Murder of a Martinet

by E. C. R. Lorac

  “That’s all right, then,” said Madge. “Did she take any other medicine last night?”

  “Just our senna tea, dear. Muriel always made it, and we shared it between us. half a glass each.”

  “I remember,” said Madge. “Now you’d better go and dress. Daddy. I’ll come up with you and find your things, and you can dress in the bathroom. I’ll let Dr. Scott in and fetch you if he wants you.”

  3

  “Those are the tablets, my dear,” said Colonel Farrington, lifting the little round box from the mantelpiece in his dressing room. “There are seven left, just as I said.”

  “I see. Put them back where they were,” said Madge. “Now go and have a wash and get dressed.”

  He obeyed her like a child, and when he had closed the bathroom door Madge went into her stepmother’s room and drew the bedclothes down a little. The waxen face was untroubled, the eyes shut, the jaw in place, supported by the pillows, for the dead woman lay on her side. She wore an old-fashioned cambric nightdress and a dainty knitted sleeping jacket. The loose sleeve of the latter was crumpled up a little, leaving the forearm bare. In the blue-veined arm was a tiny red spot—a recent puncture from a hypodermic needle. Madge stared at it, standing very still, then she replaced the bedclothes as they had been before.

  She caught sight of her own face in the mirror, and went to the dressing table to smooth her hair. Her long dressing gown fastened with a zip from hem to throat, and now her hair was combed through she looked perfectly tidy. She went outside into the hall, and to her surprise she saw Paula standing at the foot of the stairs. It was most unusual for Paula to appear before ten o’clock in the morning.

  “Is anything the matter?” Paula almost gasped out her words.

  “Why do you ask, and what made you get up at this hour?” asked Madge.

  “I heard you come downstairs.”

  “I always come downstairs at six o’clock. You don’t generally find it necessary to come down yourself.”

  “Oh, Madge, don’t be beastly. I had a bad dream or something. Is Mother all right?”

  “Go back to bed,” said Madge tersely. “The doctor’s just coming, that’s his car. You’ve only got a nightdress on and not much of that. Go back to your room before I open the front door.”

  “Madge—is she dead?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  Paula did not answer. Instead she turned and ran upstairs, her chiffon nightdress shimmering over her white body.

  Madge went to the front door and drew the bolts. Dr. Scott was just running up the flight of steps outside.

  “Good morning, Miss Farrington. May I have a word with you? This must have been a shock to you.”

  “Please come in, Doctor.” Madge led him to the drawing room.

  “You are a state registered nurse, I believe,” he said, and she nodded.

  “Then you would know if Mrs. Farrington’s heart had deteriorated of late?”

  “I only know that Dr. Baring said it had deteriorated. My stepmother did not expect, or need, any nursing. Apart from the fact that she rested a good deal and avoided exertion, she led quite a normal life.”

  “Have you had any experience of heart cases?”

  “Obviously. All nurses have, but I never specialised in that line. I did theatre work.”

  “Quite. You can see I must make some inquiries, because Mrs. Farrington was not my patient, and Dr. Baring is in no state to give information. Speaking from your nursing experience, did you think Mrs. Farrington’s heart was likely to give out?”

  Madge faced him steadily. “Her death was a great surprise to me. I didn’t take her heart pains very seriously, because she was of the hypochondriac type. Obviously I was wrong, but hearts are often incalculable.”

  “Admittedly. I take it you saw Dr. Baring when he called yesterday?”

  “No. I did not. I hardly ever saw him. My stepmother preferred to see him alone. As I run this house and do the cooking as well, I don’t leave my work unless I am needed, but my father saw Dr. Baring and he will be able to tell you what he said.”

  “Did Dr. Baring prescribe any medicine?”

  “He gave my stepmother some sleeping tablets. She took one. The rest are in a box in the dressing room.”

  “When did you last see Mrs. Farrington?”

  “At eleven o’clock last night. My father asked me to come in. She was asleep, and I didn’t disturb her. I noticed nothing abnormal about her, except that she was breathing rather heavily.”

  “Thank you. I will examine her now, and see your father later.”

  Madge led him to the bedroom. “The sleeping tablets are on the mantelpiece in the dressing room there,” she said. “Do you wish me to stay?”

