Murder of a Martinet

by E. C. R. Lorac

  Macdonald nodded. “It appears that he was wrong, all the same. Here’s the report. Would you like to tell me what made you think of insulin?”

  “Well, it was just one of those ideas. I was puzzled, and there was the puncture mark of the hypodermic. Added to which, I’m not one of those blokes who’s afraid of being snorted at if I prove to be wrong. Insulin . . . damn it all, it would have been so easy, and such a good chance it’d never be discovered. Anyway, I reckoned I couldn’t do any harm by sending in a specimen and marking it priority. It had to be done pronto. Another hour would have kippered it. And now it’s your job to spot the optimist.”

  “That’s about it. I believe I’m right in saying that insulin injected into the blood stream of a normal non-diabetic lays them out within about half an hour.”

  Scott nodded. “Yes. About that. It’s used, as you doubtless know, to cause a period of blackout in some cases of nervous instability, and also of drug addiction. The balance of the blood is restored by a counter-injection after a carefully considered interim. If the counter-injection were not given, the patient would go out in a coma, just as a diabetic may in the absence of insulin.”

  Macdonald nodded. “How does a member of the general public set about acquiring insulin?” he asked, and Scott grunted.

  “Yes,” he replied, “I thought that was coming.” He lighted another cigarette and frowned over his papers. “Oh, well,” he said. “I might as well tell you everything that occurs to me right away. It’ll save your time and mine, and it’s less undignified than having the idea winkled out. Baring was one of those old boys who like to look up-to-date. He’d got one of those attache-case outfits which the swell firms love to supply. Drugs to meet every emergency. You should know,” he ended abruptly.

  Macdonald chuckled. “We should and do. We spend an unconscionable amount of time trying to trace the cases which get stolen with tedious frequency from the unlocked cars of busy G.P.’s.”

  “Right. And you also know that by the time a conscientious police constable arrived at the spot where Baring crashed his car, the super outfit of lethal drugs, various, was no longer in evidence.”

  Macdonald nodded, “Is there any evidence that Dr. Baring had got that case with him when he left the Farringtons?”

  “None whatever,” said Scott. “It was like this. Baring had had a touch of flu. Nothing serious, but he was bunged up with catarrh and dizzy with quinine. The poor old chap hadn’t wanted to go out at all, but Colonel and Mrs. F. kept on yattering away at him on the phone. He asked me to go. I said, ‘Not on your life.’ I’d got a couple of confinements, an interesting pneumonia, and a probable appendix on my hands, and I wasn’t doing any of Baring’s fancy cases. Thinking it over, I suppose you could tell me I’m therefore morally responsible for the whole to-do.”

  “I suppose I could,” said Macdonald; “but I’m not, so go on.”

  “Thanks. When Baring got to the Farringtons’ he wasn’t feeling all that. Even the Colonel, who’s not the world’s brightest, said Baring seemed shaky, ‘less lucid than usual’ was the way the Colonel put it. The two old buffers had the usual heart-to-heart about the missis’s state of health after Baring’s examination, and Baring recommended a consultation at some later date—that was always one of his good cards. Prosperous patients like it. Shows they’re being taken seriously. Incidentally, it’s up to you to discover whether the Colonel, in the kindness of his heart, gave poor old Baring a double whisky.”

  “And that strikes me as a highly intelligent suggestion,” said Macdonald. “I like it much better than the idea of Dr. Baring accelerating and charging a lamppost as he realised what he had or had not done. The double whisky could also have been responsible for absence of mind. He could have forgotten his case; a combination of flu, quinine, and whisky might well have tended to make him forgetful. Now, before we go any farther, am I right in supposing that you wrote a report after you came home from the Farringtons’?”

  “You’re perfectly right,” said Scott grimly. “I’m one of the careful kind. I’ll get it for you. It’s in the safe. I can’t swear it’s absolutely verbatim, but in my opinion my memory is as accurate as most.”

  He got up, opened the safe, and produced some typed sheets, which Macdonald read through.

