Cottage Sinister

by Q. Patrick

  “That’s it, all right,” the doctor’s tired voice was vibrant with excitement. “Hyoscine and all those other drugs of the same class have a decidedly bitter taste. The sugar masks it quite a bit, of course. Now try the other cup. The tea isn’t sweetened, but, even so, there’s none of that peculiar acrid taste—nor in what’s left in the remains of the pot, which, by the way, the poor old lady must have broken when she fell. It’s quite clear to me that the poison was deliberately put in Mrs. Lubbock’s cup and nowhere else. Wait—I’ll ask Crosby’s opinion….”

  Hearing his colleague’s voice, Christopher came down stairs and repeated the tasting experiments slowly and carefully. “There certainly is a faintly bitter taste in this one cup, Hoskins,” he said at length, “do you think someone slipped in after Lucy left and poisoned the old lady?”

  Mrs. Greene gave an indignant shrug of her shoulders in reply to this question, “Well,” she said, bridling, “I was here most of the time, and if you think that a postmistress—”

  “I was speaking to Dr. Hoskins,” Christopher interrupted her curtly. “Well, whatever happened, Jo, her body certainly showed all the signs of hyoscine poisoning when I first saw it. I ought to be familiar with them by now, as, heaven knows, I’ve had enough experience! … And then, this woman,” he nodded contemptuously at Mrs. Greene, “couldn’t have invented the earlier symptoms even if she’d tried—the staring pupils, hoarse voice, disturbance of vision, hallucinations and incoherent remarks—”

  “Incoherent remarks,” snapped the Archdeacon, as he caught the last words of the sentence, “it strikes me that her remarks were anything but incoherent. They sounded extraordinarily coherent to me—extraordinarily logical….”

  Christopher looked at the Archdeacon steadily for a moment. There were deep lines of worry around his mouth, but his eyes were now clear and purposeful.

  “Inspector Inge,” he said at length, speaking very slowly and deliberately, “I think you will have to take our word for it that the two Lubbock girls, my mother and Mrs. Lubbock all met their death from hyoscine or some very similar poison—administered God knows how. Is that right?”

  The Archdeacon nodded.

  “Well, that being the case, I want to make one point perfectly clear, and I know that Dr. Hoskins will bear me out in what I say. After a person has taken an overdose of this alkaloid he—or she—suffers not only from hallucinations of vision, but also of mind. In fact, one sees this phenomenon frequently even after a patient has taken an ordinary therapeutic dose. People say things that have no meaning, often just nonsense. They are under the influence of a drug which—to put it in plain every-day language—befuddles the brain and induces a state bordering on insanity. And so, while I do not question Mrs. Greene’s accuracy in reporting Mrs. Lubbock’s dying words (though I certainly take exception to the implication which she gives them), I do say that they cannot—they must not—be taken too seriously. Am I right, Hoskins?”

  Dr. Hoskins nodded, but without much conviction. “It often happens that way,” he muttered with his eyes fixed on the ground.

  “Well, Dr. Crosby,” said the Archdeacon with dreadful suavity, “I must, of course, take your word on the medical facts, but—if what you say is true, I would like to know why it was that Isabel Lubbock, when she was poisoned—presumably with the same drug—said two things that have since proved to be the most valuable clues that we have in this most baffling case. Since she is the only other one of the unfortunate victims whose dying words were overheard, I am obliged to confine my remarks to her. Now,” he continued pompously, glancing hurriedly at his notebook, “I have the word of several eye-witnesses, including Miss Lucy, to prove that, just before she died, she mentioned a policeman. We have since traced this man and found that he was probably one of her admirers who jilted her in favor of her sister Amy. Again—she also mentioned a certain Myra Brown, whom we have also traced and found to be the name under which she, Isabel Lubbock, kept a private savings account. Now—you must admit that her last words dealt with matters that were presumably uppermost in her mind at the time—you cannot say that they were idle or incoherent—why, then, should we take it for granted that Mrs. Lubbock’s were? No—it is my belief that the poor old lady was trying to tell Mrs. Greene here the story which only her death prevented her from telling me….”

  At the mention of her own name, Mrs. Greene, who had understood only a fraction of what had been said, rose majestically from her chair, and said in a loud voice which was almost incoherent with excitement and frustrated wrath:

  “Whatever she told me or didn’t tell me, there’s one thing as she did mention, poor crittur, and that was when I asked her if she’d like a cup of tea, she said no ’cos Lucy had just got her one and the one as Lucy had got her was that there cup which you was sticking your fingers in just now.” She gasped for breath, sat down and glared malignantly at Christopher.

