But dog does not eat dog; Dr. Saunders was very considerate to his fellow-practitioner. It was well known to all local doctors that Parkes was long past his work, but why humiliate the poor man? What was done couldn’t be undone, and there was the prestige of the medical profession to be considered. Parkes was probably too old to do much more harm anyway.
Dr. Parkes gave a brief history of the case.
“When you were first called in, were there any symptoms out of the ordinary?”
“No, no; not at all.”
“Was the boy subject to nervous indigestion?”
“Yes, very subject, very subject indeed; I was called in for that reason more often than any other. In fact, he seemed much more a nervous child than an ailing child.”
Dr. Parkes was recovering a little of his poise. He stated that he had at first actually only prescribed bicarbonate and a common indigestion mixture. This he had done because the boy’s condition had always yielded to those remedies before. He had made inquiries and found that some mutton which the child and his aunt had had at lunch was thought to be tainted. The aunt also had been sick. There was no symptom of any kind which would have led to any other diagnosis than his own.
The coroner made no comment, and Dr. Parkes suddenly drooped in the witness box again. Perhaps his little spurt of self-assertion had been unwise; after all the boy was dead, and he was by no means sure even yet that it was not his fault. But how could any one have anticipated anything so extraordinary?
He more subduedly continued his account, stressing particularly the bleeding on the second day and the weakened pulse. The boy had a weak chest (the coroner raised his eyebrows at this colloquial phrase) and no doubt that had impaired his resistance. He offered the opinion, which did not seem to be going to be volunteered from any other quarter, that nothing more could have been done for him.
Dr. Herrington had but little to add. He had been called in very late to the case. The case was a very perplexing one. The suspect food had been thrown away, but the vomit had been kept. He repeated some of Dr. Parkes’s remarks in more technical terms.
The foreman of the jury began to nod. Time passed and suddenly he found himself letting out an enormous yawn. He pulled himself together just too late; the eye of the coroner was fixed upon him, and he turned scarlet with shame. He endeavoured to fix his attention upon the evidence now being given, which was that of Dr. Lammas, Acting Pathologist to the County. He had some excuse for his lassitude, for Dr. Lammas had quite unnecessarily repeated the effect of the evidence given already by Dr. Parkes, on the excuse of stating the information that he had been given before commencing his investigation.
The coroner was saying, “You then conducted a post-mortem of certain organs from the body of the deceased?”
“I did.”
“Perhaps you will tell the jury in non-technical language what you discovered.”
“Using non-technical language,” said Dr. Lammas blandly, “I may say I found nothing at all.” He seemed about to stop there, and the coroner made a disapproving noise.
“I mean by that that I found nothing which the symptoms detailed to me by Dr. Parkes did not lead me to expect. There was inflammation, as might be expected. There were clear signs of extensive internal haemorrhage. But there was no trace of any substance which might have caused this condition. There was evidence of bronchial pneumonia in an early stage. It would not have caused the symptoms described.
“I therefore proceeded, with the assistance of Mr. Herbert Wilkins, the Public Analyst for the County, who is in court, to an analysis of the vomit which had been preserved. Here I found, as I had begun to expect, clear traces of poison.”
At this word, there was a sharp stir in court, and even the foreman sat up.
“Of what poison, Dr. Lammas?” said the coroner.
“Of hederin.”
“What?” said the foreman of the jury, somewhat inelegantly.
“Hederin,” said Dr. Lammas coldly. “Its formula is C64 H104 O19. It is a glucoside, not an alkaloid as you might think. Perhaps it might assist you if I were to describe this as a case of ivy poisoning.”
The foreman was sharply taken aback. There was a rustle in court and some whispering. One juror distinctly said “Coo!” The coroner frowned and continued:
“Is this form of poisoning common, Dr. Lammas?”
“It is exceedingly rare. Serious prior cases hardly seem to exist, but there are examples of mild poisoning. The substance has a marked purgative and emetic effect, and produces a rash and itching, the latter of which the deceased suffered from, though the first is not recorded. It produces extensive haemorrhage.”
“You found sufficient to indicate that hederin glucoside was the cause of death?”
“I did.”
The foreman had now recovered, and was anxious to show his alertness.
“Can the doctor explain, if this was what killed the poor child, how it is there was no trace of it in the body?”
“No doubt the vomiting is a sufficient explanation of that.” Dr. Lammas was curt.
“’ow—how could he have got it?”
“That is not for me to say.”
“I think the police have some further evidence on that point,” said the coroner hastily, and dismissed Dr. Lammas before the foreman could intervene again.
Sergeant William Arthur Knowles deposed that he had inspected the house where deceased had lived. He had been instructed to pay special attention to any ivy that might be there. He found the ivy at the back of the house very overgrown and much of it very loose. There was ivy pollen all over the place in a manner of speaking. There was an especial lot of it on the paving immediately outside the dining-room.
“Did you form any idea of any way by which the boy could have consumed the ivy pollen?”