  “No. I will call you if I want you.”

  Ten minutes later Dr. Scott’s hand went automatically to his cigarette case, but he put the case back without opening it. He was not feeling very happy. Scott had no opinion of his aged partner; in the younger man’s opinion Baring had no business to have gone on practising, even though he now visited only a few old patients. Forgetful, old-fashioned, and, to Scott’s mind, slovenly, Baring’s judgment had deteriorated. Standing by the bed, Scott asked himself irritably: “What’s the old fool done, and what do I do?”

  He went to the bedroom door and opened it, glancing out across the hall, and Madge came towards him. Motioning her into the bedroom, he inquired: “Did Dr. Baring give this patient any injections?”

  “I don’t know, though I believe something was said about injections for colds or hay fever or catarrh. My father would know. He’s in the drawing room.”

  “Very well. I’ll be with him in a moment.”

  Scott stood still for a moment, his lively mind darting from one disquieting thought to another. “Muddled his doses . . . anaphylactic shock . . . might be. Forgot his reading glasses and bunged in the wrong dope. Lord, what a thought. Didn’t even enter up his visits and treatment. What does A. do now?” He stood and looked down at the peaceful cadaver, and another misgiving assailed him. “Did the poor old muddle-head realise he’d committed an almighty bloomer while he was on his way home, slam down his accelerator, and charge a lamp standard as the easiest way out of the mess? Seems to provide an explanation for an incomprehensible accident.” Pulling the sheet up over the rigid body, Scott went outside again. “I should like to see your father, please,” he said to Madge.

  “He is waiting for you in the drawing room.”

  “Very good. Will you come in too, please.”

  Madge, still in her long tailored dressing gown, followed Scott into Mrs. Farrington’s elegant old-fashioned drawing room. The Colonel was now dressed, neat and composed, though his face was drawn and haggard.

  “I am sorry to have to trouble you with questions at such a time,” said Scott, “but your wife was not my patient, and Dr. Baring is not likely to be able to give us any help.”

  “I am very sorry about Baring’s accident,” replied the Colonel. “I understand your difficulties, Doctor, so go ahead.” He spoke quite steadily, and Scott said:

  “Thank you. First, were you present when Dr. Baring examined your wife yesterday?”

  “No. He saw her in her bedroom and I stayed in here and spoke to him afterwards. My wife was a very reticent woman in some ways: she had the sensitiveness of her generation, and she would never have wished me to be present during a medical examination.”

  “I understand. Would you tell me, as far as you can remember, what Dr. Baring reported to you.”

  The Colonel rubbed his grey head. “I will do my best, but Baring was less lucid than usual. The fact was he seemed far from well himself, shaky and uncertain. However, he certainly did say, ‘No immediate occasion for alarm, but I will arrange for a consultation. The pulse is irregular and there are some murmurs which I don’t like.’ Actually, the poor old chap looked so shaky himself, I didn’t press him further.”

  “What time did he call?”

  “
Around seven o’clock. I had telephoned to him earlier in the day at my wife’s request; she complained of heart pains and faintness. I rang him again at six o’clock.”

  “He did not mention any injections?”

  “Not Baring himself. My wife told me that he was giving her a series of injections for the colds and catarrh which troubled her. She did not say very much about it, as we had had a difference of opinion on the matter. I am strongly against this modern craze for injections, but there, you don’t want my opinions.”

  Madge put in a word here. “Surely Dr. Baring’s casebook will give you the information you want, Doctor.”

  Scott was conscious of intense irritation: he hated muddles and confusion, and this case was one vast muddle. He replied:

  “When Dr. Baring’s car crashed, there was no police officer immediately available. Several people went to his assistance, and it was found later that his medical case had been stolen. As his notebook was also missing, it is to be presumed that that was stolen, too.”

  Madge made no reply, and Scott finally made up his mind.

  “I am sorry, but in the circumstances I cannot write a certificate, because I am uncertain of the cause of death. A postmortem will have to be held to determine it.”

  There were a few seconds of dead silence; then the Colonel said: “I don’t pretend that your decision is a welcome one, Doctor, but you know your duty and you must perform it.”

