by Francis Iles
“What ought I to do, Chief Inspector?” he asked confidentially. Dr. Bickleigh did feel quite confidential with the man now. He was a fool, but he wasn’t a bad fellow by any means. And it was interesting to talk on more or less intimate terms with a real detective from Scotland Yard. “You can see for yourself that this kind of thing can’t be allowed to go on. The man’s mouth must be stopped.”
The Chief Inspector was interested, distinctly interested. He put a few questions. Dr. Bickleigh answered them with manly frankness. Ivy’s character lay in ribbons at their feet.
“Well, doctor, if you take my advice you’ll do nothing for the time being. You don’t want to drag the girl into the witness-box to admit adultery, which is what it would lead to. If you’re right in saying that these rumours do come from him, well, he’s had the matter taken up officially and an enquiry made, which is what it seems he wanted, and I don’t see what more he can do. It’s my opinion he’ll drop it now. If he doesn’t . . . But, anyhow, if I were you I should wait and see.”
“Thank you, Chief Inspector. Yes, perhaps that would be best. Anyhow, I’m glad you know now that it’s entirely due to him that you’ve had to waste your time like this.” Dr. Bickleigh concealed the vindictiveness he was feeling under an aspect of duty done.
Chief Inspector Russell leaned back against the surgery counter and looked denser than ever. “Still, it’s a bit of a puzzler, doctor. If what you say is right, what’s his idea? Even if it could be established that your poor lady did make away with herself, that’s only going to bring up a lot of mud about her. How does he think he’s going to get at you that way?”
“His wife says his idea is that if suicide could be proved, you see, I should have to leave the place.”
“But why, sir? I don’t see that at all.”
“Oh, well, various things might come out, you know.” Dr. Bickleigh grinned knowingly. “We doctors have to be like Caesar’s wife if we’re to keep our practices. Anybody else can enjoy himself occasionally and people only smile; but a doctor—good gracious me, no!”
Chief Inspector Russell actually winked. Broadly. It was very evident that with the stowing away of the notebook he had put off the official and become the genial (if somewhat stupid) soul that he really was at heart.
“Well, I won’t say I’m not rather in that position myself, doctor. But still, if one likes the ladies enough, one can always find some means, eh?” He winked again.
Dr. Bickleigh chuckled delightedly. That was the sort of thing, he had been brought up to before he had had to don this damned gentility; a regular tang of his youth, as unlike Wyvern’s Cross as it was like Nottingham. A wave of kinship with this large, human man, so mistakenly trying to be a detective, surged over him.
“Well, it’s hard for a man to get on without them, I must say.”
Innuendoes thickened the surgery air.
“And,” said the Chief Inspector, with an envious air, “I dare say a doctor has his opportunities, more than some of us.”
“Well, if he doesn’t, he can always make them, can’t he?”
They laughed wickedly.
“And ladies in the country must have something to occupy their time, I expect.”
Dr. Bickleigh saw his opportunity to be rather cunning. “Yes, and nobody but one’s patients takes that sort of thing seriously, you know. Why, my poor wife . . . Yes, Chief Inspector, I lost a real, understanding friend in her. A wonderful woman. I can tell you, there aren’t many wives who have the sense to let their husbands—well, amuse themselves, and know it means nothing.”
“She did that?”
“Yes, indeed she did. She was one of the few really sensible women I’ve ever met.” Dr. Bickleigh looked extremely serious. Inwardly he was thinking: And that knocks away even the ground for suicide. It was too easy.
“Well, well.” The Chief Inspector was looking suitably serious too. He roused himself with an effort. “Well, I mustn’t keep you any longer, doctor. It’s been most good of you to answer my questions so frankly. And you understand, I’m sure, that I only had to do my duty.”
“Yes, of course. Perfectly. And there’s nothing more I can do for you?” asked Dr. Bickleigh expansively. “I’m quite at your disposal.”
The big Chief Inspector seemed struck with this offer. That was very kind. Yes, since the doctor was so good, he would like to have a look over the house. Just as a matter of form, of course. It would help him with his report.
