Death, My Darling Daughters

by Jonathan Stagge

  “But—”

  “Of course it ees murder.” Dr. Stahl’s metal earrings clattered impatiently. “Vat else could it be? You theenk an old voman so inquisiteev in other people’s affairs like Nanny keel herself and mees all the fun of scandals and interferings? Or you theenk perhaps she keep cyanide in a leetle box and in error pop it in the tea for sugar? Of course someone murder her. So seemple. She drink tea so strong it steenks. You put a gallon hydrocyanic acid in Nanny’s tea. You theenk she taste it? No.”

  Dr. Stahl spoke with an indifference to murder which was probably the product of years spent as an undesirable in nazi Austria. But although she treated Nanny’s death as no more moving than the death of one of her experimental rats, she made sense to me. Of the three unlikely explanations—suicide, accident, and murder—murder at the moment seemed, if not the most comforting, at any rate the least fantastic. Particularly when I recalled Nanny’s own dark forebodings of disaster.

  She had prophesied tragedy, and tragedy had come. The Angel of Death had indeed walked and stalked through the house.

  It was at this moment that I became conscious of Vic. He had been moving quietly around the room. Now he came to our side. He held a small round can, and his dark eyes above the scarlet shirt were sardonic. He tossed the can to Dr. Stahl.

  “Sorry to spoil your blood and thunder, Lisl.”

  He turned to Dr. Hilton then. There was something strange in the way the two men stared at each other, Vic arrogantly straight, Dr. Hilton recoiling slightly as if the young man’s full-blooded masculinity was distasteful to him. The antagonism between boss and assistant was unmistakable even though it seemed to have no connection with the matter in hand.

  Vic gestured at the bedside table. “Nanny was kind of proud of that tea set, wasn’t she?”

  Dr. Hilton’s pale blue eyes narrowed. “What? What? Oh, yes, indeed. It belonged to our family. My mother left it to her in her will.”

  “And she obviously made a point of keeping the pot and kettle polished well?”

  Dr. Hilton seemed at a loss to grasp the significance of that remark, but I was beginning to understand. I said:

  “If you want to know whether she polished them today, the answer is yes. Rosalind told me. It was because Nanny did so much polishing that she brought on her attack this afternoon.”

  “Thanks, Westlake.” Vic turned to Dr. Stahl, who was still peering blackly at the little can. “That’s British silver polish, Lisl. The old girl must have been one of the fussy kind that kept to her own brand. There’s no formula on the can, but a lot of silver polishes, particularly old-fashioned ones, contain a high percentage of potassium cyanide.” He grinned, showing white teeth. “You ought to know that. I read about it in your own Practical Toxicology.”

  “So I am to be made the fool and from my own book.” Lisl Stahl dropped the can of silver polish and, picking up the tea kettle and the teapot, carried them to the window. Her tapering nose sniffed around their spouts. Then, very delicately, while Vic watched her with lazy interest, she ran her finger around the silver rim of the teapot’s spout. “Ah yes. Look.” She beckoned me over and indicated a faint grayish deposit on her finger. “Veek is right. I quote many, many cases in my book of deaths in Europe from the polish which ees not wiped off.” She sighed. “There she goes, my murder. Pouff, out of the veendow.”

  Dr. Hilton and Dr. Kenton-Oakes were crowding around now. Vic had shown a brilliant piece of thinking, but he was very casual about it.

  “I guess she was polishing the teapot when her attack came on. She didn’t wipe the stuff off properly, and, as Lisl said, she drank her tea so strong that she didn’t notice anything wrong with it.” He paused. “That’s all it is. Just another of those crazy household accidents.”

  Dr. Kenton-Oakes, too cautious to venture an immediate opinion, was murmuring: “Vic is right about the silver polish. It is an old-fashioned English brand. Nanny was a conservative body and, I believe, had my wife send her a regular supply from London.” He peered at the teapot. “I recall other textbook references to deaths of this kind. As I remember there is a passage in Gonzales, Vance, and Helpern’s Legal Medicine and Toxicology.” He looked at Vic. “My boy, it would appear that you have put your finger on it.” His eyes twinkled faintly. “You have saved us from raising what one might call a storm in a teapot.”

