Malice Aforethought

by Francis Iles

  Dr. Bickleigh stroked his chin. Madeleine would have no hesitation in giving him away: of that he was certain. Ever since the day of her engagement she had seemed to take a debased delight in prattling of the affair to anyone who would listen; and naturally there had been plenty of willing ears. It had done him a lot of harm in the place undoubtedly; and it was to that, rather than to Julia’s death, that he had attributed the falling off of his practice last year. But, even if she did give him away completely to Chatford, what did it matter? It was only her word against his, and Dr. Bickleigh rather fancied that if it came to the point he could discredit Madeleine’s word pretty adequately. To prove she was a hysterical subject would be simple; from that to delusions was the merest of steps. And it would be rather delightful to show up Madeleine for the unpleasant thing she really was. Poor Denny!

  “But what about Scotland Yard? I thought you said he was going there. Where does that come in?”

  Yes, he was. If these interviews, combined with the information from Wyvern’s Cross, did show there was a case for investigation, he was going to Scotland Yard to lay it before the police.

  “They’ll laugh at him,” pronounced Dr. Bickleigh with conviction. “What does it matter to anyone now whether poor Julia died by accident or killed herself ? It may matter to Chatford, of course, if he could get me drummed out of the place; but it certainly won’t matter to the police. Dirty hound, to try and get his revenge through blackening a dead woman’s name.”

  “But, Teddy—aren’t you worried?”

  “My dear girl, there’s nothing to worry about. Of course Julia never committed suicide. That idea’s absurd. But of course, too, the authorities won’t let your precious husband stir up all this mud over nothing. Naturally I’m not worried.”

  “I know I should be.”

  “Well, I’m not. Besides, this is no time for worry, darling, with you here again. Quite like old times, isn’t it? Glad to be back?”

  “Oh, Teddy, you know I am. Are you? Really, really?”

  “You bet I am. You’re prettier than ever, Ivy. And aren’t you smart too, nowadays? I like your hat. And real silk stockings. Real silk all through, I expect, Mrs. Chatford, eh?”

  “No, Teddy . . . you mustn’t. No—not now I’m married: it isn’t fair. . . . Really, Dr. Bickleigh, I’m surprised at you.—Oh, Teddy. . . .”

  An hour later they parted.

  Dr. Bickleigh smiled to himself as he drove home. Chatford’s activities could really not be taken seriously. And it amused him to have had his revenge on them so promptly.

  3

  IVY BECAME invaluable. She kept Dr. Bickleigh informed of everything she knew, and questioned her husband closely on his behalf. As it was impossible for her to use the car after Chatford’s return from London, they arranged a rendezvous in Merchester itself, where they met in secrecy and safety regularly twice a week.

  On Dr. Bickleigh’s instructions, Ivy adopted a subtle line. She pretended to Chatford that she hated Dr. Bickleigh now, and was as anxious as himself to see him driven out of Wyvern’s Cross. In this way she got him to part with a good deal more information than he would have divulged to an unsympathetic enquirer.

  Dr. Bickleigh thus learnt that Chatford, while getting very little change out of Sir Tamerton Foliott, had got a great deal out of Madeleine Bourne, though mostly small: enough, at any rate, to justify in his opinion the visit to Scotland Yard. Dr. Bickleigh was most interested in this visit, and questioned Ivy thoroughly about it, giving her further questions to put to Chatford later. However, it all amounted to very little more than that Chatford had been received without any great enthusiasm, had seen a Chief Inspector, to whom he had told his story, and had been advised not without severity that Scotland Yard could not move in the matter, as he should have known, it being outside their province, and, if he was really of the opinion that anything was to be gained by investigation, he had better lay his facts before the proper authorities, who were the Devonshire county police. Altogether, chuckled Dr. Bickleigh with malicious glee, not a very successful interview.

  Chatford laid his information before the county authorities.

  He was more reticent with Ivy as to the result of that interview, but Dr. Bickleigh was not perturbed. It was all too ridiculous. Except for a growing anger with Chatford and his presumption, and annoyance over the bother that might be caused him, his emotions were not affected. That it would ever come to an enquiry was impossible to believe, and, even if it did, nothing more serious could happen than that he might be censured for negligence in allowing Julia to have access to the morphia after he had discovered her propensities. But it was a nuisance, and Chatford was getting intolerable. Dr. Bickleigh took pleasure in gratifying his hatred by reinstating a none too unwilling Ivy as his regular mistress. Chatford should pay that price for his damned interference.

