Serpents in Paradise

by Martin Edwards

  ‘Dr Mellan asked me to look when he saw that the morphia had been put in the glass of sal volatile. I touched nothing, I swear it before Almighty God.’

  ‘Was Mr Hentish in the habit of helping himself to this sal volatile?’

  ‘Yes, sir, if there was no one in the room to get it for him.’

  ‘Miss Mavey, are you of the same opinion as Dr Mellan that the morphia could not have been taken accidentally?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No! Then you think it could have been taken accidentally?’

  ‘Yes. I mean yes I’m of the opinion that no it couldn’t have been taken accidentally.’

  ‘That is all. Thank you.’

  Miss Mavey, still under the shadow of the scaffold, gave a shuddering sigh, and borrowing the coroner’s Vapex, sank on to a chair, inhaling deeply.

  Croucher, the butler, was questioned next.

  ‘You say,’ said the coroner, ‘that on receipt of the telegram this morning, Mr Hentish showed signs of anger?’

  ‘Distinctly, sir.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘He asked if Mr William was in.’

  ‘Was he?’

  ‘No, sir, he had left in his car at 9.30.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘He told me to go to hell, sir, and take his blasted nephew with me, sir, but before I went to get Troubridge and Hay on the telephone.’

  ‘His solicitors?’

  ‘Exactly, sir.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘He rang and gave me instructions for the car to meet the 1.45 train. His solicitors were sending down a member of the firm.’

  ‘On arrival he was shown straight into the library, I under-

  stand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘After about fifteen minutes the library bell rang and Mr Hentish asked me to witness his signature to a new will.’

  ‘After you had signed the will, anything else?’

  ‘The usual instructions to go to hell, sir.’

  ‘Then I understand the house was quiet until 4.30?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The solicitor’s gentleman left the library a few moments after I did. There were standing instructions never to disturb Mr Hentish until Miss Mavey woke him at 4.30. Today the bell pealed violently, and on my entering the library Miss Mavey informed me that Mr Hentish was dead. I remained in the room until the doctor’s arrival.’

  The solicitor’s clerk was called.

  ‘Your firm had instructions from Mr Hentish by telephone this morning, I understand, to draft out a new will?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You were shown into the library on your arrival. What happened?’

  ‘I read Mr Hentish the new draft, which he approved with one alteration. He rang for the butler and we both witnessed the signature.’

  ‘Did it strike you there was anything in Mr Hentish’s manner to suggest he contemplated suicide?’

  ‘Difficult to say, sir.’

  ‘And after you had signed the will?’

  ‘I remained with Mr Hentish ten minutes or so. He wished to discuss a matter of income tax. I then left the library and went and sat in the garden until train time, as is my custom.’

  ‘You’ve been here before then? On the same errand?’

  ‘Usually, sir.’

  ‘Mr Hentish was in the habit of changing his will?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Often?’

  ‘Seven times in the last ten years, sir.’

  There was a silence. The butler was called again.

  ‘I find a memorandum on Mr Hentish’s desk, Twiller and Dwight, Thursday at 12. Can you explain this?’

  ‘His tailors, sir. He told me to telephone and have a fitter sent down tomorrow at twelve.’

  ‘When did he give this order?’

  ‘At breakfast, sir.’

  ‘Then as late as the breakfast hour he was obviously not contemplating suicide. Was he in a bad or good mood?’

  ‘Mr Hentish was never exactly sunny-tempered, sir, but he seemed average.’

  ‘It was only after he received the telegram that his mood changed for the worse?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Mr William came down from London last night, you say?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Did he appear on good terms with his uncle?’

  ‘He seemed slightly nervous at dinner, if I may say so, but trying to be pleasant, I thought, sir.’

  ‘You say he hasn’t been in all day?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. He returned this afternoon but went out again.’

  ‘This afternoon! At what time?’

  ‘Well, sir, I noticed his car in the drive when I passed through the hall to witness the signature, sir. That would be about 2.30, and it was still there when Miss Mavey rang, but when I opened the front door to the doctor about fifteen minutes later it had gone.’

  In the silence the smell of pickles became sharper. All our chairs creaked. The same idea had suddenly occurred to everybody.

  ‘Did Mr William know of the arrival of the telegram?’

  ‘No, sir, he had already left when it came.’

  There was another silence.

  ‘Then he didn’t know that Mr Hentish intended changing his will or that Mr—Mr—that his solicitor was sending down a representative?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  •••

  People are funny; they can see a man every day for twenty years, know his face, mannerisms, idiosyncrasies, but they’ve only to hear that his wife has left him, that he’s shot his mother, and they’ll stand for hours waiting for a glimpse of him.

  Practically all of us at the inquest had seen Mr William Hentish frequently during the last two years, some longer; and none of us had ever been particularly elated at the sight, yet when the front door banged as Croucher stopped speaking, and footsteps echoed on the polished floor of the hall, all the eyes in the room turned and became fixed on the handle of the mahogany door. There were people in that room to my certain knowledge, notably the butler and myself, whose day ordinarily could be made simply by not seeing Mr William Hentish, yet as his footsteps echoed nearer, the drone of a solitary bluebottle in the room seemed like the roar of an aeroplane in the silence. Our chairs creaked as each of us leant forward and became still.