Dr. Bickleigh agreed at once. It would be most amusing.
They went over the house together. Although the suggestion had not come from him, the man from Scotland Yard made a thorough job of it while he was about it. Dr. Bickleigh, secretly much entertained, stood by while his visitor opened cupboards, peered into wardrobes, even looked under the bath; though what he expected to find there remained a complete mystery.
“You’re making a regular search-party of it, Chief Inspector.”
“Never do a thing by halves, doctor,” replied Chief Inspector Russell genially. “That’s our rule. It gives us a lot of trouble, but it saves us more in the long run.”
Dr. Bickleigh felt he was obtaining an interesting insight into the methods of Scotland Yard. They did not impress him.
The Chief Inspector penetrated even into the attic. He led the way up the last flight of stairs, and Dr. Bickleigh could not have stopped him had he wished. Not that he did wish. It could not matter in the least. So he carefully refrained from discouraging remarks, and followed with an air of eager helpfulness.
His visitor stood in the middle of the room and looked round at the litter of tools, test-tubes, photographic appliances, wireless parts (since Julia’s death Dr. Bickleigh had made wireless, and the manufacture of sets for it, something of a winter hobby), and general oddments, with a look of humorous dismay. “Lucky I’m not making a real search-party of it, sir. It’d take half a day to go through all this.”
“My hobby-room,” explained the doctor.
On a table already loaded with other impedimenta stood the incubator. The Chief Inspector’s glance did not even hover there as it swept in plain bewilderment round the room. The situation appealed to Dr. Bickleigh. Here under the man’s very nose . . . Well, really, if this was the best that Scotland Yard could do! He was almost tempted to say casually: “And that thing over there’s an incubator, you know.” Probably the man did not even know what an incubator was. In any case, it would convey nothing to him.
“You go in for scientific experiments then, doctor?” suggested the Chief Inspector, eyeing the test-tubes.
“Oh, just a little research-work occasionally. I’ve always been interested in it. Of course, a country G.P. doesn’t get much chance. But one does what one can.”
The Chief Inspector advanced to the table on which the instruments lay (not the incubator-table), and picked up a Bunsen burner rather as if it were a Mills bomb. “Chemistry, eh? Now, that’s a thing I never knew anything about.”
“No? It’s quite fascinating. I’ll tell you what I’ve been doing.” Dr. Bickleigh explained how he had been amusing his leisure moments by passing chlorine through a solution of sodium thiosulphate.
“Oh, yes,” said the other vaguely. “I believe I’ve heard of that. Have to use arsenic for that, don’t you?”
“Certainly not,” Dr. Bickleigh replied sharply. What was this arsenic motif that kept cropping up? “I told you downstairs, there’s no arsenic in the house at all except the Fowler’s solution in the surgery. What is the idea about this arsenic?”
The Chief Inspector looked distressed. “Oh, that. No, I wasn’t thinking of that, doctor. Just getting a bit mixed in my chemistry, that’s all. Well, it’s good of you to have shown me round like this. I think I’ve seen all I wanted.”
They parted genially, the Chief Inspector still refusing a drink.
Dr. Bickleigh returned to his consulting-room and mixed himself another, a stiffer one this time. He felt extremely pleased with himself.
It had been an amusing evening.
But what a ridiculous pother to make over a question of possible suicide already over a year old. Red tape, no doubt.
Well, anyhow, that would be the end of Chatford.
In more senses than one.
6
HE WOKE up in the middle of the night, sweating with terror.
It was all up. They knew he had killed Julia. They were going to prove it. They wouldn’t rest till they had got him—hanged him. It was all up.
Everything showed it. His brain was clear now. Everything was ghastly plain. How could he not have seen it before?
Would they have sent a man down from Scotland Yard just on a case of suspected suicide? Of course not. It was murder they suspected. Murder. What was he to do?
The Devonshire police had found out something. They had called in Scotland Yard. And Scotland Yard never let go. Good God, what was he to do?
Everything showed it. The Chief Inspector had refused to drink with him. That proved it, didn’t it? Refused to drink with him. That was final. A policeman never refuses to drink with anyone except a man he intends to arrest. Final.
