- has he murdered his wife or hasn't he? - perhaps the case isn't very black against him. Look into his past - if you find that he's had several wives - and that they've all died shall we say - rather curiously? - then you know! I'm not speaking legally, you understand. I'm speaking of moral certainty. Once you know, you can go ahead looking for evidence."
"Well?"
"I'm coming to the point. That's all right if there is a past to look into. But suppose you catch your murderer at his or her first crime? Then that test will be one from which you get no reaction. But suppose the prisoner is acquitted - starting life under another name. Will or will not the murderer repeat the crime?"
"That's a horrible idea!"
"Do you still say it's none of our business?"
"Yes, I do. You've no reason to think that Mrs Merrowdene is anything but a perfectly innocent woman." The ex-inspector was silent for a moment. Then he said slowly: "I told you that we looked into her past and found nothing. That's not quite true. There was a stepfather. As a girl of eighteen she had a fancy for some young man - and her stepfather exerted his authority to keep them apart. She and her stepfather went for a walk along a rather dangerous part of the cliff. There was an accident - the stepfather went too near the edge - it gave way, and he went over and was killed."
"You don't think - "
"It was an accident. Accident! Anthony's overdose of arsenic was an accident. She'd never have been tried if it hadn't transpired that there was another man - he sheered off, by the way. Looked as though he weren't satisfied even if the jury were. I tell you, Haydock, where that woman is concerned I'm afraid of another - accident!"
The old captain shrugged his shoulders.
"It's been nine years since that affair. Why should there be another 'accident', as you call it, now?"
"I didn't say now. I said some day or other. If the necessary motive arose." Captain Haydock shrugged his shoulders.
"Well, I don't know how you're going to guard against that."
"Neither do I," said Evans ruefully.
"I should leave well alone," said Captain Haydock. "No good ever came of butting into other people's affairs."
But that advice was not palatable to the ex-inspector. He was a man of patience but determination. Taking leave of his friend, he sauntered down to the village, revolving in his mind the possibilities of some kind of successful action.
Turning into the post office to buy some stamps, he ran into the object of his solicitude, George Merrowdene. The ex-chemistry professor was a small dreamy-looking man, gentle and kindly in manner, and usually completely absent-minded. He recognised the other and greeted him amicably, stooping to recover the letters that the impact had caused him to drop on the ground. Evans stooped also and, more rapid in his movements than the other, secured them first, handing them back to their owner with an apology.
He glanced down at them in doing so, and the address on the topmost suddenly awakened all his suspicions anew. It bore the name of a well-known insurance firm.
Instantly his mind was made up. The guileless George Merrowdene hardly realised how it came about that he and the ex-inspector were strolling down the village together, and still less could he have said how it came about that the conversation should come round to the subject of life insurance. Evans had no difficulty in attaining his object. Merrowdene of his own accord volunteered the information that he had just insured his life for his wife's benefit, and asked Evans's opinion of the company in question.
"I made some rather unwise investments," he explained. "As a result my income has diminished. If anything were to happen to me, my wife would be left very badly off. This insurance will put things right."
"She didn't object to the idea?" inquired Evans casually. "Some ladies do, you know. Feel it's unlucky - that sort of thing."
"Oh, Margaret is very practical," said Merrowdene, smiling. "Not at all superstitious. In fact, I believe it was her idea originally. She didn't like my being so worried."
Evans had got the information he wanted. He left the other shortly afterwards, and his lips were set in a grim line. The late Mr Anthony had insured his life in his wife's favour a few weeks before his death. Accustomed to rely on his instincts, he was perfectly sure in his own mind. But how to act was another matter. He wanted, not to arrest a criminal red-handed, but to prevent a crime being committed, and that was a very different and a very much more difficult thing.
All day he was very thoughtful. There was a Primrose League Fete that afternoon held in the grounds of the local squire, and he went to it, indulging in the penny dip, guessing the weight of a pig, and shying at coconuts all with the same look of abstracted concentration on his face. He even indulged in half a crown's worth of Zara, the Crystal Gazer, smiling a little to himself as he did so, remembering his own activities against fortune-tellers in his official days.
