by J. V. Turner
‘When I got into the room they were standing facing each other, one at each end of the table. They were both in a terrible state. Mr Paling had a glass in his hand and he looked as though he was going to throw it at Mr Reardon. As soon as I opened the door things seemed to simmer down a bit. I should think as full-grown men they must have felt a bit ashamed of themselves. Once I got into the room they never said a word. But I’m a business woman, and I don’t go round with my eyes shut. I saw Mr Reardon nod his head and Mr Paling nodded back to him. Neither of them said a word.
‘Then something very funny happened. This Mr Paling walked over to the window and threw his wine into the garden. Of course, by this time I was flabbergasted. I didn’t know whether they’d both gone mad, or what. I thought it was time I said a few words. So I said everybody in the hotel could hear them, and would they mind not making so much noise as it would get my hotel a bad name and what was the trouble about and was there anything wrong with the meal or had something in the hotel upset them.’
The woman paused to pant for breath. Her lungs, working within a massive chassis, could not cope with long, non-stop sentences. The little man’s eyes were gleaming, but he made no attempt to speak. She came back with a second wind, paused to lower a little more whisky, and plunged into the narrative with a burst of indignation:
‘Mr Reardon’s wine slopped over on the cloth when he put the glass back on the table. It was then he told me that the wine was pig swill. Before I could get over the shock of a gentleman saying that, Mr Paling said it wasn’t fit for pigs. I told them if they could get better wine in a country hotel I’d like to know where they’d find it, and then they started apologising to me, and saying it must be their palate that was wrong, and they’d only said it on the spur of the moment. Well, I didn’t want to say too much because you don’t get your hotel full at this time of the year, so I thought I’d let things rest at that.
‘Still, I was a bit puzzled about the way they’d stopped rowing as soon as I got into the room, and I didn’t like what they’d said about my wine. A bit later that night one of my customers came in and I told him about it. He said perhaps the wine had gone off and I didn’t know it. I was so certain that it was all right I told him I’d bring what was left of the bottle and he could try it for himself. I brought the drink and we each had one and there was nothing wrong with it at all. He couldn’t understand it any more than I could. He was a bit curious and asked me if I would let him look at the glasses because he said they weren’t the kind of men you would expect to make a mistake about wine since they’d be very used to taking it. The table hadn’t been cleared and I brought him the glasses.’
She paused again for breath. Petrie was fidgeting with his handkerchief, anxious for the woman to proceed with the story.
‘He asked me if I’d lend him the glasses since he was curious about them. You could have knocked me down with a feather when he came into the bar the next morning and said they were right about the wine being bad. At least, he said, one of the men was right. I asked him which one and he said the one who threw his drink into the garden if I’d told him aright which glass belonged to which. I said it was an insult, and he ought to have more sense than to say it, since we both had some of the wine and it was all right. It was then he told me that the wine in one glass had been poisoned!’
She ceased talking and stretched for her whisky. Petrie was frowning, trying to add the latest piece into the jig-saw.
‘Who was this customer who showed such an interest in the matter of the wine, madame?’
‘Mr Riggs, sir. Mr Harry Riggs.’
Petrie was not very impressed. He took another drink.
‘And—eh—what does Mr Harry Riggs do for a living?’
‘He is the local chemist.’
Amos replaced his tankard hurriedly and pulled out his flaming handkerchief again. His interest was renewed.
‘Would it be possible for me to speak to Mr Harry Riggs?’
‘Certainly, sir. It’ll be surprising if he isn’t in the bar now.’
‘I’d be grateful if you would find out for me. If he is, perhaps you’d ask him to step in here for a moment. I’d like to have a word with him before we have another talk.’
The woman edged her bulk out of the room and Petrie played with his tankard. A knock sounded on the door and a small man with a wispy moustache, a slithering gait, and an air of diffidence came into the room. He nodded to Petrie and the little man smiled.
‘I’ve been hearing all about this wine, Mr Riggs. It seemed very odd to me that you should have formed such a startling view about it. Would you mind telling me just what happened?’
‘Certainly I will. I drank some of it myself, and I couldn’t understand why those gentlemen said it was bad. It seemed to me that men of their station in life should know wine when they tasted it. I was so curious that I asked for the glasses. At the bottom of one of them I saw a sort of sediment that I knew should never have been there. I touched it with my finger and tasted it. That was when I asked the landlady if I could borrow the glasses. When I got back to my shop I started to analyse the stuff as well as I could. I don’t reckon to be much of a hand at that game now. It’s a long time since I did any of it. But this stuff was easy.’
Petrie bent forward eagerly.
‘And what was the sediment, Mr Riggs?’
‘Arsenic, sir. No doubt about it. The wine was dosed with arsenic.’
Amos took off his glasses and wiped them. His memory was running back to the discovery in Paling’s rooms. But according to the proprietress the poison was in Paling’s glass!
‘Didn’t you think of informing the police when you found that a murder had been attempted, Mr Riggs?’
‘I did, sir, but not for long. You see, I knew who Mr Reardon was, and I daren’t do anything about it. I thought it might be a pure accident and since the men had been quarrelling it was obvious that they both knew about it. I thought it over and came to the conclusion that it was best to let sleeping dogs lie.’
