Cottage Sinister

by Q. Patrick

  “Christopher, my son—if you are in trouble, serious trouble, touch the third acanthus leaf on the fourth panel from the window above my desk, use anything you find there if it is a matter of life or death, but destroy the rest. Try to think kindly of me always, and remember that all I did was done for you—and your father. I trust you and love you. Your mother.”

  A hush fell over the assembled company as the Archdeacon read out this last pathetic message of a dying woman. At length the silence was broken by Norris, who jumped from his seat and said in an entirely unemotional voice, “Let’s go!”

  Without a word, Christopher accompanied him to Lady Crosby’s room, where the police inspector eagerly started to finger the beautiful old oaken woodwork above the Sheraton writing desk. Suddenly a small panel slid back, revealing a tiny cache. Christopher gasped in astonishment, “I didn’t know that one existed,” he murmured, “we might have hunted for years….”

  With an excited “Golly,” Norris started to pillage the hiding place with sacrilegious hands. Finally he drew forth a pile of old letters and a locked lapanese box.

  Christopher sprang forward. “This is my business,” he said quickly. “I’ll take a look first, if you don’t mind. I promise you that you shall see all that’s—necessary.”

  Rapidly he glanced through the papers, noticing with a sudden clutch at his heart that they were nothing but letters from Sir Howard to his wife. Even the briefest and most cursory of notes had been treasured. There were letters that began, “Dear Miss Burwell,” old and worn with much reading. Later letters, more intimate, beginning “Dearest Cynthia.” And, finally, hurried scribbles naming a train, an address, or a business engagement, and ending with a peremptory “Yours, Howard.” All had been kept.

  Reverently Christopher laid the letters back in their resting place, shut the panel and carried the box downstairs to the library.

  With the skill of a carefully trained safe-cracker the resourceful Norris gently hammered the delicate framework with a poker until the lid of the box flew open. Everyone stepped forward to peer inside, and there was a faint murmur of excitement when the Archdeacon finally drew out a dirty sheet of paper, a bottle, a medicine dropper, several discolored lumps of sugar, and—most surprising of all—a key bearing a tiny paper tag which showed that it belonged to Lady Crosby’s bedroom. The bottle was labelled Hyoscine Hydrochloride and bore the imprint of a well-known American Chemical Manufacturer.

  “The key!” exclaimed the Archdeacon. “That certainly makes it look as though it must have been suicide all right.’

  Without making any comment Christopher picked up the letter. It was addressed to his mother, and carelessly printed in pencil. He handed it to the Archdeacon, who read it aloud.

  “Your family secret is known. How could anyone who nursed your mother for years not know about you and she. For five hundred pounds in notes, not a check, your secret will be forgotten. Send money at once to Myra Brown, Box 323, Hammersmith, London.”

  The Archdeacon whistled softly. “Lady Crosby!” he murmured, “blackmailed! Lady Crosby a murderess! Why—it’s unbelievable!”

  “Unbelievable,” echoed Christopher, and his voice sounded hollow and weary, “unbelievable but true! Even my father guessed it just now when he tried to shield her. And—as for me—well, I guessed it two days ago!”

  XV

  “Two days ago—you guessed it! And yet you let all this happen! You let your own wife stay at Lady’s Bower when you knew the danger!” The Archdeacon’s voice was stern.

  “You mustn’t mistake me,” said Christopher sadly. “I couldn’t have prevented either of the last two tragedies. You see,” he explained wearily, “I had gone to London to consult Habermehl about myself. I wanted to get married, and I felt it was only right to find out first whether or not the taint of insanity in the family might be hereditary. There was my grandmother; my—” (here he paused and looked expressively in the direction of George Burwell) “—and my mother. I knew that she was odd in many ways, but it was only from Habermehl that I learned how far the thing had gone. He reassured me about the possibility of any hereditary taint, but also he started me thinking that perhaps my mother—you see, I have a smattering of neurology myself, and I understand what a functional neurosis or chronic anxiety state can do to a person—”

  “Or just plain fear,” interposed Dr. Crampton. “Your mother was always subject to fears of different sorts, even when I knew her in the old days, and I think it may have been fear of discovery that goaded her on to act as she did.”

