Bertha moved back towards the table. Her face, though white as chalk, was totally without expression, her movement had the mechanical precision of one acting under hypnosis. She kept her eyes on Kewdingham; but there was a sudden flick of her right hand, and she was holding a knife.
She did not raise the knife; she merely held it, as though she was guarding herself.
And then they sprang together, and he was twisting her arm, so that she screamed with pain and the knife dropped with a rattle on the polished boards. No one could have explained that hideous encounter, no one could have said whether it was caused by mutual hatred or by mutual fear.
In three-quarters of an hour, Bertha, pale and a little strained, though very charming, was receiving her visitors.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Henderson, a motherly soul, “how cold your hand is! Are you feeling quite well?”
“Perfectly, thank you,” Bertha replied. “I’ve been icing those cakes in the back kitchen—a most horribly draughty place.”
6
Bertha went up to her room early, complaining of a headache. At first she tried to calm herself by a purely mechanical exercise of thought. But that was no good: a knowledge of something fatal thrust into the centre of her mind and would not be denied.
When she sat alone with Robert after supper there had been no apology, no explanation. They were past all that. Now there could be no recovery, no compromise or truce. She had been driven beyond the limits of her endurance. Something in the crazy face of Robert Arthur, when he stood glaring at her, had swept away every trace of affection, every thought of mercy, every hope of settlement. A primitive hatred fixed her in a cold, unswerving purpose. She faced the stark reality of her design with calmness. Her mind was made up. Thoughts formerly repelled were now admitted, a vague desire gave place to a desperate plan of action. She could bear it no longer. She would kill him.
Perhaps she had really been meaning to do this for some time. Perhaps that was why she had been thinking, with such an odd, automatic persistence, about poison. Perhaps that was why the unaccountable affair of the wrong bottle had made such a curious impression on her mind.
Anyhow, she knew, at last, what she was going to do. And this knowledge, appalling as it was, gave her a grateful sense of tranquillity.
If it had not been for this new fear of the man, she might have gone on, even without hope; she might have repressed the lurking impulse. Fear, as it so often does, drove a desperate mind to a fatal decision. It was not the resolution of a criminal; it was the unavoidable rebound of a nature overloaded with wrongs and finally governed by the necessity not so much for revenge as for mere preservation.
Chapter VI
1
At the very time when Mrs. Kewdingham had reached her fatal decision, Doctor Bagge was carrying out the most memorable of all his experiments.
It will be remembered that he had been investigating the properties of aluminium. His researches had been eminently successful. Now he was testing in the laboratory a marvellous compound of alum. The nature of this compound is not to be disclosed to the public, nor would it be comprehended by the general reader. If the medical profession are interested, they will find an analysis of a rather similar compound in the great work of Professor Wolfgang Druffelheim (vol. VI, p. 642 ff.). At the same time, it is only fair to state that many of our own experts (Brill, Chesterton and Rawlings, for example) do not agree with Druffelheim in his account of the chloric hydrate.
The medical use of Bagge’s alum compound, as the doctor knew very well, might be dangerous; it might also lead to the most important discoveries.
When he got past the laboratory stage he would give it a trial. He would choose a suitable patient, and he would give him suitable doses. As a matter of fact, he had chosen the patient almost before he had evolved the mixture.
The compound, suitably prepared, would be administered to Robert Arthur Kewdingham.
There would be no difficulty in giving the new aluminium solution, or anything else, to Robert Arthur. He was a gastric subject with a groggy heart and a chronic disease of the kidneys, and he had a passion for swallowing drugs and medicines, whether of his own mixing and prescribing or otherwise. What is more, he believed in Bagge and frequently consulted him, in spite of the doctor’s warnings about the highly dangerous and immoral use of prohibited chemicals. He found in Bagge an infallible source of relief.
If Bagge was in many ways the ideal poisoner, Kewdingham appeared to be in every way the ideal victim.
And as he meditated upon his forthcoming experiment, the doctor grew more and more precise, more perkily formal, more quaintly restrained. Only when he was alone in his dispensary, watching a lovely blue liquor foam and whirl in a glass burette—only then would he allow himself to whistle a gay, catchy little improvisation.
