Family Matters

by Anthony Rolls

  “Miles! Miles!” he roared.

  The inspector, one of those over-acute, heavy, insinuating men, came into the room.

  “Sir?”

  “I want you to listen to what Doctor Bagge has to say, and be ready to make notes if I want ’em. Go on, Bagge; go on. The inspector is my confidential secretary, so to speak. You have often met him before.”

  “As a matter of fact,” said the doctor, speaking very distinctly and slowly, “the case is one which certainly does require investigation. I am very glad my friend the inspector is here. I will be brief.

  “This is about the death of Mr. Robert Arthur Kewdingham, inspector. His name cannot be unfamiliar to you, because you have doubtless, in the course of your duty, heard of the various rumours which are now circulating in the town. Mr. Kewdingham died early in the morning of the 28th of last month, at his own house, Number Six Wellington Avenue. I attended him. At the time of the death I was in no doubt as to the cause. Kewdingham had a very weak heart, and he also suffered from an incurable disease of the kidneys. He was, moreover, subject to violent attacks of dysentery. His general health was deplorable, he was a wreck, liable to collapse at any moment. On the day of his death, and on the previous day, he was suffering from a recurrence of dysentery; he was exhausted, weak and irritable. His death was due to cardiac failure, which might have been predicted with confidence by anyone who knew the state of his organs. But I will admit, honestly, that I was at a loss to account for one or two rather unusual symptoms.”

  “Make a note of that, Miles,” said the Chief. “He could not account for one or two symptoms. Put it down, Miles.”

  “Those symptoms were delirium (which I did not see personally) followed by a very deep coma, while the pupils of the eyes were abnormally dilated. Of course, these symptoms might have been produced in the ordinary course of his illness, and I may as well say frankly that I did suspect a definite disease of the brain. We know now that symptoms are extremely variable, and are seldom, in themselves, a reliable guide in diagnosis. Then, finding that I was unable to get this case out of my mind, and hearing the distant echo of certain rumours, it occurred to me (only yesterday) that I would run round to the house and ask Mrs. Kewdingham, the widow, if she would allow me to look at the medicine-cupboard. I had some curiosity to see this, because I knew very well that Kewdingham was a wretched hypochondriac, fond of purchasing drugs and of making various mixtures—I cannot call them medicines—for his own use. I had repeatedly warned him against this dangerous practice, and he had finally promised to be more careful. Indeed, I told him that I would give him up unless he gave my own medicines a proper chance. Well; I saw the cupboard, and I got more than I bargained for. I got this.”

  He took the blue phial and the covering letter out of his case and handed them to the colonel.

  “You had better be careful: it’s full of a deadly poison.”

  “Poison! Good heavens, man! What poison?”

  “Can’t say exactly. But here’s the history of the thing—on this bit of paper.” He read aloud, quickly, the account of Surgeon Howard. “Probably that’s quite correct. I had identified the main substance, by smell, before I saw the description. Atropine, hyoscyamine, stramonium, belladonna…”

  “Miles! Have you got that?” cried the Chief, peculiarly excited.

  “I’m not very sure about the spelling, sir.”

  “Never mind the spelling. Say that he spotted the poison by the smell. Very smart of you, Bagge. Mrs. Kewdingham was there all the time, eh? Yes? Very good. Go on, Bagge; go on, go on. Do you suppose he took it with intention—”

  “I have no wish to evolve a theory. All I can say is that acute poisoning by the mydriatic alkaloids which I have mentioned would produce dilation of the pupils, delirium and coma, followed by paralysis of the respiratory mechanism, causing death.”

  “Stop, stop, stop!” The Chief was more and more agitated. “Don’t be so damn’ technical. It would cause death. Poison would cause death, with symptoms. Put it down, Miles. Did you think he was likely to poison himself? Did you warn him? Did you see him on the day of his death? Did you know that he was playing about with these drugs all the time? Miles!—Are you noting this, eh?”

  Dr. Bagge looked at the Chief Constable with a blue glitter in his eye, but he spoke with his customary precision.

