by Francis Iles
He had had a successful afternoon, in a way. That is, Denny had been out and he had penetrated without difficulty to Madeleine’s bedside. Madeleine had not seemed in the least pleased to see him (he guessed that the parlourmaid would be in for a bad five minutes after he left), and, with a pose of prudery verging on the indelicate, had kept the girl in the room with them during the whole of his ten minutes’ stay.
In the same spirit of purity incarnate she had refused to let him make the least examination, even to the extent of taking her pulse, and her embarrassment was so exaggerated as to appear something like panic; one would have thought she had never had a doctor in her bedroom before, or any being in trousers at all, and she a married woman. Good God, hadn’t the fool the very faintest idea where to draw the line? It isn’t necessary to simulate terror in order to indicate a clean mind. Dr. Bickleigh had looked down at the cocoon-like form wrapped in protective bedclothes and thanked heaven sincerely for his escape. Poor young fool of a Denny!
But there success had left him; for Madeleine was not nearly so ill as he had hoped. Not nearly so ill, in fact, as she ought by every right to have been. Not only not at death’s door, but a mile out of sight of it. It was very disappointing. But that, Dr. Bickleigh had reflected philosophically, is the worst of those food-germs: they are so hopelessly unreliable. Still, he was a fair man. He had decided that Madeleine should have her chance, and he would not go back on his decision. Madeleine could live.
But it was very much to be hoped that Chatford had not been affected so lightly too.
Dr. Bickleigh was thinking, when his visitor arrived, that now more than ever it was imperative for him to get into Chatford’s bedroom the next morning.
There being no servant in the house at night, Dr. Bickleigh had nowadays to answer the door himself in the evenings. On the doorstep stood a large, solid man, with a benevolent face, a heavy moustache, and a bowler hat inappropriately gilded with the last rays of the setting sun. He was a stranger to Dr. Bickleigh.
“Yes?” said the doctor in some surprise. Strangers are rare in Wyvern’s Cross. “I am Dr. Bickleigh. Do you want me?”
“Just a few words, if you don’t mind, doctor,” returned the large stranger, with a deprecatory air. “Here’s my card. Perhaps you won’t mind if I come in.” Without waiting for permission, he came in, though still with the same apologetic look.
Dr. Bickleigh, his surprise growing, took the card. The next instant his heart seemed to jump right up into his throat and lodge there, for on the card he read: “Chief Inspector Russell, C.I.D., New Scotland Yard.”
Fortunately it was dark in the hall, and Dr. Bickleigh, fighting down a sudden, nauseating panic, was able to shut the front door on his confusion. Almost the next moment the worst of his terror had been dispelled by sheer reason. On whatever mysterious quest this man had come, of course it could not be because any suspicion had arisen concerning himself. That, at any rate, was out of the question.
It could not have been more than ten seconds before he replied, in a perfectly normal voice: “Of course, Chief Inspector. Come along to my consulting-room.”
Seated in his own chair, with the Chief Inspector in that reserved for patients, Dr. Bickleigh felt his full confidence return. He could almost have laughed at the remembrance of that moment of foolish panic as he pulled out his cigarette-case and offered it with a friendly smile over the table. “You smoke, I expect?”
“Well, thank you, sir,” said the Chief Inspector, extracting a cigarette from the packed case with a deftness which the largeness of his fingers would not have led one to expect. “I don’t mind if I do.” He produced matches from his pocket.
“Now, what is it you wanted to see me about?” Dr. Bickleigh asked, when the cigarettes were alight. “No trouble among any of my patients, I hope?”
Rather a good touch, that.
“No, sir. Oh, no, nothing like that.” The big man seemed quite ill at ease. Watching him, Dr. Bickleigh felt his own confidence increase. He was going to be more than a match for this blundering policeman. It was to be the rapier and the bludgeon once more. “No trouble among your patients. Rather more personal than that, I’m afraid, sir.”
“Indeed?” Dr. Bickleigh was nothing but frankly puzzled. “Personal, eh? What on earth . . .”
The man from Scotland Yard did not seem to know quite how to proceed. Dr. Bickleigh’s contempt for him grew.
