“Wait, now,” interrupted Gale. “It’s not going to be as simple as that, young feller. You think, if we all keep our mouths shut, the murders won’t come out, eh? Rubbish!”
“Why should they?” began Ferrall.
“Because the police are not all bone-headed imbeciles!” cried Gale, impatiently. “They’re halfway to believing that those killings were done by a homicidal maniac, d’you see. What do you suppose they’re going to think when you hand them a maniac on a plate, eh? It won’t take them very long to connect the whole thing up, and then you’re sunk.” He tugged at his beard, screwing up his face in concentration. “What we’ve got to do,” he said, after a short silence, “is get hold of Hatchard at once.”
“Hatchard?” echoed Ferrall.
“Yes. We’ve got to tell him the whole story, d’you see?”
“But, Simon,” exclaimed Avril in dismay, “we can’t do that.”
“It would be suicidal.” Ferrall flung his cigarette into the fireplace. “They’ll arrest me straight away as an accessary after the fact.”
And probably for Meriton’s murder, too, thought Alan.
“They’re likely to do that anyway,” resorted Gale. “Look here, all you’ve got to fear is that Fay was responsible for killing those two—the tramp and the girl. There’s nothing else they can get you on? Both you and Meriton were quite within your rights to put Fay in that home. She was definitely a psychopath needing treatment.”
“That’s all very well,” broke in Ferrall irritably. “But the fact remains that she did kill those two people.”
“That’s just the point,” snapped Gale. “She didn’t!”
For a moment there was dead silence. Suddenly motionless, as though some magical influence had come into the little dining room and turned them to stone, Avril and Ferrall stared at him with eyes that looked, queerly, blind.
“Fay Meriton never killed anything,” he declared. “That’s the whole damnable, cruel, devilish thing about this business, d’you see? She was deliberately sacrificed to satisfy...” He stopped and thumped the table in a sudden and uncontrollable anger.
“To satisfy—what?” asked Alan.
“An obsession!” answered Simon Gale.
Ferrall was the first to recover from the shock of Gale’s announcement. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” he said. “It’s absolute nonsense!”
“Oh, is it?” cried Gale. “Did you, or anyone else, see Fay Meriton commit those murders?”
“No, of course not. But...”
“She was found bending over the bodies,” went on Gale, striding about the room in a sudden access of nervous energy. “Because both you and Meriton knew that she was a paranoiac, you took it for granted that she’d killed them. She told you, over and over again, that she hadn’t, didn’t she?”
“Naturally,” said Ferrall. “She probably didn’t know she had. Very often, in these cases, there is a complete mental blackout.”
“There is, eh?” cried Gale. “Well, this was a case where there wasn’t, d’you see. Fay Meriton spoke the literal truth.”
“I wish I could believe you.” Ferrall shook his head. “It would get me out of a very nasty position. But it could only have been Fay. Unless you’re trying to tell me there was another homicidal maniac at large.”
“I’m not suggesting any such balderdash!” broke in Gale. “It was no lunatic. You don’t understand, do you? The whole of this infernal, cold-blooded scheme was carefully planned so that Paul Meriton would believe just what he did believe—that his wife was a homicidal maniac.”
Avril uttered a little, gasping cry.
“Nobody could be so utterly cruel and callous...”
“This person could,” retorted Gale grimly. “There was sheer, black hatred behind it.”
“Is this just a theory, Gale,” broke in Ferrall, “or can you prove it?”
“No,” Simon Gale almost snarled. “By all the Bulls of the Borgias, I can’t! That’s what worries me. There’s not a tittle of real evidence, d’you see.”
“Then how do you know it isn’t just another wild theory?” Ferrall said.
“Because it fits,” answered Gale. “It fits all the facts. It accounts for the murder of the tramp and the girl and Meriton.”
Alan, who had been listening in silence, decided to break in with a leading question. “Who is it who had this black hatred for Meriton?”
“You’ve got it wrong, young feller,” said Gale. “Nobody had any black hatred for Meriton.”
“But you said—”
“Meriton’s murder was never intended, but, d’you see, the whole devilish scheme went wrong when Fay was smuggled into that mental home, and Meriton and Ferrall covered up for her.”
