As for Anthony, that young businessman began to feel seriously alarmed as the days went by that he would have to return to London before the adjourned inquest brought the case definitely to an end. He had only got three weeks’ holiday, and already two of them were gone. Careful though he had been to conceal any exuberant display of admiration, Anthony really had found himself profoundly impressed by Roger’s handling of the case and his laying bare of its hidden core which even such a tough bird as Inspector Moresby had failed to uncover, and it would have broken his heart to be compelled to leave before all the threads were finally unravelled and the last knots smoothed out.
Fortunately he was not called upon to do so. The Rev. Samuel had died on a Tuesday; on the following Friday the inspector had gone over to Sandsea, returning on Sunday evening; on the next Thursday, exactly a fortnight after his arrival in Ludmouth, Roger was sitting alone with the inspector after supper – and for once Inspector Moresby was not feeling quite so official as usual.
It happened like this:
“I wonder,” Roger had said, “when you’ll hear from Sir Henry about the cause of death.”
And the inspector replied, surprisingly: “Oh, I heard yesterday morning!” He may have felt tempted to bite his tongue out immediately afterward, but indubitably that is what Inspector Moresby replied.
“You did?” squeaked Roger. “Inspector, you – you taciturn devil!”
The inspector applied himself to such small remnants of beer as were still to be found at the bottom of his tankard. “Perhaps it was about time for me to be a little more taciturn than I have been sometimes,” he remarked with ominous application from its depths.
“But I’ve grovelled about that,” Roger said eagerly. “Simply grovelled. Also I’ve explained it all away. Nothing like that will ever occur again. Inspector, you – you are going to tell me what Sir Henry said, aren’t you?”
The inspector, having arrived at the regretful conclusion that his tankard really was empty this time, replaced it on the table. “No, Mr Sheringham, sir,” he said with a good deal of firmness. “I’m not.”
“Oh, you are!” Roger wailed. “Don’t you remember? Think again. You – you are, really.”
“I’m really not,” retorted the inspector still more firmly. They eyed one another in silence.
“Have some more beer!” said Roger helpfully.
“Are you trying to bribe me, sir?” asked the inspector sternly.
“Certainly I am,” Roger replied with dignity. “Do you want everything put into blatant words?”
“Then thank you, sir,” said the inspector. “I could do with another pint on a night like this.”
Roger went with alacrity to the door. “Not a quart?” he suggested. “Come, it’s a hot night as you say. What about a gallon? No? You’re no sportsman, I’m afraid.” He shouted out the order to the landlord and returned to his seat.
“Seriously, though, sir,” the inspector resumed, “I’m afraid I can’t say anything about Sir Henry’s report. You’ll have to wait for the inquest. It’ll all come out then.”
“And when’s that?”
“It was adjourned to today week, if you remember.”
“Oh, Lord!” Roger groaned. “I can’t possibly wait till then.”
“Looks as if you’d have to, doesn’t it?” said the inspector, with hypocritical sympathy.
The landlord brought in two pint tankards of beer and retired again, breathing heavily.
Roger raised his. “Well, here’s confusion to you,” he said with deep gloom.
“Best luck, sir,” returned the inspector politely.
They eyed one another above their respective rims. Then each set down his tankard and laughed.
“You were going to tell me all the time, weren’t you?” said Roger confidently.
“Well, I ought not to, you know, Mr Sheringham,” the inspector demurred. “Still, I mustn’t forget that it was you who put me on to the man in the first place, must I?”
“You must not,” Roger agreed with feeling.
“But this really isn’t for publication, mind. In fact I’d rather you undertook not to tell a single living soul. It’s only on that condition I can say anything to you.”
“Not even Anthony?”
“Not even Mr Walton.”
“Not even Anthony it is, then,” Roger said cheerfully. “Shoot! What was the poison?”
“Aconitine.”