  Not long afterwards a strange man from Exeter was to be seen pottering about in Wyvern’s Cross and chatting casually with the inhabitants. Dr. Bickleigh observed his activities with nothing but amusement, mixed with contempt. A lot of good he could do, collecting village gossip. And, besides, the villagers all liked him; and they had not liked Julia. Dr. Bickleigh thought humorously of writing to Exeter to protest, as a ratepayer, against this waste of time and expense.

  The strange man disappeared; and that, it seemed, was the end of that. It was now getting well on in July, and Dr Bickleigh looked forward to a peaceful remainder of the summer.

  But there is never any harm in adding the final touch or two that makes a masterpiece; and one incident particularly pleased him.

  “Teddy,” Ivy said artlessly one day, “you never told me you once actually asked Madeleine to marry you.” The Madeleine theme was a favourite one with Ivy. She loved to question and cross-question him on it, demanding every detail of their intercourse, taking delight in reviving the anguish she had suffered over it and, unknowingly, his too. Dr. Bickleigh wished she wouldn’t. He did not want to discuss it at all.

  “Didn’t I?” he said gruffly, shying as always at the mention of this unwelcome name.

  “But you did ask her.”

  “So she’s blabbed that too, has she?”

  “Yes, she told William, and he told me. Do tell me about it, Teddy. You must have had a hectic scene, from what she says. And fancy, only an hour or so after I saw you that day in the road. Do you remember? Oh, Teddy, I do think you might have told me. What did she say, really? And all the time . . . Teddy, you’re not listening.”

  Dr. Bickleigh turned from the window. Her words had reminded him of something he had been intending to put to her. “Ivy,” he said, very distinctly, as to a small child, “you know when you did meet me that afternoon, I asked you the time?”

  “Yes?”

  “You told me it was twenty to three, didn’t you?”

  “Did I? Yes, I believe I did.”

  “Did you ever find out you were nearly a quarter of an hour fast?”

  “No, I don’t remember.”

  “Well, you were. It put me in rather a hole. I had a most important appointment, and I cut another visit first, thinking I’d got a quarter of an hour less than I had.”

  “Did you really? I’m awfully sorry, Teddy. Fancy you remembering that.”

  “Yes,” said Dr. Bickleigh, still more distinctly, “when you saw me that afternoon the time was really twenty-five past two.” He had always remembered that, just after twenty past two, he had passed two of the villagers as he turned into the very road where he had left the car. “You’d better remember that.”

  “Yes, I will, darling. But it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

  “Oh, no; it doesn’t matter. But—well, I suppose you told Chatford about meeting me that afternoon?”

  “No, I don’t think I have. I’m sure I haven’t. He never asked me. Well, he didn’t know, so he couldn’t, could he? But I’d nearly forgotten all about it myself, as a matter of fact.”

  “Yes, so had I. It just o
ccurred to me. Well, if by any chance it ever is mentioned, remember that it was twenty-five past two, not twenty to three. I shouldn’t say anything about your watch being fast. No need for complications. Just say that when I asked you for the time, you looked at your watch and told me it was twenty-five past two.”

  “All right, Teddy. I’ll remember.”

  Dr. Bickleigh smiled on her. How fortunate that Ivy was Ivy.

  “Has Chatford told you anything lately, by the way?”

  “No, not for a long time now, Teddy.”

  Dr. Bickleigh kissed her affectionately.

  That Chatford was getting more and more reticent with Ivy could be interpreted in only one way: he had nothing to tell. But Dr. Bickleigh’s hatred of him did not diminish; if anything, it increased.

