by John Rhode
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Doctor Bishop thoughtfully. ‘It would seem more reasonable to suspect the tea.’
‘That’s just what I thought. Now then, doctor, if you’ll be good enough to come upstairs I’ll show you the whole outfit still untouched.’
They went up to Harleston’s bedroom. Dr Bishop removed the lid of the teapot and sniffed its contents.
‘Ah!’ he exclaimed, ‘I shouldn’t care to drink that tea. Here, smell it for yourself.’
Hanslet followed his example.
‘It smells to me more like rank tobacco than tea,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ replied Dr Bishop. ‘And that’s the characteristic odour of nicotine, a most virulent poison of which two or three drops would probably be fatal. I don’t think you need look much further for the cause of this man’s death. But what I can’t understand is how he came to drink the decoction which smells like this. And it probably tastes even filthier than it smells, but I shouldn’t advise you to try. I’ll take the contents of the teapot and the dregs in the cup and send them to the Home Office for analysis.’
‘We’d better look round and see if there’s any more nicotine about the place, I suppose,’ he said. ‘Just to make sure.’
They searched the house, but without any further results. The coffee on the dining-room table had no suspicious smell, but Dr Bishop decided to send this for analysis just as a matter of precaution. The food in the kitchen and larder appeared to be equally free from nicotine. And then it occurred to Hanslet that if Janet Harleston had administered the poison, the most likely place to look for it was in her room. They went upstairs again. Conspicuous in the centre of Janet’s dressing table was a bottle labelled ‘eau-de-Cologne’ and containing a liquid of a dark brown colour. Dr Bishop looked at this suspiciously.
‘I’ve never seen eau-de-Cologne that colour before,’ he said.
He took the stopper from the bottle and applied his nose to it. ‘There you are,’ he said, ‘a most remarkable odour which seems to be a blend of eau-de-Cologne and nicotine. This liquid is a strong solution of the latter in the former, I’ll be bound. This bottle must go with the rest for analysis.’
There seemed to be little more to be done for the present. The case was clear as daylight. Harleston had been poisoned by nicotine administered in his early tea, and his sister was the only person who could have administered it. Well, Hanslet thought, she was in safe keeping till she was wanted, anyhow.
Dr Bishop went off with the material for analysis. A few minutes after his departure the ambulance men arrived and the body was taken away to the mortuary. Hanslet remained alone in possession of the house.
It seemed, on the face of it, as though there was nothing more to be done in Matfield Street. And yet Hanslet could not tear himself away. He had an uncomfortable feeling that the house possessed some secret which he had not yet succeeded in penetrating. Everything hitherto had been too simple, too obvious. Why should the girl have left that most compromising bottle on her dressing-table when she had had every opportunity of removing it? Why had she not cleared away the tea-tray before summoning Dr Oldland? And yet, unless Harleston had himself put the nicotine in his tea, her guilt was manifest.
Once more Hanslet began to prowl restlessly about the house. His wanderings took him into the bathroom. Here there were abundant signs of Harleston’s toilet. The bath had recently been used and had been cleaned. On a ledge beside the wash basin was an array of shaving materials. A safety razor, rinsed and not dried. A stick of shaving soap, and a shaving brush. Rather to Hanslet’s surprise he found that the brush was already dry. Yet Harleston had undoubtedly shaved himself that morning. The smoothness of his cheeks was sufficient evidence of that. And he had cut himself while doing it.
He had certainly cut himself. There were two or three drops of blood on the edge of the basin. A roll of sticking plaster and a pair of scissors lay beside the shaving brush. The only towel in the room was a rough bath towel, and curiously enough, there were no traces of blood on this.
However, there was nothing here to throw any light upon Harleston’s death. Hanslet, remembering the bureau which he had seen in the dining-room, went downstairs once more. The bureau stood as Oldland had noticed it, with the key in the lock. Hanslet opened it. Immediately inside were a few sheets of headed notepaper. He removed these and made a further search. Harleston appeared to have used the desk to contain his private papers and accounts. There was nothing else of interest in it.
