Serpents in Paradise

by Martin Edwards

  Superintendent Bell coming into the coffee-room of an inn at Wimborne next morning saw Mr. Fortune dealing heartily with grilled salmon. “You had a bad night, sir,” he said with sympathy.

  “Yes. Poor Joseph was very upset. Spiritually and physically. Can you wonder? It’s disheartening to a husband when his wife attempts murder on the wedding night. Destroys confidence.”

  “Confidence! They’re a pair of beauties, the woman and this chap George. I suppose they were going to bury poor Larkin alive.”

  “Yes. Yes. He wouldn’t have been very lively, of course.”

  “I should say not. What do you think that fellow had on him, sir?”

  “Well, chloroform, of course. A pistol, I suppose. Probably some vitriol.”

  “That’s it.” Superintendent Bell gazed at him with reverent admiration. “It’s wonderful how you know men, Mr. Fortune.”

  Mr. Fortune smiled and passed Bell his plate of nectarines. “I knew they’d think of everything. That’s their weakness. Just a little too careful. But it’s a beautiful plan. Grave all ready, nice light soil, spades handy, chloroform the old man, pour vitriol over him, bury him. Not likely anyone would open that barrow again in a century. If they did, only an unknown corpse inside. Nobody missing. No chance anybody would think the corpse was Mr. Larkin who sailed for South Africa alive and kicking. And George and Isabel are Mr. and Mrs. Larkin and live happy ever after on the Larkin fortune. If only she hadn’t taken such pains about a grave, if only she hadn’t bothered about Giles, if only they hadn’t been so clever with their secret messages, they’d have brought it off. Poor old Joseph, though. He’s very cut up. He fears Isabel never really loved him. But he don’t want to give evidence against her, poor old thing.”

  “I don’t wonder,” said Bell. “He’ll look a proper fool in the witness-box.”

  “Yes. Yes. Not a wise old boy. But human, Bell, quite human.”

  There was a sprightly noise without. Lomas came tripping in and on the heels of Lomas a solid man with the face of a Roman emperor. “Reginald, my dear fellow, all my congratulations,” Lomas chuckled. “You told me so. You really did. Splendid case. This is Mr. Bingham Jackson of the American service.”

  “I want to know you, sir,” said Mr. Bingham Jackson magisterially. “This is right good work. We wanted those two and we wanted ’em bad.”

  “When Mr. Jackson saw your photographs of George and Isabel he called for champagne,” Lomas chuckled.

  “Yes. I thought somebody ought to know them,” said Mr. Fortune. “I thought they weren’t new to the business.”

  “No, sir.” Mr. Jackson nodded impressively. “Not new. Isabel and George Stultz are American citizens of some reputation. We shall be right glad to have them back. They eliminated Mrs. Stanton Johnson of Philadelphia and got off with her collection of antique jewels. They used morphia and a cellar then. One of our best crimes.”

  “This is going to hush up Joseph’s trouble,” said Mr. Fortune with satisfaction. “You’ll claim their extradition for murder?”

  “Sure thing. We didn’t get in on our case early like you. They brought the murder off our side. You always had ’em on a string. But I want to say, Mr. Fortune, I do admire your work. You have flair.”

  “Not nice people, you know,” said Reggie dreamily. “I get nerves when people aren’t nice and ordinary.”

  “Some nerves,” said Mr. Jackson.

  The Naturalist at Law

  R. Austin Freeman

  Richard Austin Freeman (1862–1943) was a doctor who turned to writing detective fiction to supplement his income after ill health affected his career; he had contracted blackwater fever while working for the Colonial Service in west Africa. At first he collaborated with the medical officer at Holloway Prison, J.J. Pitcairn, but he found fame after branching out on his own, and creating Dr John Thorndyke.

  Thorndyke, a specialist in medico-legal jurisprudence, with chambers at King’s Bench Walk, first appeared in The Red Thumb Mark (1907), and his popularity was such that Freeman continued to write about him to the end of his life. The Thorndyke mysteries derive their strength from Freeman’s scientific knowledge. He researched his plots meticulously, and this cleverly crafted story is one of his finest.

