The Monday Theory

by Douglas Clark

“You did ask for my thoughts,” he said. “Have they given you something to think about?”

  “They have, indeed. It’s a pity you couldn’t tell us where the arsenic compound is, or what it is.”

  “You’re expecting me to do all the work?”

  “That’ll be the day,” said Reed.

  “You shut your trap, lad, and get us to where we’re going in one piece or I’ll start shoving fungus spores in your woodwork. I’ve often wondered why timber pests don’t affect blockheads, so I’ll be glad of a chance to experiment.”

  “All this because you had a look at a book! Heaven help us if you ever learn to read.”

  “Can it, son,” growled Green who then turned to Masters.

  “Upset your applecart, have I?”

  “No, Bill. What you have said has been most valuable.”

  “You mean you can use it?”

  “To lead up to something I was going to say.”

  “You said you didn’t know anything about mordants and fungi and so on.”

  “Quite right, I didn’t. What I have to say is far more mundane.”

  “I thought there’d be something a bit more down to earth,” said Reed. “Keep it simple, Chief. I’m no science buff.”

  “I shall try. Arsine gas is produced wherever a reducing agent, such as an active metal like iron, zinc or tin . . .”

  “Hold it. What’s this reducing agent business?”

  “Don’t let that baffle you. For the sake of simplicity, I’ll just say that it means removing oxygen from a compound or, in other words, the action or process of reducing one substance to another, usually simpler, form.”

  Green grunted. “So if I reduced water by taking the oxygen out I’d be left with hydrogen. Is that it?”

  “Correct. But in most reducing processes you need an agent. A sort of catalyst if you like. So wherever a reducing agent—in this case, metal—reacts with water or an acid in the presence of a compound of arsenic, you get arsine.”

  “I think I’m with you.”

  “Good. But the trouble again is, where does the compound of arsenic come from?”

  “Are you going to give us the answer?”

  “By asking a further question, yes.”

  “Here we go.”

  “It’s the obvious question, Bill. Where do we find a compound of arsenic? But even more so, where do we find a compound of arsenic in the presence of a reducing agent such as iron, zinc or tin?”

  “I suppose you’re going to tell us.”

  “I’d better, otherwise you’d accuse me of withholding information.”

  “Or even of clamming up on us,” said Reed. “Like you did about that eskimo yesterday.”

  “You mind your barrow, lad. And if you can’t push it, shove it.”

  “Rude.”

  “It was meant to be.”

  “What I’m going to tell you,” said Masters, “came from a few minutes spent in studying young Harry Finmore’s mineralogy text book. I hope when you’ve heard what I have to say you’ll agree that the fiver I gave him was money well-spent.”

  “We’re listening.”

  And they did listen, intently, while Masters spoke for a long ten minutes. When he came to the end of his report, there was a pause before anybody decided to comment. Then—

  “You haven’t got it sewn up, George,” said Green quietly, “but you’ve discovered where that blasted arsine came from.”

  “Could have come from.”

  “Did come from,” asserted Green. “They were killed by a gas that not one in a million people would be able to get hold of or know where to find. Now you’ve discovered a source right bang on the doorstep of Abbot’s Hall and you’re not willing to go nap. You’ve even suggested how the blasted stuff could be introduced into the bedroom. And for my money it was a practical, easy way.”

  “Thank you for the vote of confidence, Bill. At any rate we can proceed with my suggestion as a possibility that helps us forward. All we have to hope now is that the forensic boys confirm arsine as the cause of death.”

  “Is there any doubt about that, Chief?” asked Reed.

  “None that I know of. But the pathologist gave it as an instant and immediate diagnosis, based, I should think, on the odour of garlic in the bedroom.”

  “And the oedema round the eyes.”

  “True. But any arsenical compound would cause that. If they’d ingested arsenic . . .”

