"No," I protested. "No. Besides, how could I? Where could I get such a thing? Oh no, Dr. Crupiner, there was nothing in the coffee I sent her."
He got up stiffly and sighed. I only half understood that he was trying to show me a way out. "That means you're accusing Rudkin, you know," he said gently.
"But of course I'm not!" I ejaculated. "I'm not accusing anyone. I don't believe it's happened. I don't see how it could."
He shook his head at me just as Mary Munsen had done, "Think," he said softly. "Just think it all out very carefully. Yes, Rudkin?"
The butler had tapped at the door and now put his head in. He did not look at me. The doctor appeared to expect him.
"I will come down," he said. "They're here, are they? Miss Brayton, you will oblige me by staying exactly where you are for the time being. Good-bye. I shall see you again."
He went out with a great deal of dignity, and I was left alone once more. I did my best to hang onto sanity. I realized it must be a mistake, just as Julian had said, but it was a very frightening one. I hoped the police would hurry and make the real explanation clear to everyone. That was with the logical part of my mind; the rest, the emotional part, was just frightened, and my premonition of danger was very strong.
It seemed hours before the police came to see me. The winter sunshine was strong that morning, and it lighted up the room with a wistful, watery brightness and fell on my packed suitcases, making them look shabbier than ever. At last there was a knock. I opened the door at once and stepped back to admit the man who stood there.
He was not in the least what I had expected. There was nothing of the stolid, keen-eyed British policeman about him. He was thin and a little bent, with a neat grey head and shabby, tidy clothes. He wandered in without speaking, and I saw a face frankly ugly but not unengaging, with a wide mouth, too full of teeth, and pale, kindly eyes.
"You'll be Gillian Brayton," he said in a deep, quiet voice, which was not in the least alarming, and then added devastatingly, "The girl who made the coffee."
I glanced at him sharply. He was smiling a little, but I did not respond. "Yes, I made it."
"And you're a sort of companion-help here, but no one knows what your duties are, except that you make coffee," he continued, looking around the room, his eyes taking in every detail.
I did not know what to reply to that, so I kept silent. It was true in a way, of course, but it sounded extraordinary when he put it so baldly. "And you've got the sack."
"No," I protested hastily. "Not exactly. I-I resigned last night."
"Resigned," he echoed flatly, and I began to fear him. He possessed singleness of purpose; he was going somewhere, looking for something, and all the ordinary side issues of human relationship did not interest him. He sat down suddenly on my bed and looked up at me, his head lolling back, his great toothy mouth jutting forward. "Tell me how you made the coffee," he said. His tone was affable and slightly condescending.
I told him all about it, going over each point in detail. He listened attentively. "She died after drinking it, you know," he said.
"So they told me."
"Who did?" That came very sharply. "The doctor and Mrs. Munsen." I remembered just in time that it might be better not to mention Julian's name.
"That's the housekeeper? Nice old girl. Wasn't broken-hearted to hear her mistress was dead. Nor are you, are you?"
The final question came so directly that it made me jump. "I haven't quite realised it's happened yet," I said truthfully.
"No, I don't suppose you have. Who do you imagine I am?"
"A police inspector."
"Wrong. Superintendent. Higher grade. The housekeeper tell you I was coming?"
"No. The doctor told me that."
He sighed, and unfolded himself lazily. "I get a lot of help," he said so drily that I almost smiled, and then saw that he was expecting it of me. "Never mind, you're right, in the main. The name is Alexander McNaught, Divisional Superintendent. A very remarkable man in many ways."
I did smile at that, and he seemed surprised.
"There is little amusing about me," he said seriously. "It's my job to ask questions. We'll go and inspect this pantry of yours. Is it correct that you have the only key?"
"I believe so." I showed him the key lying where I always kept it in a small porcelain bowl on my mantel.
He took it without enthusiasm and compared it with the one belonging to the room. It was not the same, and he shrugged.