  ‘Thanks. Admirably explicit. I take it you could swear to the essentials?”

  “Yes. I typed it out as soon as I got home. You see, I didn’t like it. Any of it.”

  2

  “Although you have only been to the Farringtons’ house twice, you seem to have noticed quite a bit about them.” said Macdonald. “It’d be very helpful if you’d tell me any general impressions.”

  “Provided the general impressions are off the record.” said Scott. “Don’t mistake me. I know a man of your experience isn’t going to be biased by opinions of mine, but I like to draw a very clear line between the objective and the subjective, if I may put it that way.”

  “Why not? You could give an objective opinion on the state of my liver, but not on my moral character or tendencies,” replied Macdonald. “Sticking to the subjective for the moment: have you any comment to make on the girl in the nightgown whom you saw on the stairs? You mentioned the incident in your report, and it seems to me you limited yourself to essentials, or what struck you as essentials.”

  “Correct,” said Scott. “Well, the girl was Paula Farrington, the youngest daughter. She’d consulted me professionally some two months ago, quite a trivial matter, a strained muscle. She’s a dancer. She struck me as being the typical modern product, likely to come a cropper sooner or later because she uses her nervous system to supply the energy she ought to obtain from eating a lot of good food and sleeping eight hours a night. A professional dancer needs food and sleep. I thought she was strained and fatigued, though she tried to camouflage it under a vague and casual manner.”

  “You didn’t like her.” observed Macdonald.

  “There was something about her I didn’t like, though she’s a beautiful creature. She talked about her mother, and I got the feeling she was trying to pump an opinion out of me—which she didn’t get. Now, when Madge Farrington opened the door to me on Tuesday morning, I caught a glimpse of the other girl whisking round the head of .the stairs. Nothing in that, of course. I was surprised there weren’t more of the family around; there’s a whole clan of them living in that house. But this girl, Paula, didn’t go back to her room and get dressed, although she’d only got a wisp of a nightdress or, and it was a cold morning. She stayed on the landing until I left the house. I couldn’t see her, but I have a very acute sense of smell and I loathe scent. Paula must use those stinking bath essences which you can smell a mile away. Madge Farrington doesn’t use scent, but I could smell this exotic stink each time I passed through the hall. The girl was up there all right, listening, but I don’t think she’d have got much satisfaction. There are good doors in that house, and I saw they were shut.”

  Macdonald glanced down at Scott’s report. “Judging from what you have just said, you would have realised if Paula had recently been in her mother’s bedroom.”

  “She hadn’t, not recently. There was no smell of scent in there at all.”

  “Right. Now about the nurse, Madge.”

  “The only information I have about Madge is derived from Baring. I’ve got to be careful here, because I’m liable to give too much weight to my own impressions and judgments. Madge Farrington trained at St. Nathaniel’s from 1939 to 1944. They had a tough time there, you remember, being bombed repeatedly owing to their proximity to the docks. In 1944 she crocked up, had a bad nervous breakdown, and was in the Stand Barton clinic for six months. She then had three months in a convalescent home, and later went back to Windermere House to housekeep for her parents. The only reason I know anything about this is because Baring asked me for an opinion on nerve cases, with particular reference to the Stand Barton methods.” Scott paused and then added abruptly; “It appeared that her stepmother was
worried about Madge. Mentioned various symptoms to Baring and hinted at a relapse.”

  There was a moment’s silence and then Macdonald said: “I see,” and made no further comment for a second or two. Then he asked: “Was Mrs. Farrington a dominating type:”

  Scott nodded.

  “Well, since you feel scruples about going on, let’s fall back on the question-and-answer method,” said Macdonald.

  “Do you think there’s a possibility that the stepmother tried to retain power over her stepdaughter by cooking up theories of a feared relapse?”

  Scott nodded. “I got that impression, but I may have been quite wrong.”

  “Will you hazard any opinion as to the stepdaughter’s present mental state?”