“Do you mean, Simon,” said Avril, “that this hatred was directed against Fay?”
“Yes, of course!” he cried, seizing his beard and twisting it between his fingers. “And the murderer must have wondered what the hell had happened when Fay wasn’t arrested and dragged through the muck and mud-slinging of a murder trial, found ‘guilty but insane’, and finally bunged into Broadmoor. That was the plan; that’s what was intended to happen.”
“I think you’ve got hold of a mare’s nest,” said Ferrall sceptically. “What could Fay have done to make anyone hate her like that?”
“Listen!” Avril suddenly raised her hand and motioned them to keep quiet.
A car had stopped outside the house. They heard a door slam and then the click of the gate-latch. Footsteps sounded on the paved path leading to the front door, and a second later the bell rang insistently.
“Who is it?” whispered Avril.
“May be a patient.” Ferrall got up with a frown. “I’d better go.”
He went out quickly and, listening, they heard the front door opened. The unmistakable voice of Inspector Hatchard reached them. It said, politely, but with an underlying note of authority:
“Good evening, sir. Can I have a word with you?”
Avril’s hand went up to her throat and the tinge of colour that had crept into her face drained away.
“Come in,” said Ferrall, and they heard the door shut. There was a moment’s pause and then Hatchard entered the room with Ferrall behind him.
The inspector’s eyes moved quickly over the little group. If he was surprised to see Gale and Alan there, no sign of it appeared in his face.
“Good evening, miss… Good evening, Mr. Gale…. Good evening, sir.” He turned to Ferrall. “Perhaps you would prefer that I saw you in private, sir?”
“It’s all right, Hatchard,” broke in Gale. “We know what you’re here for.”
“Do you, sir?” Hatchard’s eyes, under the overhanging brows, were expressionless, but, the American thought, there was a subtle difference in his manner. “I’m afraid it’s rather serious.”
“The police telephoned you from Shilford, eh?” said Gale.
“Just so, sir.” Hatchard cleared his throat. “Mrs. Meriton died in a private mental home at Shilford earlier this evening. She died from poison. I understand that it was Dr. Ferrall and Mr. Meriton who arranged for her to go into this mental home, which is run by a Dr. Preston, and that she has been there for the past two years.” He looked inquiringly at Ferrall, but it was Gale who answered.
“That’s right, Hatchard. We told you that Mrs. Meriton was a hysteric.”
“Yes, sir.” There was a faintly reproachful note in Hatchard’s voice. “But you didn’t tell me that she was in this home, nor did Dr. Ferrall. I was allowed to believe, like everyone else believed, that Mrs. Meriton had run away.”
“Now, now!” said Gale. “At the time you’re talking about, I didn’t know where she was.”
“But Dr. Ferrall did!” said Hatchard. “While we were searching, at your suggestion, sir, for Mrs. Meriton’s body, Dr. Ferrall knew where she was all the time.”
“You weren’t wasting your time, Hatchard,” said Gale. “You found a body,”
&n
bsp; “Yes, sir, we found a body,” agreed the inspector. “And it’s still got to be explained how it got there. However, that’s not what I’m here for at the moment. I’m here to inquire into the death of Mrs. Meriton, who died from cyanide poisoning this evening.”
“Cyanide!” exclaimed Ferrall, and Simon Gale’s eyes suddenly narrowed.
“How on earth did she get hold of cyanide?”
Alan felt that something had come into the little dining room—something that was sinister and pregnant with fresh terrors. A sensation that was like the physical touch of a cold hand.
“I can tell you how she got hold of it, sir,” said Hatchard soberly. “It was sent to her, contained in a box of chocolates, which arrived by the second post this morning.”
“I should have known it!” said Gale. “It was murder!”
“Yes, sir,” agreed Hatchard quietly. “It was murder. The chocolates were posted in Barnsford.” He paused and looked at Ferrall.
“What I should like you to explain, sir, is how your card came to be in it?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Ferrall stared at Hatchard in a silence that seemed to stretch out unendurably. He said presently, swallowing hard:
“My—my card?”