"Not every lock in the house is identical, anyway. That's one small dispensation. Come along. You lead the way."
There were two or three people in the hall-a plain-clothes detective or so and a uniformed constable, who all gave me the same ostentatiously disinterested stare; and Rudkin, who smiled at me stoutly. So he was on my side. That was something.
The door of the studio was shut. I glanced at its shining panels and guessed what must lie behind them. It was the first time I really comprehended that Rita was dead, I think, and I suppose I swayed a little, for McNaught put a hand on my shoulder.
"No need to get seasick yet," he said. "The boat hasn't started. Is this the door?" He unlocked it and stood aside for me to enter. "Keep your arms to your sides. Don't touch anything. Now, just tell me again exactly what you did the last time you were in here."
I repeated the story as carefully as I could, indicating each utensil as I mentioned it. The little room was sunny now; the bright colours of paint and china glistened familiarly with innocent prettiness. When I came to the point at which I counted out the tablets, he stopped me.
"Where's the bottle?"
"There." I pointed to the phial. It was in its accustomed place, right in front of the first shelf, just as I had left it. As my glance fell on it, my heart jumped. The bottle looked exactly the same. It was just about as full as it ought to have been, and I saw the small white tablets showing faintly through the coloured glass. But the label was wrong. The inscription was written in a spiky hand, but not quite the same one, and there was less of it. As I bent forward to read it, McNaught did too.
"Mrs. Fayre, The Tablets. One when pain is most severe."
"Oh, my God!" I heard the exclamation as if someone else had muttered it, and McNaught caught me round the shoulders.
"What's the matter?"
"It's wrong," I muttered, pointing to the bottle. "It's different. It's not Julian's."
He turned me round to face him, his eyes hard and inquisitive. "Are these the tablets you used last night?"
"I-don't know." Having made the admission, I had to explain. "It was dark, I told you. I've been giving these tablets to Colonel Fayre every night for weeks. It's the only bottle of tablets here, and only I use the pantry, I-I don't read the label every time-why should I? I don't see what has happened. Where did this come from?"
"You are not prepared to swear that this was not the bottle you used last night?"
"No, No, but-"
"But what?"
"But it was Julian's cup in which I put the tablets, I took it to him myself. These seem to be Rita's, don't they? It says Mrs Fayre."
"It would seem so." he drawled, and bent forward again to peer at a squiggle at the foot of the label. It was a date, I thought. I could not read it McNaught made something of it, for, still keeping hold of me, he shouted down the corridor for Rudkin. The old man came at once-, as if he had been waiting for the summons. He looked like a withered ghost blown along by a fitful wind.
McNaught showed him the bottle. "Don't touch that," he commanded, "bot look at it Ever seen it before?"
I was certain Rudkin was going to deny it, and his reaction amazed me. He read the line aloud in an uncertain old voice, and then stood up, blank astonishment on his face.
"God Almighty, sir," he said.
"Recognise it?"
"Yes, sir. I thought it had been destroyed. When I last saw it, it was in my wife's hand."
"Your wife's? But she's dead, isn't she? Didn't you tell me you were
a widower?"
"I did, sir, and I have been one for three years. My wife used to live here. She was old Mrs. Fayre's personal maid."
McNaught expelled a long breath. "Old Mrs. Fayre died before her, then? She was the Mrs. Fayre referred to on this label?"
"Yes, sir. That was the old mistress's medicine."
"I see." He paused and looked from one to the other of us. "Did you know about that?" he enquired of me.
"No," I told him.
He sighed and returned to Rudkin. "Well, now. We're talking about three years ago. When your wife showed you this, did she say anything about it? Try to remember exactly."
Rudkin was unexpectedly clear. His eyes, which were black like his sister's, were excited yet remarkably guiltless. It was plain that he was genuinely curious, and anxious to help. "It was the day after the poor missus' funeral," he said. "We were all very low, and poor Harriet was crying as she tidied up. I came in on her when she was sorting out the poor lady's things, She showed me this bottle and said what wonderful stuff it was, and how she'd be grateful to the doctor as long as she lived for giving it to the mistress. She said it wiped the pain away."
