The Hog's Back Mystery

by Freeman Wills Crofts

  “I’m afraid, sir,” French returned with a faint smile, “I’ve not come to settle it. Unhappily I am the bearer of bad news. I have to tell you that this Miss H. Nankivel has been the victim of a serious crime; in fact, I may say at once that she has been murdered.”

  “Bless my soul!” Winterton exclaimed. “Did I hear you say murdered?” He was tall and thin and curved his long back forward over the table, blinking at French like a draggled old bird.

  “I fear so, sir,” French answered. “I am in charge of the case, and I am anxious to get some information from you as to the transaction for which this debt was incurred.”

  “Quite so. Very natural. But dear me, murdered! How very dreadful! Very dreadful indeed!” He cleared his throat pompously. “I shall of course place any information I may have at your disposal.”

  Presently he came to the point. He sent for a file, turned up a letter, and handed it to French. “We received that on the 30th of September last, as you will see, together with the enclosure. Better read the letter before I go on.”

  French did so. It was written in a feminine hand, which French at once recognised as that of the dead nurse. Above the printed legend, “129B, Bryanston Square, W.1”, was written, “C/of Brig.-Gen. Sir Ormsby Hazzard, C.M.G., D.S.O.” It was dated 29th September and read:

  “Messrs. Morgan & Winterton,

  Analytical Chemists.

  “Dear Sirs,

  “I send you herewith a small bottle containing a solution, and should be obliged if you would kindly analyse same and let me have a note of the contents. If you let me have your account, I will send the necessary amount.

  “Yours faithfully,

  “(Miss) H. Nankivel.”

  “Yes?” said French.

  “We carried out the analysis as requested,” went on Winterton. “Unfortunately the bottle contained too small a quantity of the solution to enable a really accurate quantitative analysis to be made. Our work, however, was very close to the truth. We then wrote the following report.” He delved in his file and handed across another document. It was a carbon copy of the letter and read:

  “3rd October.

  “Dear Madam,

  “In reply to your communication of 29th ult. we have to inform you that we carried out an analysis of the liquid sent us. We regret that the quantity was too small to enable completely accurate results to be obtained, but the figures given on the attached sheet are approximately correct. Trusting that this will meet your requirements,

  “We are, etc.,

  “Morgan & Winterton.

  “per J. W.”

  From another file Mr. Winterton handed over an analysis sheet, which French read with an air of profound wisdom, but of which he could make very little.

  “I’m not a chemist, Mr. Winterton,” he explained. “Could you not put this result into ordinary language which I could understand?”

  Winterton shrugged. “Well,” he said, “I on my part am not a doctor. However, I shall do my best. The liquid seemed to us to be a medicine for indigestion or stomach ulcer or enteritis; something about the stomach, I don’t know what. But it contained one unusual ingredient: an appreciable quantity of arsenic.”

  At this French metaphorically sat up and took notice. “That interests me quite a lot, sir,” he declared. “Now if you would kindly tell me the effect of that addition, I should be even more obliged.”

  “A doctor could do better than I,” Winterton returned. “Obviously, however, the effect depends on the amount taken.”

  “Suppose for argument’s sake it amounted to one whole ordinary-sized bottle.”

  Winterton shrugged. “Even that, I’m afraid, is not sufficient information. As you doubtless know, different people have a different tolerance to drugs. The harm done would depend on the constitution of the recipient.”

  French, mentally cursing the limitations of the scientific mind, tried again.

  “I understand, sir, that you can only speak very generally. Assuming a purely hypothetical case with a normal tolerance to the drug, could you tell me what might be expected?”

  “Hypothetically, I believe I’m safe in saying that the arsenic would certainly disagree very seriously with anyone taking it.”

  “Would it poison him?” French asked directly.

  “That,” the old man replied, “is an extremely difficult question. One dose, I should say, certainly not. The whole bottleful”—he shrugged impressively—“probably.”

  “I see, sir. Then did that end the transaction? You sent the analysis to your client. Was there an answer?”

