Death at Breakfast

by John Rhode

  ‘Oh, he comes in most evenings for a game of darts,’ said the landlady. ‘He likes company and I dare say he finds it a bit lonely in a place like this, coming from London as he did. It would never surprise me to hear that he’d taken up with some nice young lady. I should think he’d get tired of living in that cottage all by himself, with nobody but an old woman coming in to do for him in the morning, and she’s stone deaf at that.’

  ‘Doesn’t he ever have any visitors?’ Hanslet asked.

  ‘Well, there was a gentleman in a smart car came in here some three or four weeks back and asked where Mr Harleston lived,’ said the landlady. ‘I told him, but Mr Harleston never said anything about the gentleman or who he was.’

  ‘I mind I saw a car outside his cottage,’ Sam put in reflectively. ‘About the middle of the morning, it was. And not long before, I’d seen Mr Harleston away down at the farther end of the farm.’

  ‘Then likely enough the gentleman missed him,’ the landlady remarked. ‘You never can tell where to find Mr Harleston. And unless you catch him when he comes home to dinner, you might spend your time looking for him.’

  Hanslet glanced at the clock. The hands were pointing to ten minutes to one. The landlady’s hint appeared to him a good one. He had gathered sufficient preliminary information for his purpose. The next thing was to interview Philip Harleston, and incidentally, his sister. There was every probability that he would now find them both at home.

  He left the Plume of Feathers, and retraced his steps to the cottage, which he had already located. He knocked at the door, which was opened by Janet, who seemed surprised but not perturbed on seeing him.

  ‘Is your brother Philip at home, Miss Harleston?’ the superintendent asked.

  ‘He’s just come in,’ she replied. ‘We’re going to have lunch in a minute or two. Perhaps you’d like to join us, Mr Hanslet?’

  ‘Thanks very much, but I won’t do that,’ Hanslet replied. ‘I’ll just sit and talk to you both while you have your meal.’

  A few moments later, Philip entered the room. Seen here in his own environment, he made a better impression than he had done at Scotland Yard. In his breeches and gaiters, he looked the typical young farmer, energetic and capable. He greeted the superintendent quietly, and glanced from him to his sister, as though awaiting an explanation of this visit.

  Hanslet hastened to supply it. ‘It’s about Mr Victor Harleston,’ he said. ‘What arrangements are you making about the funeral?’

  ‘Oh, Mr Mowbray is doing all that,’ Janet replied. ‘I asked Philip what we’d better do, and he said we’d better leave it to him. We heard this morning that he’d arranged the funeral for Friday and of course we shall go up to it.’

  ‘Will your half-brother’s death make any difference to you financially?’ Hanslet asked.

  Janet and Philip glanced at one another, but again it was the former who replied.

  ‘Philip and I shall share father’s money, which up till now Victor has always had. I have no idea how much my share will be, but I have always understood that it will be quite enough for me to live upon.’

  ‘What have you thought of doing, now that your half-brother is dead, Miss Harleston?’

  ‘Oh, I shall stay here with Philip,’ she replied unhesitatingly. ‘I always meant to do that sooner or later, as soon as Philip could afford to have me.’

  ‘When would that have been if your half-brother had lived?’

  It was Philip who answered this question. ‘Not for another couple of years. You see, my position is this. My father bought a tenth share of this farm from Mr Burrage and gave it to me. The agreement was that I should eventually manage the farm at a salary of three hundred a year, and of course, I take a tenth share of the profits. But, since I shouldn’t be much good as a manager until I had thoroughly learnt the job, I was to have no salary for the first seven years. And those seven years will not be up until the Christmas after next. As soon as I began to draw my salary I was going to bring Janet down here.’

  ‘You would rather live here than in London, then, Miss Harleston?’ Hanslet suggested.

  ‘I’d rather live with Philip than with Victor. Poor Victor was always so terribly mean. He couldn’t help it, I suppose. It was just natural to him. He hated giving me money and I had to scrape what I wanted for myself out of the housekeeping allowance. If it hadn’t been for Philip who’s been awfully good to me, I shouldn’t have a rag to wear.’