  ***

  A hush had fallen on the court as the coroner concluded his brief introductory statement and the first witness took up his position by the long table. The usual preliminary questions elicited that Simon Moffet, the witness aforesaid, was fifty-eight years of age, that he followed the calling of a shepherd and that he was engaged in supervising the flocks that fed upon the low-lying meadows adjoining the little town of Bantree in Buckinghamshire.

  “Tell us how you came to discover the body,” said the coroner.

  “ ’Twas on Wednesday morning, about half-past five,” Moffet began. “I was getting the sheep through the gate into the big meadow by Reed’s farm, when I happened to look down the dyke, and then I noticed a boot sticking up out of the water. Seemed to me as if there was a foot in it by the way it stuck up, so as soon as all the sheep was in, I shut the gate and walked down the dyke to have a look at un. When I got close I see the toe of another boot just alongside. Looks a bit queer, I thinks, but I couldn’t see anything more, ’cause the duck-weed is that thick as it looks as if you could walk on it. Howsever, I clears away the weed with my stick, and then I see ’twas a dead man. Give me a rare turn, it did. He was a-layin’ at the bottom of the ditch with his head near the middle and his feet up close to the bank. Just then young Harry Walker comes along the cart-track on his way to work, so I shows him the body and sends him back to the town for to give notice at the police station.”

  “And is that all you know about the affair?”

  “Ay. Later on I see the sergeant come along with a man wheelin’ the stretcher, and I showed him where the body was and helped to pull it out and load it on the stretcher. And that’s all I know about it.”

  On this the witness was dismissed and his place taken by a shrewd-looking, business-like police sergeant, who deposed as follows:

  “Last Wednesday, the 8th of May, at 6.15 a.m., I received information from Henry Walker that a dead body was lying in the ditch by the cart-track leading from Ponder’s Road to Reed’s farm. I proceeded there forthwith, accompanied by Police-Constable Ketchum, and taking with us a wheeled stretcher. On the track I was met by the last witness, who conducted me to the place where the body was lying and where I found it in the position that he has described; but we had to clear away the duck-weed before we could see it distinctly. I examined the bank carefully, but could see no trace of footprints, as the grass grows thickly right down to the water’s edge. There were no signs of a struggle or any disturbance on the bank. With the aid of Moffet and Ketchum, I drew the body out and placed it on the stretcher. I could not see any injuries or marks of violence on the body or anything unusual about it. I conveyed it to the mortuary, and with Constable Ketchum’s assistance removed the clothing and emptied the pockets, putting the contents of each pocket in a separate envelope and writing the description on each. In a letter-case from the coat pocket were some visiting cards bearing the name and address of Mr. Cyrus Pedley, of 21 Hawtrey Mansions, Kensington, and a letter signed Wilfred Pedley, apparently from deceased’s brother. Acting on instructions, I communicated with him and served a summons to attend this inquest.”

  “With regard to the ditch in which you found the body,” said the coroner, “can you tell us how deep it is?”

  “Yes; I measured it with Moffet’s crook and a tape measure. In the deepest part, where the body was lying, it is four feet two inches deep. From there it slopes up pretty sharply to the bank.”

  “So far as you can judge, if a grown man fell into the ditch by accident, would he have any difficulty in getting out?”

  “None at all, I should say, if he were sober and in ordinary health. A m
an of medium height, standing in the middle at the deepest part, would have his head and shoulders out of water; and the sides are not too steep to climb up easily, especially with the grass and rushes on the bank to lay hold of.”

  “You say there were no signs of disturbance on the bank. Were there any in the ditch itself?”

  “None that I could see. But, of course, signs of disturbance soon disappear in water. The duck-weed drifts about as the wind drives it, and there are creatures moving about on the bottom. I noticed that deceased had some weed grasped in one hand.”

  This concluded the sergeant’s evidence, and as he retired, the name of Dr. Albert Parton was called. The new witness was a young man of grave and professional aspect, who gave his evidence with an extreme regard for clearness and accuracy.