  Dr. Bickleigh had never hated before in his life. Now he hated two people, Chatford and Madeleine—Chatford the more virulently, but Madeleine the more deeply, with a sick, disgusted loathing. He felt that he had been more humiliated by Madeleine than ever by Julia. Madeleine had taken his most sacred feelings, the most genuine, honest feelings he had ever had, and danced on them. She had exploited every atom of his soul for the gratification of her own unbalanced emotions. And, not content with that, she had, in her astonishing unreticence, taken a perverted delight in slandering him. Dr. Bickleigh knew very well the story that she had been so assiduously putting about, without the slightest provocation, whitewashing her own mean little soul by blackening his: that she, the white flower of trusting innocence, had had her heart besieged by a professional seducer, who by his appalling lies and unscrupulous skill had succeeded in gaining temporary possession of that organ, but, Madeleine coming to her senses just in time, the scales were ripped from her eyes as if by the direct hand of Providence, and the desperate fellow was sent promptly to the right-about. Some version of this story Madeleine had busily poured into all the important ears of the neighbourhood, the Bournes’, the Torrs’, Mrs. Hatton-Hampstead’s, any she could find; and though, of course, she nobly refrained from mentioning a name in connection with it, Dr. Bickleigh had found himself for a time eyed very coldly indeed.

  He could still not think of Madeleine without trembling with rage. Denny he no longer honoured by hating; he merely despised that poor creature now. Denny, with his prospective title and eight thousand a year, of course deserved the love of any pure woman.

  Ivy was the only one to benefit directly by her lover’s present detestation of her late rival. Returning to her after the other, with a celebate pause between to allow things to fall a little into perspective, Dr. Bickleigh inevitably compared the two; and his revulsion of feeling from the latter was enabling him now to appreciate Ivy at a true worth she had not got.

  As the summer wore on, this appreciation of Dr. Bickleigh’s for his mistress increased more and more. His growing affection warmed her, and she spread the wings of her charming butterfly soul to it; her own love for him had remained surprisingly constant. And, now that the danger threatened by Chatford’s retrospective jealousy had disappeared, she became gay and lighthearted. Their bi-weekly meetings were merrier than the old ones had ever been. Tears were a thing of the past. Ivy gained in poise without, however, losing the childishness that was her chief charm to him. She saw that her new smartness pleased him and added to her attractiveness in his eyes, and she exploited this fresh possibility with naïve delight, dressing herself up for him just like a little girl in her mother’s hat and furs (and with much the same result), always trying to have some new and interesting article of clothing on, if only a new shade in silk stockings, and submitting gravely every new hat or frock for his approval.

  The attitude which Ivy always contrived to present of hanging on his slightest word exactly suited the new edition of Dr. Bickleigh. He who had been a door-mat himself all his life till in one supreme gesture he had cast off door-mattery for ever, now wanted a door-mat of his own; and Ivy was the ideal door-mat. He began to think very seriously about Ivy. He saw now that he had not been so far wrong after all three years ago when he recognised in her the girl he really ought to have married. Only the recognition was premature; he had not been developed enough to appreciate her; he was still a slave to leading-strings, and missed them when absent. But now . . .

  An old vision, three years out of date, was resuscitated, looked over, and found comely. Once more cricket was pushed aside.

  A brand-new vision made its appearance about this time too. A most absorbing vision, which seemed to be continually expanding and expanding, like a rubber pig. The germ of it was in the Ivy vision. For Ivy to become Mrs. Bickleigh the previous elimination of Chatford was obviously required. An inconvenient husband can be eliminated in two ways—by divorce or death. Divorce held this disadvantage—that Ivy would come to him penniless, and he, as co-respondent, would have to leave Wyvern’s Cross and set up elsewhere. With Madeleine’s money to support him till he got his footing that was simple; in this case it would be impossible. But death held this positive advantage: that not only would Ivy come to him, but as Chatford’s widow she would come embellished by Chatford’s not inconsiderable possessions. How exceedingly nice, then, from every aspect, if Chatford were to die.

  That was the original vision. Its expansion was on these lines: how exceedingly nice if, while death was about, not only Chatford, but Madeleine too, and anybody else obnoxious to Dr. Edmund Bickleigh, were to be happily removed by it.

  4

  IT WAS not for some weeks after he had decided to murder Chatford and Madeleine that Dr. Bickleigh took any active steps in the matter. Murder is a serious business. The slightest slip may be disastrous. Dr. Bickleigh had no intention of risking disaster.

  CHAPTER X

  1

  DR. BICKLEIGH read de Quincey on Murder as a Fine Art.

