Death at Breakfast

by John Rhode

  JOHN RHODE

  Death at Breakfast

  Copyright

  COLLINS CRIME CLUB

  an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by Collins Crime Club 1936

  Copyright © Estate of John Rhode 1936

  Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1936, 2017

  John Rhode asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008268756

  Ebook Edition © October 2017 ISBN: 9780008268763

  Version: 2017-09-08

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter I: A Mishap While Shaving

  Chapter II: Clues in Abundance

  Chapter III: ‘Stanley Fernside’

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Victor Harleston stirred uneasily. He grunted, then opened his eyes. Was he awake? Yes, he thought so. He stretched himself, to make quite sure of the fact.

  It was still dark behind the closed curtains, on this January morning. Too dark for Harleston to see the time by his watch, which lay upon the table beside his bed. He was too lazy to stretch out his hand and switch on the light. Instead of this, he lay still and listened.

  Very little noise came to him from without the house. Matfield Street was a backwater, lying not far south of the Fulham Road, and comparatively little traffic passed along it. One or two early risers were evidently about. Harleston could hear the hurried tap of a woman’s heels upon the pavement. This passed and gave place to a popular tune, whistled discordantly. A boy on a bicycle, probably. Considering that the window of his bedroom looked out at the back of the house, it was surprising how distinctly one could hear the noises from the street, Harleston thought idly.

  But these were not what he was listening for. His ears were tuned to catch a familiar sound from within the house. Ah, there it was! A rattling of crockery. Janet would be along soon with his early tea. Harleston pulled up the eiderdown a few inches, and composed himself for a few minutes doze.

  Then, suddenly, his memory returned, and in an instant he was wide awake. It was the morning of January the 21st, the day which was to make him rich! No more dozing for him now. Rather an indulgence in luxurious anticipation. Before the day was out, he could be his own master, if he chose. He hadn’t decided yet what he should do. Better not throw up his job at once. People might wonder. On the whole, it would be best to wait until the Spring, then take a long holiday and consider the future. There was no earthly need for a hurried decision.

  He heard a door slam, somewhere downstairs, and then steps approaching his room. Janet, with the tea. It must be half-past seven.

  Then the expected knock on the door, and a girl’s voice, ‘Are you awake, Victor?’

  ‘Yes, come in,’ he replied.

  The door opened, and the girl placed her hand on the switch, flooding the room with light. She wore a gaily coloured apron, and was carrying a tray. Seen even this early in the morning, she was not unattractive. Full, graceful and unhurried in her movements. A slim figure, with her head well set upon her shoulders. Her face was certainly not pretty, but, on the other hand, it could not be described as ugly. Plain Jane, she had been called at school. And the nickname aptly described her. Janet Harleston was plain, without anything special about her face to capture the attention.

  If you looked at her twice, you did so the second time because your curiosity was aroused. You wondered if her expression was natural to her, or whether something had occurred that moment to cause it. You noticed the sullen droop of her lips, the hard, unsympathetic look in her grey eyes. A sulky girl, you would have thought.

  Her behaviour on this particular morning would have strengthened that impression. She put the tray down upon the table by Victor Harleston’s bed, and left the room without a word.

  He made no effort to detain her. His mind was too full of plans for the future to find room for trifles. He raised himself to a sitting position, blinking in the sudden light. Seen thus, his face appearing above his brightly striped pyjamas, he was definitely unlovely.

  Victor Harleston was a man of forty-two, and at this moment he looked ten years older. His coarse, heavy face was wrinkled with sleep, and his sparse, mouse-coloured hair, already beginning to turn grey, had gathered into thin wisps. These lay at fantastic angles on his head, disclosing unhealthy looking patches of skin. What could be seen of his body was flabby and shapeless. His eyes were intelligent, almost penetrating. But there was something malefic, non-human about them.

  He yawned, disclosing a set of discoloured teeth, in which were many gaps, and looked about him. Janet was still upset, then. She hadn’t troubled to draw the curtains or light the gas-fire. Well, he couldn’t help her troubles. She’d get over them in time. She’d have to.

  This last reflection brought a grin to his face. He loved to feel that people had to do what he wanted. At present, the number of such people was disappointingly small. Janet, and a few juniors at the office. It galled him to think that, up till now, he had himself had to do what his employer wanted. Up till now! Money was a precious thing, to be carefully hoarded. There was only one way in which a rational man was justified in spending it. The purchase of freedom for himself, and of servitude for others.

  Still, he would have to make up his mind about Janet. He might make her an allowance, and tell her to go to the devil. But the prospect of parting with any of the fortune now within his grasp was repugnant to him. Why should he make Janet an allowance? Why part with one who was, after all, an efficient and inexpensive servant? He would only have to replace her, and the money spent on the allowance would be utterly thrown away, bringing him no benefit. Yes, that was the plan. He would stay here, in this house which was his own and suited him. But he wouldn’t spend the rest of his life earning money for other people. He would enjoy himself, and Janet should continue to look after him. But she must never be allowed to guess at his sudden access of fortune. That was a secret to be hugged to his own breast.