  ‘I used to argue with Victor about the way he used to treat Janet,’ Philip put in. ‘But it wasn’t a bit of good. He always said that if she didn’t like it, she could go away but that, if she did, she needn’t expect any help from him. Mr Mowbray told me that under the terms of the Trust he was only bound to provide her with a home. Of course, my father meant by that that he should look after her properly. But, as Janet says, Victor was so infernally miserly that he wouldn’t spend a penny more than he was bound to.’

  ‘Then in many ways your half-brother’s death is a relief to you, Miss Harleston?’ Hanslet said quietly.

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose it is,’ she replied. ‘Somehow I never expected it to happen. I imagined myself slaving for him for another two years and becoming a burden upon Philip. Of course, I’m sorry, but it’s no use my pretending that I’m broken-hearted.’

  ‘It may sound a callous thing to say about one’s half-brother,’ Philip remarked. ‘But I can’t feel the slightest regret for Victor’s death. I don’t think there’s anybody in the world who will miss him in the slightest.’

  ‘Well,’ said Hanslet cheerfully, ‘you two young people will be happier, from what I can make out.’ He got up from his chair, walked to the window, and stood for a moment or two looking out. ‘You’ve got a lot of fruit trees to look after here,’ he said.

  ‘Oh yes, there’s plenty to do,’ Philip replied. ‘What with one thing and another we’re at work upon them most of the year round.’

  ‘You have to wash and spray them and that sort of thing, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, it all takes time and it costs money. But it pays in the end. If you give the trees proper attention, you get a heavier crop and a better quality.’

  Hanslet turned from the window and sat down again. He had been given an arm-chair beside the fireplace, and from it he could see the faces of the brother and sister as they ate their lunch. ‘You use nicotine for spraying, don’t you?’ he asked casually.

  Janet, by far the quicker of the two, was the first to see the implication. ‘Nicotine!’ she exclaimed. ‘Why, that’s what the doctor was talking about at the inquest.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Harleston, your brother died of nicotine poisoning,’ Hanslet replied gravely.

  Janet turned slowly towards Philip, a look of horror in her eyes. She said nothing, but Hanslet had no difficulty in reading her thoughts. From that moment he felt convinced of her innocence. She knew nothing whatever about the nicotine—of that he was certain. But, for the first time, a terrible idea had flashed into her mind. Philip had always been anxious to release her from her bondage. With a muttered excuse she got up and hurriedly left the room.

  Hanslet was relieved at this. He felt that Philip would be easier to deal with, without his sister at hand to prompt him. He repeated his question in a slightly different form.

  ‘You are in the habit of using nicotine, are you not, Mr Harleston?’

  By this time Philip’s duller brain had perceived the purport of the question.

  ‘Yes, we use nicotine on the farm, among other things,’ he replied half-reluctantly.

  ‘You are aware that nicotine is a very powerful poison?’

  ‘Yes, of course, we have to take special precautions when using it.’

  ‘Do you purchase the nicotine as you require it, or have you a stock on hand?’

  ‘We buy as much as we think we shall want for the season’s spraying but there’s usually a certain amount left over.’

  ‘Have you any on hand at the present time, Mr Harles
ton?’

  ‘Yes, three or four small tins, I think.’

  Hanslet frowned. ‘That is rather a vague answer,’ he said. ‘In the case of a dangerous substance like that I should expect certain obvious precautions to be taken.’

  ‘Oh, we take precautions all right,’ Philip replied. ‘The stuff is kept in an outhouse behind this cottage which is always locked and I’m the only person who keeps the key. I superintend the mixing of the wash when it’s wanted.’

  ‘Do you keep any record of the stock in hand?’

  ‘Certainly. I keep a book in which I enter the amount purchased and the amount used.’

  ‘I should like to see that book, Mr Harleston.’

  Philip got up from the table unhesitatingly. He went to a cupboard in the corner of the room and from it extracted an ordinary account book. This he handed to the superintendent, ‘I think you’ll find it clear enough,’ he said.

  Hanslet had no difficulty in understanding the entries, which were neatly kept. He read them through and then turned to Philip.