  Dr. Hilton, who had contributed nothing to the investigation, burst into sudden executive life now that the mystery seemed to be solved so respectably and started to organize us all with the typically Hiltonian assumption that orders should naturally stem from him. His unconscious arrogance reminded me of the same trait in Mrs. Lanchester. It proved too that the willingness he had shown until then to let me take the lead had been nothing more than a gesture to professional ethics.

  Now that the cause of death had been established, he was the Great Doctor Hilton and the rest of us were just minions. He sent Vic off to the kitchen to see that no other pots or silverware polished by Nanny be used. He even had the gall to instruct Dr. Stahl to take the silver-polish can and the teapot for analysis. It was when he ordered me to go and break the news to the ladies, however, that I put my foot down.

  Trying to remain civil, I said: “I’m sorry, Dr. Hilton, but I am not leaving this room, and I can’t allow Dr. Stahl or anyone to analyze anything until the police have been notified. I know you were personally devoted to Nanny, and I appreciate your eminent position in the world of medicine, but Nanny remains my patient, and I am fully responsible for seeing that things are done properly. If you want to have the ladies informed, you can inform them yourself, and I’ll be grateful if you ask Dr. Stahl to put both the teapot and the silver polish back exactly where they were. I’m not letting you or anyone else break the law.”

  Lisl Stahl, with a refugee’s instinctive respect for the voice of authority, scurried almost furtively to obey me. But Dr. Hilton, obviously unused to that kind of talk, stared, his mouth half open.

  “Break the law?” he gasped. “Me?”

  “Come, Dr. Hilton, you must surely be familiar with the correct procedure in the case of an accidental death. It may interest you to know that I’m not only Nanny’s physician, I am also coroner for this county. It’s quite absurd to think that I could sign a death certificate or that a case of this sort could be settled without a proper investigation, an autopsy, and an inquest.” I paused. “I shall make sure this room is exactly as we found it. Then I will call the police.”

  I was surprised to hear a chuckle from the door. Dr. Kenton-Oakes, who was standing there, followed his chuckle with an apologetic cough. “Excuse me, Dr. Westlake, but it is seldom that I hear George told off like that. I must confess that I find it refreshing.”

  Dr. Hilton was still staring at me icily. His brother-in-law moved to his side, putting his hand on his arm.

  “My dear George, you must resign yourself to the fact that Dr. Westlake is not an employee of the Arkwright Institute and therefore has no institutional awe for you. Come, let us all leave him, for I am sure that if we do not he will order us out of the room, and that would be humiliating to the dignity of such august personages.”

  With a final glint of approval at me, Dr. Kenton-Oakes drew his brother-in-law out of the room. Dr. Lisl Stahl followed. I had put them all to rout.

  And I must confess that I was rather impressed with myself.

  V

  When I was alone, I restored everything as closely as I could to the positions from which the celebrated fingers of my associates had moved them. This was not done through any awe of the police, for Inspector Cobb of Grovestown was an old and cherished friend of mine. I did it because the pat accident theory, so promptly accepted by the others, had not completely convinced me. I wanted Cobb, whose opinion I valued, to have an opportunity to see the exact picture.

  At that stage I would have found difficulty in giving any sound reason why I was not satisfied with Vic’s explanation of Nanny’s death. It fitted the facts o
n a superficial examination at least, and it had a weight of quoted testimony to support it. And yet I still had a hunch that something sinister might lie behind that “household accident”; a hunch founded partly on the old lady’s half hints and partly on a conviction that the Lanchester ménage was far less of a happy family than the round of picnics and musicales would lead one to believe. In the past Cobb and I had investigated several murders, and I had learned, if not to trust my hunches, at least to take them seriously.