“Well, you know, sir, we have to look into these rumours,” he apologised. “Just as a matter of form. I’m really sorry to have to bother you with it, but there it is. So if you wouldn’t mind answering a few questions . . .”
“What rumours?” No, that was a mistake. Of course one could not live in Wyvern’s Cross and not know that rumours existed, or what their purport was. Dr. Bickleigh corrected himself neatly. “Why, good gracious, you don’t mean . . . ?”
“Afraid so, sir,” mumbled the Chief Inspector. He might have been apologising for all the malicious gossip of rural England. “Unpleasant for you; and unpleasant for me too, having to rake it all up. But I’m sure you’ll be sensible and see that.”
“Oh, of course. But really!” Dr. Bickleigh laughed quite naturally. “Well, it’s too preposterous, you know. Of course, I won’t pretend not to know that there have been the most atrocious rumours about my poor wife. De mortuis nil nisi bonum doesn’t hold good in villages like this, you know.”
“No, sir; probably not,” agreed Chief Inspector Russell vaguely. “And of course I’ve no doubt it’s all a mare’s nest; but there you are.”
“But in any case, Chief Inspector, does it matter? That’s what I don’t quite understand. My poor wife’s dead now. Whether her death was accidental (as, of course, really was the case), or whether, as this infernal gossip suggests, she may have deliberately taken her own life, what does it matter? No amount of investigation is going to bring her back to life.”
Chief Inspector Russell adopted a somewhat guiltily confidential air. “Well, sir, I needn’t tell you how jealous these coroners are of their privileges. You’ve had plenty of experience of that, I dare say. And if they think there’s been a mistake made, or some evidence didn’t come out which ought to have done—well, you know as well as I do, sir, that they’ve got the powers and they will use them. So there you are.”
Dr. Bickleigh nodded. There seemed something of a non sequitur somewhere, but the Chief Inspector was looking so very apologetic, and as if his task were so distasteful to him, that Dr. Bickleigh thought it better not to press for the connection. “Of course. I quite understand.”
“That’s right. I was sure you would, sir. So if you’ll just let me put my questions, simply as a matter of form, I’ve no doubt that’ll be the last you’ll hear of the matter.”
“Certainly, Chief Inspector. But talking’s dry work, you know. I’ve got some whiskey in the dining-room. I’ll bring the decanter along before you begin.”
The Chief Inspector lifted an enormous hand. “Not for me, if you please, sir. I never touch it.”
“You don’t?” said Dr. Bickleigh incredulously.
“Well, not when I’m on a—when I’m working,” qualified the other. “Makes me too muddled, and that’s a fact.”
“I’ll bring the decanter, anyhow. Perhaps you’ll reconsider it later.”
As he went in search of the syphon and glasses, Dr. Bickleigh allowed his secret smile full play. The situation was really too delightfully ironical. Here was this absurd Inspector making laborious enquiries as to the possibility of Julia having committed suicide, when the real truth, right under his nose, was about the last thing in the world he was suspecting. What would he say if Dr. Bickleigh told him that truth straight out? “No, Chief Inspector, my wife’s death was not accidental. It was deliberate. But she didn’t kill herself. I killed her.” He would refuse to believe it, of course; probably say something facetious about doctors having to have their little joke, but they couldn’t pull his leg: he was too old a bird for
that. Good God, what was Scotland Yard coming to? As a taxpayer, Dr. Bickleigh felt quite indignant.
He returned to the consulting-room prepared actually to enjoy himself. The situation was not merely amusing; it was in a way exciting too. He felt a strong temptation to make it more exciting still; play with fire, drop subtle hints that this comic-opera detective would never understand. But of course he must not do anything of the sort; that would be inartistic over-elaboration.
The Chief Inspector was engaged in studying a fat black notebook. He waited till Dr. Bickleigh had mixed himself a drink (purposely not at all a stiff one); then he began.
For a mere matter of form, Dr. Bickleigh felt, his enquiries were remarkably searching. Not that it mattered, of course, for there was a ready answer waiting for every possible question. But it all seemed very unnecessary.
First of all, Julia’s illness was gone into at great length: how it began, her symptoms, the visit to Sir Tamerton Foliott, her two holidays, every detail. Dr. Bickleigh, smiling inwardly, again brought out his remarks about cerebral cortices and cachectic conditions which had served so well for Victor Crewstanton, but this time they were laboriously entered in the Inspector’s black notebook. Dr. Bickleigh began to yawn.