‘I can see your view and I must say that under the circumstances I might have done the same. I would like you, Mr Riggs, to put your statement into writing within the next few minutes, get someone in the bar to witness it, and let me have it before I leave. Will you?’
‘Certainly, sir. I’ll do that immediately. Shall I tell the landlady that you want to see her again?’
‘If you will. I’m greatly indebted to you. Have a drink with me?’
The chemist nodded and vanished. Mr Riggs seemed to be growing more important. He made his exit more proudly than he made his entrance. A minute later the landlady walked in. Petrie ordered some more drinks, including one for the chemist.
‘I want to know, madame,’ he commenced, ‘whether there were any more peculiar happenings while these two gentlemen were here.’
‘The very next night, sir. Another most extraordinary thing it was, too. There was some more trouble about the wine. They sent for me, and told me that the burgundy was sour. I didn’t say much about it because of what Mr Riggs told me that morning. This time neither of them threw any drink away. They left it in their glasses and told me to get them some champagne. I took out the bottle of burgundy, and their glasses, and sent in the champagne. Mr Riggs was in and we both tasted the wine from their glasses and then poured some out from the bottle. It was all as sweet as a nut. There was nothing at all wrong with any of it. Now what do you think about that, sir?’
‘A very queer story indeed, madame. There was absolutely nothing wrong with the very glasses of wine they complained about?’
‘Certainly not. At any rate I know burgundy when I taste it and I thought it was good enough for anyone.’
‘Most odd. Did anything else happen while they were here?’
‘No, sir. It was only the first couple of nights. After that they had friends here to dinner each night and everything seemed to be quite all right. If there was anything wrong I didn’t see anything of it and didn’t h
ear anything of it.’
‘Did they have any further quarrels, or did they seem to get along amicably?’
‘Of course, I didn’t see much of them, sir, but from what I did see I’d say they were quite friendly. Mostly they stayed in their room.’
‘I take it that you mean this: When they were seen in public they were quite friendly, but as to their conduct when they were alone you know nothing. Is that about right?’
‘I’d say you’ve hit the nail right on the head, sir.’
‘You really have been most helpful. By the way, who paid the bill?’
‘Mr Paling, sir, paid for both of them.’
‘Thank you. I must be getting along now, madame. Would you mind telling my chauffeur that I am ready to return?’
Petrie sank into the back of the car and wrestled with the odd problem throughout the return journey to Brockenhurst. A stream of questions coursed through his brain. If Reardon tried to poison Paling, why on earth did Paling buy the poison? If Paling tried to poison Reardon, why did Reardon join in the effort to cover the attempt? He had the troublesome blackmailer at his mercy, had the poisoned wine on the table, but instead of calling in the police he approved of the wine being thrown out of the window. And why was the alarm raised on the second night—the false alarm? Purely for artistic reasons? And if Paling had a reserve store of strophanthin, why fool about with arsenic? Strophanthin is twenty times stronger. He could have arranged it so that Reardon fell dead after the first sip. And why …
Petrie’s head was reeling by the time the car pulled up at the hotel entrance. But many things were clarifying themselves. Daylight was showing in many spots where before all had been darkness.
The first person he met as he entered the hall was Ferguson. The Minister scowled as he sighted the little man, advanced to meet him with a far from cordial welcome.
CHAPTER XIX
FERGUSON IS BUNKERED
THE Cabinet Minister was not easy to recognise in the tweeds of a golfer. He looked as though the keen air of the New Forest had blown away some of his worries; it certainly looked as though he did not appreciate being reminded of them.
‘What the devil do you want to chase me down here for?’ he asked snappily. ‘I thought you’d fixed all the business with Curtis. Didn’t he tell you all you wanted to know? I don’t want you pestering me.’
‘He couldn’t tell me what is known to you alone,’ replied Petrie calmly. ‘Where are your friends?’
‘They stayed behind with friends of Watson’s at Bournemouth.’
Petrie slid out of his overcoat, hooked it on the stand and walked back to Ferguson. The Minister was growing more annoyed.
‘I’m not going to talk any more about this wretched affair. If you’ve come down here to question me you’ve wasted your time.’
‘I don’t think I have. We’ll find a private room. By the time I’ve finished I don’t think you’d enjoy the conversation in public.’
Ferguson flushed a trifle, seemed startled. He followed Petrie into an empty smoke-room, lit a cigar, slumped into a chair, and regarded his companion as one might regard a diseased animal. By now the Cabinet Minister had again submerged the golfer.
‘Well,’ he said sharply, ‘what is it I know and Curtis doesn’t?’
‘One of the things he could not tell me was what passed between you and Edgar Reardon when you were alone in his private room.’
Petrie’s tone was casual. Yet there was an unmistakable bite in it.
‘God bless my soul!’ exclaimed Ferguson. ‘I believe the man is going to accuse me next.’ Apparently he addressed the remark to the ornamented ceiling. There was an element of comedy about his air of astonishment, but it seemed genuine enough.