All those hints about jealous coroners had been bunkum. All the suggestions about suicide just soft soap, to put him off his guard. That geniality a pose, to lure him into giving himself away. And, good God, he had given himself away. Hopelessly. What hadn’t he said? Got confidential, hinted at woman-chasing, showed his vindictiveness towards Chatford. Oh, given himself away disastrously. It was all up.
How could he have been such a fool? He had made the fatal mistake: underrated his opponent. The man had pretended to be a numbskull, and he had been taken in. And had thought it amusing! Oh, God, it was he who had been the fool.
Everything showed it. The account of his movements. They wouldn’t have wanted that if it was just a case of suicide, would they? Of course they wouldn’t. They knew it was murder. And the man had taken that order on the Merchester chemist away with him. Away—to prove that it was in his own disguised handwriting, not a forgery at all. Away—and he would never be able to get it back and destroy it. That piece of paper was going to hang him.
And that arsenic. What did that mean? Something mysteriously dreadful. They thought he had poisoned Julia with arsenic, and somehow they were going to prove it. But he hadn’t—he hadn’t. God, this was awful. He was going to be hanged for something he had never done. Arsenic! What did it mean?
Hanged! He was going to be hanged—hanged—hanged. By the neck, until he was dead.
Oh, why had he killed Julia—why—why? It had been so silly. So ridiculously unnecessary. Why had he done it—why? Oh, if only she was still alive. He wanted her so badly. Unbearably. What was he to do?
He sat up in the bed, a stiff, erect little figure in pink cotton pyjamas, his hair half on end from sleep, and rocked backwards and forwards, his knuckles to his mouth.
If only he hadn’t done it. If only Julia were still alive.
“Oh, oh,” moaned Dr. Bickleigh, and began to cry.
CHAPTER XI
1
THE NEXT morning Dr. Bickleigh’s confidence had completely returned. The despair of the night had been a natural reaction, at a time when the vitality is at its lowest, from the knowledge that Scotland Yard really were interesting themselves in Julia’s death. Remembered in the friendly light of day, it seemed like a nightmare, and almost as preposterous.
Of course, murder was not suspected. How could it be? There were simply no grounds for suspicion. Chatford had made a fuss, and, since he was a solicitor and presumably a man of weight, the Home Office had been bound to look into his mare’s nest, even to the extent of sending a man down from London to make out a report. How fortunate that he had told the Chief Inspector Chatford’s reason. That proved him so much of an interested party that his ridiculous accusations simply lost all weight.
Of course, too, the Chief Inspector had been satisfied. It was incredible that he could have been so friendly had he not been. He would have been stiff and official if he had thought he was investigating a case of murder; not genial and apologetic. Scotland Yard apologising to a suspected murderer! Not likely.
And even (reasoned Dr. Bickleigh over his eggs and bacon) if the impossible did happen, had happened, and the possibility of murder ever had been raised—well, what did it matter? Nothing could ever be proved, in the case of Julia any more than in the cases of Chatford and Madeleine. Not a thing. He was on velvet. Really, Dr. Bickleigh could hardly understand why any murderer, who took the merest intelligent precautions, should ever be brought to trial at all. But, of course, that was it: the fools did not take intelligent precautions, because they hadn’t the intelligence.
Chatford?
Wouldn’t it be advisable to let well alone? Chatford might be dying, in which case excellent; but, on the other hand, he might not, and one hardly wanted to commit a murder right under the nose of a Scotland Yard detective. (Yes, if Chatford did die now it really would be murder. Most curious.) But yet again, could he in justice to himself let Chatford off ? By every canon Chatford deserved to die. As long as Chatford lived . . .
It was most difficult.
And then there was Ivy. Good gracious, yes, he had been almost forgetting Ivy. Ivy, bringing with her as Chatford’s widow all the excellent possessions that Chatford had so industriously massed together. Ivy, an independence at last. . . .
Now that would be a revenge worthy of himself.
Oh, yes: Chatford must die.
