by E.
“This, Sam: You asked me just now why the police do not think it is suicide. I’ll tell you. Crispin told me—he has some inside knowledge being a crime reporter for a daily newspaper—he told me that the police knew that that afternoon Mortensen had taken return tickets for an air trip to Paris and had booked rooms at a Paris hotel for two people for four days through a travel agency.”
“Oh, I see the point!” Mackie said.
“Now, if Mortensen is held by the Yard to have been killed, then only one of us could have done it. I don’t say he was killed, but if he was that is the position. Murder wants a motive. The police will go all out to find a motive. If any one of us has had dealings with Mortensen, it might be regarded as a motive. In that case he would be well advised to have his own lawyer and tell him of any such dealings and take his advice on how much to say to the police. Not just have a lawyer to represent the whole lot of us, a lawyer who would want to question us all together for instance.”
“Are you suggesting, Betterton, that one of us had a motive?” Edgar protested. The surgeon waved a hand.
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m only giving you my impressions of the line the police are likely to take.” He smiled grimly: “May I point out that I am probably the chief suspect. I have strychnine in my possession and the police have taken my stock away together with my poison book recording use and purchases of the stuff, in order to investigate it.”
The four eyed him curiously. An enigmatic smile played round his lips. He turned towards each of them, but for some reason they avoided his glance.
“Well,” he said. “We have to decide. Do we brief counsel or do we not?” There was an awkward silence. The four men stared steadily at the fire, they seemed scrupulously to avoid looking at each other or at Betterton. Then:
Edgar said: “I think—er—I would take Betterton’s advice, and—er leave things alone for the moment and see what the police do.”
There was a pause.
“And me,” Starmer said.
“Me also,” said each of the others. They left the house together but parted in pairs at the next corner. Edgar and Starmer walked together. They walked silently, in self communion with their thoughts the length of a block, where their ways diverged.
As they parted: “Do you think Betterton knows something he has not told us?” Edgar asked.
“I’m wondering about that myself,” Starmer replied.
“See you on the train on Monday.”
19
The sleek Oldsmobile of Doctor Manson purred through Christchurch and took the road towards Poole. A mile or so out of the town it turned left through a gateway and along a drive which ended in front of a house.
It was a gaunt-looking house, at least it would have been gaunt save for the well-laid out gardens which were reflected on the grey stones—the massive grey stones towering to the roof of the house, imparting to their grimness something of their own softness and beauty. The house itself looked more like a fortress than a dwelling.
As the car braked to a halt a figure appeared in the doorway—a fine stature of a man, standing well over six feet, and standing easily, one might say, athletically, in Donegal tweeds (and tweeds are not an easy material to wear). His back was as straight as a ramrod, though his hair was completely white and his face lined with wrinkles. He must have been well over 70, yet the eyes of deep blue looked steadily, alertly, from beneath bushy eyebrows at his visitors.
“Doctor Manson?” he asked. “Delighted to meet you.”
“Mr. Gulliver?” Manson shook hands, and introduced Merry.
Mr. Isaac Gulliver served them with tea himself, his long white fingers handling Sèvres china as delicately as they had, 30 years earlier handled a knife and scalpel in which a hairbreadth deviation from a given line would have spelt finis to a life. Isaac Gulliver had been a surgeon—a great surgeon. The library in which tea had been brought, proclaimed that fact; its walls were lined with bookcases, and the books almost without exception were medical in text.
Doctor Manson ran his eyes over those nearest to him, and wondered at the catholicity of the surgeon’s studies. A row of books in German were topped by another row in French. Beyond them rested the English works of Glaister and Sydney Smith on Forensic Medicine; Rhodes and Ainsworth Mitchell on Forensic Chemistry; Burton’s ‘Anatomy of Melancholy’ stood near Langdon Davis’s tome on ‘Medical Practice’; and Spanish medical treatises lined half a shelf higher up.