  The young man ignored her studiously. “Very well, Inspector, have it your own way,” he said in a toneless voice, “but don’t blame me if you make one of the biggest mistakes of your career.” He turned towards Dr. Hoskins, “Jo,” he said, “Lucy’s almost prostrated, and no wonder, poor girl. She simply can’t be left alone here tonight, and—as there doesn’t seem to be anyone in the village who feels like taking her in”—here he threw a look of withering scorn in the direction of the postmistress, “I wonder if you’d be so kind as to drive around to the Hall and fetch Carrie to come and stay with her. I’ll stay here till she comes. Oh, and you might tell Carrie …” he whispered something in his colleague’s ear.

  Dr. Hoskins nodded gravely, but there was a gleam of sympathy in his eyes. The Archdeacon was just about to speak when Christopher interrupted him with some heat.

  “Oh, I know what you are going to say, Inspector—she won’t run away. Couldn’t if she wanted to, poor girl. I’ll be responsible for her anyhow. It may interest you to know that, in spite of whatever you and my father may do, Miss Lubbock and I are going to get married—just as soon as all this trouble is over….”

  Dr. Hoskins turned his pale face towards the Archdeacon. “Crosby’s right,” he said quietly, “the girl had better stay here with someone. You can trust me to make the necessary medical arrangements. I’ll be at my house later if you want me.”

  The Archdeacon looked at them both suspiciously, opened his mouth to say something and then closed it again. Finally, he made a gesture of resignation and said firmly:

  “Very well. I’ll hold you responsible for Miss Lubbock, Dr. Crosby. I’ve got a great deal to do—a great deal to do, and there are some things I will just have to leave in your hands, gentlemen.”

  Dr. Hoskins bowed perfunctorily and hurried from the cottage. Christopher turned his back and went upstairs to Lucy. Mrs. Greene, who was perhaps disappointed not to be taking part in an actual arrest, stood (or rather sat) her ground grimly—a look of intense disapproval on her face. The Archdeacon turned to her, saying:

  “We can talk later on, Mrs. Greene, but now I’m going to ask you if you’ll be so kind as to send the Constable to me here. There is a lot to do that is absolutely urgent, and I’ll have to make the best of him until another man comes down from London to help me. In the meantime,” he called after Christopher’s retreating figure, “nothing is to be touched or taken away—nothing.”

  With a look that would have done honor to an Avenging Fury or the Delphic Sibyl, Mrs. Greene rose and marched majestically out of the cottage without a word….

  X

  On the following morning England’s newspapers rang with the strange story of the death of Lady Crosby. Headlines varied, according to journalistic temper and tradition. There was the “Lamentable and Premature Decease of a Notable Philanthropic Woman” by which a well-known twopenny paper announced the event. There was the “Mysterious Murder of the Bountiful Lady Crosby” with which an equally well-known penny sheet beguiled its readers, and there were many shades of emphasis between. However, the keynote of
all was the same—a keynote of mystery, horror, and eager, if sometimes veiled, conjecture.

  And every paper carried long, full accounts of Lady Crosby; accounts from which the credulous reader might have gathered that she had led a life which alternated between the glitter of fashionable society and the austerity of intellectual effort; that she had combined a completely successful public career with the acme of domestic bliss, and that her loss would be deeply felt by a large, important circle.

  Under ordinary circumstances the almost simultaneous death of an obscure and elderly villager like Mrs. Lubbock would have occasioned small comment. On this particular morning, however, the papers devoted almost as much space and speculation to the cottage as to the Hall, and every fulsome notice of Lady Crosby was followed by a detailed account of the three deaths in Lady’s Bower. In fact, the papers so obviously connected the four tragedies together into one grim holocaust that the most popular feeling in the village itself was that Lady Crosby, after a lifelong demonstration of favoritism towards the Lubbock family, had at last shown them a supreme condescension in permitting them to join her in her exit from this world.

  The whole village, of course, was in an uproar. Any stranger, no matter how innocent, was an immediate cause for alarm, and there were plenty of inquisitive strangers in Crosby-Stourton on that day. Even the worthies of Edith’s Ford, serenely preoccupied with their own affairs, were forced to concede a comfortable allowance of limelight to Crosby-Stourton, and the village itself hummed with suspicion and conjecture.

