John grinned. He saw that he had knocked the other, for one second, off his little dicky-bird perch. He could not say exactly why, but he was beginning to hate the doctor. Perhaps he regarded him as a rival. It is impossible to record the subtle impressions which may influence a man in such a way.
“Do let us be sensible, if you please,” said Bertha, wrinkling her brow as though in pain, while at the same time she could not help feeling faintly amused. “This is terrible for me—”
“It’s a damnable affair,” said John warmly.
“I hope you don’t blame me,” said Dr. Bagge. “No medical man, in the circumstances, could have done anything else. And after all, if he did take the stuff—”
“Oh, it’s awful, awful!” moaned Bertha.
“You could not possibly have foreseen such a thing,” said the doctor.
“No one could have foreseen such a thing,” said John.
“Though it is not surprising,” said Bagge.
“How, not surprising?”
“Suicide would not have surprised me in such a case.”
“Then you think—?”
“I think, if he swallowed the poison, it might be suicide.”
“It could not be anything else.”
“Why?”
“Surely that is evident.”
“Not at all, Mr. Harrigall. It might have been an accident. Such things do happen, you know.”
“But everything would indicate suicide—”
“Quite so, Mr. Harrigall. If the police come to the same conclusion they will probably decide to go no farther.”
“And if they are not satisfied?”
“They will continue their enquiries.”
“It’s a painful situation, Doctor Bagge.”
“A very painful situation, Mr. Harrigall. A painfully delicate situation. But I do not think we need be apprehensive.”
“Why, no! What on earth should we apprehend?”
“Nothing worse than a little inconvenience, I hope, sir.” And again the doctor looked at John with his peculiar metallic stare. It was a singular, inhuman stare; John felt it like the impact of a penetrating ray.
“But you are no doubt anxious to have a talk with Mrs. Kewdingham. In any case, it is time for me to go. Believe me, Mr. Harrigall, I have no wish to thrust myself impertinently into the discussion of private business, or to be concerned, beyond the limits of professional obligation, in family matters.”
4
Then came the blow.
It was a few days after the conversation recorded above. Bertha, who had not succeeded in replacing Martha, and who was doing most of the housework herself, heard the door-bell ring at about eleven o’clock in the morning. When she opened the door she saw standing before her a grave, though amiable, gentleman with a ruddy face. A slim subordinate, in a dark blue uniform, stood behind him. In the background, by the edge of the kerb, there was a big saloon car. Bertha could also observe a number of people who were looking towards the house with evident curiosity.
“Mrs. Kewdingham?” said the grave personage. “Ah, yes! My name is Hubert Mills. I am the Borough Coroner. This is Police Superintendent Lee. I deeply regret that we are obliged to trouble you. Lee—tell those people to disperse immediately.”
Mr. Hubert Mills was a lawyer. His manner was kindly and quiet, though extremely business-like. Having entered the house with Superintendent Lee, he explained that he was to hold an inquest on Mr. Robert Arthur Kewdingham. It would be necessary, for the purpose of the inquest, to examine certain parts of the house and also to remove certain objects. In this procedure he was merely carrying out his duty, and it was very distressing, etc.
Bertha was calm. By this time she had realised that anything was preferable to uncertainty. With a gravity quite equal to that of Mr. Mills, she assisted him in his round of exploration.
Her attitude, of course, made things far easier for Mr. Mills. There were no questions, there was no unnecessary talk. They were associated, you would have said, in the friendliest way imaginable. Even the hovering presence of old father Kewdingham was disregarded, and he presently retired to his room, quivering with excitement.
Apparently imperturbable, serene, Bertha conducted Mr. Mills from room to room.
When he saw the medicine-cupboard, Mr. Mills decided that it would be necessary to remove practically the whole of its contents. At first it did not seem as though he was going to take much besides; but presently he said that he would like to see the things in the kitchen, the scullery and the tool-shed. Evidently (as Doctor Bagge had foreseen) there was a definite line of research.
In the kitchen there was a cupboard full of glasses, jugs, jars, tins and so forth.