“Yes, sir.” Hatchard’s voice was stolid. “It was inside the box.”
“I never sent Mrs. Meriton any chocolates.”
“Of course you didn’t!” cried Gale. “Don’t be a blithering ass, Hatchard! People don’t send poisoned chocolates and enclose their cards.”
“I never said that Dr. Ferrall sent the chocolates,” answered the inspector. “I only asked him how his card came to be in them.”
Ferrall shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“That’s obvious enough,” said Gale. “Fay Meriton would have wondered, d’you see, if she’d received an anonymous box of chocolates. Nobody was supposed to know where she was, eh? But, coming from Ferrall was a different matter. I say, Hatchard, they were mighty quick in finding cyanide in those chocolates, weren’t they?”
“It was Dr. Preston who cottoned on to it, Mr. Gale,” said Hatchard. “He saw the chocolates had been tampered with— most of the top layer had been cut in half and stuck together again.”
“Why didn’t he say anything to me about it?” said Ferrall.
The card, thought Alan. He wasn’t sure you hadn’t sent them.
“I don’t know, sir. Maybe he hadn’t found what it was when he telephoned you. He thought, at first, it was suicide.” Hatchard turned to Gale. “What made you say you should have known about it, sir?”
“It was the logical sequence, d’you see?” answered Gale. “The logical sequence to the other murders—the tramp, that girl Hunks, and Meriton.”
“Are you suggesting, sir, that they were all killed by the same person?”
“I know they were, and I should have foreseen that an attempt would be made on Fay Meriton.” Gale frowned and ran his fingers through his hair. “But, d’you see, I didn’t think our murderous friend knew where she was.”
“Are you,” said Inspector Hatchard, “trying to tell me, sir, that you know who the murderer is?”
“Oh, yes, I know who it is,” answered Gale with an impatient gesture. “The trouble is that I’ve no evidence to prove it.” He rubbed his forehead. “I suppose you’ll be going to Barnsford post office to see if they can remember who posted those chocolates, eh?”
“I shall be attending to that first thing in the morning,” answered Hatchard. “Look here, sir, if you know who the murderer is, it’s your duty to inform—”
“If I told you, you couldn’t do a damn thing about it,” said Gale irritably. “If I had any real evidence, it would be a different matter, d’you see? As it is—” He stopped abruptly. “I say, you’ll have to see Ayling, won’t you? He’ll have to be told.”
“I’m going to call on Colonel Ayling when I leave here, sir,” said Hatchard. “I should like Dr. Ferrall to come with me. There’ll be a certain amount of explaining to do,” he added significantly. “Let me come, too,” said Gale quickly. “With Boyce.”
Hatchard hesitated.
“Look here ...” Gale leaned forward with his knuckles pressed against the edge of the table. “If you let me handle this, I’ll guarantee to hand you the killer on a plate, and with enough evidence to satisfy the Lord Chief Justice himself, within forty-eight hours. But you’ve got to do it my way, d’you see? If you don’t, this cold-blooded devil will slip away for good and you’ll be left high and dry with an unsolved murder case on your hands. What about it?”
If he’s bluffing, thought Alan, he’s putting up a good one. But if he hasn’t got any evidence now, how the heck is he going to get it in forty-eight hours? He looked across at Avril. She had been sitting with her hands tightly clasped in her lap, staring down at the floor. Now, she raised her head and a look of panic flashed in her eyes.
Hatchard still hesitated. At length he nodded. “All right, Mr. Gale, I’ll take a chance on it.”
“You won’t regret it, Hatchard,” cried Gale, rubbing his hands. “I shan’t let you down.”
“Well, I don’t mind telling you, sir,” said the inspector, “that the Chief Constable’s talking about calling in Scotland Yard. I’d sooner finish this job off my own bat, if it can be done. Of course, when he hears about this fresh business of Mrs. Meriton, he may insist on doing so at once.”
“Don’t you worry about Chippy,” said Gale. “I’ll fix him.”
“Well, then, sir, it’s getting late, and I think we ought to go.”