Roger whistled. “Aconitine, was it? By Jove! That explains the rapidity, of course. But it’s not exactly a common one, by any means. Lamson’s specialty, eh? I wonder how Meadows got hold of it.”
“Exactly,” agreed the inspector laconically.
“Aconitine!” observed Roger in deep thought. “Well, well! Of course one of the merits of aconitine is the smallness of the fatal dose. Somewhere about one tenth of a grain, or less, isn’t it? But that doesn’t usually kill for three or four hours. This must have been a good deal more than a fatal dose to work so quickly.”
“It was. At least a grain, Sir Henry reckons.”
“Yes, probably all that. Always the way with the lay suicide, of course, to give himself about ten times as much as he needs. You know that better than I do, no doubt. But aconitine’s about the last thing I was expecting, I must say. I should have put my money on arsenic, or strychnine, or even prussic acid; something more easily procurable than aconitine, at any rate.”
“The symptoms showed it couldn’t be any of those three.”
“Yes, that’s right; they did, of course. Still aconitine is a bit unexpected. Weren’t you surprised?”
“I’m never surprised at anything, sir.”
“Aren’t you really? Blasé fellow! I am, and aconitine is one of the agents. I wonder how he did manage to get hold of it. Forged a medical prescription, I suppose. Have you any idea how he took it? In his breakfast coffee, or something like that?
“Sir Henry found no trace of it in any of the breakfast things.”
“Oh? Did he take it neat, then? Rather unpleasant. And not very safe either; a grain of the stuff wouldn’t be much larger than a big pin’s head.”
“Sir Henry found a considerable quantity of it,” said the inspector steadily, “mixed up with the contents of the tobacco jar.”
“The tobacco jar?” echoed Roger in incredulous tones.
“He also found it,” pursued the inspector, “in the pipe which Meadows had been smoking, particularly in the stem. He says there can be no doubt that that was the vehicle through which it entered his system. There was no trace of it in anything else.”
“His – his pipe!” Roger stammered, staring at his companion with round eyes. “But – but in that case –!”
“Yes, sir?”
“Well – that seems to put suicide almost out of the question!”
“Exactly,” agreed the inspector blandly.
Roger continued to stare at him. “Good Heavens, you don’t mean –?”
“What, sir?”
“That – well, that somebody else poisoned him?”
“There can’t be a shadow of doubt about it,” said the inspector with the utmost cheerfulness. “The Rev. Samuel never committed suicide at all. He was murdered!”
chapter twenty-one
Roger Plays a Lone Hand
It was some minutes before Roger would agree to abandon, once and for all time, his cherished theory of suicide. Suicide had smoothed all difficulties away; suicide had explained both deaths in the simplest possible terms, reduced them to a common denominator; in spite of superficial appearances surely in some way it must be suicide. Not until the inspector had patiently, and for half a dozen times in succession, pointed out that the very last place in which a voluntary consumer of aconitine would put the poison was among the contents of his tobacco jar, and the very last way he would choose of imbibing it was through the stem of his pipe, did Roger reluctantly admit that, hang it! yes, it really did begin to look as if the man had been murdered af
ter all.
“But you don’t think he was under the impression that aconitine was a narcotic and that he could smoke it like opium and so have an easy passage?” he suggested as a final gleam of hope.
“I do not,” said the inspector, briskly extinguishing the gleam. “A man who’s going to use a drug like aconitine at all is going to know something about it; and the very least he’d know is that it isn’t a narcotic. No, sir, there’s no other conclusion at all. Meadows was murdered.”
“Curse the man, then!” Roger observed with feeling. “He’d simply got no right to be, that’s all I can say. Now we’re put right back to the beginning again. Well, who murdered him, Inspector? Perhaps you’ll tell me that too?”
The inspector tugged at his moustache. “I was hoping you’d be able to tell me that, Mr Sheringham.”
“I see,” Roger said bitterly. “I might have known you weren’t pouring out all this confidential information for nothing. You want to pick my magnificent brains again, I suppose?”