  Mrs. Greene, recovering rapidly from a momentary eclipse caused by the news about Lady Crosby, held the position of honor. A commendable devotion to duty saw her in her usual post at the accustomed hour on the morning after the deaths, and from then on the Post Office became a small court, with Mrs. Greene efficiently representing the entire royal family. Indeed, she admitted to a few intimates that nothing so exciting had happened in the village “since the Jubilee of our dear Queen.” And no one contradicted her.

  Through Mrs. Greene’s capable reporting, the story of Mrs. Lubbock’s last words was soon common property throughout the village. Reactions to the story were varied, but no one doubted its truth. Nor, to do Mrs. Greene justice, did she elaborate or go beyond the dramatic account which she had given to the Archdeacon on the previous afternoon. The only voluntaries which she permitted herself to add were a few sinister mutterings and shakings of the head on the score of the young squire’s outrageous behavior in championing “that girl.” There are various ways of articulating the two words “that girl.” Mrs. Greene’s way at least was not ambiguous.

  Will Cockett was one of the first to drop into the Post Office that morning. To Mrs. Greene’s gratification he appeared very little interested in the circumstances of Lady Crosby’s death, but absorbed and upset by the news about Mrs. Lubbock—so much so that Miss Sophie Coke, who had come in in time to hear the end of the story, was moved to remark over her shoulder to a recalcitrant Miss Pinkney that “the pore fellow” was “feeling it bad.”

  When Cockett at length took his leave, more taciturn than ever, Miss Coke looked after him with a sympathetic little sigh, her own humble tribute on the altar of thwarted romance. Then, with eyes shining and tremulous voice, she approached the counter, stared at Mrs. Greene in solemn awe, and begged her to begin. There was a momentary delay, however, for Miss Coke was a believer in the Golden Rule, and, noticing that Miss Pinkney was standing at a refined distance, studiously reading a notice about the foot and mouth disease, she boldly invited that well-bred young lady to join her and swell the audience.

  “Oh deah,” said Miss Pinkney, “that’s very—ah—kaynd of you, but I rahlly didn’t come heah to—ah—gossip. I came—ah—that is, Mrs. Bedford sent me from the hospital because we needed a few—ah—stamps. I will, howevah, await my turn, as Miss Coke entahed the Post Office ahead of me. So do go on, and don’t—ah—maynd about me.”

  Twenty minutes later Miss Pinkney, with half a dozen three-half penny stamps, a virtuous expression and a beating heart, left the Post Office.

  “Miss Pinkney,” called out Miss Coke, trotting out in her wake, “isn’t it all most remarkable and distressing, and isn’t it lucky for that pore crittur in Lady’s Bower that she had such a tower o’ strength as Mrs. Greene to comfort her last moments?”

  “Quaite,” said Miss Pinkney, “Oh, quaite. That is, as far as I am able to judge from the very little that I—ah—could not help overhearing from your—ah—conversation.”

  While Mrs. Greene was holding her court in the Post Office a very different sort of group was taking counsel in the Archdeacon’s room at the Crosby Arms. The Archdeacon sat at one side of his writing table; the exuberant Norris, just arrived from London, sat at the other; and Archer, the County Constable, sat in the easy chair by the window, a gouty leg stretched out in front of him and a desolate expression on his face. Norris had arrived half an hour earlier, and, to the Archdeacon’s secret relief, had not brought the Old Man with him. He had, however, brought two satellites in the form of a Yard photographer and a finger-print expert who were now both below-stairs in the dining room, eagerly fortifying themselves for a hard day’s work with enormous cups of coffee and deliciously crisp rolls.

  The Archdeacon had been running through the main features of the case for Norris’ benefit, while Archer put in an occasional word of explanation about local people. Norris, a smallish, sandy-haired man in his middle thirties, sat listening eagerly, while he rhythmically maneuvered the extinguished stump of a cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other. Save for an occasional “I sye!” he was silent, concentrating fixedly on the problem before him. And, as before in a crisis, the Archdeacon’s heart warmed to the man; in spite of his chatter and splash he did know when a thing was serious….

  “So you see,” said the Archdeacon, winding up his story, “it all points to the Lubbock girl. There’s just one thing I’d like to know before I make the arrest, and that’s about Myra Brown (or Isabel Lubbock). Where did she get that money? Have you traced the notes yet?”

