by Ngaio Marsh
“What,” asked the coroner, drearily, “is Round-the-Clock?”
“You play into each segment of the dart board, beginning at Number One. As soon as you miss a shot the next player has his turn. You have three darts, that is three chances to get a correct opening shot, but after that you carry on until you do miss. You have to finish with fifty.”
“You all played this game?”
Legge hesitated: “We were all in it except Miss Darragh. Miss Moore began. When she missed, Mr. Cubitt took the next turn; then I came.”
“Yes?”
“I didn’t miss.”
“You mean you n-n-ran out in one turn?”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“Mr. Watchman said he believed he would trust me to do the hand trick.”
“And did you do it?”
“No. I was not anxious to do it and turned the conversation. Later, as I have said, I did it in the public room.”
“But the following night, last Friday, you attempted it on the deceased?”
“Yes.”
“Will you tell us how this came about?”
Legge clenched his fingers and stared at an enlargement of a past mayor of Illington.
“In much the same circumstances. I mean, we were all in the private bar. Mr. Watchman proposed another game of Round-the-Clock and said definitely that, if I beat him, I should try the trick with the hand. I did win and he at once insisted on the experiment.”
“Were you reluctant?”
“I — No. I have done the trick at least fifty times and I have only failed once before. On that occasion no harm was done. The dart grazed the third finger, but it was really nothing. I told Mr. Watchman of this incident, but he said he’d stick to his bargain, and I consented.”
“Go on, please, Mr. Legge.”
“He put his hand against the dart board with the fingers spread out as I suggested. There were two segments of the board showing between the fingers in each instance.” Legge paused and then said: “So you see it’s really easier than Round-the-Clock. Twice as easy.”
Legge stopped and the coroner waited.
“Yes?” he said to his blotting paper.
“I tried the darts, which were new ones, and then began. I put the first dart on the outside of the little finger and the next between the little and third fingers and the next between the third and middle.”
“It was the fourth dart, then, that miscarried?”
“Yes.”
“How do you account for that?”
“At first I thought he had moved his finger. I am still inclined to think so.”
The coroner stirred uneasily.
“Would you not be positive on this point if it was so? You must have looked fixedly at the fingers.‘’
“At the space between,” corrected Legge.
“I see.” Dr. Mordant looked at his notes.
“The previous statements,” he said, “mention that you had all taken a certain amount of a vintage brandy. Exactly how much brandy, Mr. Legge, did you take?”
“Two nips.”
“How large a quantity? Mr. William Pomeroy states that a bottle of Courvoisier ’87 was opened at Mr, Watchman’s request, and that the contents were served out to everyone but himself, Miss Darragh, and Miss Moore. That would mean a sixth of a bottle to each of the persons who took it?”
“Er — yes. Yes.”
“Had you finished your brandy when you threw the dart?”
“Yes.”
“Had you taken anything else previously?”
“A pint of beer,” said Legge unhappily.
“N-n-n-yes. Thank you. Now, where did you put the darts you used for this experiment?”
“They were new darts. Mr. Pomeroy opened the package and suggested—” Legge broke off and wetted his lips. “He suggested that I should christen the new darts,” he said.
“Did you take them from Mr. Pomeroy?”
“Yes. He fitted the flights while we played Round-the-Clock and then gave them to me for the experiment.”
“No one else handled them?”
“Mr. Will Pomeroy and Mr. Parish picked them up and looked at them.”
“I see. Now, for the sequel, Mr. Legge.”
But again Legge’s story followed the others. His deposition was read to him and he signed it, making rather a slow business of writing his name. The coroner called Abel Pomeroy.
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Abel seemed bewildered and nervous. His habitual cheerfulness had gone and he gazed at the coroner as at a recording angel of peculiar strictness. When they reached the incident of the brandy, Dr. Mordant asked Abel if he had opened the bottle. Abel said he had.
“And you served it, Mr. Pomeroy?”
“ ’Ess, sir.”