“Ah!” said Mr. Mills, looking into the cupboard. “Now here is a set of half a dozen green wineglasses. Am I right in assuming that four of those glasses were placed on the dinner-table on the evening of the twenty-seventh of April?”
“Yes,” replied Bertha in a tone of mild surprise, “four of those glasses were on the table. I cannot say precisely which four, of course.”
“No, no—naturally!” Mr. Mills himself appeared to be surprised by something. “Take these glasses, Lee, and pack them with great care. Thank you, Mrs. Kewdingham; some of that paper will do very nicely. Thank you.”
The burgundy of the twenty-seventh had gone—old Mr. Kewdingham had drunk it—but Mr. Mills looked at the cut-glass decanter with a certain curiosity.
Then, when he came to the tool-shed, Mr. Mills was obviously puzzled. He had the air of a man looking for something which ought to be immediately visible, but which he cannot see. He could not refrain from exchanging glances with the Superintendent, and they poked and pried into every corner. Finally, with a trace of keen disappointment on his face, he selected a watering-can.
Soon after this, the investigation was concluded.
In full view of at least fifty gratified persons, Mr. Mills and the Superintendent conveyed to the car seven enormous packages. A curious intercepting move by father Kewdingham, who came shuffling down into the hall, was parried by Mr. Mills with an unexpected flash of severity. No! he said, he could not discuss the case with anyone; those who had evidence to give would be required to give it at the proper time and in the proper manner. His change of demeanour was remarkable. His gentleness gave way, in spite of himself, to an appearance of real hostility. Bertha, completely baffled by more than one feature of this investigation, felt more bewildered than ever. Recovering his grave courtesy, Mr. Mills bade her farewell, and again apologised for the extremely painful, etc., etc.
It now occurred to Mrs. Kewdingham that the police might be on the wrong track altogether. It also occurred to her that there might eventually be some doubt as to the cause of poor Robert’s death. The finding of the blue phial had certainly complicated matters in the most extraordinary way. These reflections were a source of comfort.
5
Mrs. Chaddlewick emitted a shrill cry of excitement, of delight and of horror.
“George, listen! Isn’t this too awful?”
She was holding the day’s issue of the Shufflecester Gazette. In a thin, eager, piping voice she read as follows:
EXHUMATION ORDER
A Shufflecester Sensation
Mystery Move by Police
We understand, and our readers will be at one with us in sympathising with a well-known Shufflecester family, resident in the town for nearly forty years, that the Home Secretary has issued an order for the exhumation of the body of Mr. Robert Arthur Kewdingham, 47, who died on the 28th of April last, and who was connected for several years with the local branch of the Rule Britannia League, and a very distinguished engineer as well as a member of the Shufflecester Conservative Association, being very much interested in the preservation of Shufflecester antiquities and other curios, where his activities were of unusu
al value. He had been for some time in bad health and had not been able to continue so actively as for some time in the past. He was a highly respected, and we may truly say, having regard to his varied interests and loyal devotion to all that is most British and most dear in our national life, esteemed citizen. The Chief Constable of Shufflecester, Colonel Drayford, D.S.O., etc., has very properly declined to make any statement to our representative, though receiving him with his universal and appreciated courtesy. It is, however, understood in authoritative quarters, meanwhile, that investigations are being made in the town and elsewhere, and that certain results have already resulted. We shall, consistent with our invariable regard for the bono publico and the sanctity of private affairs, keep our readers en courant of all developments in this, as we may well term it, painful mystery, although it is unlikely that there will be anything to report beyond the usual formal proceedings for some time. It is probable that an inquest will be held in the Coroner’s Court this morning.
Mr. Chaddlewick, in spite of his customary reserve, was flustered.
“Good heavens!” he said. “Who would ever have thought of such a thing?”
Mrs. Chaddlewick could make no immediate reply. She blinked in a dumb ecstasy of pleasurable excitement. The paper, loosely held in her trembling hand, rustled on the edge of the table-cloth.