  “Sorry, Archdeacon, I cawn’t oblige. The Bank’s been stuffy abaowt it, but the Old Man promises to give us a ring as soon as they come clean.”

  The Archdeacon frowned and was silent, mentally retracting his grudging little tribute to Norris’ ability.

  Norris, in the meantime, turned to Archer.

  “And when’s the inquest?” he asked. “Seems funny to put it off so long. Why, ’ere it is Friday, and the first death was last Sunday, wot?”

  “The County Coroner’s been away,” said Archer, “so the whole thing has been put off till Monday. It turns out to be lucky, as he can sit on all four at once and have done with it. Unless,” he added grimly, “the thing becomes chronic in Crosby-Stourton. I’m beginning to suspect something like that.” He moved painfully in his chair.

  “Oh, rats,” said Norris cheerfully. “Not with the Archdeacon ’ere. ’E’s never fyled yet, ’ave you, Archdeacon? But, bye the bye, this ’ere George Burwell. You didn’t sye wot you found in Edith’s Ford yesterday. Wot abaowt them alibis of ’is?”

  “They were all right,” said the Archdeacon with dignity. “I talked to a Colonel Matraver, the man that Burwell claimed to have been with when the second Lubbock girl must have been poisoned, and the Colonel bore him out. He seems a reliable sort of fellow, and, anyway, I checked up by asking other people at the hotel and at the golf club. No, I think he’s all right. Besides, he was with me at Edith’s Ford yesterday afternoon all the time while someone was poisoning Lady Crosby and Mrs. Lubbock.”

  “I see,” said Norris. “Nobody’s treasure, but ’armless.”

  “Quite,” said the Archdeacon.

  There was a thoughtful silence for a few moments. Then Norris began again:

  “And wot abaowt the Lubbock girl all this time? ’Ow do we know she’s not giving us the slip?”

  “I have Crosby’s word for it,” said the Archdeacon. “Cro
sby’s word for it! My eye, Archdeacon, you’re turning byby in your old ayge. Why, Crosby’s in love with ’er. You don’t expect ’im to ’and ’er over, do you, sying, ‘thank you, gentlemen, Miss Lucy and I are expecting to get married awfter you’ve finished ’anging ’er by the neck till she’s dead.’ Fie, Archdeacon, I wouldn’t ’ave thought it of you!”

  “And you needn’t now,” said the Archdeacon stiffly, “because Buss, the village Constable, is stationed in front of the cottage with strict orders to prevent anyone from going in or out without permission. He may not be brilliant, but he has a strong right arm.”

  “Aow, yes. The little airy-fairy feller you was telling us abaowt. Well, ’ere’s ’oping ’e doesn’t go to sleep or get distracted over a little gyme of pytience.”

  At that moment there was the unmistakable sound of a commotion below, followed by the heavy tread of steps on the stairs. Without so much as a knock the Archdeacon’s door was flung open and Buss stood on the threshold, accompanied, as once before, by George Burwell. But it was a very different George Burwell from the jaunty, defiant wastrel of two days earlier. Now he was hatless and dishevelled, and the monocle which he still clutched in shaking fingers gave him the appearance of a dilettante turned gladiator.

  “Inspector … gentlemen,” he gasped, “I’ve been brutally attacked by the wretched rustics.”

  “ ’E ’as that,” announced Buss, “and I’m not saying as there aren’t people I’d ’ave preferred defensing. But all the same I couldn’t stand by and watch ’im ‘lunched’ before my eyes. They seen ’im, sir, a-looking at Lady’s Bower, and they recernized ’im for ’aving been ’anging about the village last Sunday, and they went for ’im.”

  ‘How cheerfully on the false trail they cry!” exclaimed Burwell. “Brother Buss, my thanks and compliments.” He walked to the end of the bed and sat down with a sudden limpness.

  “I’m sorry about this, Burwell,” said the Archdeacon, “but you were rash to go sight-seeing just at this point. We’re keeping people as quiet as we can, but there’s bound to be excitement, you know. The village is quite hysterical…. By the way, what were you doing at Lady’s Bower this morning?” “Just paused to look when I saw other people doing the same,” said Burwell. “I was on my way here to see you. I heard the news this morning, and came right over to find out about the reading of the will. Thought I’d better keep myself posted, as it’s hardly likely that Sir Howard will send me an engraved invitation…. By the way, I don’t think I know these gentlemen?”