by Q. Patrick
“Apparently you don’t read the papers, then,” said Christopher grimly.
“No, my boy, I’m afraid I don’t,” assented the little doctor briskly, “a good neurologist never does and never should. Why, I have enough horrors and tragedies in my office every day to make anything else in the way of sensationalism quite unnecessary. No—lane Austen and Trollope—nice restful souls—they are my favorite mental pabulum.”
While he was speaking Christopher took up from the sideboard the morning copy of The Western Daily Press and quietly handed it to Dr. Crampton. A glaring headline revealed the latest tragic developments in Crosby-Stourton.
The little doctor took the paper and read it without a word. When he finally looked up from his reading the normally cheerful countenance was puckered up like that of a child who is just about to cry.
“Why,” he said, looking at his young friends with fatherly solicitude, “you poor, poor children. I hadn’t heard a word of this. Can’t think how I missed it. Dear me, dear me! And here I’ve been gabbling on egotistically about myself all this time, while you—Oh, dear, Oh, dear—!” He blew his nose into an enormous pocket-handkerchief and turned his head away abruptly.
“Last Monday morning,” said Christopher, “Amy Lubbock was discovered dead in her bed. The same night Isabel died—both with symptoms of hyoscine poisoning. The autopsy reports corroborated the suspicions of Dr. Hoskins and myself. Yesterday, as you see in the paper, my mother died—in the same way—and, later on, Lucy’s mother—now you know why I am so much interested in hyoscine and the possible methods of its administration. I thought that you—since you were so long at Crosby-Stourton—might perhaps be able to help us.”
“Why, yes …” Dr. Crampton’s voice was crestfallen and all the elasticity had gone out of his tone, “let me think. I used hyoscine pretty freely when I was practising in Crosby-Stourton—I’ve used it for years and never had any trouble. I think I used it in the case of your grandmother, old Mrs. Burwell; just at the end when she was having those very bad spells. As I remember, she was showing signs of beginning senile degeneration due to arteriosclerosis, and—”
“And in view of the old lady’s charming disposition and the affection which her family must have had for her, you never felt that there was any particular danger in your methods?” Christopher’s voice was more than faintly ironical.
“Of course not. When there’s a doctor handy—and Heaven knows I always was handy at Crosby-Stourton!—the possibility of danger from overdosage was extremely unlikely. Any green medical student could bring a person round pretty easily after hyoscine—even if a whole grain were given. I’ve never even thought of it as a particularly dangerous drug—why—”
“But, when you put it in the hands of the layman! When you use ingenious little devices, so that the patient—whether sane or insane—does not know what he is getting!” Christopher shrugged his shoulders impressively. “I’d be very much interested in hearing more about my grandmother’s case.”
There was a challenge in his tone, and Dr. Crampton, in spite of his sympathy with the young people in their loss, could not refrain from taking up the challenge and arguing somewhat heatedly in defence of his therapeutic tenets. Something of his former resilience returned to him as he embarked upon an laborate discussion of the toxicology of hyoscine—its administration—its properties, chemical and pharmacological. A discussion so scientific and involved that Lucy, who had been listening intently to what had gone before, now sat back in a state of bewilderment and confusion. Woman-like, she could not restrain a feeling of admiration for Christopher’s ability to hold his own so well in an argument with a man of Dr. Crampton’s age and experience. Her eyes were full of pride as she looked at him and tried to understand his contentions, but even to a trained nurse, with a certain knowledge of medicine and therapeutics, the discussion was far too deep and too scientifically worded for her to follow it in all its ramifications. She could merely glance from one to the other in amazement as four-syllable words were tossed to and fro in a torrent of friendly argument.
Suddenly, however, she caught a few familiar words, and, as she did so, the expression of her eyes changed from one of bewilderment to a look of intense horror. Without uttering a sound, she stared first at the old doctor and then at the young one with large and terrified eyes. Her hands were so tightly clenched by her sides that the nails bit into the delicate flesh of her palms. Incredulously she strained her ears to listen and understand. Incredulously she heard their words and then mistrusted the report of her own ears. The sense of nightmare was upon her.
At length there was a lull in the argument and the two doctors looked at each other unsteadily. The silence was breathless.
