This, she stated, was her normal routine.

  Nigel made a mental note that, between 3.50 and 4.15, he had been talking to Hereward and Charlotte in the study. They, at any rate, could not have tampered with the milk.

  The butler deposed that he had entered the pantry just after four o’clock, to run his eye over the tea-tray.

  ‘You’re an – e’eh – observant man?’ asked Blount. Nigel stiffened. When that Glasgow accent took command over Blount’s voice, it meant that he was hot on the track of something.

  ‘I hope so, sir. My duties –’

  ‘When you entered this pantry just after four o’clock, was that bottle there?’

  He wiggled his pince-nez at a small bottle, standing with little attempt at concealment in a deep bowl above the shelf where the tray had rested.

  ‘Good gracious!’ exclaimed the butler. He might well do so, for the bottle had a red label marked POISON. ‘No, sir, that bottle wasn’t there when I –’