  The footsteps stopped, the handle turned, and our chairs creaked sharply once again.

  I don’t know exactly what change we all expected to see in William Hentish, but I remember a feeling of vague disappointment as he stood in the doorway looking just the same as when I had last seen him. When he was told of his uncle’s death, and the manner of it, he seemed surprised.

  I’ve often wondered why magistrates and coroners ask the questions they do. Mr Duffy knew William Hentish as well as I did, he’d been splashed often enough with mud from his car in the winter in our narrow village street, yet the next fifteen minutes was entirely taken up with proving his identity.

  The questions seemed to go on endlessly. William Hentish wore his customary look of not caring much for the smell of those immediately about him, but he gave his answers quietly and without emotion. He said that he had returned soon after lunch, gone straight through the hall on to the lawn to the boathouse. He sat there until the stable clock struck 4.30, then returned to the house, intending to go in and see his uncle, who, he knew, would be awake by then. He didn’t go in because when he reached the hall the library door was ajar.

  Police-constable Perker, the official recorder at the inquest, was taking down notes in longhand. A hollow moan was his signal that the pace was too much for him and the questions would cease until he caught up. Presently the coroner continued:

  ‘Through the open door you say you heard Miss Mavey t
elephone Dr Mellan? But why should this stop you from seeing your uncle?’

  ‘I thought he had probably had another attack and wouldn’t want to see me just then.’

  ‘I understand you were not here when the telegram arrived.’

  ‘Telegram?’

  The coroner turned to Perker. ‘Constable, please read out the telegram.’

  Police-constable Perker first got his notes up to date, then there was a roll of drums as he cleared his throat.

  ‘Telegram to John Hentish, Langley Abbey, Langley, Norfolk. Subject secretly married to Miriel Demar yesterday two p.m. Duke Street register office. Awaiting instructions. Signed Ross.’

  All our eyes were on William Hentish. I think be became a little more rigid and a pulse throbbed in his temple. The cruet-stand on the table rattled like an express train as Constable Perker settled down to his notes again.

  ‘Is this information correct, Mr Hentish?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You were not aware that your uncle had your movements watched?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You were married secretly, I presume, because you felt Miss Demar would not have been your uncle’s choice of a wife for you?’

  William Hentish flushed. ‘My uncle was a difficult man. He disapproved of whatever he hadn’t arranged himself. My wife was a chorus girl. In time he would have come round, he always did.’

  ‘And in the meantime?’

  ‘He would have forbidden me the house for a month or two, I suppose.’

  ‘And cut you off in his will?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Supposing he had died before reinstating you in the will?’

  William Hentish smiled.

  ‘That is a remote contingency now.’

  There was an angry moan from Constable Perker, who spelt by ear and preferred words that he had heard before.

  ‘You haven’t seen this gentleman before, then?’

  Mr Duffy pointed out the solicitor’s clerk, who coughed discreetly. William Hentish looked at him, then turned back to the coroner.

  ‘Not consciously. Who is he?’

  ‘He was sent down on your uncle’s instructions from Troubridge and Hay with the draft of a new will.’

  William Hentish turned quickly to the clerk.

  ‘Did my uncle sign it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘May I ask the contents of the new will, the existing one?’

  The clerk managed to clear his throat in the form of a question to the coroner, who nodded back an answer.

  ‘Mr Hentish left his entire fortune to cancer research.’

  ‘And the former will? The one he revoked?’ the coroner asked.

  ‘Everything to his nephew, William Hentish.’

  While the clerk was speaking William Hentish sat silent, except that a pulse hammered again in his temple. By chance he caught the cook’s eye. I saw him start. She was so obviously a woman who hadn’t murdered her uncle looking at a man who had murdered him. And I think it was only then that he realized the danger of the case building up against him.

  He had known his uncle would disapprove of a marriage which could probably not remain secret long. He had known his uncle’s precarious state of health, had often prepared John Hentish’s sal volatile for him, and knew about the morphia. He had only to walk into the library from the garden. He would know from experience that his uncle’s rage at being disturbed in the middle of the afternoon would be enough to bring on an attack; and as he had often done before, he would get old Hentish some sal volatile from the bathroom, this time with a generous helping of morphia. Perhaps he had stood with curiosity watching his uncle gulp it down, had seen the purple settle under the eyes, then picking up his book, had walked quietly back to the boathouse. Perhaps he had even sat there reading until the stable clock chimed.

  •••

  The coroner spoke.

  ‘You say, Mr Hentish, that you didn’t leave the garden until you heard the clock strike?’

  Until then William Hentish had answered the questions put to him abruptly and with an appearance of indifference. Now his answers became more hesitant, and he paused before he spoke. He was already on the defensive. Our chairs creaked as we leant forward for his answer.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You didn’t go near the library the whole afternoon?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you could have. Without being observed. Isn’t that so, Mr Hentish?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. But I repeat that I didn’t.’