2
In the meantime, the situation of Mrs. Kewdingham became more and more intolerable. Her insufferable husband would have driven her crazy, had it not been for her resolution. Her father-in-law glared at her in his red, beaky way, like a bloody old vulture. Old Mrs. Poundle-Quainton sparkled with glassy eyes of affected indulgence. Mrs. Pyke wrapped herself in a cloak of stuffy disapproval. Of all the family in Shufflecester, only Uncle Richard was really amiable, but as he disliked his brother and his nephew he seldom came to see them.
By the middle of January, Bertha decided to employ lead acetate. She knew already that she could buy it in any quantity from any chemist without having to make a record of her purchases. She knew that it was a soft white powder with a sugary taste, a powder which could be readily added to food or beverage. Reference to an encyclopaedia in the Shufflecester Free Library taught her that she would need patience, small doses would have to be administered over a long period. The symptoms of lead poisoning are distinctive—but then, was there any reason why Bobby should not dose himself with acetate? In the event of any question, there would be no difficulty in making this appear highly probable. Moreover, the symptoms are frequently modified. Once a woman has made up her mind, she thinks clearly enough.
She felt no scruples whatsoever. It was necessary to take many precautions, to be prepared for many emergencies. Her designs were regulated by intelligence; she did not go rushing ahead, nor did she make any conspicuous blunder. Everything was foreseen—everything except what actually happened…
Had it not been for the choice of Plumbi Acetas—and it was purely accidental—we should probably have known nothing of the Kewdingham drama, or the drama would have been comparatively simple and unexciting. After all, women do occasionally kill their husbands—and, less often, their lovers. What is peculiar in this case of Robert Kewdingham is not the mere fact of murder, but the extraordinary conflict of design which is presently to be revealed.
3
On the 21st of January Bertha went up to London for the day.
She went to no fewer than seventeen pharmaceutical stores, and at each of these she bought two ounces of lead acetate. “I want it for a hair-wash,” she said. It was quite easy. Sugar of lead is frequently, indeed usually, sold in these small quantities. She dropped the little packages into a suitcase, neat little white packages with dabs of red sealing-wax on the flaps.
Then she went, by appointment, to have tea with John Harrigall. He had got a new cover of blue Indian silk for the divan.
John was very charming. He had the dangerous appeal of apparent simplicity, audaciously gentle and respectfully enterprising. Love, with him, was a question of mutual discovery, mutual inductance.
He insisted on Bertha staying in London until the time of departure of the last available train, and he took her to have supper with him at the Gilded Lily.
Whom should they see at the Gilded Lily but Mrs. Chaddlewick, who was staying with her mother in London. She was sitting at a secluded table with a grey-haired, fox-faced man, and she rose with a yelp of surprise and came over
to have a word with John and Bertha.
“Oh, my dears!” cried Mrs. Chaddlewick in a trill of excitement (she was drinking champagne). “How perfectly marvellous! Fancy seeing you here! How nice you look! Where’s Mr. Kewdingham? I’ve been to see my dear little Motoyoshi, and he has told me the most incredible things about my life—he’s too frightfully weird for anything. Supper in London is gorgeous, isn’t it? I’m going back to Shufflecester to-morrow; George is meeting me with the car. So I do hope we shall see you soon?”
Her piccolo notes came tinkling out with painful audi-
bility.
“That’s poor Colonel Billit having supper with me. So sad, my dears. He’s got an inferiority complex. You know—quite a lot of nice people have them now. George met a man who told him that anyone who had been at the relief of Kut would have an inferiority complex. I’m trying to cheer him up a little: he’s the dearest old boy, when you get to know him. George likes him tremendously. His wife died just before Christmas. He lost his hat in a taxi, and we had to simply roar with laughter.”
So she went on chirruping away for a dreadful minute, while John stood up looking rather grim and peevish.
“I don’t like that woman,” he said, when she had gone back to her colonel.