  “Don’t start hares, George,” said Green. “If they’d eaten the stuff it would have gone down into their guts, damaged the intestines and caused them to puke. We’ve been over this. What killed them did its dirty work in the lungs. In other words they inhaled it, and they could only do that with a gas.”

  Masters grinned. “You’re determined we are right, Bill.”

  “Feel it,” grunted Green. “I know I was raising all sorts of hurdles a short time ago, but having heard what you said, I’ve changed my mind.” As he finished speaking, the car turned on to the track leading to Abbot’s Hall. Green was swayed in his seat by the transfer from smooth tarmac to unmade-up surface. “Watch it, young Reed,” he grated. “This isn’t a whippet tank. Now we’ve heard from his nibs, we’ve all got something to live for.”

  Chapter Five

  Robson and Middleton were waiting for them.

  Robson approached Masters as the four Yard men left the car. Green said to Middleton: “Had a good day, lad?”

  “Not so’s you’d notice, sir. Everybody round here is blind.”

  “Don’t you believe it, son. If you haven’t found anybody who saw those two cavorting about, it tells you something.”

  “What?”

  “That they weren’t cavorting about.”

  Middleton wasn’t impressed with this thought, and said so.

  “You’re wrong, lad. It’s important. If those two died Tuesday night—having come down on Monday—they would have had more time in which to be seen. But they weren’t seen. That supports the Monday theory.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do, lad, I do. Now then, have you examined that car in the garage?”

  “Not examined it exactly. I’ve looked at it.”

  “Right. You and Sergeant Berger examine it closely. And the gateposts. We want to know if it had a bump on the way in. Berger will tell you why as you have a look.”

  “I’ll go round the house looking for bottles,” said Reed.

  “Don’t forget the bin,” warned Green. “And I don’t suppose the dust cart comes out here, so look about for a rubbish sack or a dump.”

  Green moved across to join Masters and Robson. It was still light, the westering sun glowing red above the horizon.

  “I’ve set the lads on,” said Green. “They might as well start to earn their keep.”

  Robson said: “Mr Masters has been telling me a few things.”

  Green grinned. “Little points you never thought he’d come up with, were they?”

  Robson looked slightly uncomfortable. “I can’t say that, seeing I didn’t know anything about them, but . . . well, yes, I don’t reckon Sergeant Middleton and I would have been able to . . .”

  “Forget it,” said Masters. “Now about the drink.”

  “What drink?” demanded Robson.

  “Didn’t he get as far as telling you they must have been kalied when they went to bed?”

  “No. Just about the source of the arsine.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you how we know.” Green gave Robson the gist of the matter and ended by saying the object now was to find the evidence.

  “There’s nothing of that sort,” said Robson. “Nothing at all except a nearly empty gin bottle and some white wine, unopened.”

  “No empty bottles of any sort?”

  “No.”

  “Nor dirty glasses?”

  “No.”

  “Odd,” murmured Masters.

  Robson looked from one to the other of the Yard men. His voice sounded sceptical as he said: “Y
ou couldn’t have made a mistake about the source of the arsine as well as about the drink, by any chance?”

  Masters said mildly: “Shall we wait to see what the forensic report tells us before we get into any arguments about whether we’re right or wrong?”

  “I’m more than willing to do that,” said Robson sourly.

  “Good. Now, I’d like to look round the house while there’s still light enough. Bill, would you take the upstairs? I’m not expecting you to find much up there, so you can make it very cursory. I shall be downstairs.”

  “What about me?” demanded Robson.

  “Please join me,” said Masters. “We’ll look round downstairs.”

  “There’s nothing,” declared Robson.

  “You’ve looked? But of course you have. However . . .”

  Green left them.

  “If I knew what you were looking for . . .” began Robson.

  “Trays,” said Masters.

  “Trays?” Robson sounded as if he thought Masters had taken leave of his senses. All the local man’s worst fears seemed to be confirmed.