‘If I were accusing you,’ said Amos steadily, ‘I would have begun by warning you. Also I—’
‘Damme, Petrie, you can’t be right in the head.’
The little man’s eyes gleamed behind his thick glasses and his tone changed with dramatically sudden effect.
‘Don’t get childishly annoyed, Ferguson,’ he said coldly. ‘I came down here to get your assistance and if you give it to me I may be able to save you a lot of annoyance.’
‘Petrie, I am quite prepared to give the police every assistance provided it is properly asked for. But I must tell you that your present manner is particularly offensive.’
‘Forget it!’
Ferguson moved in his chair as though he had been struck.
‘You’re an annoyance by yourself, Petrie, and I can’t for the life of me understand how anything I can tell you would save me from another annoyance.’
‘If you don’t know, Ferguson, I can tell you. If ever I get as far as making a charge against Paling the case for the Crown will be that he committed his crime when he was alone with Edgar Reardon in that private room at the House of Commons.’
Ferguson pulled at his cigar and waved his hands impatiently.
‘These details don’t interest me in the slightest, Petrie.’
‘No? They ought to. If such a case does not interest you, what Paling’s reply to it is should certainly interest you a hell of a lot.’ Petrie spoke more slowly: ‘He is pointing out that there were others who were alone with Reardon after he left the room. And you, Ferguson, are one of those others.’
‘But this is monstrous. I’ve never heard of such a thing. Quite the most stupid suggestion I’ve ever heard. Pshaw! Sheer nonsense.’
‘I’m not disputing that for the moment. But will it save Paling’s skin? That’s all he is considering. You’ve got yourself to think about. I can rather imagine what the trial would be like. Can you stretch your imagination as far as that. Can you visualise the counsel for the defence pointing a forensic finger at you? Can you hear him declaiming about the Cabinet Minister who is not in the dock? I can, Ferguson. And without very much effort.’
The questions acted like a cold douche. Ferguson drew a deep breath. When it left his body his manner had completely changed. The air of a Cabinet Minister seeped away. He replied as a golfer:
‘It’s your hole, Petrie. I thought I was only on the edge of the rough. Now I find I’m bedded in the bunker. Don’t be astonished at the next thing I say. I’ve always been willing to help you. I can see that my manner was all wrong. I want you to get me out of this bunker. Would you mind having a try?’
‘My reply to that will depend upon what you tell me.’
‘You see, the awkward thing about this business is that I can’t say I did this, or I said that, while I was in that private room with Reardon. The truth of the whole matter is that I did not go to that room to do anything.’
‘Then why on earth did you go?’
Ferguson hunched his shoulders and paused for a while.
‘Oh, I don’t know. My turn at questions in the House was over and Reardon had told me that his wife was coming down to the House. I find her a nice, chatty little woman—and, of course, I had nothing particular to do.’
Petrie’s lips parted as a smile spread over his face.
‘If Mrs Reardon heard you say that I’m sure she’d be most upset. You paid her quite a lot of attention, you know—offering to show her the Budget speech.’
‘That offer was only a joke. I told you that before. For the love of everything don’t start asking me to explain jokes.’
Amos stared at him curiously.
‘Did Mrs Reardon appreciate that it was meant as a joke?’
‘She wasn’t meant to. To be honest about it I was pulling Reardon’s leg about something that happened at Milford.’
‘You are referring to the night he was drunk and you took charge of the papers?’
‘So you’ve heard of that? You’re precisely right. Now you can see just what I meant. Reardon made a fool of himself that night. He made the chambermaid a speech—all for herself.’
‘How was it that you didn’t take some action immediately you realised that Reardon was drunk, and you knew that papers of the highe
st confidence and importance were being exposed to outsiders?’
‘I was a fool, Petrie. If I hadn’t been a fool I wouldn’t be wanting your assistance now. If I had interfered Reardon might have told me to play my own ball. That’s not the whole of it, either. You have to remember that I only knew Paling as a most intimate friend of Reardon’s. I looked upon him almost as a member of Reardon’s family. The man had been invited to sit with us each night at dinner. I assumed that he was a man of honour. I had no reason in the world to assume otherwise. And you know I’m not sure I could have done anything that would have made a real difference. I simply did the best I could do on the spur of the moment when I got the tip from Dick Curtis. I’ve been thinking the matter over a good deal since, and I’m not at all sure that by going back for those papers I wasn’t slogging at the tee after the ball had gone.’
‘You mean that Paling would have seen all he wanted to see before you returned and took the papers away?’
‘And even long before then. He was with Reardon all day and every day when we were not there. Edgar seemed to be very careless.’
‘Carelessness is hardly the word for it, unless Reardon had some reason for thinking that he might be able to control Paling better than he had been doing. Can you think of anything that would justify such a belief, Ferguson?’
‘No, I didn’t see anything to arouse suspicion either one way or the other throughout the whole time I was with them.’
‘But at least you saved Reardon from the possible consequences of that one particular piece of lunacy?’
‘Yes, I certainly did that.’
Petrie was staring into the fire when he asked the next question:
‘You made no mistake about that? I mean you are quite sure that you took away the whole speech?’