“Bobby’s very fond of her,” said Bertha. “She pretends to understand all that Atlantis nonsense of his. I think they are flirting in a silly sort of way. I don’t know, and I can’t say that I care.”
“Bobby flirting? Oh, surely not!”
“Well, it doesn’t matter, does it?” She looked at him in her strange, whimsical way—intimate, though still inscrutable.
John, with a broad smile of amusement, looked across at Mrs. Chaddlewick.
And as he did so, Mrs. Chaddlewick, who was obviously explaining all about John and Bertha to the colonel, looked up and met his glance. To Mrs. Chaddlewick, that glance was unmistakable and unforgivable. For the second time she made up her mind that she would get even with him—and with Bertha too. After all, what business had they to make fun of her? They were not in a very good position for throwing stones. Mrs. Chaddlewick was not such a fool as she appeared to be; at least she had the ordinary feminine perceptions.
4
Two days later, at about half-past eleven in the morning, Mrs. Chaddlewick met Mr. Kewdingham in Shufflecester High Street. Within a few minutes of this happy encounter (which may or may not have been accidental) they were drinking coffee in the Omar Khayyám Restaurant.
“Oh, do you know?” piped Mrs. Chaddlewick, “I met your wife and Mr. Harrigall in London on Tuesday. I expect she has told you all about it. Having supper at the Gilded Lily. They seemed to be having a frightfully good time. I was there with a very dear old friend of ours, Colonel Billit. Have you ever been to the Gilded Lily? It’s one of those terribly chic places.”
Robert Arthur frowned.
“John Harrigall?” he said. “Oh, yes!—he’s always been like a young brother—”
Pamela noted the frown with secret pleasure; obviously she had scored a hit. She guessed, quite correctly, that Robert knew nothing about the supper at the Gilded Lily.
“Young brother?” said Pamela with a giggle. “He wasn’t behaving like a young brother exactly. I say, you know—you’re rather confiding, aren’t you?”
It has to be assumed that such impudence was warranted by the degree of intimacy established between Robert Arthur and Mrs. Chaddlewick. From any other person, these words might very well have thrown Robert into one of his tantrums. As it was, he looked gloomy and bitter as he replied:
“I’ve always treated him like a brother, anyhow. His mother was awfully decent to me when I was a kid.”
He thought of the “One-Way Universe”. An ugly, though not unreasonable, suspicion rose up in his mind again. But he made an effort to appear composed.
“John’s a good fellow. I’m very fond of him.”
Mrs. Chaddlewick, however, was not deceived. She knew well enough that she had shot a poisoned arrow.
5
And now the conduct of Robert Arthur was really abominable. Sheer brutality was too exhausting, but he nagged and wrangled, he jeered and quibbled, he barked and he bickered from morning to night. His inside was evidently deteriorating. He complained of pains and of spasms, of headaches, dizziness, vertigo, staggers, nausea. Very often he went up to his father’s room, and there the two men sat together, talking in a querulous vague way about the rottenness of things, the rottenness of everything, in fact.
The old man, who blamed his daughter-in-law for the discomfort of Robert Arthur, became even more frigidly and rigidly aloof. But he renewed his oblique attacks.
He wrote the most unpleasant quotations on slips of paper, and put them in Bertha’s work-basket. Sometimes he handed them to her with affected courtesy. It seemed as if he knew by heart all the bitter and perverse things which have ever been written about women, all the hollow, sentimental cantings and rantings in praise of chastity, prudence, motherhood, mother love, duty and faith—all the shoddy gibble-gabble by which righteous men have tried to keep their females in order. In these literary assaults he made a masterly use of Shakespeare and the Bible, and it was extraordinary how he knew where to go for the most rancid morsels of libel or satire.
Doctor Wilson Bagge visited the house more frequently and more professionally. He looked gravely at Robert and begged him to be careful.
“You smoke too much, my dear fellow,” said the doctor. “You don’t get enough exercise. I shall have to keep an eye on you. We can’t have you going on like this—tut, no! We shall have to do something about it. Now look here!—I’m going to give you a new medicine, and you must promise to take it regularly. Then we shall see a difference, I think.”