Hanslet glanced at the sheets of headed paper. They bore the inscription of Novoshave Ltd. with an address in Oxford Street. He wondered idly how they came to be in Harleston’s possession. He put them back where he had found them, locked up the desk and put the bunch of keys in his pocket.
There was a second bureau in the sitting-room, and Hanslet thought that it might be as well to examine this. He found it locked, but the lock was a very flimsy affair, and he had no difficulty in breaking it open. Inside was an untidy mass of letters and household bills. It was easy to guess that Janet was the user of this bureau. Hanslet picked up the letters and glanced through them. One, signed Philip, caught his eye. It bore the address, Hart’s Farm, Lassingford, and was dated on the previous Friday. Its contents were brief and to the point.
‘DEAR JANET. I will come up on Sunday afternoon and put forward the proposition I mentioned to you before. Victor, I suppose, will make himself unpleasant about it, as usual. If only you could get him out of the way there would be no difficulty.
Cheerio, Yours, PHILIP.’
Hanslet smiled grimly as he read this last sentence. Get him out of the way! He was pretty effectually out of the way now, at all events. And what was this proposition that brother and sister had between them?
Hanslet tore himself away from the house at last, still not quite satisfied in his mind. His immediate problem was, how to deal with Janet Harleston. Should he arrest her on the evidence he had already obtained? On the whole he thought better not. Let her remain at large for the present until the case was complete. It would, for instance, be necessary to ascertain the source of the nicotine.
3
Junior Station-Inspector James Waghorn, familiarly known to his associates at Scotland Yard as ‘Jimmy’ had made considerable progress in his career. Since he had so nearly lost his life in the course of his investigations in the Threlfall Murder, he had become considerably more circumspect. He had found favour with his superiors and now occupied a room of his own at the Yard. Although not yet entrusted with cases of the first importance, he had more than once made himself useful as an assistant to men of greater experience. Hanslet in particular found him a very useful collaborator.
Jimmy was the finished product of Cambridge and the Metropolitan Police College. To his relatively high standard of education, he added an intense enthusiasm for the profession which he had adopted. He thoroughly enjoyed police work, especially that part of it which dealt with the detection of crime. Already he had learnt to combine the experience of the older members of the Force with a certain natural ability for differentiating between the false and the true.
The arrival of Janet Harleston, escorted by the imperturbable Carling, afforded him no surprise. Hanslet was given to issuing instructions without adding any explanation. His duty was to entertain this girl, without the slightest knowledge of the why or wherefore. She was obviously under the influence of some strong emotion, but what it was Jimmy found himself unable to discover. She seemed to think that Jimmy knew what had happened and their conversation was, at first, not very explicit.
But it soon transpired that her most pressing desire was to communicate with her brother Philip. Jimmy offered her every assistance and assisted her to compile a telegram. In its final form this read as follows:
‘Harleston, Hart’s Farm, Lassingford. Victor dead very sudden come at once to Scotland Yard.
JANET.’
This telegram was despatched at once and while awaiting the reply Jimmy set hims
elf to study his unexpected visitor.
He soon made up his mind that whatever emotion it was that gripped her it was not profound grief. She neither wept, nor showed that frozen look so often produced by a sudden bereavement. The death of Victor had not touched her heart, of that Jimmy felt pretty certain. Was she suffering from remorse? Possibly, but Jimmy thought not. It seemed to him rather that she was puzzled—profoundly puzzled. And perhaps, as the occasional flick of her eyelids seemed to suggest, she was relieved.
She displayed no desire to talk about what had happened at Matfield Street. Indeed, after her first nervousness due to her unfamiliar surroundings had left her, she showed no disposition to talk at all. Jimmy tried her on two or three subjects but obtained no response. In the end they relapsed into a rather uncomfortable silence.
All at once she spoke abruptly, as though her thoughts had taken a practical turn.
‘Oh, I ought to let Mr Mowbray know at once,’ she exclaimed.