  “1 respect you for that reply, sir,” answered Scott. “Now, as to other details. Dr. Baring saw your wife at seven o’clock. Was she in bed?”

  “Yes. She had gone to lie down earlier in the day, and got into bed after tea,” replied the Colonel.

  “Did she take anything to eat?”

  “Only a glass of hot milk, with a few drops of brandy added, after Baring left. I sat with her from eight o’clock until nine, when she listened to the news. Immediately after the news, I gave her one of the sleeping tablets Baring had left for her. She then said she would settle down to sleep. I went out for a stroll, to get some fresh air, and looked into her room at ten o’clock. At eleven, when I myself went to bed, I looked into her room again. She was breathing heavily, and I turned the light on beside her bed—a carefully shaded light—”

  Again Madge interposed. “My father asked me to come in and look at her. I was bringing her barley water up, as it had been forgotten. Father was worried, but I could see nothing which caused me to think my stepmother was ill. She was sleeping quietly apart from the fact that she breathed rather heavily. Obviously my judgment was wrong.”

  “This barley water,” said Scott. “There was an empty glass beside Mrs. Farrington’s bed. Had she drunk her barley water?”

  “No,” replied the Colonel. “When I went in to her at six this morning, the glass was still full, just as Madge had left it. I turned on the hand lamp when I realised my wife was not breathing. The shock of seeing her dead shook me up pretty badly. I drank the barley water myself because my throat seemed to go dry and I was a bit muddled.”

  Scott looked down at the old man’s haggard face, and for once the young surgeon spoke gently. ‘‘I understand. I’m sorry, sir, I realise it was a terrible blow for you, and I respect you very much for the clarity and courage with which you have answered my questions. Now I will make all arrangements and save you as much distress as I can.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. Very good of you,” replied the Colonel.

  Madge watched with an inscrutable face as Scott went back into Mrs. Farrington’s bedroom, and then took her father’s arm. “Come downstairs into the warm, Daddy. It’s cold in here.”

  He followed her without a word.

  4

  Coming upstairs again from the kitchen, Madge met Anne in the hall. “Madge, is there anything I can do? Paula’s only just told me. Tony’s still asleep. He doesn’t even know yet.”

  “So much the better,” said Madge coldly. “You can keep Tony and Paula and everybody else out of the way if you want to help. There’s nothing anybody can do except keep quiet and not make a fuss. The ambulance will be coming in a minute. Scott wants a p.m.”

  Anne gasped. “Oh God . . . why?”

  “Because she wasn’t his patient and he won’t sign a certificate without an examination. Baring’s had a motor smash and can’t help.”

  “But it was her heart, wasn’t it?” gasped Anne.

  “It’s no business of mine to say what it was,” snapped Madge, “and for goodness sake, don’t go all emotional over it.” ‘

  “Where’s Eddie? Can I go and talk to him?” asked Anne.

  “He’s down in the kitchen. He was cold and shaky, and I persuaded him to stay there. It’s warm down there.”

  “I’ll go down to him, poor old darling . . . or ought I to go and fetch Tony?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, don’t do anything of the kind. We don’t want the whole family in the hall tripping over the stretcher men,” snapped Madge. “Listen. That’s the ambulance bell. Go down and fetch Eddie. He’s the only one who matters.”

  Anne went down the kitchen stairs. She, too, felt cold and shaky—and frightened. But when she saw Colonel Farrington’s grey face, Anne forgot her own feelings; forgot, too, about Tony and Madge and everything else. “Eddie, dear, I’m so sorry!” she cried.

  CHAPTER IV

  “COME IN. What’s your trouble?” asked Dr. Scott curtly. It was the end of his evening surgery, and the sight of the tall, well-set-up fellow in the doorway was rather irritating to a busy doctor who enjoyed “interesting” cases. This chap looked as healthy as a man could. The newcomer proffered a card.

  “I thought it’d be simpler if you finished your surgery before I butted in,” he observed.

  The card informed Scott that his visitor’s name was Macdonald, his rank, Chief Inspector, C.I.D.

  “I see,” said Scott. “Glad to meet you. I’ve heard you giving evidence. Incidentally, what have I done?”