  Til tell you my own impressions, but they’re not worth anything. I’m a surgeon. Neuropathology is right off my beat. Madge Farrington is fully self-controlled. Physically, she is fit, strong and steady. Hands, eyes, balance, all normal and co-ordinated. And it is worth while remembering this. When I said I couldn’t sign a certificate, she never batted an eyelid. I watched her. I believe there is a certain type of neurotic who can give every appearance of normality until they are faced with something which goes dead against their will. Then they break up. She’s not that type.”

  Again Scott paused, and Macdonald waited. At last the doctor said:

  “To sum up. Madge Farrington did not believe her stepmother had a weak heart. She said to me, ‘Her death was a great surprise to me.’ She probably believed that Baring would have given a certificate without hesitation, and she had expected Baring to answer the phone. She knows about the properties of insulin and the use of a hypodermic. And I should imagine that she had very good reason for hating her stepmother. Finally, I think it’s worth remembering that the facts I have mentioned in summing up are probably known to every other member of that curiously assorted household.”

  “I think that’s very fairly put,” said Macdonald. “You speak about the curiously assorted household. Do you know anything about any of the others?”

  “I can give you a general idea, if that’s any good.”

  “I should be glad if you would. I prefer to know the identities of those in a big household if I get the chance.”

  “Right. You’ve heard so far about the Colonel, and Madge Farrington, his daughter by a first marriage. Mrs. Farrington’s son, also by an earlier marriage, a fellow named Strange, has one floor of the house. He’s married. I’ve seen his wife: she came to me about a grumbling appendix. She’s about thirty, intelligent, good-looking, but lacking the guts to find a home of her own. There’s another married couple on the floor above—daughter to Colonel and Mrs. Farrington and her husband. I don’t know either of them. Finally, the twins, Paula and Peter. Peter was Baring’s patient. I’ve caught sight of him. A picturesque youth who rouses the worst in me. That’s the lot.”

  “Thanks. Quite a selection,” said Macdonald. “It’s unusual to find prosperous families living en masse.”

  “It’s a damned big house. Mrs. Farrington owned it, not her husband.”

  “Is that so. Was she by way of being the matriarch?”

  “That’s about it.”

  “You have carefully avoided giving me any opinion about her,” commented Macdonald, “except that her heart and general health weren’t so bad as she liked to think.”

  Scott snorted impatiently and then said: “I’ve been trying to be fair. I’ll tell you my opinion, but kindly remember that she was the type of woman who makes me see red. You see, before this National Health came into operation, a woman like Mrs. Farrington could command as much of a doctor’s time as she chose. She was a profitable patient, and quite prepared to pay for the luxury of having a medical man on a string, if he were fool enough to let her. There’s plenty of disease and suffering in the world without wasting time on hypochondriacs. When I had to see her one day when Baring was laid up, she thought she was going to have the luxury of telling me her life story plus that of her family. Well, it wasn’t a success. In my opinion she was a self-indulgent humbug, and she domineered over the entire household.”

  “Including her husband?”

  “Well, no. I shouldn’t put it quite like that. He’s a nice old chap, with a sort of old-fashioned courtesy and a strong sense of duty. He was genuinely fond of her, and because of his affection he wasn’t aware of the way she exploited ‘her frail state of health,’ as he put it. Also, I think he’d developed a technique for dealing with her, and said ‘Yes, dear’ in tones of perfect sympathy without noticing very much what she said. He’s a very kindly old chap. I’ve heard some of my poorer patients talk about his generosity.”

  “Well, I’m much obliged to you, Dr. Scott. You’ve been most helpful. If you’re willing to let me have this report, I needn’t bother you about any other statement for the moment.”

  “Oh, yes. Take it by all means. Shall I sign it? I’ll abide by everything I’ve written down.”

  He scrawled his name at the bottom of the typescript and handed it to Macdonald, who took it with a word of thanks and then added: “Anything else you’d like to add?” “Nothing that’s of any use to you,” said Scott. “I shall be interested to know what you make of it. I sometimes get cases in which diagnosis looks easy, and later on I find the obvious symptom is no indication at all of the disease the patient is suffering from.”