"Was that the doctor I saw this morning?"
"No, sir. His brother. He was gone, too, the poor old gentleman, before the year was out."
"Dead too?" McNaught was exasperated.
"Yes, sir. Him and the missus and Harriet all in one year."
"Very sad, I'm sure. What did your wife propose to do with the bottle? Do you know?"
"I don't, sir. I told her to give it back to the doctor, in case it was dangerous."
"She doesn't seem to have done so."
"Apparently not, sir."
"What did you think she did with it."
Rudkin glanced up and his black eyes were quick and speculative, "Knowing Harriet, I think she hid it, sir, somewhere in the house, thinking it might come in useful sometime. She was like that, was Harriet."
"Have you ever seen it since?"
"No, sir. Never. Not till now."
McNaught was not satisfied. "I find that curious," he said. "A thing doesn't lie about a house for three years without someone's noticing it."
"It might if it was hidden, sir. It's a big house."
The superintendent hunched his shoulders. He was growing more and more depressed. "Maybe," he agreed. "One more question. You don't happen to know what this is, do you?"
"I think I do, sir." The old man's face was working in his excitement. "I believe it's morphia. That's what Harriet said it was."
McNaught turned away from him and looked thoughtfully at me. "And you, Miss Brayton," he murmured, "do you happen to know offhand what is the fatal dose of morphia?"
"No," I breathed.
He went on looking at me curiously, almost quizzically. "I wonder," he said.
• • •
I spent the rest of that day in my room. They kept me there. I was not under arrest, merely invited to stay there, and a plain clothes man was stationed in the corridor to see that I accepted the invitation.
No one from the rest of the household was permitted to see me. When Lily, who was all of a flutter, I suspect, came hurrying up with some breakfast for me, the detective insisted on helping her, with all the appearance of being obliging. He was a large, sloppy person with gentle eyes and smile, and he sent her down and brought the tray to me. But when I told him I would pour him some coffee if he got himself a cup, he gave me a rather curious look.
However, McNaught had reckoned without Mrs. Munsen. There was a hot linen press in my bathroom, where floor boards took out, so that one could see down into the kitchen cupboard where the tea towels were drying. I heard her tapping in there soon after Lily had gone down, and I went in to find her standing on a chair to look up at me.
"I'm here," she said, as if that were everything. "Don't you go and get frightened. He doesn't know where he is yet."
"What's happening?" I whispered.
"She's been taken away," she murmured back. "He's in the studio making an office of it and having us in one after the other asking questions. Cook's gone now."
"Has the doctor gone home?"
"Yes. Rudkin heard them talking in the hall. Something about looking up his brother's records. We're all saying we didn't know about the bottle Harriet kept."
"Is that true?"
"Yes, of course it is. We shan't go lying. That Mitzi's making trouble. They caught her phoning to Dr. Phoebus."
"Has he come round?"
"Not yet. Miss Gillie-"
"Yes?"
"You'll remember what I told you. Keep Mister Julian out of it, dear. He's not strong enough to stand it Promise me."
"Yes." I made the word resolute. "I promise you."
She withdrew then, and I went back to the window, where I stood pressing my forehead against the cold pane and striving to think clearly. Whatever I had done, it had been a mistake. Surely, I thought, they must see that. People weren't convicted unjustly, not nowadays. Circumstantial evidence wasn't everything; besides, there was so little of that, unless they got hold of a motive.
There was no point in deceiving myself about the motive, I had the best one in the world, or I would have if Julian and I had not been the people we were. As it was, there was nothing between us, nothing that conceivably could be falsely construed.
Nothing. And then, and only then, did I remember the check and the letter to the bank manager. I had not thought of them since the night before.