  “At any rate,” continued Christopher, “I came home intending to talk it over with her. I had only a vague idea, of course, that she might possibly be guilty, but within a few hours of my homecoming she was dead. At first it looked like another murder, and that upset my theory completely. Also, I knew that, even if it were suicide, she had a perfect alibi for the other deaths. I puzzled over it, and still I couldn’t see how a person in London could kill two people in Crosby-Stourton. It was what you would call the Means of death which worried me, Inspector. But, after Mrs. Lubbock’s death, I took no chances as far as Lucy—my wife—was concerned. I asked Dr. Hoskins to send Carrie to spend the night with her, and I told him to warn her to bring over enough food for herself and Lucy, and, on no account, to eat anything that was in the cottage.”

  The Archdeacon’s brow cleared slightly.

  “And this morning,” went on Christopher, “I still was puzzled. I’d heard the story of ‘Myra Brown’ and the blackmail, but somehow I couldn’t piece it all together. If it was my poor mother who did it, how had she done it and why had she killed a nice, harmless woman like Amy Lubbock? Then I thought of Dr. Crampton. I knew he could tell me more about my grandmother’s death, and I wanted my wife to hear from his own lips the truth about the insanity on my mother’s side—just so that she would surely know into what kind of a family she was marrying. It was during our talk that he mentioned his method of administering hyoscine. Then it all seemed so plain and simple. I saw at once how my mother’s alibi fell to the ground—completely! Lucy saw it too. Then we were married, and although we had no proofs we came straight back here to tell you all we could: It was my poor mother herself who supplied the proofs.”

  A murmur of sympathy went round the room. Dr. Cramptort blew his nose vigorously and walked over to the window. Even George Burwell had discarded something of his jaunty air, and looked at Lucy with genuine if somewhat bleary admiration. Philip Beeston sat quite still, frowning slightly and tapping on the table with a silver pencil. The Archdeacon murmured a few conventional words of sympathy.

  “But,” he continued, “if you’ll forgive my pressing such a small point now, I don’t quite see why the letter from ‘Myra Brown’ or Isabel Lubbock, should have—er—precipitated all this trouble. And how did Isabel Lubbock know about Mrs. Burwell’s death anyhow, if Mrs. Lubbock didn’t?”

  “Well, Inspector, I take it you’ve never suffered from a guilty conscience! I don’t think Isabel did know about Mrs. Burwell’s death. But she had guessed about her insanity. I imagine she was just trying a little blackmailing game on ‘spec’, as it were. A regrettable pastime of hers, I believe. If you read her letter you will see that it refers just as logically to insanity as to murder. Only a guilty conscience would interpret it as the knowledge of the latter. I’ve ascertained, too, that Mrs. Lubbock was in London visiting a sister at the time this letter was written. Wouldn’t a guilty conscience immediately imagine that it came from the only person (except possibly Dr. Crampton) who could have known the details of Mrs. Burwell’s death? Especially when the letter spoke of ‘Anyone who nursed your mother for years.’ In fact, Isabel was trading on Mrs. Lubbock’s position of trust in the family to gain her own ends.”

  “That may be so, Dr. Crosby,” said the Archdeacon in his best clerical manner, “but I can’t reconcile your solution with what I know myself of your mother’s character. Do you ask us to believe that, in order to get rid of o
ne old woman whom she feared, she was prepared to run the risk of killing, at the same time, her own protégée, Miss Lucy, you yourself, and anyone in the village of Crosby-Stourton who might perhaps have happened to drop in for a cup of tea at Lady’s Bower? Her motive, as far as Mrs. Lubbock is concerned, is perfectly—er—understandable; but Lady Crosby, whatever her state of mind, would surely never have wished to cause such a holocaust—a perfect holocaust.” (The Archdeacon rolled out the word as if he were proud of it.) “Why, at least five more people might eventually have been poisoned had not Dr. Crampton explained the secret of the poisoned sugar.”

  “I think I can answer that question,” said Lucy, noting the look of anguish on Christopher’s face, and anxious to spare him the pain of further disclosures about his mother. “Lady Crosby knew the village well. As—er—my husband told you, Amy and Isabel came down unexpectedly. No harm was intended towards them. In fact, you can imagine the horror of Lady Crosby’s position when she herself returned from London and found that two harmless girls had already fallen victim to the death prepared for—somebody else. And as for the rest of the village—well, we weren’t popular anyway in Crosby-Stourton. People were jealous of us andit was very rare that anyone came to call or take a cup of tea. Lady Crosby knew that, too. There was no danger until Amy and Isabel came.”