‘Mr Mowbray?’ inquired Jimmy politely.
‘Yes, he’s our lawyer. He’ll have to see to things, won’t he?’
It struck Jimmy that Mr Mowbray might have more to see to than the girl realised.
‘Where does he live?’ he asked.
‘In Lincoln’s Inn. Perhaps you could telephone to him for me.’
Jimmy hesitated. If he were to telephone the lawyer, he would almost certainly come round to the Yard at once and insist upon interviewing his client. This might not conform to Hanslet’s wishes. Jimmy had already learnt that under certain circumstances, detectives do not welcome lawyers. The latter had a way of seeing further than their clients. They would suggest a refusal to answer certain questions, or even object that those questions should not be put. Hanslet would probably turn up sooner or later to interview this girl, and he might not be best pleased if he found her under the protection of her lawyer. So, on the whole, Jimmy thought it best to temporise.
‘I think it would be better not to telephone,’ he said. ‘Telephone messages are so apt to be misunderstood. Besides, Mr Mowbray might not be in his office. Suppose you write him a note and I’ll have it sent round at once?’
She wrote a note, Jimmy contriving to overlook her as she did so. It was very brief, stating merely that Victor had died suddenly that morning and that she was going down to stay with Philip. It did not seem to occur to her to mention that the police were already in charge of the matter.
She gave the envelope to Jimmy, who left the room with it. He found a messenger and handed over the note to him with instructions that it was not to be delivered until three o’clock that afternoon. Then he returned to Janet, who had once more relapsed into silence.
He was greatly relieved when, shortly before eleven o’clock, he was summoned to Hanslet’s room. The superintendent welcomed him with a grin.
‘Well Jimmy, how are you getting on with that charming young woman I sent you?’ he asked.
‘Oh, pretty well, so far,’ replied Jimmy cheerfully. ‘She’s not exactly communicative, and I haven’t got any information out of her. Here are the copies of the only two messages she has sent so far.’
Hanslet looked at these and nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I know something about Philip, but who’s this fellow Mowbray in Lincoln’s Inn?’
‘Her lawyer. But I’ve taken steps to see that he doesn’t get that message till this afternoon.’
Hanslet laughed. ‘You’re a bright lad, Jimmy,’ he said approvingly. ‘I think I’ll go and see this Mr Mowbray before he gets the message. Now, sit down and I’ll tell you what it’s all about.’
Jimmy listened with interest to his superior’s story. At its conclusion he said nothing for a few moments, then:
‘This girl doesn’t look to me like a murderess.’ he exclaimed.
Hanslet fixed him with a critical eye. ‘If you can tell by inspection whether a woman is a murderess or not, you’ll be a valuable acquisition to the Force,’ he said. ‘There doesn’t seem to be a shadow of doubt about it. They were alone in the house, the poison was found in her room. And yet, Jimmy, my lad, in spite of everything that stares me in the face, I don’t believe she did it.’
This was a remarkable admission for Hanslet. He seemed to realise this, for he added hastily, ‘Don’t let that go any further, Jimmy. It’s merely the expression of my private opinion. A man would never have left all that damning evidence lying about. But in the case of a woman, you never can tell. She may have lost her head when she saw the effect of the poison upon her brother. Poison is all very well in theory, but it’s a nasty, sticky business in practice. I dare say she didn’t realise the unpleasantness involved. Her first instinct was to run for the doctor, and as soon as he appeared on the scene it was too late for her to do anything to cover her tracks.’
‘I wasn’t thinking so much of the evidence as of her state of mind,’ said Jimmy.
‘State of mind! What do you know of her state of mind? She’s probably been thinking a hell of a lot since it happened. I feel almost sorry for her, though. It’s a clear case of either murder or suicide. There’s no possibility of death having been accidental. And, if it was murder, she is the only possible culprit.’
Their conversation was interrupted by the ringing of Hanslet’s telephone bell. The expected Philip Harleston had arrived, and was asking for his sister Janet. Hanslet winked knowingly towards Jimmy.