“Will you tell us from where you got the glasses and how much went into each glass?”
“ ’Ess, sir. I got glasses from cupboard under bar. They was the best glasses. Mr. Watchman said we would kill the bottle in two halves, sir. So I served half-bottle round. ’Twas about two fingers each. Us polished that off and then they played Round-the-Clock, sir, and then us polished off t’other half. ’Least, sir, I didn’t take my second tot. Tell the truth, sir, I hadn’t taken no more than a drop of my first round and that was enough for me. I’m not a great drinker,” said old Abel innocently, “and I mostly bides by beer. But I just took a drain to pleasure Mr. Watchman. I served out for the rest of the company ’cepting my Will and Miss Darragh and Miss Dessy — Miss Moore, sir. But I left fair drain in bottle.”
“Why did you do that?”
Abel rubbed his chin and glanced uncomfortably at the other witnesses.
“Seemed like they’d had enough, sir.”
“This was before the experiment with the deceased’s hand, of course,” said the ooroner to the jury. “Yes, Mr. Pomeroy? How much was in the glasses on the second round?”
“ ’Bout a finger and half, sir, I reckon.”
“Did you hand the drinks round yourself?”
Abel said: “I don’t rightly remember. Wait a bit, though. I reckon Mr. Watchman handed first round to everyone.” Abel looked anxiously at Will, who nodded. “ ’Ess, sir. That’s how ’twas.”
“You must not communicate with other persons, Mr. Pomeroy, before giving your answers,” said Dr. Mordant darkly. “And the second round?”
“Ah. I poured it out and left glasses on bar,” said Abel thoughtfully, “Company was fairly lively by then. There was a lot of talk. I reckon each man took his own, second round. Mr. Watchman carried his over to table by dart board.”
“Would you say that at this juncture the men who had taken brandy were sober?”
“Not to say sober, sir, and not to say proper drunk. Bosky-eyed, you might say, ’cepting old George Nark and he was proper soaked. ’Ess, he was drunk as a fish was George Nark.”
Two of the jury men laughed at this and several of the public. The coroner looked about him with an air of extreme distaste and silence set in immediately.
“Is it true,” said the coroner, “that you have been poisoning rats in your garage, Mr. Pomeroy?”
Old Abel turned very white and said, “Yes.”
“What did you use?”
“ ’Twas some stuff from chemist.”
“Yes. Did you purchase it personally?”
“No, sir. It was got for me.”
“By whom?”
“By Mr. Parish, sir. I axed him and he kindly fetched it. I would like to say, sir, that when he give it to me ’twas all sealed up, chemist-fashion.”
“N-n-n-yes. Do you know the nature of this poison?”
“I do believe, sir, it was in the nature of prussic acid. It’s not marked anything but poison.”
“Please tell the jury how you used this substance and when.”
Abel wetted his lips and repeated his story. He had used the rat-poison on Thursday evening, the evening of Watchman’s arrival. He had taken great care and used ever
y precaution. A small vessel had been placed well inside the mouth of the rat-hole and some of the fluid poured into it. The hole was plugged up with rags and the bottle carefully corked. No waste drop of the fluid had escaped. Abel had worn old gloves which he afterwards threw on the fire. He had placed the bottle in a corner cupboard in the inglenook. It had stood alone on the shelf and the label POISON could be seen through the glass door. Everyone in the house was aware of the bottle and its contents.
“We have heard that the iodine was taken from a cupboard in the inglenook. Was this the same cupboard?”
“ ’Ess fay,” said Abel quickly, “but ’twasn’t same shelf, sir. ’Twas in a tin box in another shelf and with a different door, but same piece of furniture.”
“You fetched the iodine?”
“So I did, then, and it was snug and tight in first-aid tin, same as it always is. And, axing your pardon, sir, I used to dab of that same iodine on Bob Legge’s chin only that evening, and there the man is as fit as a flea to bear witness.”
“Quite. Thank you, Mr. Pomeroy. Call Bernard Noggins, chemist, of Illington.”