  ‘As far as I can make out, this is the position,’ he said. ‘At the beginning of last year you had five tins of nicotine in stock. Twelve tins were purchased during the year and thirteen issued. That should leave you with a balance of four in hand now. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Philip replied. ‘I remember now there are four tins in the store.’

  ‘I should like to see those four tins,’ said the superintendent.

  Philip went to the cupboard a second time. From a hook within it he took a key. ‘If you care to come along I’ll show them to you,’ he said.

  They went out of the cottage by the back door, immediately beyond which was a lean-to shed. The door of this shed was secured by a stout chain and padlock. Philip inserted the key and the padlock opened easily. He opened the door and Hanslet was at once aware of a faint odour of rank tobacco. There were some steel drums on the floor and he pointed to these.

  ‘Is this the nicotine?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh no,’ Philip replied. ‘That’s merely tar oil. Harmless enough, but I keep it in here for convenience. Those are the tins of nicotine, up on that shelf. Hullo!’

  He went up to the shelf and stared at it, scratching his head in perplexity. Then he began to look anxiously round the shed, searching the floor and peering behind the drums. Hanslet smiled grimly but made no comment, for on the shelf were three tins of nicotine only.

  Philip abandoned his search after a minute or two. ‘I can’t make it out,’ he said in the tone of a puzzled child. ‘There are only three tins here, and there ought to be four. And I’ll swear there were four on that shelf when I last looked at it.’

  ‘Curious,’ said Hanslet quietly. ‘When did you last look at the shelf, Mr Harleston?’

  Once again Philip scratched his head. ‘I couldn’t tell you exactly,’ he replied. ‘Not for the last few weeks certainly. You see, we’ve done no washing since the autumn and I had no occasion to come in here. But I know those four tins were on the shelf then.’

  Hanslet stepped up to the shelf and inspected it for himself. He saw that a good deal of dust had found its way into the shed, and lay thickly upon the tops of the three remaining tins. The shelf beside them was also heavily coated. But in one place, close to the last tin of the row, was a circular patch where the dust lay far more thinly. This had evidently been where the fourth tin had stood. Further, the relative thinness of the dust deposit showed that it must have been removed fairly recently.

  ‘Well, Mr Harleston, how do you account for this?’ Hanslet asked after a long silence.

  ‘I can’t account for it,’ Philip replied. ‘Somebody must have got in and taken it.’

  ‘But I thought you told me that you were the only person who had a key of the padlock,’ Hanslet insisted.

  ‘So I did. That’s just what I can’t understand. I certainly didn’t take the tin.’

  ‘It certainly appears somewhat remarkable,’ said Hanslet. ‘Where do you usually keep this key?’

  ‘In the cupboard from which you saw me take it just now. I always keep it there.’

  ‘Does anybody but yourself know where it is kept?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Nobody but the charwoman ever comes into the cottage, and I don’t suppose she’s bothered to look into the cupboard. Besides, I always lock it when I go out. It contains the accounts of the farm and I shouldn’t like anybody prying into them.’

  Hanslet examined the padlock and the chain. These showed no signs of having been forced at any time. The shed was solidly constructed and had no window. The only means of entrance to it was the door. Whoever had removed the missing tin had certainly done so by unlocking the padlock.

  It hardly seemed to Hanslet worth while to ask any more questions. The two stood there in silence, Hanslet staring intently at Philip’s troubled face.

  It was very quiet out here at the back of the cottage. In the still air the sounds of the countryside, though distinct, were yet very faint. The shrill voice of a child playing somewhere in the distance. The rumble of a lorry dying away upon the high road. The not unmusical note of a saw-bench apparently leagues away. The superintendent heard all these with his sub-conscious brain. His whole conscious attention was concentrated upon the young man before him.

  Hanslet, though by no means a profound psychologist, had learned something of the workings of the human conscience. He saw in Philip a weak character who had been goaded into crime by the praiseworthy motive of freeing his sister from her bondage. And he knew the limits of endurance of which such a character was capable. Up to a point Philip might defend himself. His imagination, seeking desperately for some way of escape, might invent answers to the most searching questions, but the point at which his defence must surely break down was now reached. Hanslet, the stronger character, held all the cards. He had discovered the disappearance of the tin of nicotine. He knew the use to which the poison had been put. In the face of his imperturbable silence, Philip must find it impossible to maintain a show of innocence.