  As for her temper, that had never troubled him yet, and it was not likely to now. She was too dependent upon him to let her ill-nature go to extremes. Dependent upon him for every mouthful she ate, every shred she wore. It was a delicious thought. He could dispose of her as he pleased. And it pleased him that she should remain and keep house for him. Victor Harleston poured himself out a cup of tea, added milk and sugar, and left it to cool.

  He resumed his interrupted train of thought. No need to take seriously her threat of the previous evening. She would leave him, and go and stay with Philip until she found a job for herself! Not she! She knew too well which side her bread was buttered to do a silly thin
g like that. Jobs that would suit her couldn’t be had just for the picking up. There was only one job she was fitted for, that of a domestic servant. And what would Philip, with his high-flown ideas, say to that? It was all very well for the young puppy to encourage her. He wasn’t earning enough to keep her, that was quite certain. And he had a perfect right to forbid Philip the house, if he wanted to.

  Victor Harleston drank his tea, and got out of bed. His first action was to draw the curtains. A sinful waste to use electric light if he could see to dress without it. Yes, it was a bright morning, clear and frosty. He switched off the light. Then he took a cigarette from a box which stood on his chest of drawers, and put the end of it in his mouth. He found the box of matches which he always kept hidden in a drawer, underneath his handkerchiefs. He struck a match, turned on the gas-fire, and lighted it. With the same match he lit his cigarette. No sense in using two matches when one would serve. Then he put the box back in its accustomed place.

  As he did so, a sheet of paper which he had placed on the dressing table the previous evening caught his eye. It was a business letter. He read it over again, and smiled. All right. He had not the slightest objection to receiving something for nothing. He would try the experiment, right away.

  Standing in front of the gas-fire, warming himself, his thoughts reverted to his impending fortune. He picked up a pencil from the mantelpiece, and with it made a few calculations on the back of the letter. The resulting figures seemed to please him, for he nodded contentedly. Quite a lot of money, if carefully husbanded.

  He folded the letter in half, and tore it across. Then put the two halves together, folded them as before, and once more tore them across. With each of the four scraps of paper thus produced he made a spill. These he added to a bundle of similar spills which stood in a vase. No sense in wasting matches, when with one of these one could light a cigarette from the gas-fire.

  He took his dressing-gown from a hook behind the door, put it on, and went along to the bathroom.

  I

  A Mishap While Shaving

  1

  Doctor Mortimer Oldland, though no longer young, was still full of energy. He would tell his patients, sometimes rather acidly, that hard work had never killed anybody yet. It certainly showed no signs of killing him. His extensive practice in Kensington left him very little leisure. But he always seemed ready at any moment to tackle a fresh case or to persevere with an old one.

  He believed in early rising, summer or winter. By half-past eight on the morning of January 21st he had finished his breakfast, and was sitting over the fire consulting his case-book. As the clock struck the half hour, the door opened, and the parlourmaid appeared. ‘There’s a lady called to see you. sir. She says it’s urgent.’

  ‘It’s always urgent when ladies call at this hour,’ replied Oldland calmly. ‘I suppose she has brought the usual small boy, suspected of swallowing a sixpence?’

  ‘No, sir. She’s alone, and seems in a terrible state. She was too upset to tell me her name. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen her here before, sir.’

  ‘All right. I’ll see what I can do for her.’ Oldland put down his case-book, and walked into his surgery.

  He was confronted by a distraught woman, a perfect stranger to him. ‘Oh, Doctor!’ she exclaimed, as soon as he appeared. ‘Can you come round at once? My brother has been taken very ill, and I don’t know what to do for him.’

  Oldland’s experience had made him a pretty fair judge of character. She did not seem to him the sort of woman who would fly into a panic over nothing. ‘I’ll come,’ he replied shortly. ‘Where is your brother?’

  ‘At home, 8 Matfield Street. It’s quite close …’

  ‘So close that it will be quicker to walk there than ring up for a taxi. And you can tell me the details as you go.’

  He picked up his emergency bag, and they set off, Oldland walking at his usual smart pace, the girl, for it was evident that she was quite young, half running to keep up with him. In broken words she described the symptoms. Her brother had come down to breakfast as usual, but complaining of not feeling very well. He had drunk a cup of coffee, but had been almost immediately sick. He had complained of being terribly giddy, and had seemed unable to walk. On leaving the dining-room, he had collapsed on the floor of the hall, where he lay, unable to speak or move.

  ‘I see,’ said Oldland. ‘We’ll see what we can do for him. By the way, I don’t think I caught the name?’

  ‘Harleston. I’m Janet Harleston, and my brother’s name is Victor. He’s only my half-brother, and he’s a good deal older than I am. I keep house for him. I’ve never known him like this before. He’s always perfectly well.’

  Oldland asked no more questions, and they covered the remainder of the distance in silence. The front door of number eight Matfield Street was standing ajar. Janet Harleston ran up the half-dozen steps which led to it, and pushed it open.