Dr. Crampton moved to the sideboard, and, with a shaking hand, poured some more sherry into the three glasses. They all drank without speaking.
Then Lucy rose from her seat with a nervous laugh which broke the tension like the snapping of a thread.
“What time is it?” she asked irrelevantly.
“Two o’clock,” the voice of the little neurologist sounded faint and far away, “I was forgetting—I got so lost—I’m sorry—you must be wanting your lunch, you poor children.”
“No, no,” Lucy said, in a hurried, breathless voice, “I don’t want any lunch. I want—I want to go quickly before it is too late.”
The two men stared at her.
“That license, Christopher—you said it was good for any registry office, didn’t you? Well, they close at three—let’s hurry.” Her voice was now firm and resolute.
Christopher looked at her incredulously.
“You mean,” he said slowly, “you mean, you … will … marry me! You understood … then … and yet … you will … marry me!”
Lucy nodded.
“Yes, Oh, yes—only be quick—there may not be time—they may have followed us—”
Christopher turned to Dr. Crampton with a strange smile on his face.
“We are going to be married, Dr. Crampton. Won’t you—er—join the party? Now, at once, if you can manage it. Perhaps you will direct us to the nearest registry office, and after the glittering ceremony we invite you to join us in the first part of our honeymoon, which will be a trip back to Crosby-Stourton.
The little doctor blew his nose violently, and muttered something about “Hay Fever!”
“Yes,” he said, with a pathetically forced effort at cheerfulness, “I’ll be delighted to come along and see you through. It’s a good thing I’m used to seeing people do crazy things, because this is probably the craziest I’ve ever seen in all my long career. Lucy, my child,” he blew his nose again, and turned away to hide the moisture in his eyes, “I think you are the—”
“Oh, let’s not talk,” she interrupted hastily. “Let’s hurry—hurry, because even now we may be too late.”
XII
It was a subdued and chastened Archdeacon who telephoned to the Hall for news of Christopher. When he found from Sir Howard that the Morris Cowley had been gone since ten o’clock, he hung up at once and arranged to have the news of the flight flashed across the radio to all the police stations and all the ports of Great Britain. Then, having set the machinery of the law in motion, he took possession of Archer’s car, left Burwell at the Crosby Arms, and went with Norris to the Hall. Sir Howard was not visible, but sent word that the two detectives were to do whatever seemed to them necessary, so the Archdeacon and Norris set to work at once to search Lady Crosby’s rooms. Their search, however, revealed nothing of importance, and, above all, no trace of the missing key to the door. Finally, after they had satisfied themselves that the rooms held no clues or evidence, they went below stairs where the Archdeacon spent some fifteen minutes in conversation with the pantry maid. Then, slowly and thoughtfully, they climbed again into Archer’s car and drove back to lunch at the Crosby Arms.
Neither of them had now any doubt as to Lucy’s guilt, nor as to her eventual capture, but both were disturbed by Ch
ristopher’s behavior, and by the effect which this might be expected to have on Sir Howard. The papers would clamor, and both of them hoped for a speedy arrest with no complications.
At a little before four in the afternoon, after much consultation and several interviews with village people, they set out again for the Hall to hear Lady Crosby’s will. Burwell followed them closely in his ancient Sunbeam. He still felt shaken by his experience of the morning, and was in no mood to go alone and unprotected to beard Sir Howard. His anxiety to hear the will, however, triumphed over any dislike he may have felt for the company of the detectives, and he clung to the Archdeacon and Norris with unwavering tenacity.
The three men were ushered into the library, where Sir Howard rose to meet them and introduced them to his lawyer, Philip Beeston, a handsome middle-aged man with irongrey hair and a furrowed brow. Sir Howard’s manner was noticeably subdued and uneasy. He greeted even his brother-in-law with a deprecating cordiality which led that gentleman to expand and detach himself at once from the plebeian proximity of Scotland Yard.
“My son Christopher …” said Sir Howard with an apologetic little glance at Beeston. “He said he’d be here at four o’clock, but as far as I know he hasn’t yet come back….”
“And Miss Lubbock,” put in Philip Beeston. “She should be present too, as she is mentioned in the will.”
“Well, why isn’t she here?”