“That makes four languages,” Manson said to himself—and then spied at that moment a row of volumes in the language of Hippocrates, the great Father of Medicine.
“And yours, my dear Manson, are behind you.” Gulliver made the announcement with a chuckle of delight.
Manson started slightly. Gulliver smiled. “Elementary, my dear Watson,” he said. “You were running your eyes over the volumes. They all relate to medical practice of, shall I say, a past date. The thought would undoubtedly occur to you that I have been retired now for many years. Had I kept pace with modern discovery and progress, and the trend of a surgeon, and a police surgeon at that. From there you would at once think of your own excellent books—and standard works, I would add—on Forensic Medicine. So I said that all of them are behind you.”
Manson laughed quietly. “Touché,” he said. “You should have been in my line.”
“I thought the same myself at one time. But I was before my age. Judges did not pay much attention to expert witnesses in my day. However, I am sure you did not visit me to discuss that, or my library, Doctor Manson. In what way can I be of assistance to you in your work?”
Manson emptied his cup and replaced it with overdrawn accuracy in the exact middle of the saucer before he replied. Then:
“It is a matter of some delicacy. But it is of vital importance that I should know all I can of a certain person.” Gulliver nodded, and waited.
“You were senior surgeon at the county hospital here, some 30 years ago, were you not?”
“I was.”
“Did you at that time know a young surgeon named Betterton?”
“I did.” Gulliver looked at his questioner. There was plain interest in his glance. “They tell me he is now a very considerable figure in Harley Street.”
“And with a very lucrative practice, and a great reputation, indeed,” Manson said. “He is also a man for whom I have a great personal admiration.”
“And it will be information of him you will be asking me?”
Manson nodded. He thought that a troubled look had come into the eyes of the once great surgeon lying back in his chair and watching him.
“He was under you at the time to which I refer?” Manson asked.
A nod from Gulliver answered him. “What kind of a surgeon was he?”
“Brilliant. I had no doubt, even at that time, that he would rise much higher than I was ever likely to do. He was probably the most brilliant youngster of his day.”
“He left the hospital. Why?”
Gulliver looked over his spectacles, benevolently—too benevolently, Manson thought.
“You would not expect a brilliant youngster to tie himself down to a small provincial hospital, Manson now, would you?” Gulliver retorted. “He wanted, of course, fresh fields to conquer.”
“To which fresh fields did he go?”
“I do not recall where he went immediately, but later he was at Guys.”
Doctor Manson put his fingers together, spatulate. He eyed Gulliver in silence for a brief space. Then:
“I have a complete record of Betterton’s known career,” he said.
“As shown by his various appointments. These present an unbroken record of dates except for one occasion. You said just now that you had no doubt at that time that this brilliant young surgeon would rise high. The break in the dates corresponds with the time he left your hospital and for a year or two afterwards.”
Manson paused to let the fact sink into his host’s mind. Then he went on.
&
nbsp; “Now, Mr. Gulliver, a brilliant young surgeon does not leave a hospital except for one thing—a better appointment. Not necessarily better financially; it might be better in the presentation of opportunity. Betterton achieved neither of these advantages. In fact, he seemed to have vanished. So I ask you why did he leave your hospital suddenly.”
The old surgeon shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. His right hand fingered the large, flowing bow-cravat which imparted to him a likeness to Augustus John.
“He just left. That is all I can tell you,” he said.
“It won’t do, Mr. Gulliver,” Manson said. “I am engaged in a murder case, and this is an official interrogation. I did not want to have to say that, but I must.”
Gulliver started up in his chair. “Are you saying that Betterton has murdered someone?” he asked.
“I don’t know whether he has or not. Listen to me, Mr. Gulliver. There were eight people in a Pullman car on the railway. A third of the way through the journey one of them dies of strychnine poisoning. You are a doctor; you know how quickly strychnine poison reveals itself—”
“It could be suicide, perhaps?” Gulliver queried.
“That is the one thing it is not.”