  “That most assuredly did not end the transaction,” Winterton declared, and French saw that a ponderous joke was intended. “The transaction will end when we are paid our fee, which, as you know, has not yet been done. You may say, Why did we not demand prepayment? Because of General Hazzard’s name. We checked up on the address as being really his, and felt quite safe. Now if I may ask, inspector”—the old man became solemn once more—“I should like to know something about our client.”

  “Your client was a nurse, Mr. Winterton,” French answered. “Her name was Helen Nankivel, and her murdered body was found buried along the new by-pass road near Guildford.”

  The bird-like old man was thrilled. He had read the account of the discovery in the papers, but had never connected the “H. Nankivel” of the analysis with the murdered nurse. “If we had had the slightest idea of her identity,” he declared again and again, “we should instantly have communicated with New Scotland Yard! A really dreadful affair, inspector!”

  He would have kept French talking about it for hours, but French had other fish to fry. Accordingly, after thanking the old man, he took his leave.

  That he was now on to an important link in his case French had no doubt. Though he didn’t see exactly how it worked in, he believed a little thought would show him the connection. But first to make sure of his facts.

  On his way back to the Yard he called on Dr. Randal, the police doctor with whom he had already consulted about the case.

  “Just one question, doctor, if you don’t mind,” he said, laying the analysis down on the consulting-room desk. “I wish you’d tell me what this is.”

  Dr. Randal glanced at the paper. Then he shook his head. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “A medicine made up by an imaginative lunatic, I should think. What about it?”

  “Might it be an ordinary medicine with one extra ingredient added?”

  “Ah,” said Randal, “now you’re talking. Yes, without the arsenic it would be a quite ordinary medicine.”

  “For what complaint, doctor?”

  “Internal inflammations, stomach troubles, intestinal troubles: anything of that sort.”

  “Gastro-enteritis?”

  “The very thing. You’ll soon be qualifying if you go on like this, French.”

  French grinned. “And what would the effect of the addition be?” he persisted.

  Dr. Randal practically repeated what Mr. Winterton had told him. Assuming one bottleful of the medicine had been taken, the arsenic, particularly to anyone with a complaint of gastro-enteritis or anything like it, would be a serious matter. One dose would not do a great deal of harm, but the bottleful, even taken in normal doses at normal intervals, would certainly kill. No, there would be no great change in the symptoms, except that these would become more marked. Yes, if such poison were secretly administered, the doctor attending the case might easily give a certificate without the slightest suspicion that all was not right.

  “What about the nurse attending the case? Do you think she ought to have been suspicious?”

  “My dear man, how in thunder could I tell? It would depend on how the stuff was administered, I mean in what quantity, also on the patient’s health: matters of which you haven’t seen fit to inform me.”

  “It’s
because I don’t know myself. But what I want to get at is this: Suppose the patient was getting that medicine regularly without arsenic. Then suppose the arsenic was added. Suppose the patient continued to get it regularly. Should the nurse notice a sudden marked difference in the patient from the time the arsenic was put in?”

  Dr. Randal did not answer for a moment. “Yes, I think she should,” he said at last. “It’s not easy to be quite sure, as the effect of drugs of this kind is cumulative. Besides, if the patient had been having the usual ups and downs, she might naturally take this as a ‘down’. On the whole, however, I think she should notice something. That, mind you, is a very different thing to saying that she would have become suspicious of poison.”

  This was what French expected to hear. The usual indefinite opinion. The nurse might have noticed something, but then again, she mightn’t. That was the way! There was nothing that he could absolutely bite on to and say, “Here is fact!” He had been hoping that the direct question to Nurse Henderson as to whether she had noticed any sudden change in her late patient’s condition, would have told him whether or not the old man had been poisoned. But apparently he had been hoping too much. All the same, to run down to Bramley would only take three or four hours. It would be worth putting the question.

  French rose to take his leave, but the doctor motioned him to sit down again. “I’ve read that manuscript you sent me,” he remarked.