  “Yes,” said Macdonald. “We get analogous cases, but experience has taught me to suspect the obvious on certain occasions. I think this may be one of them.”

  “It’s not going to be easy,” said Scott slowly. “I’ll lay any money that whatever else it is, it’s not one of those easy ones.”

  CHAPTER V

  IT WAS just after half-past nine the following morning (Thursday) that Macdonald approached Windermere House and saw a charwoman actually hearthstoning the flight of steps leading up to the dignified front door. She was just finishing the bottom step, and Macdonald said:

  “It doesn’t seem fair to walk up your steps when you’ve taken all that trouble to whiten them. It’s hard work, isn’t it?”

  “Sinful waste of time, ain’t it?” she replied. “But there, it looks posh. I’m proud of ’em: there’s not a flight o’ steps for miles looks as good as these ’ere. Walk up and welcome. Was you wanting somebody?”

  “Colonel Farrington. Is he at home?”

  “Bless you, yes. He’s in the kitchen, polishing off his own shoes, if you’ll believe me. Takes a real gent to clean ’is own shoes. ‘Mrs. Pinks’ ’e says to me, ‘I’m proud of doing me shoes, just like you’re proud of your steps.’ That’s the Colonel, one o’ the best. A real gent, and no airs with it. Come in, second on your right. What name shall I say?”

  “Macdonald. The Colonel doesn’t know me, but ask him if he can spare a minute.”

  The room which Macdonald entered was a drawing room of the Edward and Alexandra period. Its rosewood tables and chairs, grand piano, cabinets, and bookcases were all beautiful old pieces, all polished and immaculate. The carefully placed cretonne-covered settee and easy chairs, with well-plumped-up cushions, told of a room recently cleaned and tidied, but there were no personal possessions lying about: no books or papers or needlework, no flowers in the vases, no fire in the grate. It was not a room in use, just a room that had been “done.” The door opened and Colonel Farrington came in. He wore grey flannel trousers and a comfortable old tweed coat, a black tie, soft collar, and very well-polished shoes.

  “Good morning,” he said. “I don’t think we’ve met before.”

  “Good morning, sir. I am sorry to have to bother you. I’m a C.I.D. man, and it is my duty to tell you the findings of the post-mortem examination on Mrs. Farrington.”

  Macdonald’s voice was very quiet and steady, and Colonel Farrington listened with an unhappy face, but he looked neither astonished nor shocked, only deeply troubled.

  “C.I.D.,” he repeated. “That can only mean one thing. I’m very sorry, but I fea
red it. I feared it all the time. . . . Poor old chap. He was a good man in his day, and the kindest soul alive. Do you mind coming in to my study—Superintendent, is it? Chief Inspector—thanks. I can’t bear this room now. It seems dead without my wife’s little things lying about. It was so much her drawing room, hasn’t changed for thirty years.”

  He led the way across the hall and opened a door at the back of the house and led Macdonald into a tiny room. There was a closed roll-top desk in it, two chairs, and a bookcase with books of reference in it. Golf clubs stood in one corner, and some fishing gear in another: regimental groups were on the wall but no other pictures or photographs. The room was tidy and bare and businesslike, its wallpaper faded, its curtains drab, but the Colonel sat down in his swivel chair as though he felt at home there.

  “I should be obliged if you would tell me the facts quite plainly, Chief Inspector.” he said.

  “Very good, sir. Mrs. Farrington died as the result of an injection of insulin.”

  “Insulin?” repeated the Colonel wonderingly. “I thought that was only used in cases of . . . what is it? Diabetes. But my wife wasn’t diabetic.”

  “No, sir. It was on that account that the insulin killed her.”

  “But the stuff isn’t poisonous, is it?” asked the Colonel helplessly. “I know I’m very ignorant of these things, but I thought it was used to cure disease.”