“And Betterton was among the passengers?”
Doctor Manson nodded. “If I am going to clear him of suspicion, then I must know the whole of his background—and the background of the others. I have chosen Betterton first, because he is a doctor, and could obtain strychnine, as you will realise. So I ask you again to clear up one point—a most important point in my investigation and theory—and a most remarkable point in Betterton’s life: why did he leave your hospital and spend more than twelve months in retirement?”
The old surgeon bowed his head. For more than a minute he stared at the table in front of him—and a minute is a very long time of waiting. Then he looked up at Manson.
“Well—he killed a woman,” he said, simply.
“What!” Merry exploded. His lower jaw dropped giving him an appearance of comicality.
“What did you say?” asked Manson, himself startled out of his usual calm self.
“He killed a woman.” Gulliver repeated his statement.
“D . . . Deliberately, do you mean?”
“Oh, Lord, no,” Gulliver said, emphatically. “Betterton wouldn’t have hurt a fly then, and I have no doubt he wouldn’t now. He killed her during an operation.”
“Accidentally?” Manson asked.
“Not quite,” replied Gulliver, quietly. He ruffled a hand through his hair. “I think I had better tell you the story as I remember it,” he said.
Manson nodded.
“I have told you,” Gulliver said, “that Betterton was a brilliant young surgeon. He specialised on the breast at the time. On this particular day to which I am referring he was to perform an operation on a woman. The patient was taken to the theatre and everything was ready for Betterton when he entered, robed and masked and gloved.”
The old surgeon paused.
“It wasn’t until the woman was opened that the Sister and the anaesthetist saw that Betterton was under the influence of drink. It transpired, later, that he had been out to lunch with some of the men of the hospital.
“Well, to cut a long story short, at a delicate stage in the operation Betterton suddenly hiccoughed. The knife went straight into the woman’s heart. She died, of course.”
There was a pause. Doctor Manson stared at the surgeon.
“Do I gather that no official action was taken?” he asked.
Gulliver spread his hands. “There was the good name of the hospital to be considered,” he said. “Nothing could bring her back to life. And the good work of the hospital might have been permanently impaired by publicity. The slip was an isolated one.”
“I took Betterton to my room. I told him that he would have to leave the hospital, and leave surgery alone for twelve months, and not drink alcohol at all in the meantime. If I found him operating or drinking, I said, I would make the happening public. But if, after twelve months, he could convince me that he was no longer addicted to excess drink, then nothing more would be heard of the death.”
Gulliver looked appealingly at Doctor Manson.
“I took the course which I considered best,” he pleaded. “It would have been the end of Betterton and his skill had the facts become known. One life lost was little to pay compared with the lives which I knew Betterton the surgeon could, and would, save. The result has justified me. You know Betterton’s record and reputation.”
He sat back and waited.
“I am neither judge nor jury,” Manson said, shortly. “How many people knew of this?”
“Only the anaesthetist, the Operating Theatre Sister and myself. They were all sworn to silence.”
“Are they still at the hospital?”
“No. Both are dead. The anaesthetist—he was Mendel—died years ago. The sister died 18 months ago. The tragedy is forgotten. I trust it will never be remembered. It can have nothing whatever to do with your inquiries.”
The old man’s voice ended on a rising note; it was not so much a statement as an inquiry; the query was plainly written in the eyes which sought those of the scientist. Manson answered with a smile.
“You have been of the greatest help, Mr. Gulliver,” he said. “The circumstances will not be made public by me.” He smiled broadly, and a glint came into his fine eyes. “It has not always been the practice of this house to assist officers of the law,” he added.
Gulliver looked quickly up. He was surprised—and delighted. “You make your inquiries very thorough, I see,” he said.
He chuckled.
“My ancestors, I feel, are probably taking a rather jaundiced view of me. Old Isaac may be walking in protest tonight. He does, sometimes, you know.”
“Isaac? Who would he be?” asked Merry.