“Oh!—it’s too—”
But no! She could not rise to an adequate strength of superlative. No human speech could meet her need, she had gone beyond the limits of mere verbal expression.
6
Of the opening of the inquest little need be said. It was, as the Shufflecester Gazette had so accurately foreseen, purely formal.
The coroner briefly explained to the jury that there had been “certain suspicions” in regard to the death of Mr. Kewdingham. An order for exhumation had been issued, and it had now been carried into effect. There had been a post-mortem examination, and in due course there would be a report from the Home Office. Until that report was received there would be an adjournment of the inquest. For the time being, there was nothing more to be done. But the coroner reminded the jury of the extreme impropriety of listening to rumours or of helping to circulate them, and he warned them to avoid getting into conversation with persons who might be suspected of acting for newspapers.
It was observed with surprise that Doctor Bagge was not one of the four doctors concerned in the post-mortem examination—a fact which Doctor Bagge himself deeply regretted.
As for the effect of this alarming move upon the Kewdingham family, it was by no means alike in every case.
Father Kewdingham was curiously undisturbed. The venerable Mrs. Poundle-Quainton felt herself disgraced for ever, poor dear lady! Uncle Richard growled fiercely, and even said something quite unpardonable about the fellow giving more trouble than he was worth. Mrs. Pyke observed sternly, though obscurely, “I always knew there was something wrong about that woman.”
Bertha, for her part, appeared to be desperately calm. She knew that she was up against it, and that she might find herself in a difficult situation. She imagined, of course, that her lead acetate had left unmistakable traces, probably visible to the naked eye; and no one could imagine that lead would be used as a vehicle for suicide. True, the issue would be complicated by Bobby’s habit of drugging himself—and she had wisely placed a few packets of acetate in the cupboard. But that was not all…Many things were hidden from her; and she would have given a great deal to know if the police had any evidence of her affair with John Harrigall.
Bewilderment, irritation, anxiety for Bertha, and a most unreasonable suspicion of Doctor Bagge, filled the uneasy mind of John Harrigall himself. Of course, he would have to give a lot of evidence at the resumed inquest, and that was a damned nuisance, and he wished to heaven the police had not been so officious. He could not account for his suspicion of the doctor. It must have been due, he thought, to his disagreeable memories of the conference at Shufflecester, when the doctor had looked at him in such a peculiar way.
And as for Doctor Bagge, there was no change in his prim demeanour. He pattered in and out of his patients’ houses, generally a welcome little presence, with a kind hint, a timely suggestion, a word of hope.
It may be doubted if there was another man in Shufflecester for whom so many people had so much respect. Nearly everyone felt sorry for Doctor Bagge, sorry that he was involved in this unhappy Kewdingham affair; and he received many gratifying proofs of friendship and of confidence. Indeed, he had not realised the extent of his popularity. But now all sorts of people, from the Dean to the dustman, told him how glad they would be when the wretched business was ended, and how shocked and astonished they were by the action of the police.
Bagge was naturally pleased by these tributes from the high and the humble alike. He could almost regard the Kewdingham affair as a blessing in disguise, a kind of advertisement. If only he could foresee the result of the laboratory investigations by the formidable Professor Pulverbatch, the Home Office expert! Never mind; he could wriggle out; he was preparing a defence, in case it was needed, and it was a very good one.
7
As a matter of fact, the redoubtable Professor Pulverbatch was terribly puzzled. Even after a long discussion with Doctor (now Sir Paul) Dinham, the official pathologist, there were certain features not easily explained.
Pulverbatch was a thin, pale man, with an expression like that of a highly intellectual saint. He appeared to be in ceaseless communion with a fount of inner knowledge. When he spoke, he had a way of drawing back his thin lips, showing two rows of very small natural teeth, and occasionally giving a short whispering whistle. In the seclusion of his fine Bayswater home he attempted, with no great success, to play jigs upon the violin for the entertainment of Mrs. Pulverbatch.