And he smiled brightly, tilting his little head on one side and looking for all the world like a small, intelligent sparrow.
Not perceiving clearly all the causes of his disorder, Robert was inclined to believe it purely intestinal. He thanked the doctor with genuine warmth.
It’s very good of you, Bagge,” he said. “Really, I don’t know where I should be if it wasn’t for you. It is particularly unfortunate that I should be feeling unwell, just when I am considering a new venture.” He told the doctor all about Sundale and his wonderful sharks.
As for the doctor, he listened with his unwavering bright gravity.
“Not a bad idea, Kewdingham—speaking with due reserve, of course. But you mustn’t go too fast. You will have to stay at home for a considerable time—oh, yes! for quite a considerable time, let me assure you, my dear fellow. We shall have to brace you up. We shall have to give you a tonic—oh, indeed we shall! Leave it to me. I know exactly what I intend to give you, and I shall make it up myself. I propose to give you a very special and a very considered treatment. In the meantime, the diet—eh?—come, come, now! The diet…”
So Robert wrote to Mr. Sundale, and Mr. Sundale answered him at considerable length, and even suggested an early meeting in London.
“Nonsense, Robert!” said the old man. “How can you think of such a thing at your time of life? And what would happen to me?”
And when the Poundle-Quaintons were told of the shark business they were filled with dismay.
“My dear Bobby!” cried Aunt Bella, “you are building castles in the air. I’m sure this man is not to be trusted. Dear Phoebe does know such very peculiar people. You had better make enquiries. It doesn’t sound at all right. Sharks, indeed!”
But the more he was opposed, the more obstinately he clung to his idea. It was, he kept on saying, the chance of a lifetime, and he would be a fool if he let it go by. After all, he did not propose to end his days in the Pacific. In a few years he would be able to retire with an ample fortune and with a large holding in the company. Those who were first in the field would naturally get most out of it, and there was no doubt that Sun
dale was a remarkably shrewd man who knew what he was doing. (That, indeed, was true enough.) Even the Rule Britannia League and the great collection were matters of secondary interest. (But pray consider what a collection a man could form in those remote islands—what a stupendous or stupefying variety of objects!) And Athu-na-Shulah, the Priest of Atlantis, retired into the shade of his vast antiquity.
Of course, Mrs. Chaddlewick encouraged him. By flattery of a kind most acceptable to the middle-aged she persuaded him that he was a man fitted for adventure. She egged him on—though knowing well that he would never go—as a lady of the Romantic Age might have egged on her dashing knight.
Rosy coral and blue lagoons, white cargoes and wailing ukuleles—how simply thrilling! The mere thought of it quite melted Mrs. Chaddlewick. Her attitude, frivolous as it may seem, was not without importance in the unwinding of the drama. She urged Robert to see Mr. Sundale again, and by so doing became the unwitting instrument of destiny. Without this persuasion it is probable that Robert would have contented himself with exchanging letters until everything had fizzled out.
So things went on until near the end of January. Locked in Bertha’s private box were seventeen unopened packets of lead acetate, like a supply of ammunition in reserve. Although her resolution was unshaken, she hesitated a little before making the first move. Something might happen…
Late at night, Doctor Wilson Bagge worked in his dispensary, a trim, busy little figure in a white jacket. Atropos clicked her shears.
Then, on a Wednesday morning, there came a big envelope from Mr. Sundale addressed to Robert. Inside the envelope were a lot of thin papers, Roneo copies of a prospectus, a number of perplexing diagrams, and a blue document with “Confidential” written across the top of it.
Mr. Sundale had sent a covering letter, in which he explained that he was receiving more applications than he could deal with at present, and so he was moving to a larger office in the Kingsway. He felt, however, that Mr. Kewdingham had a prior claim. He was glad to say that he could now offer him a quite exceptionally good post as a manager, though he could not say precisely when he would be called on to attend to his preliminary duties, or where he would be eventually dispatched.
Family Matters Page 9