  “But the danger to yourself, Mrs. Crosby! Lady Crosby, I understand, was sincerely fond of you. And then Dr. Crosby—her own son!”

  “Neither of us takes sugar in tea or coffee,” replied Lucy, smiling faintly for the first time. “I imagine Lady Crosby knew that, too!”

  “Incidentally,” put in Christopher, “she had warned me to keep away from Lady’s Bower, and she had tried to get Lucy to go away, too. I should have realized at the time—I should have realized …”

  “But,” Norris’ squeaky voice cut in, “I still don’t quite understand about those last words from Mrs. Lubbock to Mrs. Greene …”

  “That,” said the Archdeacon (and to do him justice he explained with as much enthusiasm as though he were expounding his own case before an admiring audience) “is the simplest thing of all. When Mrs. Lubbock said ‘to kill one’s own flesh and blood,’ and spoke of an ‘unnatural daughter,’ she was referring to the story of Mrs. Burwell’s death. She was not, as Mrs. Greene wrongly supposed, referring to her own daughter and the deaths of Isabel and Amy.”

  “But ’ow did Mrs. Lubbock know abaowt Mrs. Burwell just at that point? And if she knew on the dye she died, why didn’t she know before?”

  “Well, I don’t quite know. Crosby, can you explain?”

  “Oh, don’t you see!” said Christopher wearily. “When my mother sent for Lucy and Mrs. Lubbock she probably felt safe enough about Amy and Isabel, but she must have been convinced that Mrs. Lubbock was ‘Myra Brown’—or that she knew about the murder of Mrs. Burwell two years ago. As I see it, she was planning to make a final plea for secrecy—perhaps a final bargain or offer which would ensure silence until the poisoned sugar finished its work. The guilty conscience again, Inspector. Well, being so sure that that was the situation, she probably blurted out the truth about Mrs. Burwell just as a matter of course. And she must have realized only then that poor old Mrs. Lubbock had neither known nor suspected anything until that moment. Can’t you imagine the situation? She realizes that the game’s up—that Mrs. Lubbock, staunch family supporter though she is, acknowledges a higher law than the law of Crosby Hall. Probably she realizes that, within a few hours, you, Inspector, will know the truth—unless—unless a cup of tea at Lady’s Bower intervenes (for she can’t have disclosed her method, remember; only the fact) but she couldn’t count on that cup of tea. She sees nothing ahead of her but misery and disgrace—no possible escape save in death. But, thinking of her family, she tries to make that death appear like another murder in order to take advantage of the possibility that Mrs. Lubbock never will be able to tell her story. She leaves a letter with Lucy, probably foreseeing her danger, too, but hoping that her innocence can be proved without the opening of the letter. She then locks her door on the inside—hides the key in the secret panel above her desk—and—well—she has the poison right there in her room, you know. And that’s—the end.” He stopped abruptly, staring at the Inspector with clouded eyes.

  “I think,” he went on in a different voice, “that if you don’t mind I will go to my father. This has been—hard for him. You see he just realized the truth this afternoon as I was talking. And you saw how he tried to shield her.”

  No one spoke as the young doctor strode across the room and passed through the door. Then as his footsteps echoed away down the hall, Dr. Crampton turned to Lucy, regretful and bewildered.

  “I still don’t understand,” he murmured apologetically, “how all this fits in with what I know of Lady Crosby’s character. To murder her mother! And just for money! Why, she had everything in the world that she wanted—everything.”

  “No, Dr. Crampton,” said Lucy simply. “Not everything. Lady Crosby loved her husband, but she was nothing more to him than a bank account, and she knew it. When she saw that there was a chance of her losing-this one hold over him, she became desperat…. You see?”

  “I—see,” said Dr. Crampton, and there was silence in the library, a silence unbroken until the shrill jangle of the telephone on the writing table startled them all.

  The Archdeacon answered. It was the landlord of the Crosby Arms. Inspector Inge was to call the Superintendent—whoever that might be—immediately.