I went shakily across the room to the lowboy where my bag lay. I could not believe I had been such a fool as to forget them: but I had, and what was worse, I had left them in the room when I went down to the pantry with the superintendent. My fingers were so unsteady I could hardly get the bag open, and when at last I did and stared into its empty depths, I was cold to my bones.
They had searched the room and found them and now the damning things were downstairs for anyone to draw conclusions from.
• • •
When lunchtime came, the detective brought me another tray. "We have to save the lady's steps," he said with a heavy jocularity that would not have deceived a baby.
I could not eat, and I could not think. If I had been guilty, I might at least have been able to plan. As it was, I was helpless. I thought about Julian and found myself praying that, whatever happened, the experience would not make him ill again. I don't think I remembered Rita at all.
It was nearly three when at last they came for me. The room was in shadow, and I was stiff and chilly when the detective put his head in to tell me I was wanted.
"Now it's coming. Now they're going to arrest me." The words sounded as clearly in my ears as if I had spoken them. I wondered if I ought to appeal to anybody, or if Uncle Grey's old solicitors would appear for me. Remembering them, I thought I might almost be better off if they refused.
The first thing I saw as I entered the studio was the envelope that had contained Julian's check. It lay on the mirror-topped table, which the superintendent had made his desk. It was set there so prominently I knew he intended me to see it.
I picked it up. "This was in my bag."
He raised his eyebrows. "We're keeping it safe," he said drily. He was sitting behind the table on one of the white Empire chairs, which made him look dustier than ever, and presently he grinned at me. It was not the reception I had expected, and his opening gambit was surprising too. "Ever tried to find anything in this house?"
"No, I don't think so."
"Never lost anything in it, I suppose. Well, I shan't buy that one. We have lost two things, Miss Brayton, and although we've searched the bric-a-brac, we can't find either of them yet."
His glance wandered round the room, and I saw it once more in all its grey-and-white modernity. The bottles in the old bookcases were rather vulgar, just as Ferdie had said. I noticed it again absurdly, at such a time.
McNaught returned to me. "The first thing we want is a second key to the pantry, if there ever w
as one. It's a more unusual lock than I thought. No other key in the house turns it."
"I've never seen one like it," I said slowly. "But mine used to lie in the bowl all day."
"You were packing in your room yesterday evening from half-past six until a quarter to nine?"
"Yes, about that."
"No one borrowed it between those hours, then. The other thing I'd like to find is the luminal."
"Luminal?"
"The original bottle of tablets. Colonel Fayre's sedative."
"Oh, was it that? I'm afraid I didn't know," I said truthfully, but added, as the utter absurdity of the thing overcame me: "But it was there in the pantry last night. It must have been. I gave Julian four tablets, I put them in his coffee, and I saw him drink it."
"You told me that before." He was resigned rather than contemptuous, and his pleasant, ugly face looked regretful. "Sit there," he said, pointing to a chair near the table. "I want to talk to you about something else. By the way, you realize we're making notes, don't you?"
I did. I had seen the man with the fountain pen the moment I went in. "Yes," I said, "I saw that."
"You're a very cool young woman."
"I don't feel it."
He cocked an inquisitive eye at that and seemed more friendly. "I understand from Colonel Fayre that it was he who advised you to leave. Is that true?"
"Yes." Now it was coming.
"The reason he gives." McNaught glanced at a pad in front of him and drawled the words pointedly-"the reason he gives is that he had formed an opinion you were growing too fond of him."
If he hoped that would rattle me, he was disappointed. I could not tell if that was all Julian had said or if he had said it at all. I was still cautious. "Is that what he thought?" I ventured.
"Don't you know?"
"He did not tell me so."
"Well, let's put it another way. Was it true?"
It was difficult. I did not know how much might depend on the answer.
"Was it true?"
"I like him very much," I said helplessly. "I like him well enough to go the moment he suggested it."
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