  There was no tray in the sitting room. The sideboard in the dining room carried a silver tray with a fretted gallery. On it were a water jug, an empty sherry decanter and two heavy tumblers. Masters removed the ground-glass stopper and sniffed the decanter. “There’s been no alcohol in this recently. In fact, I would say it was washed some time ago and not been used since.”

  “I told you what alcohol there is in the house. A few tots of gin and several bottles of white wine in a rack in the kitchen.”

  “Ah, yes! The kitchen! We’ll have a look round there.”

  It was stone flagged, rough and uneven, cold to the feet, but—in Masters’ eyes—pleasant to the eyes. Squarish in shape, it had a scrubbed wooden-topped table in the centre of the floor. All the rest of the equipment was modern. Stainless steel sink with two draining boards; a whole run of cupboards with a melamine working top made to resemble marble; a tiled recess where the old fire had once been, now occupied by a small, modern anthracite stove, presumably for heating water; an electric cooker, presumably powered by the generator; and finally a refrigerator.

  “Clean,” grunted Robson. “As I told you.” He pulled open a couple of drawers. “All the cooking stuff in here—cutlery and so on, and tea towels etcetera here. The cupboards have all the bits and pieces: tinned foods, salt drum, pepper and what not.”

  Masters nodded. Reared against the wall was a chopping board, a cheese board, and a small white-metal tray. He examined the last closely.

  “Any good?”

  Masters didn’t reply. He stood near the table looking about him, then he went to the cupboards, opening each in turn until he came to the one containing the ovenware dishes. He considered these for a moment or two.

  “There seem to be complete sets here,” he murmured. “And there doesn’t appear to be any gap from which dishes have gone missing.” As he straightened up, Robson asked: “You’re looking for something that should be here, but isn’t? Is that it?”

  Masters nodded.

  “Trays, you said.”

  “Receptacles, like trays, with a large surface area, but not necessarily a great deal of depth. Not deep casseroles for instance, but their shallow lids would do, if they were big enough. But all the lids are there.” Masters again looked about him and then moved to the cooker. He squatted to undo the oven door. His grunt of satisfaction brought Robson to squat beside him.

  “Found something?”

  “A space where something should be.”

  “What?”

  “Think of Mrs Robson’s oven—I take it there is a Mrs Robson?”

  “There is.”

  “Excellent. What would you see if you opened her oven door?”

  “A dripping tin—two actually. One for roasting something big.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. Baking trays. And somewhere there’d be a big grill pan.” Robson looked at Masters. “Nothing at all here. But she must have used the oven. You can see by all the burnt-on splash marks and grease . . . wait a minute, though. She could have used all that Pyrex we saw.”

  Masters closed the oven door. “She could have used that a lot, I agree.” He straightened up. “But all ovens are sold with a complement of roasting tins and a grill pan of the correct size. They last a long time. This oven seems fairly new, so the bits and pieces couldn’t have worn out by now. And I don’t think any woman would throw them away. Besides, I should imagine that Mrs Carvell was the type to rely heavily on the grill pan, and that isn’t here.”

  “I’ll look round to see they’re not hidden under the sink or in that old wall cupboard just inside the back door.”

  “Please do. And, Mr Robson . . .”

  “Something else?”

  “Just a word of advice. Don’t be too sceptical of other people’s ideas. Or at any rate, try not to show it. Here is an illustration of why you shouldn’t do so. I surmised, in London, that these trays, or something like them, would be missing. Yet you have examined the house and not noted their absence as being out of the ordinary.”

  “You could still be on the wrong track.”

  “Admittedly, but at least I am testing my theory, and the absence of the trays fits. Have you any theory you can test in a similar way?”

  “No. And I’ll be honest, sir. I’ve been thinking you’re floundering.”

  Masters grinned. “You’re right. But it would be more diplomatic to suggest I am casting about for leads. But you will be able to decide for yourself whether or not I have been successful after we have seen the forensic report.”

  Robson shrugged and set about trying to locate the missing oven trays.

  Green and Reed came into the kitchen together.