Then they went on to the question of morphia. Dr. Bickleigh explained exactly what had happened, how he had refused to administer any more injections, and why, and the distressing sequel to that refusal. It was perfectly plain sailing, for he had only to tell the truth.
“I see,” quite agreed the Inspector. “And you never realised she had begun to help herself ?”
“Indeed I did,” retorted Dr. Bickleigh. Of all the obvious traps! “I noticed that my stock of morphia was dwindling, and there was only one explanation.”
“But you did nothing about it?”
Really, this was too puerile. “Naturally I did, Chief Inspector. Do you imagine I wanted to encourage my wife in such a dangerous practice? I locked it up.”
“ ‘Locked morphia up,’ ” repeated the Chief Inspector, entering the fact. “And what happened then, sir?”
“If you must know,” Dr. Bickleigh replied with apparent reluctance, “she forged my name to an order for a large quantity on a chemist in Merchester. It—it is exceedingly painful for me to have to tell you all this.”
“Naturally it is, sir. Naturally. And I needn’t say I don’t like having to ask you. By the way, you haven’t got that order still by any chance? Didn’t recover it from the chemist and put it by, I suppose?”
“How curious you should ask that.” Dr. Bickleigh positively beamed. “As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what I did. I queried it, of course, when the bill came in; and the man showed me the order. I didn’t say anything to him, but I did get it back. Just to be on the safe side, you know.”
“Of course. Very wise of you, I’m sure,” assented the Chief Inspector with much heartiness. “Now, could I just have a look at that document, sir?”
“Certainly. I’ll get it at once. In fact, I believe it’s in one of these drawers.”
He found it.
The Chief Inspector examined it closely. “I think I’d better keep this, if you don’t mind, sir,” he said, and, without waiting for a reply, tucked it carefully away in a large pocket-book.
“Not at all,” said Dr. Bickleigh, who in any case had not the least objection.
The Inspector went on to something apparently quite irrelevant—Dr. Bickleigh’s movements after lunch on the fatal day. Noticing the doctor’s eyebrows rise, he hinted in deprecatory tones that there were vague but scandalous suggestions of negligence somewhere; and, though it was obvious that Chief Inspector Russell himself did not attach the faintest importance to such an outrageous idea, he was unfortunately precluded by his duty from treating them with the scorn they demanded.
With just the right amount of indignation, Dr. Bickleigh detailed his movements—how he had gone out almost immediately after lunch, what he could remember of the visits he had made, his meeting with Miss Ridgeway at a moment when he was having a little trouble with his car, his subsequent actions, ending with a visit to The Hall, where his housemaid had been able to catch him with the terrible news. Anxious to afford the Chief Inspector every help, he turned up his day-book to see if any corroboration was to be found there. By a coincidence which both men agreed to be most lucky, there was actually, for that day only, a detailed time-list of the visits he had paid. Dr. Bickleigh explained that he remembered now having entered it up that evening in an attempt to distract his thoughts from the tragedy that had overtaken him. The Chief Inspector, alternating between sympathy and apology, copied the extract meticulously into his note-book.
“Well, surely that’s all I can tell you which can have any possible bearing on my poor wife’s death,” Dr. Bickleigh sighed, when the copy had been made. “Now, Chief Inspector, let me offer you that drink again.”
“No, thank you, sir. It’s very good of you, I’m sure, but—” The Chief Inspector looked quite uncomfortable. “Well, sir, to tell you the truth, I haven’t quite finished yet, if you’d be so good.”
“There’s something else you want to ask me?”
“Something else I’m afraid it’s my duty to ask you,” corrected the Chief Inspector gently. “I don’t know if you’ve heard it, but there’s an idea going about that your poor lady’s death wasn’t due to morphia at all.” The Chief Inspector looked his distaste at voicing such a shocking rumour.
Dr. Bickleigh had no need to act his astonishment. “What? I don’t understand. Of course it was due to morphia.”
“The suggestion is,” apologised the Chief Inspector, “that it was due to arsenic, covered by a dose of morphia.”