  “Kewdingham was not quite an ordinary man. He was liable to extreme depression, and also to singular fantasies about himself. Had I been told that he had committed suicide I should not have been at all surprised. But the point I want to make is that poisoning by a mydriatic alkaloid would have produced all the symptoms which were observed, either by myself or by others, in this particular case. That is not to say, of course, that he was actually poisoned by such an alkaloid. In my opinion, however, an enquiry may be desirable.”

  “Well, Bagge, this is a damned odd business. I hardly know what to say. I think I had better say nothing. It’s very odd, very odd indeed. It looks to me as though you may be right. He was a funny chap, you say, and he may have taken a dose of poison. And so you bring me this little blue flask, and you tell me what you suspect. I think you have acted in a very proper manner. Either he took it, or he didn’t; or somebody gave it to him, or didn’t give it to him. That’s as much as I care to say at present. It’s a remarkable coincidence—I mean—well, it’s a devilish odd affair. We shall have to investigate. I shall inform the coroner.”

  The inspector shifted his large body as if he was adjusting himself for mental concentration. He bent his head, puckering the skin of his jaw over the stiff collar of his tunic. His little grey eyes turned obliquely towards the Chief.

  “Very odd, sir.”

  “Very odd. Yes, precisely. Your conclusion, inspector, is the same as my own. We shall certainly have to do something. Look here, Bagge; you had better leave that thing with me, in case they—in case we decide to do something. Probably I shall want to see you again. I shall send you a message. Now I have got to prepare for the court.”

  Chapter XII

  1

  On a morning in the second week of May, John Harrigall received a telephone message from New Scotland Yard. He was asked if it would be convenient for him to be at home between half-past eleven and half-past twelve. If so, an officer would like to see him. If not, perhaps he would be so good as to name some other time later in the day.

  John was not altogether surprised. He knew something about the Shufflecester rumours, and he guessed why the officer wanted to see him. He said that he would be at home all morning. Soon after eleven a nicely dressed man came to the house and gave his name as Detective Inspector Boskell.

  The inspector was very smooth in manner, almost cajoling, and he apologised in the most urbane way for putting John to so much trouble. A duty by no means agreeable! he said. But he would merely ask John to answer a few simple questions, and he would be as brief as possible.

  As for the questions, they were fairly obvious. First of all, the inspector wanted to know what John could tell him about the late Mr. Robert Arthur Kewdingham, of Shufflecester.

  John described his cousin with singular impartiality. He had been a moody, irritable man, he said, who was often frightfully depressed. Yes; Mr. Kewdingham was evidently worried about health and money, and things of that sort. A bit queer, perhaps? Decidedly queer, said John, if not positively mad. He had some curious fancies, had he not, said the inspector—reincarnation or something? John replied that such was indeed the case. He saw that a theory of suicide was in the air, and he naturally did all he could do to strengthen it. As for Mr. Kewdingham’s relations with his wife, they were quite ordinary, as far as he knew. Well; there might have been an occasional quarrel, but he had never seen anything worthy of mention.

  Now—in regard to a certain meal on the 27th of April?

  John remembered it very well indeed…Yes, they all ate from the same dishes, an
d all except Mrs. Kewdingham had some burgundy. Yes, yes!—from the same decanter, the only one on the table.—Did Mr. Kewdingham partake of anything which the others did not partake of?—No, certainly not. Was there anything strange about Mr. Kewdingham’s behaviour during the meal, or just before?—He was extremely depressed, looking ill, and inclined to be quarrelsome.—For how long, previous to the meal, had Mr. Harrigall been able to observe him?—For nearly an hour and a half.—And he had noticed this peculiarity, illness, depression, and so forth?—Yes, he was very much alarmed, he had never seen his cousin looking so ill before.

  The inspector then asked a number of questions about the movements of John and of the other people in the house between six o’clock and supper-time. When did he post his letter? When did he go to the bathroom? When did Mr. Kewdingham go to the bathroom?—and so on.