Mr. Bernard Noggins could have been called nothing else. His eyes watered, his face was pink, his mouth hung open, and he suffered from hay fever. He was elderly and vague, and he obviously went in great terror of the coroner. He was asked if he remembered Mr. Parish’s visit to his shop. He said he did.
“Mr. Parish asked you for a rat-poison?”
“Yes. Yes, he did.”
“What did you supply?”
“I — er — I had no proprietary rat-bane in stock,” began Mr. Noggins miserably, “and no arsenic. So I suggested that the fumes of a cyanide preparation might prove beneficial.”
“Might prove what?”
“Efficacious. I suggested Scheele’s acid.”
“You sold Mr. Parish Scheele’s acid?”
“Yes. No — I—actually — I diluted — I mean I added — I mean I produced a more concentrated solution by adding HCN. I — er — I supplied a fifty per cent solution. Yes.”
The coroner dropped his pen and gazed at Mr. Noggins, who went on in a great hurry:
“I warned Mr. Parish. He will agree I warned him most carefully and he signed the register — every formality and precaution — most particular. Full instructions. Label.”
The coroner said: “Why did you make this already lethal fluid so much more deadly?”
“Rats,” said Mr. Noggins. “I mean, Mr. Parish said it was for rats, and that Mr. Pomeroy had tried a commercial rat-bane without success. Mr. Parish suggested — suggested — I should—”
“Should what, Mr. Noggins?”
“That I should ginger it up a bit, as he put it.” Mr. Noggins, in the excess of his discomfort, uttered a mad little laugh. The coroner turned upon him a face sickly with disapprobation and told him he might stand down. Dr. Mordant then addressed the jury.
“I think, gentlemen, we have heard enough evidence as to fact and circumstance surrounding this affair and may now listen to the medical evidence. Dr. Shaw, if you please.”
Dr. Shaw swore himself in very briskly and, at the coroner’s invitation, described the body as it was when he first saw it. The coroner’s attitude of morbid introspection increased but he and Dr. Shaw seemed to understand each other pretty well.
“The eyes were wide open and the pupils widely dilated, the jaws tightly clenched…” Dr. Shaw droned on and on. Parish and Cubitt, who had remained in court, both looked rather sick. Legge eyed Dr. Shaw with a sort of mesmerized glare. Will Pomeroy held Decima’s hand, and old Abel stared at his boots. Mr. Nark, who had expected to be called, looked alternately huffy and sheepish. A large, bald man, who looked as if he ought to be in uniform, seemed to prick up his ears. He was Superintendent Harper of the Illington Police Force.
“You have performed an autopsy?” asked the coroner.
“Yes.”
“What did you find?”
“I found the blood much engorged and brilliant in colour. I found nothing unusual in the condition of the stomach. I sent the contents to be analyzed, however, and the report has reached me. Nothing unexpected has been found. I also sent a certain quantity of the blood to be analyzed.”
Dr. Shaw paused.
“N-n-yes?”
“In the case of the sample of blood, the analyst has found definite traces of hydrocyanic acid. These traces point to the presence of at least a grain and a half of the acid in the blood stream.”
“And the fatal dose?”
“One may safely say less than a grain.”
“Did you send the brandy bottle and the iodine bottle, which was found under the bench, to the analyst?”
“Yes.”
“What was the result, Dr. Shaw?”
“The test was negative. The analyst can find no trace of hydrocyanic acid in either bottle.”
“And the dart?”
“The dart was also tested for traces of hydrocyanic acid.” Dr. Shaw looked directly at the coroner and said crisply, “Two tests were used. The first was negative. The second positive. Indications of a very slight trace of hydrocyanic acid were found upon the dart.”
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There was only one other witness, a representative of the firm that made the darts. He stated with considerable emphasis that at no stage of their manufacture did they come in contact with any form of cyanide, and that no cyanic preparation was to be found in the entire factory.