“Well, if you like to put it that way, sir,” remarked the inspector in deprecating tones.
“I do. I hate calling a pickaxe an ‘agricultural implement’. All right, pick away.”
The inspector drank a little beer with a thoughtful air. “Let’s begin with a motive, then. Now can you see anyone in the case with a motive for Meadow’s death?”
“Wait a minute. You still think his death is mixed up with Mrs Vane’s? You’re taking that as a starting point?”
“Well, we can always keep the other possibility before us, but it seems a fair enough assumption, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes; the balance of probability is certainly in favour of it. But I don’t think we ought to forget that Meadows (we’ll call him Meadows; it’s easier) was quite possibly a blackmailer, among his other activities; and once we admit blackmail the field is enormously widened.”
“Oh, yes, sir; I’m not forgetting that. But you must remember that he was certainly down here for some specific purpose to do with his wife – the coincidence otherwise would be so great that I think we can wash it out altogether; so if he was blackmailing, it was either his wife or somebody very closely connected with his wife.”
“Such as her husband?”
“Such as Dr Vane,” said the inspector meticulously. “Well, you see what I mean. It seems to me we can take it for granted that his death is due to somebody already mixed up with the case.”
“Yes,” Roger agreed. “I think you’ve clinched that point.”
“So that brings us back to what I asked you first of all: can you see anyone in the case with a motive for getting him out of the way?”
“Plenty!” said Roger promptly. “And the one with the biggest motive of all was Mrs Vane herself.”
“Excluding her, I was really meaning,” the inspector amplified, with quite exemplary patience.
“Well, confining ourselves for the moment to the blackmail motif, I suppose Dr Vane’s the next on the list. He’d have plenty of reason to get rid of his wife’s real husband, especially if he was threatening to give the whole show away – as he probably was.”
“Even after his wife was dead? What would it matter to the doctor then?”
“Everything! Nobody likes to be shown up as a credulous fool, imposed upon by a clever and unscrupulous woman. Besides, there are bound to be reasons there that we don’t know anything about, wheels within wheels. How do we know, for instance, that she hadn’t somehow made him an accessory to some real breach of the law? It would be a useful weapon for a woman in such a precarious position as she was. And Meadows might have got wind of it.”
“Very ingenious, sir,” the inspector approved. “Yes, you make out quite a pretty case against the doctor; though how you’re going to prove it is a different matter. And now cutting out the blackmail idea – or rather, taking another aspect of it. Who after all, whether it was Dr Vane or not, would have the greatest incentive to put Meadows out of the way – to ensure his mouth being shut for ever, if you like?”
Roger nodded slowly. “I see. Yes; of course. And we know Meadows was on the spot at the time; I was forgetting that. Yes, certainly that’s the strongest motive of all.”
“That’s how I look at it, anyway,” said the inspector cheerfully. “In fact, the way I see it is this. Meadows was in that little cave at the time, probably waiting to keep an appointment with his wife. Along she comes, but – with somebody else; not alone. Naturally he lies low; doesn’t want his name connected with hers at all; that might be killing the goose with the golden eggs. And while he’s waiting, the other person pushes his wife over the cliff – and he knows who that other person is.”
“A masterly reconstruction,” Roger commented. “So although the original goose is killed, the gander that did it has delivered himself into his hands; and contrary to all the laws of nature, that gander is going to be made to shell out golden eggs just as fast as a sausage machine!”
“That’s one way of putting it,” the inspector smiled. “But the gander thinks differently, and –”
“As Samuel is promptly despatched to fresh meadows and pastures new! Well, yes, Inspector, one must admit that’s a sound enough theory, and very cogently stated.”
“Doesn’t it seem to you the only reasonable theory, sir? Or at any rate, the most reasonable?”
“I suppose it does,” Roger said thoughtfully. “Yes, the most reasonable, without doubt. So now we come back to the good old problem, which I solved so extremely neatly last week – who killed Mrs Vane?”