Norris and the Archdeacon exchanged a small smile of understanding.
“Perhaps you are not aware,” said the Archdeacon to Sir Howard, “that Miss Lubbock, also, left Crosby-Stourton not long after ten o’clock this morning.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” said Sir Howard hastily.
“We do,” said the Archdeacon with an ominous smile, “and we can assure you that she will be here again by Monday, in time for the inquest.”
“But Christopher said,” repeated Sir Howard stubbornly, “that he’d be here this afternoon.”
“We might give him ten minutes,” suggested Philip Beeston, looking at his watch.
At that moment there was a tap on the door.
“Come in,” said Sir Howard abruptly.
The door opened, revealing Christopher and Lucy themselves, closely followed by Dr. Crampton.
“You!” exclaimed Sir Howard. “Thank God!”
“Yes, Father, I—or rather, we. Sorry to be late, but getting married took longer than I expected. Here’s Dr. Crampton, Father—best man and maid of honor rolled into one.”
There was a simultaneous gasp of astonishment from the four men gathered in the library. Sir Howard sat down suddenly as if his knees had given way, and the Archdeacon glanced anxiously at Norris. It was Burwell who broke the silence by hurrying over to take Lucy’s hand, and exclaiming as he did so:
“By the nine gods of Rome. My niece!”
“But—but—when—where?” asked Sir Howard in a strangled voice.
“A little over an hour ago in Clifton. Oh, it’s quite regular, Father. You’ll just have to swallow us both.”
Sir Howard was about to retort when he suddenly remembered his manners and gave Dr. Crampton a mechanical smile. He paid no further attention to the doctor’s presence, but turned next to Lucy and said in a voice in which resentment and solicitude were strangely blended:
“Won’t you—er—have a chair?”
“Thank you.” Lucy crossed the room to a seat in the corner and sat down hastily as if hoping to play no more than the role of silent spectator in whatever drama might follow. But the Archdeacon, recovering from his surprise, strode up to the big writing-table and faced Sir Howard.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but this young woman has already given us the slip once today, and I may as well tell you that I have a warrant in my pocket for her arrest.”
Christopher started, but before he had time to speak Sir Howard intervened:
“This young woman,” he said with some bitterness, “is apparently my son’s wife. You will kindly give her every chance to clear herself of the charges against her before you treat her to the indignity of serving a warrant.”
The Archdeacon sighed. His fears, he felt, were justified, and Sir Howard’s family loyalty was obviously to triumph over all considerations of justice. But Norris broke in cheerfully with:
“Never mind, Archdeacon. Awfther all, she’s come back, ’asn’t she, a-thrusting ’er pretty ’ead right into the jaws of the lion as you might sye. Let’s ’ave the will first, and arrest awfterwards.”
With these words he selected a comfortable chair, the others followed suit (Christopher next to Lucy), and there was nothing for the Archdeacon to do but to possess his soul in patience while Philip Beeston proceeded, calm and unruffled, with the reading of Lady Crosby’s will. It turned out to be simple enough. The bulk of her enormous estate was to be divided equally between Sir Howard and Christopher. There were one or two minor bequests to various charities and institutions (such as the Cottage Hospital) in which Lady Crosby had been specially interested. Comfortable provision was made for Carrie and other old servants. Five thousand pounds were left to Lucy Lubbock—to be administered in her mother’s favor as long as the old lady lived; and a thousand pounds a year to George Burwell for life (a clause which caused him to remark: “ ’Tis not so deep as it might have been, nor so wide as I hoped; but ’tis enough. ’Twill serve.”)
When the reading was over and Philip Beeston’s careful, well-modulated voice dropped away into silence, no one spoke for a moment. It was as if Lady Crosby herself had been in the room with them: “I, Cynthia Crosby, being in my right mind and fully possessed … etc.” And, especially, not one of those men but felt the pathos of the bequest of five thousand pounds to Lucy Lubbock in her mother’s favor.
It was the Archdeacon who broke the silence by rising to his feet and addressing the assembled company like a lawyer before a jury:
“Now that we’ve heard the will,” he said, “I can see no further reason for delay. I’ve sworn out a warrant against Miss Lucy Lubbock, and I suggest that she accompany Inspector Norris and myself at once to the police station.”