He did not pay very much heed to her singsong droning voice - till the end of a sentence held his attention.
"...And you will very shortly - very shortly indeed - be engaged on a matter of life or death... Life or death to one person."
"Eh - what's that?" he asked abruptly.
"A decision - you have a decision to make. You must be very careful - very, very careful... If you were to make a mistake - the smallest mistake - "
"Yes?"
The fortune-teller shivered. Inspector Evans knew it was all nonsense, but he was nevertheless impressed.
"I warn you - you must not make a mistake. If you do, I see the result clearly - a death..." Odd, damned odd. A death. Fancy her lighting upon that!
"If I make a mistake a death will result? Is that it?"
"Yes."
"In that case," said Evans, rising to his feet and handing over half a crown, "I mustn't make a mistake, eh?"
He spoke lightly enough, but as he went out of the tent, his jaw set determinedly. Easy to say - not so easy to be sure of doing. He mustn't make a slip. A life, a valuable human life depended on it. And there was no one to help him. He looked across at the figure of his friend Haydock in the distance. No help there. "Leave things alone," was Haydock's motto. And that wouldn't do here. Haydock was talking to a woman. She moved away from him and came towards Evans and the inspector recognised her. It was Mrs Merrowdene. On an impulse he put himself deliberately in her path. Mrs Merrowdene was rather a fine-looking woman. She had a broad serene brow, very beautiful brown eyes, and a placid expression. She had the look of an Italian madonna which she heightened by parting her hair in the middle and looping it over her ears. She had a deep rather sleepy voice. She smiled up at Evans, a contented welcoming smile.
"I thought it was you, Mrs Anthony - I mean Mrs Merrowdene," he said glibly. He made the slip deliberately, watching her without seeming to do so. He saw her eyes widen, heard the quick intake of her breath. But her eyes did not falter. She gazed at him steadily and proudly.
"I was looking for my husband," she said quietly. "Have you seen him anywhere about?"
"He was over in that direction when I last saw him."
They went side by side in the direction indicated, chatting quietly and pleasantly. The inspector felt his admiration mounting. What a woman! What self-command. What wonderful poise. A remarkable woman - and a very dangerous one. He felt sure - a very dangerous one.
He still felt very uneasy, though he was satisfied with his initial step. He had let her know that he recognised her. That would put her on her guard. She would not dare attempt anything rash. There was the question of Merrowdene. If he could be warned...
They found the little man absently contemplating a china doll which had fallen to his share in the penny dip. His wife suggested going home and he agreed eagerly.
Mrs Merrowdene turned to the inspector: "Won't you come back with us and have a quiet cup of tea, Mr Evans?"
Was there a faint note of challenge in her voice? He thought there was.
"Thank you, Mrs Merrowdene. I should like to very much."
Th
ey walked there, talking together of pleasant ordinary things. The sun shone, a breeze blew gently, everything around them was pleasant and ordinary.
Their maid was out at the fête, Mrs Merrowdene explained, when they arrived at the charming old-world cottage. She went into her room to remove her hat, returning to set out tea and boil the kettle on a little silver lamp. From a shelf near the fireplace she took three small bowls and saucers.
"We have some very special Chinese tea," she explained. "And we always drink it in the Chinese manner - out of bowls, not cups."
She broke off, peered into a cup and exchanged it for another with an exclamation of annoyance.
"George - it's too bad of you. You've been taking these bowls again."
"I'm sorry, dear," said the professor apologetically. "They're such a convenient size. The ones I ordered haven't come."
"One of these days you'll poison us all," said his wife with a half-laugh. "Mary finds them in the laboratory and brings them back here, and never troubles to wash them out unless they've anything very noticeable in them. Why, you were using one of them for potassium cyanide the other day. Really, George, it's frightfully dangerous."
Merrowdene looked a little irritated.