  “Oh yes,” French returned. “I intended to ask you about it, but with this other thing it slipped my memory. What did you think of it?”

  For a moment the doctor did not answer, then he glanced curiously at his visitor. “It’s a very remarkable piece of work, French,” he declared. “I was much impressed!”

  French laughed. “That tells me a lot, doesn’t it? Is there anything in it that would impress me?”

  Randal did not laugh. “I think there is,” he said seriously. “I want you to take it away from here with you now, and if you take my advice you’ll get an escort with it to the nearest fire and burn it there.”

  French stared. “Bless us all, doctor, but you’re mysterious! What’s wrong with the darned thing?”

  “Just this,” Randal said grimly. “Do you know that that manuscript is nothing more nor less than a child’s guide to murder? Real murder, murder that could never be found out? It’s a remarkable piece of work; very original and clever, but very dangerous.”

  French whistled. Then he swore. Then he asked for further explanations.

  “Well,” Dr. Randal answered, “it’s very simple—to talk about. This Earle has found a way of simplifying the making of cultures—cultures of the bacilli of fatal diseases—so as to bring this within the reach of any intelligent layman. With this book in his hand practically anyone could produce a serum which when injected would cause death; death, that is, through the ordinary medium of disease. How the disease was contracted would no doubt remain a puzzle, but there would be nothing to arouse suspicion.”

  “Good Lord, doctor! But how could such a book be published?”

  “That’s more than I can tell you. But do you know Earle meant to publish it?”

  “Well, there’s not much use in writing a book just for the fun of it.”

  “I’m not so sure,” the doctor said slowly. “People do queer things. However, didn’t Earle take precautions it shouldn’t get into anyone else’s hands? I think you mentioned something of that kind?”

  French slapped his thigh. “You’ve got it, doctor! I never thought of it! That’s what the safe was for. You know, he had a secret safe hidden behind oak panelling. Regular medieval affair with sliding panel and all the rest of it. As secret as you like. And behind the panel a modern steel safe. That’s it!”

  “That’s it, as you so truly say. The man would recognise that he had only to be a bit careless with his keys, and an ordinary safe would become no further protection. The secret panel idea was good, and in my opinion justified.”

  Here was the answer to one of those minor problems which had worried French in his conduct of the case. He had been bothered as to whether, owing to the time at which the safe had been put in, Earle’s disappearance had been due to some long-standing secret. Now this was cleared up. The safe had been put in to hold the manuscript, and the manuscript had nothing to do with Earle’s decease. Presumably he had simply taken advantage of the existence of this very secret receptacle—the only really safe place in the house—to hide the proofs of Frazer’s murder.

  With an effort French switched his thoughts back to his motive in calling on Dr. Randal. The death of Frazer! His next step was to see that nurse at Bramley. Well, he must get on with it.

  He travelled down to Bramley, found Nurse Henderson, and put his question. “Tell me,” he said, “did you notice any more or less sudden change in the old man’s condition? Suppose he had been going on on what I might call a certain level of ill health, did he suddenly drop to a lower level and continue on it? Tell me anything you can about his variations of health.”

  The nurse didn’t know that she could do that. As she was sure the inspector knew, invalids were variable in health. They had good days and bad. There was no accounting for these changes.

  “You can’t remember the changes in the case of Mr. Frazer?”

  She was afraid not. Mr. Frazer had been going on on the level, as the inspector had put it, and he certainly had suddenly changed for the worse. Then he had seemed to go rapidly down the hill, and his death followed quickly.

  This was more than French had expected. He thought quickly, then very impressively swore the girl to silence.

  “Suppose,” he said, “that Mr. Frazer had been given a course of arsenic, would that account for his varying condition?”

  Nurse Henderson was very much excited and upset at the idea. At first she denied the possibility of poison, then gradually came round to the idea and admitted that French’s suggestion might well be the truth.

  “Was Mr. Frazer quite clear mentally up to the end?”