The coroner summed up at considerable length and with commendable simplicity. His manner suggested that the jury as a whole was certifiable as mentally unsound, but that he knew his duty and would perform it in the teeth of stupidity. He surveyed the circumstances surrounding Watchman’s death. He pointed out that the only word spoken by the deceased, the word “poisoned,” overheard by one witness alone, should not weigh too heavily in the minds of the jury. In the first place the evidence might be regarded as hearsay, and therefore inadmissible at any other court. In the second, there was nothing to show why the deceased had uttered this word or whether his impression had been based on any actual knowledge. They might attach considerable importance to the point that the post-mortem analysis gave positive signs of the presence of some kind of cyanide in the blood. They might, while remembering the presence of a strong solution of hydrocyanic acid in the room, also note the assurance given by several of the witnesses that all reasonable precaution had been taken in the use and disposal of the bottle. They would very possibly consider that the use, for domestic purposes, of so dangerous a poison, was extremely ill-advised. He reminded them of Watchman’s idiosyncrasy for the acid. He delivered a short address on the forms in which this, the most deadly of the cerebral depressants, was usually found. He said that, since hydrogen cyanide is excessively volatile, the fact that none was found in the stomach did not preclude the possibility that the deceased had taken it by the mouth. He reminded them again of the expert evidence. No cyanide had been found in the brandy bottle or the iodine bottle. The fragments of the broken brandy glass had also given a negative result in the test for cyanide, but they might remember that as these fragments were extremely minute, the test, in this instance, could not be considered conclusive. They would of course note that the point of the dart had yielded a positive result in the second test made by the analyst. This dart was new, but had been handled by three persons before Mr. Legge used it. He wound up by saying that if the jury came to the conclusion that the deceased died of cyanide poisoning but that there was not enough evidence to say, positively, how he took the poison, they might return a verdict to this effect.
Upon this hint the jury retired for ten minutes and came back to deliver themselves, as well as they could remember them, in Dr. Mordant’s own words. They added a shocked and indignant remark on the subject of prussic acid in the home.
The inquest on Luke Watchman was ended and his cousin was free to bury his body.
Chapter VII
Complaint from a Publican
; i
“Summer,” said Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn moodily, “is acoming in and my temper is agoing out. Lhude sing cuccu. I find that the length of my patience, Fox, fluctuates in an inverse ratio with the length of the days.”
“Don’t you like the warm weather?” asked Detective-Inspector Fox.
“Yes, Fox, but not in London. Not in the Yard. Not in the streets, where one feels dirty half an hour after one has bathed. Not when one is obliged to breathe the fumes of petrol and the body-odour of those who come to make statements and remain to smell. That creature who has just left us stank abominably. However, the case is closed, which is a slight alleviation. But I don’t like summer in London.”
“Ah well,” said Fox, shifting his thirteen stone from one leg to the other, “chacun à son goût.”
“Your French improves.”
“It ought to, Mr. Alleyn. I’ve been sweating at it for two years now, but I can’t say I feel what you might call at home with it. Give me time and I can see my way with the stuff but that’s not good enough. Not nearly good enough.”
“Courage, Fox. Dogged as does it. What brought you up here?”
“There’s a chap came into the waiting-room an hour ago with rather a rum story, sir. They sent him along to me. I don’t know that there’s much in it but I thought you might be interested.”
“Why?” asked Alleyn apprehensively.
“I nearly sent him off,” continued Fox, who had his own way of imparting information. “I did tell him it was nothing to do with us and that he’d better go to the local Super which is, of course, what he’ll have to do anyway if there’s anything in it.”
“Fox,” said Alleyn, “am I a Tantalus that you should hold this beaker, however unpalatable, beyond my reach? What was this fellow’s story? What prevented you from following the admirable course you have outlined? And why have you come in here?”
“It’s about the Watchman business.”
“Oh?” Alleyn swung round in his chair. “What about it?”
“I remembered you’d taken an interest in it, Mr. Alleyn, and that deceased was a personal friend of yours.”