  “Any luck?” asked Green.

  Masters told him of the possibility that the oven trays were missing and that Robson was conducting a search to ascertain if they were stored elsewhere.

  “They’d be in the oven,” said Green dogmatically. “My missus always puts them in upside down because if they’re put in right way up there’s a possibility that a drop of moisture will gather in the bottoms and rust the tins.”

  “My old mum has a big one for a turkey,” said Reed. “It’s mottled grey. Some sort of enamel, I suppose. About an inch deep. It’s always kept in the oven because she uses it for these new chips we get these days. She spreads them out on it to heat up.”

  Masters acknowledged this support for his supposition and asked Reed if he had anything to report.

  “Not a sausage, Chief. I’m too old a hand to say you’re wrong, but there is no sign of any drinking having taken place here. Not even an empty tonic bottle. Sergeant Berger may have found something outside, of course . . .”

  “Bill?”

  “Something odd, George.”

  “What?”

  “Did you see the corner wine cabinet in the dining room?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t open it. Ought I to have done so?”

  “Not you Robson. All the usual sets of glasses are in there, in half dozens. You know the sort of thing—and all the sets are complete. Even six shallow champagne bowls.”

  “Thanks, Bill. Champagne, you said?”

  “And general purpose stemmed goblets.”

  “It helps, Bill. But why are they all in there and not on the draining board?”

  Green grinned. “Another bit for you, George.”

  “What’s that?”

  “There’s a new pack of two dozen tonics under the stairs. One of those that has a cardboard tray and a sheet of plastic over the top.”

  “I know the sort.”

  “When I said new, I meant it looks new. No dust on it or anything like that, but the plastic top has been torn and three bottles are missing.”

  “Go on. You’ve got something else, obviously.”

  “There’s the price sticker still there on the plastic. It’s got the shop name on it.”

&
nbsp; “Local?”

  “I reckon so. We should be able to trace it and discover when it was bought.”

  “Thanks, Bill.” Masters turned as Robson came back. “Any finds?”

  “No sign of anything like baking trays.”

  “Thank you. Now, just one more thing. Has the gin bottle you found got a price label on it by any chance?”

  “I honestly can’t remember. But I’ll look.”

  “Please do.”

  As Robson left to do his checking, Berger and Middleton came into the kitchen. “There’s a rubbish sack in a bin just outside, Chief. We turned it out. There’s some torn-up paper, three or four empty tins—lobster bisque, one of those oval ham tins, and a potato can—some remnants of a lettuce wrapped up in paper and not much else. No bottles at all.”

  “Thank you.” Masters looked at Green. “Did you see any newspapers, Bill?”

  Green stared back. “Dated a week last Monday, you mean?”

  Masters nodded.

  “No, I didn’t. But it doesn’t signify. They could have used it for lighting the fire, unless . . .”

  “I know,” said Berger. “I’ve got to unroll those lettuce leaves again and check the date on the paper.”

  “And check the tins for price labels, please.”

  Robson came back. “The gin was bought locally,” he said. “I know the shop.”

  “And the tonic for a bet,” added Green. “A full tray of it. The shopkeeper should remember the sale. Get your lad to check.”

  “And the groceries Berger mentioned,” added Masters. “They could have been bought at the same time.”

  Green lit a crumpled Kensitas without offering the packet round. Masters stood in thought. Reed and Robson chatted quietly. They all looked round as Berger returned with three empty tins and the parcel of vegetable waste half unwrapped. “It’s the Monday edition, Chief,” said Berger quietly.

  “Proving nothing,” asserted Robson. “They could have had a yesterday’s paper in the car if they arrived on Tuesday. We’ve got papers in my house that are months old.”

  “Quite right,” said Masters. “It proves nothing. Neither does it disprove anything, as it would have done had it been the Tuesday paper.”

  “Prove or disprove,” snorted Green, “is neither here nor there. And we all know it. That paper is a hell of a pointer.”