“Hold on,” said Sir Howard, rising from his chair before Christopher had time to speak. “You may have a warrant against Miss Lucy Lubbock, but I doubt if you could serve it on Mrs. Christopher Crosby. Is that so, Beeston?” (The lawyer smiled an ambiguous smile.) “Anyway, before you swear out a new one, suppose you outline your case, and give—my son’s wife—a chance to clear herself.”
The Archdeacon sighed submissively and drew out his notebook.
“It’s a matter of simple mathematics,” he explained in a patient voice. “There are three fundamental stones on which to build up any case of this kind. Their names are: Motive, Means, and Opportunity.
“Let us take them in order. The first is Motive. Now, Lucy Lubbock is the only person on my records who had a plausible motive for every one of the four deaths. Obviously, the idea of marriage with Dr. Crosby was not, shall we say, repugnant to her.” Here he paused, but there was no response to this little pleasantry, and indeed it sounded hollow enough in his own ears as he stood there, large and benevolent, under Christopher’s burning gaze. Lucy sat motionless, staring at her hands which were clasped tightly in her lap. After an awkward little pause he went on.
“Yes, Lucy Lubbock, anticipating a brilliant marriage into the Crosby family, had every motive to get rid of her own humble family one by one, in the hopes that the opposition of the Crosbys to the match would be less strong if she were alone in the world. Before her plan is quite carried out, Lady Crosby sends for her and announces her own disapproval. What more natural than to do away with Lady Crosby as well, whose opposition may even have come, in part, from a suspicion of Lucy Lubbock’s guilt. For I gather” (here he looked at Sir Howard for confirmation) “that her ladyship held democratic views, and, under ordinary circumstances, might not have frowned on such an—er—imprudent combination. Also, though this point need not be labo
red, it is more than likely that Lucy Lubbock knew the terms of Lady Crosby’s will—knew, that is, that five thousand pounds would come to her at her ladyship’s death. So much for Motive.
“Now for Means: Obviously the four deaths were caused by someone who knew a certain amount about drugs and their action. Also, by someone who was in a position to obtain a drug more or less rare and unknown to the layman. Well, this drug was obtained, and I have learnt from Miss Pinkney, the dispenser at the Cottage Hospital, that Lucy Lubbock was in the habit of frequenting the dispensary. Also, in each case the drug was administered by someone who understood the course of its action, for in every instance no doctor was available until too late. For it appears” (here he looked inquiringly at Christopher and at Dr. Crampton) “that a doctor can easily counteract the action of an overdose of hyoscine if he is present in time to take the proper steps. But Amy Lubbock died in her bed at night. Isabel Lubbock died when Dr. Hoskins and Dr. Crosby were miles away from Crosby-Stourton. Lady Crosby died after express orders had been given not to disturb her for several hours. And Mrs. Lubbock would have died alone and unattended but for the accident of Mrs. Greene’s dropping in to call—a most rare occurrence, as I have since ascertained. Thus, it is obvious that some medical training or knowledge was a necessary part of these murders. I do not need to remind you of Lucy Lubbock’s profession.
“So much for Means. Now as to Opportunity. It is obvious that in each case the murderer must have been present to administer the poison in person, and that the poison must have been slipped into the victim’s cup. Thus, in Amy’s case, though half a dozen people drank tea brewed in the same teapot, Amy was the only one poisoned. In Isabel’s case four people drank from the same brew; Isabel was the only one poisoned, and moreover a subsequent examination of the tea things showed no trace of poison—though Isabel’s cup could not be examined as Lucy had rinsed it out at the time of the death. In Lady Crosby’s case, though the tea things were not available for examination, I have since ascertained from the pantry maid that both Lady Crosby and Miss Lubbock had drunk tea brewed in the same teapot. Therefore, the poison must have been administered at the time in Lady Crosby’s cup. In the final case of Mrs. Lubbock, the old lady’s cup showed unmistakable signs of the poison, while the teapot itself and the dregs in her daughter’s cup were quite uncontaminated. The one and only person who was present at the tea drinking which, in every case, preceded the death, was Lucy Lubbock. So much for Opportunity.