“Very hard to say, sir. It couldn’t have blown in, and it’s hardly likely he would deliberately have eaten enough to poison him. I understand that would be quite a noticeable amount. But without going so far as to make a definite statement, I can say I was informed that both he and Mrs. van Beer, his aunt, were taken ill after lunch, Mrs. van Beer fortunately recovering. Now I have ascertained that for lunch they partook of a green salad from the garden. It has occurred to me that perhaps this salad may have had ivy dust on it, and—”
A loud and very angry voice interrupted him from the body of the hall.
“That’s a lie, Mr. Knowles; how dare you say such things about me?”
“Who is that woman?” said the coroner, rising in wrath.
An angry housekeeper stood up. “My name’s Elizabeth Rodd, and I demand to be heard.”
“You shall be heard, madam. Till then be silent, or you will be turned out of court. Proceed, Sergeant.”
The sergeant indicated that he had no more to say. The coroner overlooked what sounded like the word “Impudence!” from Mrs. Rodd and summoned her to come forward.
She controlled herself with difficulty.
“I never heard such a thing,” she said in reply to the coroner’s request to give her evidence. “My kitchen’s spotless. Never in my life have I served a salad dirty. Let alone that the lettuce comes from the other end of the garden, where there’s not a trace of ivy. I washed that salad carefully, every leaf of it. And I cut it up and I made the dressing; as carefully as I always have done. And there’s those can bear me out. Ada! Ada! Now speak up.” She jabbed her finger at the kitchenmaid who was sitting next to her vacant chair.
“Do I understand that you wish this young woman to give evidence?” said the coroner, trying to catch up with her.
“Did you or did you not see me wash that salad?” said Mrs. Rodd to her young assistant, who had stood up in the body of the court.
“Indeed, you did so, ’m; very carefully, and showed me how to do it and how to make a dressing. Not a doubt, ’m.”<
br />
Mrs. Rodd breathed through her nose and glared at the sergeant, who looked deprecating.
The coroner in his summing up said that it was uncertain how the boy had absorbed the hederin poison, but that need not affect the verdict. It was a question that might remain for ever unsolved. Boys did the oddest things. A few further generalities, and he closed.
The jury returned a verdict of “accidental death”.
Two days later Edward Gillingham read the report in the local Argus and Courier. He folded the paper up and put it down disconsolately. A highly important and personal problem faced him.
9
If he said nothing whatever, there might be a miscarriage of justice. There might be; it was not certain.
But if he spoke, it was very certain that things would be uncomfortable for him. In the first place, he would have to expose himself as a Nosey Parker. In the second, he would have in effect to bring against someone the gravest possible accusation that can be made. For unless his item of information meant a charge of murder, it meant nothing at all. And on top of all that, it was quite possible that after having humiliated himself and having made this sensational accusation, he would be told there was nothing whatever to it.
Maybe there was nothing to it.
But once he had decided to believe that, the item of information would not stay quiet in his mind. It was an odd thing. No doubt of it. And the more he tried to push it aside, the more its oddness worried him. In the end, he decided to do what any normal man does in a crisis—ask a woman.
Ellen listened to him carefully, her rather large fair face looking affectionately maternal, and her blue eyes steadily fixed on him. Before he had finished he knew what he would do, and what she would say. But he went on:
“…so, while I was waiting for Dr. Parkes to come down—because he didn’t think Philip was ill at all, and I might be going to give him lessons—I took up some of the books, which didn’t seem to be much read anyway, and looked inside them. And in one of them I found a big newspaper cutting.” He paused.
Ellen said, to start him off again, “Had it been there long?”
“Goodness, how do I know? Yes, I do, though. What an odd thing to ask. It must have been there some time, because its folds had made a mark on the pages on each side. Still I don’t see what that means. Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know. But what was it, anyway?”
“Well, it’s not easy to explain what it means. I want you to look at this report in this week’s paper again. Tell me what strikes you most about it. About the manner of Philip’s death, I mean.”
“I don’t quite know what you mean.” Ellen frowned in an effort to help. “Let me see. Well, he was killed by a vegetable poison that could be picked up in the garden. No one has any idea how he got it, though; and it seems odd that it should be an accident. But it must be an accident, because—”
“Because what?”
“Why, because nobody knew that this stuff could be poisonous. So, no one could have done it on purpose. Even the doctors didn’t know, and the famous specialist said there were practically no instances of it.”
“That’s the trouble. Somebody did know, and somebody had taken the trouble to cut out the information, giving an idea of quantities and the time of year and everything. I think this cutting must be one of the very few instances that the doctor spoke of. It came from a local East Essex paper of a year ago—not the sort of thing that you expect to find bought or kept by accident. It was an account of an inquest on a little girl of eleven. And she died of poisoning from ivy dust.
“The whole story was there, and it was just like poor Philip’s. All the symptoms, just the same. Only in this case it was known how the child got hold of it, and it was a real accident.”
“Oh.” Ellen looked a little white but said nothing more.
Edward went on:
“So you see, somebody knew exactly what was happening. And somebody didn’t say a word. Just let old Parkes bumble along. And, you see, nobody knows how Philip could have eaten the stuff by accident. It doesn’t seem easy. The dining-room table’s far too far away for it to have blown in, or anything like that. But somebody could have given it him. And somebody had kept that cutting for a very long time, for some purpose or other.”