  Oldland followed her into a narrow, linoleum-laid hall. He had no need to inquire the whereabouts of his patient. Victor Harleston lay huddled on the floor. At a first glance Oldland saw that he was completely unconscious. He examined the patient rapidly, then took a syringe from his bag and administered an injection. ‘Is there a sofa handy?’ he asked sharply.

  Janet was standing by, watching him anxiously. ‘Yes, in the sitting room,’ she replied. ‘Just through this door.’

  ‘Is there a maid in the house?’

  ‘No, my brother and I live alone. We have a charwoman, but she doesn’t come until the afternoon.’

  ‘That’ll be too late. He’s a heavy man, and I hardly think we could manage him between us. Will you run out, please Miss Harleston, and fetch a policeman. There’s one at the corner of the Fulham Road, I noticed him as we passed. Tell him I sent you. He’s sure to know my name.’

  She ran out obediently, and Oldland resumed his examination of the patient. Victor Harleston, his toilet completed, was more presentable than he had appeared in bed. His hair was brushed and neatly parted, and his clothes, if not smart, were clean and nearly new. But he had apparently cut himself while shaving, and the patch of sticking-plaster adhering to his cheek was scarcely an ornament. Oldland, holding his pulse, shook his head ominously.

  Within a couple of minutes Janet returned with a policeman. He and Oldland exchanged nods of mutual recognition. ‘This young lady asked me to come along, sir …’ he began.

  ‘Yes, that’s right, Carling.’ Oldland cut in curtly. ‘Poor fellow. Taken ill. I want to get him on to the sofa next door. You take his shoulders, and I’ll take his legs. That’s right.’

  The two men carried Victor Harleston into the sitting-room, Janet following them. The unconscious man having been deposited on the sofa, the policeman turned to go. But Oldland detained him. ‘Don’t run away for a moment’ he said. ‘I may want you to help me move him again presently. Miss Harleston, I want you to run over to my house again. When the parlourmaid opens the door, ask her to give you the small black case which is lying on the mantelpiece in the surgery. The black one, mind, not the red. And bring it back here as soon as you can.’

  For the second time she ran off, and Oldland listened to her footsteps as they descended the front steps. As though to satisfy himself of her departure, he went to the front door and watched her till she disappeared round the corner of Matfield Street. Then he came back to the policeman. ‘Your turn to run errands, now, Carling,’ he said. ‘There’s no telephone in this house, that I can see. Slip round to the nearest box, and ring up Scotland Yard. Ask for Superintendent Hanslet. He knows me well enough. And tell him that there’s a job waiting for him here. I’ll stop in the house until he comes, or sends somebody else. Got that?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Carling. ‘Will you want me again?’

  Oldland shook his head. ‘Neither you nor I can do any more for this poor chap. He’ll be dead within the next few minutes.’

  Left alone with his patient, Oldland’s expression changed. His usual rath
er cynical smile gave place to a look of sterness such as few of his friends had seen. He picked up the inert wrist once more, and remained holding it until the irregular pulse had fluttered into lifelessness. Then, with a sharp sigh, he composed the body in a natural attitude, and stood for a moment looking at it as though he half expected the departing soul to reveal its secret. At last he shrugged his shoulders, and abruptly left the room.

  He had already taken in the arrangement of the house. Two doors opened off the hall. The one nearest the front was that of the sitting-room, into which Victor Harleston had been carried. The second door was ajar, revealing a table laid for breakfast. Evidently the dining-room. At the end of the hall was a flight of steps leading downwards to the basement, and another flight leading upwards to the first floor. Oldland hesitated for a moment, then walked into the dining-room.

  It was adequately furnished with objects of a peculiarly ugly type. A heavy, clumsy looking table stood in the middle of the floor, which was covered with a rather worn carpet. On the table was spread a white cloth, apparently fresh from the wash. The room contained a set of dining-room chairs, two of which had been drawn up to the table. One of these had been overturned, and lay on its side. The other, on the opposite side of the table, seemed to have been pushed back hurriedly.

  Oldland inspected the preparations for breakfast, being careful, however, to touch nothing. In front of the overturned chair was a respectable meal. A couple of fried eggs and two rashers of bacon on a plate. These had not been touched, and were now cold and greasy. The knife and fork lying beside the plate were not soiled. A second plate, on which was a piece of toast, broken in half, but otherwise untouched, and a pat of butter. A cup, which had evidently been drunk from, empty but for some dregs of coffee at the bottom.

  The meal laid at the other side of the table was more modest. No eggs and bacon, merely a plate with toast and butter, some of which seemed to have been eaten. A cup of coffee, full and untouched. At this end of the table stood a coffee-pot. Oldland, anxious to disturb nothing, did not lift the lid. Beside it stood a jug, about a third full of milk which had once been hot. In the centre of the table was a toast-rack, with four pieces of toast still in it. There was also a butter dish, with a few pats of butter, and a cruet with salt, pepper, and mustard.