  It was typical of the situation which leads to breakdown and confession. Momentarily Hanslet expected the wild outpouring on Philip’s part. He could even foreshadow the lines which it would take—a bitter recital of his sister’s wrongs, followed by a stumbling description of the crime. And then a frantic attempt at self-justification. He had not meant the poison to be fatal. He had only meant to frighten Victor. Anything, any improbability which would save him from disgrace and the gallows.

  But the expected confession did not come. Philip seemed paralysed into speechlessness. Hanslet felt almost sorry for him, as the hunter may feel sorry for the game which has provided him with a good chase. A kindly word might help him.

  ‘Come now, Harleston,’ he said encouragingly. ‘Haven’t you anything to tell me?’

  ‘I can’t understand it, I can’t understand it,’ Philip repeated helplessly.

  His wits had deserted him at this critical juncture, Hanslet thought. It would perhaps be best to leave him alone for a while—alone with his conscience and with Janet. The two would be powerful auxiliaries in the cause of justice. His conscience would give him no peace. His sister, whose manner had left Hanslet in no doubt of the suspicion that had suddenly been born in her, would be a constant reproach to him.

  Abruptly and without a word, the superintendent turned away. He walked rapidly away from the cottage to the local police station, where he arranged that the watch upon Philip and his sister should be redoubled. Then he caught the first train back to London.

  At the Yard he found Jimmy waiting for him. The latter was full of his discoveries, to the account of which Hanslet listened with the closest attention. He made Jimmy repeat the most important points and then, twirling a pencil in his fingers, and staring fixedly out of the window. ‘I think that pretty well settles it,’ he said at last in a tone of suppressed triumph.

  ‘I’d like to know what you think about it,’ said Jimmy tentat
ively.

  ‘I dare say you would,’ Hanslet replied. ‘What would you say if I told you that I’ve found out where the nicotine came from?’

  Jimmy felt a thrill of apprehension. He knew well enough where Hanslet had spent the day. Without being fully conscious of it, he had come to regard himself as the champion of Janet and, so, indirectly, of Philip. But he felt that it would be ridiculous to allow the superintendent to perceive this.

  ‘I should say you had done a pretty clever piece of work,’ he replied diplomatically.

  ‘Oh, I had a pretty good idea from the first where to look,’ Hanslet said. ‘I paid a visit to that farm of Philip Harleston’s. He admitted that he used nicotine for his fruit trees. I made him show me the stuff and he was forced to admit that he could not account for one tin of it which was missing.’

  Jimmy could not escape the significance of this.

  ‘It looks as though Philip must have had a hand in it,’ he said slowly, and then hesitatingly, he added, ‘Do you think his sister was in the plot?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Hanslet replied emphatically. And at this reply Jimmy felt a spasm of relief, as though in some inexplicable way a burden had been removed from his own mind.

  ‘I’m hoping that the fellow will make a clean breast of it,’ Hanslet continued. ‘I believe he will. If he doesn’t I shall make it my business to tackle him again. As long as he keeps on saying nothing but “I don’t understand,” things will be a little difficult for us. It is the most difficult of all defences to break down. And I don’t at present see how we’re to connect the nicotine which has disappeared from Hart’s Farm, with the nicotine which caused Victor Harleston’s death. I’d rather like to put that point before the Professor. He might be able to think of some dodge. I’ll tell you what, I’ll ring him up and ask him if we may go round this evening. And if he says yes, I’ll take you with me.’

  8

  Hanslet had no difficulty in obtaining the required permission. He and Jimmy arrived at Westbourne Terrace shortly after nine o’clock that evening. They were shown into the study where they found Dr Priestley, Oldland and Merefield. Their host seemed to be in what for him would be described as a genial mood. He greeted them both courteously and expressed pleasure at renewing the acquaintance with Jimmy.