  After supper, the inspector continued, there was a very painful scene? John described the events preceding the collapse of Mr. Kewdingham. Without knowing that he was doing so, he described all the symptoms of datura poisoning with the accuracy and precision of a text-book. Then he gave an account of all that happened until his return to Uncle Richard’s house.

  “Next morning, Mr. Harrigall, you went back to Wellington Avenue?”

  “I did.”

  “And you saw nothing unusual?”

  “I don’t quite follow your meaning, inspector.”

  “Let me put it in another way.” The inspector looked at him with a soothing and reassuring smile. “Were they all behaving as you would have expected them to behave in the circumstances?”

  “Most emphatically they were. Why not?”

  “Now, sir, think a minute. You write books, Mr. Harrigall. You observe things. Tell me—you didn’t see or hear anything which struck you as odd?” Inspector Boskell flipped a page of his note-book.

  “No, I didn’t. We were all very much upset.”

  “Quite. I’m sorry to remind you of the sad occasion. Of course, nobody suggested the death was anything but natural?”

  “Good God, inspector!” John drew himself back in his chair. “You don’t mean to say—”

  “No, sir. I don’t mean to say anything. And now—will you be so good as to hear me run through these notes, and correct me if I have misrepresented you in any way? I will send you a typed copy for signature.”

  2

  John guessed, and he guessed correctly, that similar enquiries were being made at Shufflecester, with apparently similar results.

  Detectives were taking statements from old Kewdingham, Bertha Kewdingham, Doctor Bagge, the maid Martha, the two Poundle-Quaintons, and the nurse who attended Kewdingham when he was dying.

  Horror! Disgrace! Such a thing had never been known in the family. What had become of the special providence?

  And rumour, with her brazen voice, spread the awful tale. Have you heard? Mr. Kewdingham was poisoned—yes, poisoned! The police are investigating. They were in the house all day yesterday? Suicide? Well, my dear, I’m not surprised to hear it. Look at the woman—you can see she’s half a foreigner. Mixed marriages, you know, are such a mistake! Of course, it must have been suicide. What—what did you say? Oh, no! I can’t imagine how you could even think of such a thing.

  So rumour spoke and so the tale of horror spread. And every now and then voices were lowered and a sinister word came in a whisper, a little word of two grim syllables.

  Pamela Chaddlewick was full of twittering sorrow, and yet she was not unpleasantly excited.

  “George, George! What did I tell you? Didn’t I see it in the poor man’s teacup? Didn’t I tell you it was a coffin? You remember? Coffin in the teacup! A little teeny spickly speck, right in the middle. As soon as ever I saw it, I said to myself: That’s a coffin in the teacup, that’s what that is. I knew it meant something.”

  Doctor Wilson Bagge never turned a hair. He was prim, inscrutable, withdrawn. He would answer no questions, except those of the police. To none of his acquaintances would he say a word about the Kewdingham affair, and he neatly rebuked those who attempted to express opinions. Even with Mrs. Kewdingham he was terribly reticent, but that was because he wanted to spare her feelings. Also, he realised the importance of discretion until matters had been cleared up. People admired his exemplary behaviour. They felt rather sorry for him.

  Father Kewdingham (to whom Phoebe, of course, had said nothing) isolated himself as much as possible. In his occasional conversations with Bertha he was exceedingly dry and cautious, though implying a disbelief in the notion of suicide. The state of affairs in the house, though outwardly quiet, was anything but happy.

  They all knew that something awful was about to fall upon them.

  3

  On the day after his interview with Inspector Boskell, John came up to Shufflecester for the day.

  He, like the others, believed in being discreet, but he could not abandon Bertha in her present awful situation. She had sent him the most appealing letters, telling him of her loneliness, her dismay, her knowledge of hostility and suspicion. He could not have known, any more than Bertha herself knew, that one of her letters had been intercepted and was then in the hands of the police.

  When John arrived he went straight to Wellington Avenue. It was about twelve o’clock on a Thursday morning. Bertha opened the door.