  “Gaw—it’s the Old Man,” mumbled Norris.

  Within a very few moments the Archdeacon was connected with Scotland Yard and talking in the clipped; official accents of a well-trained sleuth.

  “The notes? Oh, yes, sir. So the Bank has come across? Good. It was Lady Crosby who paid them? Thank you, sir. I think that completes our case. Yes—sir—oh yes—well, just a few more t’s to cross, as it were. But I’ll report in full tonight. No—oh, no sir, nothing for the papers—yet! There will be no conviction….”

  The Archdeacon hung up absently and drew Norris aside for a moment. Philip Beeston gathered together his papers and rose from his chair, while Dr. Crampton and Lucy conferred in low tones. George Burwell, seeing Beeston about to take his leave, approached the lawyer with deference.

  “Look here,” he began, “as I make it out somebody’s done me out of a good deal with one thing and another. What?”

  “Looks that way,” said Beeston cheerfully.

  “Well, now, you’re a lawyer. What would you advise me to do?”

  “Nothing at all,” snapped Beeston, “except be thankful for what you’ve got. If you managed to prove that your sister died insane all of her property would probably go to her next of kin, and then you might have difficulty in securing that thousand pounds a year which is left to you in her will.”

  “Ah, well,” said Burwell resignedly. “Sweet are the uses of adversity. I’ll to my hovel and my crust. Goodbye, all. Our revels, I take it, now are ended? Goodbye, Lucy. Don’t think too harshly of your uncle. He is a man, take him once and for all. Cheerio.”

  As soon as the door had closed behind George Burwell the Archdeacon stepped forward.

  “There’s nothing more for the moment,” he said, “and I don’t care to disturb Sir Howard just now. I think it would be best if Norris and I returned to the Crosby Arms. And if you, Dr. Crampton, were free to accompany us, and help us with our report we should be grateful.”

  “Why, certainly,” said the doctor. “I’ll go with pleasure, if Mrs. Crosby will excuse us. Will you, my dear? Thank you. All the same, Inspector, it is a reasonable method of administering hyoscine. And ingenious, too….” His voice trailed away down the passage, instinct with self-justification, doubt, and scientific fervor.

  Norris and the Archdeacon followed him out of the room—Norris cocksure and thoroughly pleased with himself; the Archdeacon humbly deciding that he would throw away his squared paper and write his report on foolsc
ap.

  Philip Beeston then took his leave, courteous and imperturbable. After he had gone Lucy dropped wearily into one of the leather armchairs to await, in the unbroken silence of the library, the coming of her husband.

  It was not long before Sir Howard and Christopher returned. Whatever had passed between father and son, there was now a quiet bond of understanding apparent at once to Lucy. Sir Howard, entering the library ahead of Christopher, walked straight up to the girl and held out his hand. The emotional crisis through which he had just passed had left its mark in his expression, but his voice was even. He gave his daughter-in-law a look almost of affection—certainly of respect, and Lucy’s eyes filled with tears as she took his hand. His words, however, were characteristic enough to restore her composure at once. “I suppose,” he said gruffly, “that I must call you Lucy. Well, you’ve behaved creditably, and I can’t say I’m altogether sorry that you’re one of us. And if you can learn to manage that red-headed son of mine it’s more than I’ve ever learned.”

  “Trust Lucy,” said Christopher. “She’ll make a good doctor of me yet.”

  “Pshaw!” said Sir Howard. “Doctoring! Now, I have a scheme about the estate….”

  “Sorry, Father, but Lucy and I must be buzzing along. You seem to forget. This is a wedding party.”

  “Well, well. All right. I’ll see you off. You won’t stay to dinner? But I suppose not. All right. All right.”

  The eleventh baronet stood at the top of the steps as Lucy and Christopher settled themselves into the Morris Cowley. A late summer sunlight touched the lonely figure with brightness, and gave almost a mellow look to the stern features, the tired, unyielding eyes, and the tight-lipped mouth.

  Suddenly Christopher, remembering something he had forgotten, got out of the car and ran up the steps.

  “Father,” he said in a low voice, “there’s something I meant to tell you. Go to—her room, and touch the third acanthus leaf on the fourth panel from the window, above the desk. You’ll find some letters there. You may want to destroy them.