“Why should any one have wanted to kill poor Philip?”
“I don’t know.” Edward spread his hands out. “I believe there’s money in the family.”
Ellen looked very depressed.
“How beastly for you,” she said. “But of course you’ll have to tell.” She hesitated a moment, and observing that he looked very disconsolate, added: “Would you like me to come with you?”
He would have, very much; but the suggestion was too much for his dignity. “No, indeed,” he said. “Gracious me, I don’t want my hand held. But I wonder what I should do? I can’t just stop a copper and say ‘Oy!’ Ought I to go into Exeter and find the lord lieutenant or somebody?”
“Not the lord lieutenant, fathead; the chief constable. I’d go to the nearest town, which is Wrackhampton, and find the chief there. Or else there’s Sergeant Knowles…He was at the inquest. Why not go and see him?”
So it was decided. But Sergeant Knowles heard only a few sentences before deciding that someone higher up than he must deal with it. He took Edward Gillingham with him to see the Chief Constable in Wrackhampton, Mr. Cooper Wills, who was not a retired military man, did not have a red face and brusque manners, and was not a fool. He had entered the police force thirty-five years before, intending to make it his profession; he had risen steadily and been appointed to his present position by a committee which was influenced by two ideas which it did not know were obsolete. It thought that a trained policeman should direct a police force, and that able public servants should be encouraged by promotion within the service. Mr. Cooper Wills had with him Inspector Holly, who was his probable successor; they both received Gillingham with cordiality. They did not hint at any surprise at his inquisitiveness and congratulated him on his public spirit. Within thirty seconds he was completely at his ease.
They asked him only one question worth noting:
“Do you think you could identify the book in which you saw that cutting, Mr. Gillingham?”
“I think I could. I’m not absolutely sure. It was a large blue book with a title like Rambles in Old World Devonshire; and I know what part of the shelves it was on. If I were to go there again I could probably find it.”
“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful, Mr. Gillingham. I’ll have to consider this very carefully. I may have to get in touch with you again, but I know where to find you.”
Mr. Cooper Wills held out his hand.
10
“Well?” said Mr. Cooper Wills, looking at his inspector. “Do we believe the young man?”
The inspector, iron-grey-haired and over fifty, crossed long thin legs and whistled noiselessly.
“I think so, sir. No reason for him to make up such a peculiar story. And very few people know about that case. I didn’t till Dr. Lammas told me of it. I’m afraid he saw that cutting all right. He was quite willing to point out to us where it was, too. I expect it’s there. Or was.”
“Then, if so, what does it mean? Just a coincidence?”
“Not the sort of coincidence I like, sir.”
“No. But we’ve got a long way to go. We’ve got first to check up on his story. It’s quite easy for the sergeant to go there and make some inquiries, and take an opportunity to look for it. The death is still rather mysterious, by any account, and there would be nothing out of the way in our telling Mrs. van Beer that we felt we ought to look into it further. But it’s not so easy for him to take Gillingham along. Anyhow, we’ll have to arrange something. But suppose we do, and suppose Sergeant Knowles finds it there? Where are we then?”
The inspector shook his head. �
��Not much farther on,” he said.
Mr. Cooper Wills pursued the matter. “We’re faced with the same difficulty as before. We have no idea whatever of how the poison can have been administered, first of all. The child seems to have eaten nothing except at lunch. Bad meat doesn’t give you hederin poisoning, and the salad was all right. So, even if we prove someone knew ivy dust would poison the child; and that someone kept that information in a handy form, I don’t know what we can do about it.”
Sergeant Knowles made a noise, and indicated a desire to be heard.
“Speak up, Knowles: we can do with help if you’ve got any.”
“Well, sir. I’ve been thinking that isn’t quite so. There was time and opportunity for doctoring the salad. It was a cold lunch, and when I was examining Mrs. Rodd—the housekeeper, that is—in the course of my duties I elicited from her the information that the lunch had been laid and waiting a full half-hour before they sat down to it. Any one could have interfered with it. Now Ada, the skivvy, said to a young lady that I know” (the sergeant looked austerely impersonal) “after the inquest that Mrs. Rodd spoke out of turn in the witness box, and that she—Ada, I mean—thought the dressing was none too clean when she came to throw it away. But it was no good contradicting Mrs. Rodd when she was in one of her moods; better to say what she wanted you to quickly and be done with it. Also, she added that she’d seen Mrs. Rodd wash it, so maybe she was mistaken.”
“Not a very strong witness. But I think there’s something there. Did Ada say what the salad dressing was like?”
“Gritty like, she said. As if there was dirt in it.”
“Dirt. In fact, almost certainly ivy dust.”
“If there was ivy dust in it, it was put there,” said Inspector Holly. “Mrs. Rodd made it clear that it couldn’t have come accidentally on the lettuces. They grow in a different part of the garden. Besides, she was seen to wash them.”
“Ye-es,” said the chief constable. “It looks like something. Then, if any one did it, who was it? Who had a motive? Is fecit cui prodest.”
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