But Scotland Yard should not be bothered. Not in the least. Chatford should die a nice, ordinary natural death. Poison? Absurd. The silly man ate some bad potted meat, you know. Well, if people will do these things they must expect to take the consequences. Wasn’t there a similar case in Wyvern’s Cross? A child named—oh, yes, Sampford. Yes, of course. Botulism, they called it, didn’t they? And now Mr. Chatford the same. Well, well.
Dr. Bickleigh could hear the words actually on the worthies’ lips. He smiled unconsciously as he finished his coffee and neatly dabbed with the napkin at his little waxed moustache.
Now, then. Chatford. . . .
2
BUT TO see Chatford was apparently not quite so simple as Dr. Bickleigh had reckoned.
At the house he met with a blank refusal, and a door very nearly slammed in his face. Mr. Chatford was rather worse to-day, and far too ill to see anyone; and, before Dr. Bickleigh could even speak again, bang! the door closed by the agitated maid right on his words.
Well, no use trying that again, Dr. Bickleigh reflected temperately as he climbed into his car. Chatford was evidently determined not to be seen, by him or anyone else. Unfortunately, however, for Chatford, Dr. Bickleigh was equally determined to see him; and where this regenerated Dr. Bickleigh had made up his mind to anything . . .
He drove through the streets of Merchester, a consciously grim figure of death. Chatford need not hope to escape that way. If direct methods failed, subtlety always remained.
Dr. Lydston was out. Dr. Bickleigh, growing grimmer every moment, hung about in Merchester until the other could not possibly be out any longer. Then he went back. This time he was more lucky. Dr. Lydston had just come in to lunch.
Dr. Lydston received him quite effusively for a man normally so restrained. “Ha, Bickleigh. Excellent. Haven’t seen you for quite a long time. How are you? Yes, I was expecting you.”
“Expecting me?”
Dr. Lydston’s tall, spare form seemed to coil itself round his consulting-room chair in an effort to find a comfortable position. He cleared his throat very loudly. “Yes, that . . . H’m! I understood you referred him to me. Most awkward. Very— h’m!—distressing. Of course I confirmed . . .”
“Oh! Oh, yes. He came, did he?” At last Dr. Bickleigh understood the other’s embarrassed references. He had been so absorbed in his present business that he had quite forgotten about the Scotland Yard man. Well, the fellow would not have got much change out of Lydston. After all, Lydston
had given his own opinion on Julia’s case; and he had his professional position to consider. Not, of course, that Lydston could tell the police anything even if he wanted. Death had been perfectly consistent with morphia poisoning, because death had been due to morphia poisoning. What more could one want? Still, all that mattered less than nothing now.
“Yes, that’s right. I referred him to you. But that isn’t what I’ve come about now. Look here, Lydston, I’m bothered. I hear Chatford’s been taken bad. You’re his medical man, aren’t you? How does he strike you?”
Dr. Lydston seemed to be weighing his answer with his usual caution before he gave it, looking thoughtfully at Dr. Bickleigh through his spectacles and then hastily looking away again. “Well, he’s in a pretty bad way,” he said at last, and twined himself a little more impossibly round his chair.
“Really dangerous?”
“Decidedly, I should say.”
“Yes, but how much so? Likely to prove fatal?”
Dr. Lydston looked at him thoughtfully again. “Possibly. Possibly not.”
Dr. Bickleigh subdued his irritation. Silly old creature; why couldn’t he say straight out what Chatford’s chances were? However, he was in a bad way, anyhow. But not quite bad enough. Just a little edging nearer the precipice. . . .
“Well, I’m worried. He came to tea with me the other day, you know. Day before yesterday. The Bournes were there too. Four of us. Well, three out of the four were taken bad in the night. Really, I’m afraid . . .”
“Bourne wasn’t taken ill.”
“No, he was the only one who wasn’t.”
“Oh! You were, then?”
“Yes, I was. Quite violently. Fortunately, however, I must have eliminated most of the poison, and—”
“Poison, eh?” interrupted Dr. Lydston quite sharply, looking at Dr. Bickleigh now over his spectacles instead of through them. “You suggest you were poisoned?”