  I took this one seriously enough to make a thorough and unauthorized search of Nanny’s personal belongings. I found nothing that could be construed as suspicious. In fact, apart from the bare necessities of a frugal life, a Bible, and a dogeared book titled: What to Call the Baby, the room contained nothing except box after box filled with photographs of yellowing but unmistakable Hiltons whose faded likenesses indicated Nanny’s genuine if tyrannical devotion to her brood.

  Before leaving the room, I moved to the bed for one last look at the rotund little figure. Her head had fallen awry. As I returned it gently to its place, my hand struck something hard beneath the pillows. I felt under them and brought out a small package neatly wrapped in brown paper and tied with string which was cautiously reinforced by blobs of sealing wax.

  I had little right to open that package, but I did so without hesitation. I half expected to find something of crashing significance and half expected that I was merely exploring some little gift which George or Belle had brought their old nurse from Boston.

  The truth came as a surprise and a disappointment. After I had removed the sealing wax, the string, and three layers of brown paper, I found nothing but an ordinary commercial package of arrowroot. It wasn’t even full. The lid was half ripped off, and about a third of the arrowroot had already been used.

  Because I could think of nothing better to do with it, I slipped the package in my pocket and tossed the wrappings into a scrap basket.

  I left the room then, locking the door behind me, and passed down the stairway to the hall. In my search for the telephone to summon Inspector Cobb, I passed the dining room and heard my name called from inside.

  I entered the room where yesterday evening Perdita had been grinding out her cello practice, to find Dr. George Hilton alone. He was standing in front of the mantel under a large oil painting of Vice-President Hilton, and I was struck at once by the physical resemblance between son and father. If Dr. Hilton’s austere face had sported one of those Fullerbrush mustaches and if his Kenmore blue jeans had been exchanged for morning coat and butterfly collar, he might have been Benjamin himself stepped down from his ponderous Victorian frame.

  It was a little intimidating.

  But when he spoke it was obvious that Dr. Hilton was being as conciliatory as he knew how. Choosing his words carefully, he said:

  “Dr. Westlake, I want to apologize. It was unpardonable of me to—ah—take over the reins of control just now. I hope you will forgive me when I tell you that I was very fond of old Nanny and the shock of her death somewhat disconcerted me.”

  It was obviously hard for this stiff-necked Hilton to admit error. I accepted his apology amicably and asked the whereabouts of the telephone. Instead of telling me, Dr. Hilton shifted his weight from one large sneaker to the other and murmured:

  “You are about to notify the authorities?”

  “I am,” I said.

  “Of course. Of course. It is the correct procedure. But—” He paused and then almost blurted: “Before you take that step, I would like to have a word or two with you.”

  He gestured toward two of the severe chairs around the dining-room table. I sat down, wondering. He sat down too, sitting up straight. Once again I marveled at his ability to make even blue jeans formal, and I had the curious sensation that he was trying to impress me with his dignity just as Mrs. Lanchester had tried to impress me with her charm. The old fellow up in the picture wouldn’t have had to do that, I reflected.

  Arkwright’s most honored physician cleared his throat. “I have spoken with my brother-in-law, Dr. Westlake, and he agrees with me that, under the circumstances, it is best to take you into our confidence. A death of any sort is bound to focus attention on this house, and there are serious—I might almost say vital—reasons why at this juncture we cannot afford the veriest shadow of publicity. We want you to appreciate this fact.”

  “I understood from Mrs. Lanchester,” I said, “that you and Dr. Kenton-Oakes are here for some important conference.”

  Dr. Hilton’s thin lips tightened with elder-brother irritation. “Emily has never been able to keep things to herself. But fortunately neither of my sisters begins to know how important this meeting may be, not only for the whole medical profession but possibly for—civilization itself.”

  Once again he seemed to be exaggerating his effects like an actor. I had seldom come so close to a famous man before, and this was not the way I had expected one to behave. Some impulse to hero worship in me was disappointed. None of this, however, affected my curiosity.

  “You are familiar, Dr. Westlake, with the remarkable results achieved by penicillin and similar agents?”

  I said: “Of course.”