  “I have made an examination of the body of the deceased,” he began, after the usual preliminaries. “It is that of a healthy man of about forty-five. I first saw it about two hours after it was found. It had then been dead from twelve to fifteen hours. Later I made a complete examination. I found no injuries, marks of violence or any definite bruises, and no signs of disease.”

  “Did you ascertain the cause of death?” the coroner asked.

  “Yes. The cause of death was drowning.”

  “You are quite sure of that?”

  “Quite sure. The lungs contained a quantity of water and duck-weed, and there was more than a quart of water mixed with duck-weed and water-weed in the stomach. That is a clear proof of death by drowning. The water in the lungs was the immediate cause of death, by making breathing impossible, and as the water and weed in the stomach must have been swallowed, they furnish conclusive evidence that deceased was alive when he fell into the water.”

  “The water and weed could not have got into the stomach after death?”

  “No, that is quite impossible. They must have been swallowed when the head of the deceased was just below the surface; and the water must have been drawn into the lungs by spasmodic efforts to breathe when the mouth was under water.”

  “Did you find any signs indicating that deceased might have been intoxicated?”

  “No. I examined the water from the stomach very carefully with that question in view, but there was no trace of alcohol—or, indeed, of anything else. It was simple ditch-water. As the point is important I have preserved it, and— ” here the witness produced a paper parcel which he unfastened, revealing a large glass jar containing about a quart of water plentifully sprinkled with duck-weed. This he presented to the coroner, who waved it away hastily and indicated the jury; to whom it was then offered and summarily rejected with emphatic head-shakes. Finally it came to rest on the table by the place where I was sitting with my colleague, Dr. Thorndyke, and our client, Mr. Wilfred Pedley. I glanced at it with faint interest, noting how the duck-weed plants had risen to the surface and floated, each with its tassel of roots hanging down into the water, and how a couple of tiny, flat shells, like miniature ammonites, had sunk and lay on the bottom of the jar. Thorndyke also glanced at it; indeed, he did more than glance, for he drew the jar towards him and examined its contents in the systematic way in which it was his habit to examine everything. Meanwhile the coroner asked:

  “Did you find anything abnormal or unusual, or anything that could throw light on how deceased came to be in the water?”

  “Nothing whatever,” was the reply. “I found simply that deceased met his death by drowning.”

  Here, as the witness seemed to have finished his evidence, Thorndyke interposed.

  “The witness states, sir, there were no definite bruises. Does he mean that there were any marks that might have been bruises?”

  The coroner glanced at Dr. Parton, who replied:

  “There was a faint mark on the outside of the right arm, just above the elbow, which had somewhat the appearance of a bruise, as if the deceased had been struck with a stick. But it was very indistinct. I shouldn’t like to swear that it was a bruise at all.”

  This concluded the doctor’s evidence, and when he had retired, the name of our client, Wilfred Pedley, was called. He rose, and having taken the oath and given his name and address, deposed:

  “I have viewed the body of deceased. It is that of my brother, Cyrus Pedley, who is forty-three years of age. The last time I saw deceased alive was on Tuesday morning, the day before the body was found.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual in his manner or state of mind?”

  The witness hesitated but at length replied:

  “Yes. He seemed anxious and depressed. He had been in low spirits for some time past, but on this occasion he seemed more so than usual.”

  “Had you any reason to suspect that he might contemplate taking his life?”

  “No,” the witness replied, emphatically, “and I do not believe that he would, under any circumstances, have contemplated suicide.”

  “Have you any special reason for that belief?”

  “Yes. Deceased was a highly conscientious man and he was in my debt. He had occasion to borrow two thousand pounds from me, and the debt was secured by an insurance on his life. If he had committed suicide that insurance would be invalidated and the debt would remain unpaid. From my knowledge of him, I feel certain that he would not have done such a thing.”

  The coroner nodded gravely, and then asked:

  “What was deceased’s occupation?”