“Arsenic? Nonsense! It’s quite out of the question.”
“But you keep arsenic by you, sir, of course?”
“Only Fowler’s solution; and a very large quantity of that would have to be drunk to cause death.”
“There isn’t any white arsenic in your surgery, or elsewhere, to which she could have had access?”
“Certainly not. The whole idea’s ludicrous.”
Chief Inspector Russell made a note. “But you have arsenical weed-killer on the premises, no doubt?”
“No, I haven’t. There’s been no arsenic in or near this house ever since I’ve been in it, except the small quantity of Fowler’s solution I keep in the surgery. You can take it that the suggestion’s simply absurd, Chief Inspector.”
“So I fancied, sir. But you’ll understand that I had to put it to you, just as a matter of form.” The Chief Inspector folded up his note-book and stowed it away. “Well, I think that’s all, sir. Quite satisfactory, of course. In fact, I’m sorry to have troubled you.”
“This idea of arsenic,” Dr. Bickleigh puzzled. “I simply can’t understand it. There’d be no question of accident there, I take it; and if the suggestion is that my poor wife deliberately took the stuff . . . It’s such a painful death, you see. The wife of any medical man would know that. So why should she, even if she had wanted to—to do away with herself, when there was morphia ready to hand?”
“I don’t understand that myself, sir,” admitted the Chief Inspector, “and that’s a fact.”
“Anyhow, you’d better see Dr. Lydston, in Merchester. I called him in at once. He’ll tell you that the appearances were perfectly consistent with death from morphine poisoning and nothing else; certainly not arsenic.”
Out came the note-book again. “Thank you, sir. Dr. Lydston. Yes, perhaps I’d better. You called him in, you say? I see. But he hadn’t had your lady under his observation, I take it, during her illness?”
“Yes, indeed he had,” retorted Dr. Bickleigh, not without triumph. “I’d called him in for a consultation only a short time before my wife’s death. I was puzzled about her illness, you see, and the treatment Sir Tamerton Foliott recommended didn’t seem to be doing her any good.”
“Quite so. And there was no post-mortem, I understand?”
“No, the coroner didn’t think it necessary. The cause of death was quite obvious, you see. And of course I had confided to Dr. Lydston the—the unfortunate habit my poor wife had formed, so that was no news to him.”
“Yes, quite so, sir. Then the real nature of her illness was never discovered?”
“No, not definitely.” Dr. Bickleigh was getting simply bored with all this old history. “But Lydston and I agreed that her headaches must have been due to a cerebral neoplasm of some sort, or tumour on the brain, as I said just now. In any case, it wasn’t worth opening the body to find out, as that was not the cause of death.”
“No, of course not. I see, sir. Well!” The Chief Inspector rose ponderously to his feet. “Oh, yes. I was nearly forgetting. Would it be putting you to a lot of trouble just to let me have a look in your surgery, doctor, and show me where you kept the syringe and all that? Just to establish that your poor lady had easy access to them, you understand.”
“Yes, quite. No, none at all. Come along, Chief Inspector.”
Hardly troubling to conceal his smile, Dr. Bickleigh led the way to his surgery. What on earth the fellow expected to gain by . . .
It was somewhat abstractedly that he showed the man from Scotland Yard what he wanted to see. Dr. Bickleigh was pondering a certain course of action, bold perhaps, but not unsubtle. There was little time to make up his mind, but it was enough. He made his decision.
“Chief Inspector, I told you I couldn’t pretend to be ignorant of these vile rumours. I can tell you further that I’m not ignorant of their source.”
“Sir?” The Chief Inspector looked puzzled.
“Oh, yes, I know perfectly well where they come from. A man named Chatford, in Merchester. A solicitor. He dislikes me strongly, has a grudge against me; and he’s set these beastly ideas about to try and do me a bad turn.”
“Is that so, sir?” The Chief Inspector’s voice expressed nothing but concern.
“I should like to ask your advice: ought I to take steps against him for criminal libel? The facts, you see, are these.” Dr. Bickleigh went on to give a very succinct account of Chatford’s cause for his grudge; nor did he trouble to hide the fact that Ivy had so completely given her husband away, and barely refrained from adding in plain words the poetic revenge that he himself had subsequently taken on his traducer.