  The cook’s sniff re-echoed round the room, which had become nearly dark. Our faces were now only a blurred outline, and a cold breeze rustled Constable Perker’s notes. The stable clock clanged eight.

  ‘Then we have only your word for it that you sat in the boathouse all afternoon, Mr Hentish?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  There was a silence. Suddenly the solicitor’s clerk cleared his throat and spoke.

  ‘It is quite true what Mr Hentish says with regard to his movements. I can substantiate that. Directly I left Mr Hentish I went and sat under the cedar tree whilst waiting my train time. I noticed young Mr Hentish sitting in the boathouse smoking. I don’t think he saw me, but his statement is correct. He never left there until the stable clock struck.’

  Human nature is weird. Instead of a deep sense of thankfulness that a fellow-creature’s hands were not stained with the blood of another fellow-creature, I think that everyone in that room, with perhaps the exception of the coroner, who saw a chance of getting home to a hot mustard bath after all, felt aggrieved that William Hentish’s hands were not stained with blood. Probably it was because anyone with an eye for drama could see that William Hentish was perfect for the role of villain, an aggressive manner, tall, with a black moustache and large white teeth. His hands should have been stained with his uncle’s blood, he looked better that way, it suited him. Speaking for myself, preferring, as I do, like the rest of mankind, to believe the worst of my fellow-men, I felt that if he had not murdered his uncle, it was simply because he didn’t happen to think of it.

  After we had recovered from our natural disappointment, Croucher lit the gas brackets, and the questions, innumerable and interminable, began again. The clerk could add nothing, he could only say that he had seen Mr Hentish sitting as he had said in the boathouse the whole afternoon. The butler was called again, so were Miss Mavey, still at bay, and I. The question of the morphia arose.

  ‘Might not Mr Hentish’s insistence,’ Mr Duffy asked the room in general, ‘on the presence of morphia easily accessible, be attributed, apart from its properties in the alleviation of pain, to his possible contemplation of self-destruction?’

  Constable Perker put down his pencil.

  ‘That’s coming it too hot for me, sir. Can I put it in my own words? You mean, did he pop himself off, sir?’

  The questions and answers continued, but the evidence of a completely disinterested witness was too overwhelming, and on a statement from Miss Mavey that the old man had often spoken wholeheartedly in favour of self-slaughter (actually, I think, he was advocating it for her and not for himself), the coroner, as the stable clock clanged nine, brought in a verdict of suicide while of an unsound mind.

  I didn’t see whether William Hentish spoke to the little clerk in the dining-room or not, but he walked, frowning, across the hall as if it were empty, through the huddled group of servants, past the rest of us without a sign or word; the front door slammed, his motor roared and whined, and he was gone.

  The presence of death does strange things to a place. As we stood in a group near the front door, making arrangements for the following day, the hall seemed lifeless and cold, our footsteps and voices had a hollow sound; somehow the windows reminded me of staring, dead black eyes, for the curtains had not been drawn. The g
as jet droned and made the shadows of the stag’s head and horns flicker and leap jerkily across the ceiling. A steady draught from an open door edged behind the tapestry, bellying it out till a naked old satyr leaned amorously towards Miss Mavey. She stood gazing after William Hentish.

  ‘Think of losing a fortune, all that money wasted on charity!’

  She sighed and sneezed. The solicitor’s clerk put down his satchel and helped her on with her coat.

  ‘It won’t be wasted,’ he said, gently.

  A car drew up to the door, the coroner looked at his watch and turned to the clerk. ‘That will be the car to take you to the station, I think. Thank you for your evidence. We shall need you again, I’m afraid. I’ll communicate with you in a day or so.’

  The clerk picked up his satchel and coat and hat.

  ‘I shall be at your convenience, sir. Goodnight, gentlemen.’

  ***

  The screech of the engine’s whistle jerked me awake. I must have dozed for about two hours, because the train was already rattling over the points approaching Cranham Junction. My back was numb from lying so long in one position, huddled in my overcoat. I stretched myself. The clerk was still opposite, sitting stiffly erect, his worn gloves neatly buttoned over his wrists, his satchel by his side. I leant forward.

  ‘You don’t remember me?’

  ‘Indeed, yes, sir. It is Dr Mellan. I had the pleasure at the inquest at Langley Abbey.’ He coughed. ‘The Abbey is still for sale, I understand.’

  ‘Yes. Quite deserted. I often wander over there; I’ve known the place all my life, you know.’

  I yawned.

  ‘So the Hentish fortune went to charity after all. I wonder young William didn’t contest the will. He would have had a case—uncertain temper of the old man, suicide while of unsound mind, etc.’

  ‘I suppose he was afraid he might be reaccused of murder, sir. There was only my word for it that he didn’t leave the boathouse. My word between him and a certain accusation of murder with strong motives for it.’

  ‘He’s gone abroad, they say.’

  ‘To South America, sir. His mother left him a piece of property in the Argentine. He is doing well, I understand, sir. Mr Troubridge, head of my firm, sir, says it has been the making of him.’