“Our host’s 1800 ancestor,” Manson replied. “He was a smuggler of some note in these parts.”
“He was the king of smugglers,” Gulliver protested as if at lèse majesté. “Isaac was the greatest organiser of smuggling in these islands. He owned several boats and had a permanent staff of thirty men, all of them in well-known livery, some at sea and some on land.”
“And this house, I seem to remember, was honeycombed with hollow walls and secret passages,” Manson suggested.
“It still is!” Gulliver laughed. “Isaac was never caught with smuggled goods and never fell into the hands of Excise men. But he had one very narrow escape. Do you know the story?”
“No,” said Manson, and settled down to listen.
“Well,” said Gulliver, “he was on this occasion very hard pressed and managed to get into this house only by the skin of his teeth with, of course, his cargo. The Excise officer knew perfectly well that he was not likely to go out again for a few days, since the house was being watched; so he applied for a search warrant. It took a couple or so days for the warrant to come through, but when it arrived he came with a posse to this house, banged on the door, and yelled ‘Open, in the King’s name’.
“When this had been going on for some ten minutes a mournful-looking servant opened the door. To a demand for old Isaac she replied that he had died the previous day, and the undertaker had just left by the back door.
“This sounded too thin a story. The officer demanded to see the corpse; and to his amazement was shown the ‘departed’ Isaac lying in a coffin, dead white in death. (His face had been carefully prepared with chalk!) Since a dead man couldn’t be arrested the officers and the posse beat a retreat.”
Manson laughed. “And afterwards?” he asked.
“The matter of the coffin was settled by a mock funeral a day or two later. When Isaac reappeared the following week he explained that he had been away, and that the corpse had been that of one of his men. In the meantime, of course, the cargo had been taken away through a subterranean passage which ran from this house to a lonely spot near Poole. Without the evidence of the sm
uggling, no action could be taken against Isaac. The ruse would not, of course, happen today with Doctor Manson around.”
“It would not!” Manson agreed. He rose to go. Their host saw them to the Oldsmobile, and waved goodbye from the steps as they left the drive and took the main road back to Christchurch.
“A queer story!” Merry broke the silence of some minutes as the car glided swiftly along the wide straight road.
“Old Isaac?” queried Manson.
“No, I do not mean Isaac,” Merry denied, emphatically. “I mean Betterton.” They spent the next day fishing for salmon in the Royalty waters at Christchurch. A salmon came back with them.
Superintendent Jones greeted them on their return to Scotland Yard. “Had a nice holiday?” he asked, sarcastically.
“Enjoyable, Old Fat Man. Not long enough, that’s all.”
“Catch anything?” Jones snorted.
Manson leaned forward and dug the superintendent in the stomach. “Just a little one, Jones,” he said. “But it may grow into a great big one. By the way, you’re a bit podgy, aren’t you?” He gave the stomach another dig.
Jones glared. “Fat . . . nuthin’ . . . muscle.”
“Muscle?” Manson shook his head, sorrowfully. “That’s bad,” he said. “It wobbles. Flabby your muscles must be. You want more work, more exercise, Old Man.”
20
Sergeant Barratt wandered along the Thames Embankment at East Molesey and slipped into Hurst Park racecourse at the bank entrance. He wandered over towards the rails and turned in the direction of the grand stand. Half-a-dozen horses were cantering towards the starting gate half a mile away. A few hundred spectators were strung along the rails watching them. Their comments came to the sergeant.
“Ee don’t look much good, Joe, do he?” from a woman.
“Nah. I reckons he’s too narrer-chested, if yer asks me.”
“Who is he, Joe?”
“Dunno, love. Ain’t got a card.” Barratt grinned to himself; the horse was probably the best mile-and-a-half animal in the country.
“I think they’re lovely colours, darling” (this from a girl about 18, flashing a diamond engagement ring.) “I think I shall back them.” She approached an outside book-maker. “Can I have sixpence each way on the blue and gold shirt, please?”