  “He was as clear as you or I till he got that change for the worse. After that he got duller and finally became unconscious.”

  “Clear, that is, until he was given the poison—if my suspicion is correct. Tell me, nurse, who dispensed the medicine?”

  “Malcolmson, the chemist in Guildford.”

  French decided to return to Farnham via Guildford and call on Malcolmson. He saw Mr. Malcolmson, who produced Campion’s prescription for the medicine. This was in accordance with Morgan & Winterton’s analysis, except that, as might be expected, there was no mention of arsenic. As might be expected also, Mr. Malcolmson was positive that there was no arsenic in the medicine when it left his shop. Both the receipt of the prescription and the despatch of the medicine had been by post. From this it seemed to follow that the arsenic had been put in by some member of the Frazer household.

  As he drove in a bus to Farnham, French tried to modify his theory of the case to include all these new facts. Suppose Nurse Nankivel had noticed that Frazer’s condition varied according to whether he did or did not take certain medicine. If she had become suspicious, she might have experimented by giving him the medicine or withholding it. Suppose she had withheld it and had sent the equivalent doses to Morgan & Winterton for analysis. She had received in reply the proof that the medicine did contain arsenic. Very well, what would she do then?

  Ah, but wait a moment: that wouldn’t work. The medicine had been sent to Morgan & Winterton on the 29th of September, exactly a week after Frazer had died. Why should it have been sent then? If the nurse had been suspicious it must surely have been during the old man’s lifetime. If she was not suspicious then, why should she have become so after his death? Had this medicine after all any connection with the Frazer case?

  Then French saw that it almost certainly had. Morgan & Winterton’s reply was posted on the 3rd of October, which meant
that the nurse received it on that day or the next. But the 5th of October, two days later, was the day on which she had received the telephone message to which she had replied, “Well, I’ll arrange it somehow. Twelve-thirty.” That message was obviously from Earle, arranging the Staines trip. It looked uncommonly as if Nurse Nankivel had written to Earle on receipt of the analysis, asking for an appointment.

  When French reached the hotel he sat down to try to get the dates straightened out on paper. He was pleased with the result, which he thought promising.

  Thursday (22 Sept.):Frazer dies.

  Friday (23 Sept.):Nurse Nankivel leaves Polperro.

  Saturday (24 Sept.):Nurse goes to Bryanston Square.

  Tuesday (27 Sept.):Frazer’s funeral.

  Wednesday (28 Sept.):Mrs. Carling writes to nurse.

  Thursday (29 Sept.):Nurse receives Mrs. Carling’s letter

  and sends medicine to analysts.

  Friday (30 Sept.):Winterton receives medicine.

  Monday (3 Oct.):Winterton posts analysis.

  Tuesday (4 Oct.):Nurse receives analysis and

  presumably writes Earle.

  Wednesday (5 Oct.):Nurse receives Earle’s telephone.

  Thursday (6 Oct.):Nurse and Earle at Staines.

  Saturday (8 Oct.):Nurse receives telegram to go to

  Hog’s Back on Sunday.

  Sunday (9 Oct.):Nurse goes to Hog’s Back and is

  murdered.

  These dates seemed to French fairly well to clear up what had occurred. His tentative theory now stood as follows:

  During Frazer’s illness Nurse Nankivel becomes suspicious that her patient is being poisoned, but cannot prove it. After reaching Bryanston Square her suspicions are somehow increased, and she sends the doubtful medicine to be analysed. The analysis confirms her suspicions and she feels she must share the responsibility. Campion has signed the certificate and she therefore funks going to him; probably also she has found Earle more approachable. She writes to Earle, hinting her news and asking for an interview. Earle, realising that for many reasons the meeting should be kept secret, arranges the Staines affair. At Staines she unburdens her soul and hands over the analysis and possibly other evidence. Earle puts it in his safe. Frazer’s murderer somehow gets to know what is going on and sends the telegram in Earle’s name asking the nurse to go down on Sunday—to her death.