“We do, sir. And as to that, do you see one big fact in this second case which is going to give us a valuable pointer to the identity of the double murderer?”
“This is as good as a correspondence course,” Roger murmured: ‘ “How to Be a Detective’ in three lessons – yes, teacher, I do. Aconitine.”
“That’s right, sir. It must have been somebody who had access to aconitine; I think we can take that for granted. I shall make enquiries at the chemist’s in Sandsea and elsewhere, of course, as a matter of form; but I don’t fancy they’ll lead to anything. The murderer knew all about poisons; that’s obvious. Something was wanted that would act quickly, so the choice was practically limited to prussic acid, strychnine, aconitine and currare. Prussic acid smells too strong, so the man could hardly be induced to take it unsuspectingly; with strychnine he’d shout out and make too much fuss; curare won’t act except on an open wound; aconitine (a big dose of aconitine, that is) was just what was wanted.”
“Humph!” Roger said seriously, stroking his chin. “I see what you’re getting at, of course. But do you really think he –”
“Hullo, you two!” said a voice from the door. “Still yapping? Hope you’ve got something to drink up here. I’ve got a throat like a mustard plaster after walking along that road in this heat.”
“Anthony,” said his cousin with not unjustified annoyance, “you’re gross.”
The conversation swerved abruptly from matters criminal.
Lying in bed that night, Roger did not get to sleep very quickly. Apart from this fresh development of the case which in itself was enough to prolong his meditations well into the small hours, he had another problem to engage his attention scarcely less closely – why had the inspector emerged, practically unbidden, from his shell of reticence and volunteered this startling information? The pretext of picking his amateur colleague’s brains was of course only an empty excuse, for in the subsequent discussion it was the inspector who had taken the lead, pointed out the possibilities and established a workable theory; Roger had contributed nothing of any value to it. Why, in other words, had the inspector gone out of his way to drop unmistakable hints that the author of both crimes was Dr Vane himself? It was only as he was dropping off to sleep that an illuminating answer occurred to him – the inspector had done this because this is what he had wished Roger to think: his real theory was something entirely different!
Shaving the next morning, Rog
er pursued this train of thought. That certainly was the explanation of the inspector’s otherwise inexplicable conduct. Laughing maliciously up his sleeve, he had been trying to head the officious journalist, against whom he already had a score to pay, not toward the truth but away from it. Roger grinned at his reflection in the mirror: very well, but two could play at that game. Likewise, forewarned was forearmed. He began to ponder a plan of campaign which should end in extracting the wind from the inspector’s sails.
Obviously the only thing to do was to go straight ahead with his investigations as if nothing had been said. It was possible of course that Dr Vane really was the murderer, although the inspector clearly did not think so. Nor for that matter did Roger himself. Not that Dr Vane struck him as likely to shrink from murder if murder should be necessary, but somehow he did not feel him as the murderer of his wife – he could put it no more reasonably than that; the eliminator of Meadows, yes, quite possibly; but not the other.
And in that connection, was it so unlikely that the two deaths should have been brought about by different agents? The inspector had pretended to think so and had certainly made out a strong case to support his hypothesis, but did that now point out all the more strongly to the opposite conclusion? The inspector had been at some pains even to labour the point; all the more reason therefore to suspect that his real opinion was just the opposite. Well, well, things did seem to be getting really involved. The only way to straighten them out was to keep a clear head, forget no possibilities and yet allow none to bias him unduly – and might the best sleuth win!
Roger brushed his hair with his usual care, put on his coat and walked demurely down to breakfast.
The inspector was already halfway through his meal, and Anthony had not put in an appearance. For ten minutes the two exchanged platitudes, the topic bulging largest in both of their minds being as if by common consent avoided. The inspector mumbled something about having a busy day in front of him and took his departure. Almost simultaneously Anthony entered the room.
Roger Sheringham and the Vane Mystery Page 18