“Ayling will be in bed,” said Ferrall, glancing at his watch. “It’s nearly twenty minutes past eleven.”
“Afraid I can’t help that, sir,” said Hatchard. “There won’t be any time tomorrow.” He picked up his hat. “My sergeant’ll drive us there. I left him outside in the car.”
“Come on, young feller,” Gale motioned to Alan, and strode over to the door.
Ferrall looked at Avril a little anxiously. “You’d better go to bed, dear,” he said. “We may be some time.”
She shook her head.
“I shouldn’t sleep,” she answered. “I’ll wait up for you.”
She followed them out to the front door. Looking back, as they drove away, Alan saw her standing, bathed in orange light, staring after them. He got the impression that she was crying.
*
There were no lights in Colonel Ayling’s house when the police car pulled up outside the gate, five minutes later. The moon was up, and under its brilliance the house stood out alone, white and gleaming, with a shingled roof that looked dully pink in the moonlight. It was a low-built house with a shaven lawn that ran down to a trimmed hedge of golden privet, and there were symmetrical flower beds. A neat garden, but with none of the loveliness of Mr. Veezey’s.
Their footsteps crunched on the gravel of the path as they walked up to the front door. It was not, thought Alan, going to be a particularly pleasant interview. As Hatchard had said, there was a lot of explaining to do, and that formidable old man was not going to be easy. Ferrall evidently thought so, too. His face was deeply troubled.
Hatchard found the bell-push at the side of the door. Faintly they heard the bell ring somewhere inside. Nothing happened. Hatchard tried again, keeping his finger on the push. Still nothing happened.
“Try the knocker,” suggested Simon Gale. “Here, let me do it.”
He stretched across Hatchard, grasped the knocker and beat a loud tattoo. It had the desired effect. Somewhere above them a window went up with a bang. The upper half of Colonel Ayling, in a magenta pyjama jacket, his bald head glistening in the moonlight, leaned perilously out, and demanded to know, angrily, who they were, and what the so-and-so they wanted.
“Very sorry to disturb you, sir,” called up Inspector Hatchard, “but—”
“It’s Hatchard, isn’t it?” demanded Ayling. “Who’s that you’ve got with you? Gale? What the devil do you want at this hour of the
night?”
“It’s about Fay,” said Simon Gale. “You’d better come down, Ayling. We can’t talk to you from here.”
“Fay?” There was a sudden sharp rise in Ayling’s voice. He ducked in under the frame of the window and closed it. At length they heard his muffled footsteps crossing the hall and the door opened.
“Come in,” he said. “Be as quiet as you can. I don’t want my wife disturbed.” He stood aside to let them pass him, closed the door, and led the way to a room on the right of the hall. It was large, old-fashioned drawing room, overcrowded with Victorian furniture and bric-a-brac. Colonel Ayling switched on the light in the centre chandelier, shut the door carefully, and stood facing them.
“Well?” he said. “What have you to tell me about my daughter? Have you found her?”
“Yes, sir—I’m afraid we have,” answered Hatchard.
Ayling’s jaw muscles tightened and his thin lips compressed. He said, in a voice that was rendered toneless in an effort to mask all emotion:
“Does that mean she’s dead?”
“Yes, sir,” Hatchard answered.
“How did it happen? Where?”
And Hatchard told him.
Ayling’s face was quite expressionless as he listened. Once, when Hatchard was explaining how Fay Meriton came to be in the mental home at Shilford he turned his head and looked at Ferrall, but it was only brief glance, and almost instantly his eyes went back Hatchard.
When the inspector came to the end of his concise recital, there was a moment of complete silence. Ayling stared straight before him. When he spoke, his words were prefaced by a sighing hiss, as though had been holding his breath. He said:
“There is no doubt that my daughter died from eating the chocolates?”
“No, sir,” replied Hatchard.
“She was, therefore, deliberately murdered.” The steady toneless voice might have been discussing the weather. “Have you any suspicion why and by whom?”
“Well, sir,” began the inspector, “we hope to be able to trace person who posted the parcel in Barnsford.”
“You won’t find the killer that way, and you know it!” broke in Gale impatiently. “Look here, Ayling—’
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