  “Well, some time ago I—er—that is, young Dr. Roberts, who works under me at the Arkwright, isolated some esters of penicillin which in our opinion are not only susceptible of chemical synthesis but are also suitable for administration by mouth. We have been trying them by that route.”

  The slight hesitation before his admission that it was young Vic who had made the discovery did not escape me, but my excitement at the news dwarfed everything else. That penicillin with its priceless gifts of healing might soon be manufactured synthetically—that one might soon be able to write prescriptions for it as one did for aspirin—was as thrilling a piece of medical news as one could hope to hear. Perhaps Dr. Hilton had not been guilty of overstatement after all. This was a discovery which, in its significance to the world in general, might well be more important even than the termination of the second World War.

  Eagerly I asked: “Does it work?”

  A faintly amused smile passed over his face as if this had been the question of a child. “It is not as simple as that, Dr. Westlake. All I can say is that these—er—compounds have been given by mouth in some particularly resistant cases under my care. We have had some results. Dr. Kenton-Oakes, who has been working with them in England, has had results too—results sufficient to justify the British Government in flying him over here for a conference with me.” This time, I noticed, it was “me.” No Vic Roberts. “We shall compare notes this week end and come to a decision. After that we shall advise our separate governments as to how, in our opinion, they should handle the manufacture and distribution of the compounds.”

  “It’s terrific,” I exclaimed. “The biggest step forward since the sulfa drugs.”

  “It is terrific, Dr. Westlake.” He picked up my slangy word delicately, like an entymologist picking up a noxious beetle with forceps. “So—er—terrific that I intend to spend the rest of my lifetime on this one problem.”

  In the moment of silence before he continued, I became conscious of a page of violin music on the table, of an empty cello case by the wall, and a studiedly simple vase of wild flowers—all the small things so typical of Mrs. Lanchester’s Kenmore and so contrasted with this discussion of world-important matters.

  “From the beginning,” continued Dr. Hilton, “secrecy has been absolutely essential. You will appreciate that there are a dozen reasons for this. With the exception of Dr. Roberts, none of my assistants at the Arkwright are fully familiar with the nature of our problem. Even Dr. Lisl Stahl, who runs our toxicity studies, does not know what compounds she is studying. There have been rumors, leakages, of course, and that is one reason why I decided to hold our conference here in my old country home in an atmosphere of picnics and chamber music. I assure you, Dr. Westlake, that with the exception of myself, Dr. Kenton-Oakes, and Victor Roberts, no one in t
his house has the faintest conception of what is to be under discussion.”

  I asked tactlessly: “And it was young Roberts who isolated these new esters?”

  The increased stiffness in Dr. Hilton’s manner at the mention of Vic was marked. “It was.”

  “He must be a bright boy.”

  He flushed. “I have never denied that he is one of the most brilliant young minds in experimental medicine today.” And then he added: “I have always admitted that, whatever one may think of his character as a man.”

  This uncalled-for opinion of Vic’s character both puzzled and embarrassed me. It seemed to embarrass Dr. Hilton too, once he had realized what he had said. Hastily, as if garrulity could undo what he had already said, he began:

  “I need not expatiate upon the palpable necessity of your keeping this as a sacred trust. Obviously there is a fortune to be made from this compound. If unscrupulous people were to get wind of it, the market might be flooded with dangerous, substandard imitations which would do more harm than good. Dr. Westlake, I have taken a great risk in confiding in a stranger. I have done so merely to plead with you to handle this—ah—unfortunate accident with the greatest care, the very greatest care.”

  I said: “I’ll do everything I can, and I know Inspector Cobb will too—provided, of course, that Nanny’s death is definitely established as an accident.”

  He stared. “Established as an accident? But Dr. Stahl, Dr. Kenton-Oakes, I personally have assured you—”

  The godlikeness of that “I personally” riled me. I said: “Even so it would be much harder to avoid a scandal, Dr. Hilton, if the death does turn out to be murder.”

  I was amazed at the sudden flare of anger that blazed up in him. Explosively he said: “You country doctors! Are you so starved for thrills that you have to make a cheap sensation out of a poor old servant’s death?”