  “As to that, I have no information, save that you asked for a p.m. on a Mrs. Farrington. I have come to tell you the result of the autopsy. Thanks to your own promptness in supplying the necessary specimen, they were able to ascertain that death was caused by an injection of insulin.”

  “Cripes!” said Scott.

  Having uttered this monosyllable, he produced his cigarette case and held it out to Macdonald. “I’d practically taken out my fountain pen to write that certificate,” Scott added.

  Macdonald held out his lighter. “Would you like to tell me why you didn’t—or not?” he inquired.

  Scott looked at the Chief Inspector’s long, lean face: met he half-smiling, observant eyes, reflected on the quiet voice, ind synthesised his impressions in the judgment that here was i man he could talk to. a man who had something in common with himself.

  “Am I allowed a word off the record—or not, to use your approach?” he inquired.

  “By all means. I have a man outside, and he can take down a statement in due course. For the moment we have 10 witness, and I’m listening.”

  “Right. Deceased was not my patient. I had examined her once, three months ago, at Dr. Baring’s request. Baring was my partner. He died last night as the result of injuries in a motor smash which happened just after his last visit to Mrs. Farrington. In my opinion Mrs. Farrington’s heart and general health were as sound as those of most women of her age.” He paused, and Macdonald nodded. Scott continued: “Seeing :his :s off the record, I admit that I thought Baring should lave retired. He was seventv-six, his faculties were fading. Damn all, I might as well say it. though we generally don’t. He was past his job. But the few old patients he still visited doted on him. They hate me like stink. Is that clear enough?”

  “Perfectly clear. Thank you for the opinion. It will go no farther.”

  “Right. Well, at 6.10 A.M. on Tuesday, March twenty-seventh, Miss Farrington rang up to inform Baring that her stepmother had died in her sleep. Baring was dying himself. I’d got a busy day in front of me, and
I thought I’d knock one job off straight away. I went round at once. I judged death had taken place about two hours previously, during deep or coma. Rigor had just begun to set in on the neck and shoulders. But I did not believe death was caused by heart failure. Three months ago the patient’s heart was normal, incidental pains being due to distended colon—call it wind. Her physique was good and the body showed no signs of illness. She’d just died quietly. There was a clear mark of a hypodermic puncture, quite a neat job, on her left forearm.”

  Scott met Macdonald’s eyes, and the latter said: “Putting two and two together, I take it you felt in a quandary?”

  “Like hell I did,” replied Scott feelingly. “We don’t like stinks in our job, any more than you do in yours. You see, Baring’s motor smash seemed quite idiotic. He put his foot on the throttle and charged a lamppost quite unnecessarily, and seemed to have avoided the necessity of giving a certificate of death from heart failure with me looking on, if you follow my line of thought,”

  “I follow.”

  Scott almost laughed. “Well, there I was. I knew what I thought; may the good Lord forgive me, for I was wrong. I made the obvious inquiries. Old Farrington’s a nice old boy, straight and clearheaded. The .stepdaughter, Madge Farrington, is a state registered nurse. We’ll go back to her later. But their combined evidence was quite clear: deceased had been awake and talkative for at least two hours after Baring had seen her, having presumably injected God knows what. She had taken food and a sleeping tablet, and had been breathing heavily at eleven o’clock. According to the nurse stepdaughter, patient appeared normal at eleven o’clock. Well, there it was. It’d have saved a lot of trouble to write a certificate.”

  “But you didn’t write one.”

  “No. Human nature’s very generalised. Medical men aren’t archangels, though we do our best. I didn’t want to rake over poor old Baring’s error of commission or omission. I’ll tell you one thing bang out, and you can write me off as a skunk if you like. One of the things that kept my fountain pen in my pocket was that I was perfectly certain that Miss Madge Farrington had read my mind like a book. I reckoned that she also was certain that her stepmother had not died of heart failure. She also had observed that hypodermic puncture, and she also had her own opinion of Baring. Well, that stiffened me. I told them I didn’t know what was the cause of death and a p.m. was necessary. But it was quite a close thing. You see, Baring had said persistently her heart was this, that, or the other, and who was I to state he was wrong?”