‘Here’s the third party,’ he said. Then turning towards the telephone, ‘All right, bring him in here.’
It was not long before Philip Harleston appeared. He was a fresh-faced, rather simple looking young man, with a decided likeness to his sister. He seemed rather disconcerted at finding himself at Scotland Yard and shifted nervously from one foot to the other. Hanslet motioned him to a chair.
‘Well, Mr Harleston, you know what has happened,’ he said curtly.
‘My sister sent me a wire,’ replied Philip in a puzzled voice. ‘I don’t understand it at all. Victor was perfectly well when I last saw him. And that was only yesterday evening.’
‘You were on very friendly terms with your half-brother, I expect,’ said Hanslet innocently.
Philip scratched his head with a peculiar gesture of uncertainty. ‘I don’t know that we were particularly friendly,’ he replied. ‘I didn’t like the way he treated Janet. Of course, he had to provide a home for her, but that was no reason for making her slave for him as he did.’
‘Your sister was dependent upon her half-brother?’
‘Completely. She had nothing whatever of her own. Now, of course, she’ll be independent.’
Hanslet glanced triumphantly in Jimmy’s direction. Here was the first hint of motive coming as a gift from Heaven. Victor Harleston had made his sister slave for him. His death made her independent. The reason for the murder became immediately apparent. However, Hanslet did not pursue the subject. He preferred to learn the relations between these three people from an independent source. He seemed at the moment more interested in Philip’s visit to Matfield Street.
‘You had supper at your half-brother’s house yesterday evening, did you not?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I went there to see Janet and she asked me to stop,’ Philip replied. ‘I had a suggestion to make to her which I knew that Victor would not like. I knew she was a bit run-down and wanted a change. So I suggested to her that she should come and stay with me in the country for a bit.’
‘And this suggestion did not meet with your half-brother’s approval?’ Hanslet asked.
‘Most decidedly not. In fact, he put his foot on it at once. He said that his bargain with Janet was this. He provided for her and in return she kept house for him. Who was going to do her work while she was away? Was he expected to pay somebody to come in? In fact, Janet’s place was at Matfield Street and she could only leave there with his permission.’
Hanslet nodded. ‘And you accepted your half-brother’s decision without protest?’ he asked.
Once more Philip scratched his head. It w
as evidently a characteristic gesture. ‘Well, I don’t know,’ he replied slowly. ‘I told Victor just what I thought of his behaviour and we had a few words. In the end he told me to get outside the house and stop there. If I liked to take Janet with me, I might. But if she went it would have to be for good. He would wash his hands of her as he would be entitled to.’
‘What time was it when you left the house?’ Hanslet asked.
‘About nine o’clock. I caught the nine forty-five from Charing Cross.’
‘What is your occupation, Mr Harleston?’
‘I am the manager of a fruit farm. I have a small cottage and I could easily put Janet up. The trouble is that what I earn would not be enough to keep both of us.’
‘I think you said that your half-brother’s death will make your sister independent?’ Hanslet suggested.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Philip replied cheerfully. ‘There’s nothing to prevent Janet coming and living with me now.’
Hanslet made no reply. He pressed a button upon his desk and a few seconds later a messenger appeared. ‘Will you take Mr Harleston to Inspector Waghorn’s room, please,’ he said. And then, turning to Philip, ‘You’ll find your sister waiting for you there,’ he added.
Philip left the room in charge of the messenger.
‘Well, that’s that,’ said Hanslet. ‘Victor Harleston’s death seems to have come as a godsend to those two young people. I don’t want them hanging about Matfield Street. Run along and talk to them, Jimmy. Persuade Philip Harleston to take his sister away with him. Only, keep your eye on them. And if they show any signs of making a bolt for it, have them detained.’
It was by now lunch-time, a meal which Hanslet never missed if he could help it. He went out and had his favourite chop and a pint of beer. He then decided to pay a visit to Mr Mowbray. He thought it probable that he would secure some useful information from this quarter.