  “He was employed in some way by the Foreign Office, I don’t know in what capacity. I know very little about his affairs.”

  “Do you know if he had any money worries or any troubles or embarrassments of any kind?”

  “I have never heard of any; but deceased was a very reticent man. He lived alone in his flat, taking his meals at his club, and no one knew—at least, I did not—how he spent his time or what was the state of his finances. He was not married, and I am his only near relative.”

  “And as to deceased’s habits. Was he ever addicted to taking more stimulants than was good for him?”

  “Never,” the witness replied emphatically. “He was a most temperate and abstemious man.”

  “Was he subject to fits of any kind, or fainting attacks?”

  “I have never heard that he was.”

  “Can you account for his being in this solitary place at this time—apparently about eight o’clock at night?”

  “I cannot. It is a complete mystery to me. I know of no one with whom either of us was acquainted in this district. I had never heard of the place until I got the summons to the inquest.”

  This was the sum of our client’s evidence, and, so far, things did not look very favourable from our point of view—we were retained on the insurance question, to rebut, if possible, the suggestion of suicide. However, the coroner was a discreet man, and having regard to the obscurity of the case—and perhaps to the interests involved—summed up in favour of an open verdict; and the jury, taking a similar view, found that deceased met his death by drowning, but under what circumstances there was no evidence to show.

  “Well,” I said, as the court rose, “that leaves it to the insurance people to make out a case of suicide if they can. I think you are fairly safe, Mr. Pedley. There is no positive evidence.”

  “No,” our client replied. “But it isn’t only the money I am thinking of. It would be some consolation to me for the loss of my poor brother if I had some idea how he met with his death, and could feel sure that it was an unavoidable misadventure. And for my own satisfaction—leaving the insurance out of the question—I should like to have definite proof that it was not suicide.”

  He looked half-questioningly at Thorndyke, who nodded gravely.

  “Yes,” the latter agreed, “the suggestion of suicide ought to be disposed of if possible, both for legal and sentimental reasons. How far away is the mortuary?”

  “A couple of minutes’ walk,” r
eplied Mr. Pedley. “Did you wish to inspect the body?”

  “If it is permissible,” replied Thorndyke; “and then I propose to have a look at the place where the body was found.”

  “In that case,” our client said, “I will go down to the Station Hotel and wait for you. We may as well travel up to town together, and you can then tell me if you have seen any further light on the mystery.”

  As soon as he was gone, Dr. Parton advanced, tying the string of the parcel which once more enclosed the jar of ditch-water.

  “I heard you say, sir, that you would like to inspect the body,” said he. “If you like, I will show you the way to the mortuary. The sergeant will let us in, won’t you, sergeant? This gentleman is a doctor as well as a lawyer.”

  “Bless you, sir,” said the sergeant, “I know who Dr. Thorndyke is, and I shall feel it an honour to show him anything he wishes to see.”

  Accordingly we set forth together, Dr. Parton and Thorndyke leading the way.

  “The coroner and the jury didn’t seem to appreciate my exhibit,” the former remarked with a faint grin, tapping the parcel as he spoke.

  “No,” Thorndyke agreed; “and it is hardly reasonable to expect a layman to share our own matter-of-fact outlook. But you were quite right to produce the specimen. That ditch-water furnishes conclusive evidence on a vitally material question. Further, I would advise you to preserve that jar for the present, well covered and under lock and key.”

  Parton looked surprised.

  “Why?” he asked. “The inquest is over and the verdict pronounced.”

  “Yes, but it was an open verdict, and an open verdict leaves the case in the air. The inquest has thrown no light on the question as to how Cyrus Pedley came by his death.”

  “There doesn’t seem to me much mystery about it,” said the doctor. “Here is a man found drowned in a shallow ditch which he could easily have got out of if he had fallen in by accident. He was not drunk. Apparently he was not in a fit of any kind. There are no marks of violence and no signs of a struggle, and the man is known to have been in an extremely depressed state of mind. It looks like a clear case of suicide, though I admit that the jury were quite right, in the absence of direct evidence.”