“Hyaline deterioration?” said the Professor to his eminent colleague. “Yes, my dear chap—I quite agree with you. But look here…This poor Kewdingham must have been fairly bombarded with poisons, he must have been overwhelmed by a lethal barrage. I never saw anything like it. I wish we had Chesterton here. But I think we shall ultimately come to the conclusion which I ventured to put forward as a working hypothesis at the start.”
He delicately adjusted the shining brass tube of his microscope.
“Just have a look at this, my dear chap. Smith has taken a lot of trouble with the slide, and it’s really beautiful, one of the loveliest little things I ever saw. Quite equal to anything done by those fellows in Vienna.”
Pulverbatch looked up with a saintly smile at the broad, brown face of Doctor Paul Dinham.
Without a word, Doctor Dinham applied his eye to the microscope.
“Yes, Pulverbatch,” he said, after a pause, “you are right. A positively exquisite preparation. By Jove, though!—It won’t be so easy to decide, eh?”
“A final application of the Hauser-Moroni ought to help us.”
They were standing in the laboratory, surrounded by sights and smells of the most nauseating description. Pulverbatch, looking like a middle-aged angel in his white coat, smiled again at the burly Dinham. They were among the few men in London who were capable of applying a test so delicate as the Hauser-Moroni.
“It’s a remarkably fine piece of work, Pulverbatch. Now what do you say to having a word with old Heagh-Spoffer? He’s a hopeless imbecile, of course, but we can’t deny that he has a special knowledge of such cases.”
“By all means, my dear chap. I had been thinking of Spoffer. We may as well ask the secretary. Tu-tu-tu-tu!”
He called a meek, laborious young man, who was cutting up a piece of something which looked very unpleasant.
“Mr. Smith! We have both greatly admired your beautiful slide. I shall certainly display it to Sir William. Very good, Mr. Smith, very good indeed. And now, Mr. Smith, would you be so good as to get me the secretary on the telephone?”
Mr. Smith, well pleased
by the compliment, drew off his rubber gloves.
8
In the meanwhile, two eminent men of another sort had come to the town of Shufflecester, and the public were totally unaware of their presence. These eminent men were Chief-Inspector Villiers and Detective-Sergeant Massey of New Scotland Yard. Working rapidly and with most ingenious disguises, they discovered, pursued, unravelled or discarded a whole series of Kewdingham clues.
Chapter XIII
1
The inquest on Robert Arthur Kewdingham was resumed in the Coroner’s Court at Shufflecester on the 17th of July.
There are courts of all sorts, but none could be more dreary and squalid, more infernally bleak and hideous, than the Coroner’s Court of Shufflecester. It is only possible to find this extreme degree of squalor, of neglect and of ugliness, in courts of law—places where the sane influence of women has not yet penetrated and where men still have it all their own way. This particular court was a room adjoining the Town Hall, with a door opening immediately on Frog Street.
When you entered the Court from the street you found yourself in a dusty pen, separated from the main part of the room by a wooden barrier with little wicket-gates at each end of it. By each of these gates there was a chair for a policeman. Apart from these chairs there was no furniture in the pen. A big rusty stove was placed in one corner, and behind it there was a stack of brooms and buckets, a fire extinguisher of obsolete pattern, a bicycle, a sheet of corrugated iron and a derelict bird-cage. In the other corner there was a stretcher on wheels. The floor of the pen was uncovered, and you saw beneath you the rough, dirty boards, overlaid by a deposit of dust, mud and bits of plaster. This was the accommodation provided for a hundred members of the public.
At the far end of the room, opposite the street door, there was a small raised platform or dais. Above it, fastened to the wall, a yellow-faced clock. To the right of the dais there was a door leading to the jurymen’s room; to the left, a door leading to the coroner’s room and the waiting-room. On the dais itself was a handsome desk with a chair upholstered in shabby green plush by the side of it, and another chair close to the edge of the platform. A raised wooden enclosure stood on the right of the platform, with a chair for the witness. When you sat or stood inside this box you were close to the coroner’s desk, and it was possible for the coroner to whisper to you without being heard by the public.
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