"Mary's no business to remove things from the laboratory. She's not to touch anything there."
"But we often leave our teacups there after tea. How is she to know? Be reasonable, dear." The professor went into his laboratory, murmuring to himself, and with a smile Mrs Merrowdene poured boiling water on the tea and blew out the flame of the little silver lamp. Evans was puzzled. Yet a glimmering of light penetrated to him. For some reason or other, Mrs Merrowdene was showing her hand. Was this to be the "accident'? Was she speaking of all this so as deliberately to prepare her alibi beforehand? So that when, one day, the "accident' happened, he would be forced to give evidence in her favour? Stupid of her, if so, because before that - Suddenly he drew in his breath. She had poured the tea into the three bowls. One she set before him, one before herself, the other she placed on a little table by the fire near the chair her husband usually sat in, and it was as she placed this last one on the table that a little strange smile curved round her lips. It was the smile that did it.
He knew!
A remarkable woman - a dangerous woman. No waiting - no preparation. This afternoon - this very afternoon - with him here as witness. The boldness of it took his breath away. It was clever - it was damnably clever. He would be able to prove nothing. She counted on his not suspecting - simply because it was "so soon'. A woman of lightning rapidity of thought and action. He drew a deep breath and leaned forward.
"Mrs Merrowdene, I'm a man of queer whims. Will you be very kind and indulge me in one of them?" She looked inquiring but unsuspicious.
He rose, took the bowl from in front of her and crossed to the little table where he substituted it for the other. This other he brought back and placed in front of her.
"I want to see you drink this."
Her eyes met his. They were steady, unfathomable. The colour slowly drained from her face. She stretched out her hand, raised the cup. He held his breath. Supposing all along he had made a mistake. She raised it to her lips - at the last moment, with a shudder, she leant forward and quickly poured it into a pot containing a fern. Then she sat back and gazed at him defiantly.
He drew a long sigh of relief, and sat down again.
"Well?" she said.
Her voice had altered. It was slightly mocking-defiant.
He answered her soberly and quietly: "You are a very clever woman, Mrs Merrowdene. I think you understand me. There must be no-repetition. You know what I mean?"
"I know what you mean."
Her voice was even, devoid of expression. He nodded his head, satisfied. She was a clever woman, and she didn't want to be hanged.
"To your long life and to that of your husband," he said significantly, and raised his tea to his lips. Then his face changed. It contorted horribly... he tried to rise - to cry out... His body stiffened - his face went purple. He fell back sprawling over the chair - his limbs convulsed. Mrs Merrowdene leaned forward, watching him. A little smile crossed her lips. She spoke to him - very softly and gently...
"You made a mistake, Mr Evans. You thought I wanted to kill George... How stupid of you - how very stupid."
She sat there a minute longer looking at the dead man, the third man who had threatened to cross her path and separate her from the man she loved.
Her smile broadened. She looked more than ever like a madonna. Then she raised her voice and called:
"George, George!... Oh, do come here! I'm afraid there's been the most dreadful accident... Poor Mr Evans..."
Jane in Search of a Job
Jane Cleveland rustled the pages of the Daily Leader and sighed - a deep sigh that came from the innermost recesses of her being. She looked with distaste at the marble-topped table, the poached egg on toast which reposed on it, and the small pot of tea. Not because she was not hungry. That was far from being the case. Jane was extremely hungry. At that moment she felt like consuming a pound and a half of well-cooked beefsteak, with chip potatoes, and possibly French beans. The whole washed down with some more exciting vintage than tea.
But young women whose exchequers are in a parlous condition cannot be choosers. Jane was lucky to be able to order a poached egg and a pot of tea. It seemed unlikely that she would be able to do so tomorrow. That is unless -
She turned once more to the advertisement columns of the Daily Leader. To put it plainly, Jane was out of a job, and the position was becoming acute. Already the genteel lady who presided over the shabby boarding house was looking askance at this particular young woman.