  “Oh, John, I’m so glad to see you! Doctor Bagge is here, and I should very much like you to have a talk with him—with both of us. Please do, my dear! He is doing his best to help us.”

  After permitting himself to kiss Bertha very chastely and quietly, John followed her into the drawing-room.

  Here was a very odd situation.

  Boxes and cabinets, already pushed into the corners, were still dominating the scene, the more so as they were piled one on top of the other. Even now, poor Robert was making himself felt, almost as if he was there watching them.

  “Good morning, Mr. Harrigall,” said the doctor, making one of his prim little bows. “I am glad that you have come. Mrs. Kewdingham has been telling me—”

  They discussed the whole position. The doctor, who was really glad to have the opportunity, asked John some further questions in regard to the fatal 27th. John told the doctor precisely what he wanted to know and what he expected to hear.

  “Do you suppose the police are going to take any further action?” said John.

  “Well, Mr. Harrigall, that is hard to say. Evidently the matter has been referred to the Home Office.”

  “But—” said Bertha nervously, “what can they do?”

  “They may consider it advisable to hold an inquest.”

  “Surely they would not do that,” said John, “unless they suspected foul play. And foul play is out of the question.”

  “Oh, quite!—Of course.”

  It seemed to John as if the doctor spoke with a certain grim reserve, and with a lack of satisfying emphasis.

  “But, my dear doctor! Well!—I mean to say—the mere suggestion is fantastic.”

  “Quite fantastic, my dear Mr. Harrigall, quite fantastic! That is, to you and me. Only, you must remember, the police are not as well acquainted with the circumstances as we are.”

  “Yes, but even on the face of it—”

  “On the face of it, there were at least three people in the house who might have poisoned Mr. Kewdingham. That is how the police have to look at it.” The doctor spoke in the gentlest way imaginable, as if he was conveying to a child some unpleasant but necessary truth. “You yourself were here, Mr. Harrigall; Mrs. Kewdingham was here; Mr. Kewdingham’s father was here. Perhaps we may rule out the maid, because she left the house at three o’clock and did not return until ten-thirty. Of course, we know that a theory of foul play would be—as you have so pertinently observed, Mr. Harrigall—quite fantastic. That is because we know all the people concerned, and we know it would be an absurd theory. Bu
t, you see, the police know nothing of the sort. No theory is too fantastic from the police point of view. Indeed, it is their duty to be imaginative.”

  He suddenly looked full in the face of John with a glittering blue stare, though his expression was perfectly amiable.

  “For example, they might suspect you, Mr. Harrigall. They might say—”

  “Really, doctor! This is a bit thick. It is hardly an occasion for joking.”

  “I am not joking. I am only trying to answer your question about the police, and I suggest that it is just as well to look at things from their point of view.”

  “But if they suspect any such thing, they would be more likely to suspect me, wouldn’t they?” said Bertha.

  Doctor Bagge nodded his head very gravely. “Yes, they would,” he replied.

  There was a moment of impressive silence.

  John, pulling himself up with a sidelong jerk of the shoulders, brightly said:

  “By Jove! This is a grim conversation, and not very pleasant for you, Ber—Mrs. Kewdingham. And anyhow, doctor, such theories as you have mentioned would not bear examination.”

  “Wouldn’t they?” said the horrid little man. “Why not?”

  “But—I say!—”

  “They would bear examination, Mr. Harrigall. They are probably being examined at this moment, and the examination will doubtless prove them incorrect in a very little time.”

  Something in the tone of the man’s voice, or in the defiant urbanity of his manner, exasperated John. He forgot, or he disregarded, the peculiar delicacy of the circumstances. “Well,” he said, “while they are about it, they might also work on the hypothesis that it was you who killed him—with a bottle of medicine.”

  “Indeed, sir!” There was a wicked flicker in the blue eyes. “You were talking about the impropriety of a joke—”

  “I am only trying to look at it from the police point of view. Nothing is too fantastic for the police. It’s their business to be rather imaginative, you know.”