  He was impressed with Thomas Griffiths Wainewright, but considered John Williams anything but an artist. On the whole, however, he agreed with the author. Murder could be a fine art: but it was not for everyone. Murder was a fine art for the superman. It was a pity that Nietzsche could not have developed de Quincey’s propositions.

  Dr. Bickleigh had no doubt whatever that in murder he had qualified not only as a fine artist, but as a superman. It was a pleasant sensation. It gave one a feeling of confidence and power. To know that one really could rid oneself of anyone who became impossible . . . The only pity was that the artist in this particular medium should be unable to point proudly to his triumphs. Art for art’s sake.

  But Dr. Bickleigh still could not think of his own experiments really as murder. There was quite a perceptible difference between what he had done, and proposed to do, and murder: though he could not altogether define it.

  Still, murder or not, the method had got to receive meticulous attention. Dr. Bickleigh pondered over it closely. Certain broad rules were obvious: the deaths must appear either natural or accidental—anything but designed. Dr. Bickleigh had nothing but scorn for those murderers who despatch their victims in one of the obvious ways—riddled with bullets, sliced with a hatchet, or stuffed full of arsenic—and rely on bad detective work for their escape. His method was to be a great deal more subtle than that.

  A great man is one who can not only seize his opportunities, but recognise them. Dr. Bickleigh knew that, and spent some time in looking for his own, turning over in the meantime, just as he had done before, a dozen different plans. When his opportunity—a case of virulent botulism in one of his own patients—did offer itself, Dr. Bickleigh recognised it at once, and paid a visit to the Merchester Public Library. Then he bought an incubator. He was no bacteriologist, but to make a culture of bacillus botulinus was simple. Dr. Bickleigh made one.

  The more he tested this idea, the better he liked it. Chatford’s death would present every natural appearance; there was the case in Wyvern’s Cross to prove that contaminated food was circulating in the district; in matters of food-contamination neither Chatford nor Madeleine could be expected to be immune. No
suspicion of design could possibly arise. On the other hand, the method, though safe, was uncertain. It was impossible to ensure death. Still, the plan presented so many advantages that this one drawback could not outweigh them. And, if failure did follow, it was always possible to make a second attempt, when their powers of resistance would have been weakened by the first illness; and success then would be almost inevitable.

  Dr. Bickleigh invented some legal business, and asked Chatford to tea in a few days’ time to discuss it.

  To Dr. Bickleigh’s annoyance, Chatford proved difficult. He was not Dr. Bickleigh’s legal adviser, and, in the curt note which he sent in reply to the doctor’s friendly letter of invitation, he intimated quite plainly that he had no wish to become Dr. Bickleigh’s legal adviser. Dr. Bickleigh rang him up, and Chatford told him in dry tones that he was far too busy to go out to Wyvern’s Cross to tea, but that business (if Dr. Bickleigh persisted) could always be discussed in his office in Merchester. Dr. Bickleigh complained bitterly to Ivy of the way in which Chatford rejected his advances.

  And then, suddenly and most unexpectedly, Chatford rang up to say in the most friendly way that he found he was going to be in the neighbourhood of Wyvern’s Cross two afternoons later, and would very much like to call in for a cup of tea if that would be convenient. Dr. Bickleigh, delighted, assured him that it would be quite convenient.

  He was unable to ask Ivy whether it was she who had brought about this change of heart, for Ivy did not turn up at their rendezvous the next day. Instead, there was a note from her, addressed to the fictitious name in which Dr. Bickleigh had hired the room, to tell him that William had suddenly packed her off at about five minutes’ notice to Spain, her dear! He had a sister who had a husband who lived in Spain as the representative of a large British engineering firm, and, though Ivy had never met them, they had written out of the blue to ask her and Chatford, or her alone if Chatford could not come too, to go over and visit them at once in Barcelona; and William had insisted on her doing so—simply wouldn’t take no for an answer. It was the chance of a lifetime; it would be a great treat for her; she had not been looking too fit lately, and the change would be most beneficial; a hundred reasons. Teddy needn’t worry; it wasn’t because William suspected anything; that was quite certain, because he had never been nicer. And she would see him again in the autumn, and would miss him terribly, and love him always, and write to him every day, and he was to write to her just as often.