"And yet," said Jane to herself, throwing up her chin indignantly, which was a habit of hers, "and yet I'm intelligent and good-looking and well-educated. What more does anyone want?" According to the Daily Leader, they seemed to want shorthand typists of vast experience, managers for business houses with a little capital to invest, ladies to share in the profits of poultry fanning (here again a little capital was required), and innumerable cooks, housemaids and parlourmaids - particularly parlourmaids.
"I wouldn't mind being a parlourmaid," said Jane to herself. "But there again, no one would take me without experience. I could go somewhere, I dare say, as a Willing Young Girl - but they don't pay willing young girls anything to speak of."
She sighed again, propped the paper up in front of her, and attacked the poached egg with all the vigour of healthy youth.
When the last mouthful had been despatched, she turned the paper and studied the Agony and Personal column while she drank her tea. The Agony column was always the last hope. Had she but possessed a couple of thousand pounds, the thing would have been easy enough. There were at least seven unique opportunities - all yielding not less than three thousand a year. Jane's lip curled a little.
"If I had two thousand pounds," she murmured, "it wouldn't be easy to separate from it." She cast her eyes rapidly down to the bottom of the column and ascended with the ease born of long practice.
There was the lady who gave such wonderful prices for cast-off clothing. "Ladies' wardrobes inspected at their own dwellings." There were the gentlemen who bought ANYTHING - but principally TEETH. There were ladies of title going abroad who would dispose of their furs at a ridiculous figure. There was the distressed clergyman and the hardworking widow, and the disabled officer, all needing sums varying from fifty pounds to two thousand. And then suddenly Jane came to an abrupt halt. She put down her teacup and read the advertisement through again.
"There's a catch in it, of course," she murmured. "There always is a catch in these sort of things. I shall have to be careful. But still - "
The advertisement which so intrigued Jane Cleveland ran as follows:
If a young lady of twenty-five to thirty years of age, eyes dark blue, very fair hair, black lashes and brows, straight nose, slim figure, height five feet seven inches, good mimic a
nd able to speak French, will call at Endersleigh Street, between 5 and 6 p.m., she will hear of something to her advantage.
"Guileless Gwendolen, or why girls go wrong," murmured Jane. "I shall certainly have to be careful. But there are too many specifications, really, for that sort of thing. I wonder now ... Let us overhaul the catalogue."
She proceeded to do so.
"Twenty-five to thirty - I'm twenty-six. Eyes dark blue, that's right. Hair very fair - black lashes and brows - all OK. Straight nose? Ye-es - straight enough, anyway. It doesn't hook or turn up. And I've got a slim figure - slim even for nowadays. I'm only five feet six inches - but I could wear high heels. I am a good mimic - nothing wonderful, but I can copy people's voices, and I speak French like an angel or a Frenchwoman. In fact, I'm absolutely the goods. They ought to tumble over themselves with delight when I turn up. Jane Cleveland, go in and win."
Resolutely Jane tore out the advertisement and placed it in her handbag. Then she demanded her bill, with a new briskness in her voice.
At ten minutes to five Jane was reconnoitring in the neighbourhood of Endersleigh Street. Endersleigh Street itself is a small street sandwiched between two larger streets in the neighbourhood of Oxford Circus. It is drab, but respectable.
No. 7 seemed in no way different from the neighbouring houses. It was composed like they were of offices. But looking up at it, it dawned upon Jane for the first time that she was not the only blue-eyed, fairhaired, straight-nosed, slim-figured gift of between twenty-five and thirty years of age. London was evidently full of such girls, and forty or fifty of them at least were grouped outside No.7 Endersleigh Street.
"Competition," said Jane. "I'd better join the queue quickly." She did so, just as three more girls turned the corner of the street. Others followed them. Jane amused herself by taking stock of her immediate neighbours. In each case she managed to find something wrong - fair eyelashes instead of dark, eyes more grey than blue, fair hair that owed its fairness to art and not to Nature, interesting variations in noses, and figures that only an all-embracing charity could have described as slim. Jane's spirits rose.
The Listerdale Mystery Page 11