by John Rhode
So Miss Rissington knew the provisions of the will. Another point in support of the theory.
‘It would never have done for Betty to upset him,’ Mrs Capel continued. ‘I was always telling her that. And he’d have been furious if she had insisted on going to stay with people he didn’t like. So we arranged a little deception between us, and I don’t think that we can be blamed for it. Whenever Betty wanted to go to anybody that her uncle didn’t approve of, she told him that she was coming to me. In spite of his rudeness to my husband, he couldn’t very well object to her staying with her own aunt.’
‘Under the circumstances, it is most unfortunate that this should have happened,’ said Hanslet. ‘Have you really no idea of Miss Rissington’s actual whereabouts?’
Mrs Capel spread out her hands in a despairing gesture. ‘Not the slightest,’ she replied. ‘Betty has heaps of friends, whom she has never told even me about. They’re all perfectly respectable, of course. Betty isn’t the sort of girl to take to people unless they are quite nice. In fact, I’m sure that all her friends are much nicer than her uncle was.’
‘Have you any definite reason for disliking Mr Pershore, Mrs Capel?’ Hanslet asked.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that I actually disliked him. Especially now that the poor man is dead. But I always thought—well, there now, he’s gone, and I always hate gossip about the dead. It’s only that I used to think sometimes that his morals were not all they might be. So very different from his dear sisters, especially Betty’s mother. She was a saint on earth, if ever there was one.’
This feminine criticism of an elderly bachelor did not impress the superintendent. Mr Pershore might have fallen short of the standards of a saint on earth, but so far nothing disreputable had been alleged against him. Having satisfied himself that Mrs Capel was sincere in her declaration that she had no knowledge of the girl’s whereabouts, Hanslet returned to London.
At Scotland Yard he found a report awaiting him. It was headed ‘Report upon a sample of alleged inhalant, submitted by Superintendent Hanslet.’ He read it and, as he did so, his face grew grave. Once more, and from another direction, the shadow of crime had fallen upon the ill-omened house at Weybridge.
‘The sample consists of about an ounce of coarse, dark red powder. It is alleged to be a proprietary article known as Hewart’s Inhalant. A tin of this article has been procured for comparison. In appearance, the genuine inhalant and the sample submitted are not dissimilar. But, while the former consists of a mixture of various harmless drugs, which give off medicinal vapours when heated, the sample submitted is of a definitely dangerous nature.
‘It consists mainly of a mixture of powdered chalk and zinc filings, in approximately equal quantity, with the addition of a proportion of commercial Venetian red. The latter substance has presumably been added to simulate the colour of the genuine inhalant.
‘The effect of heating this mixture would be the production of a considerable volume of carbon monoxide gas. This gas, by itself, is completely odourless, and its presence could not be detected by anybody breathing it. The sample contains a small proportion of the genuine inhalant, and, on heating it, the medicinal vapours would be given off simultaneously with the carbon monoxide. The substitution of the spurious inhalant for the genuine would probably, therefore, not be noticed by the user.’
So the presence of carbon monoxide in Mr Pershore’s blood was accounted for! And one could hardly doubt that the same agency that had tampered with the olives had substituted the spurious inhalant for the genuine article.
Hanslet realised that this conformed to the theory he had formed. The conspirators had not put their trust in the olives alone. They had employed a second method of poisoning as well. They had meant to make quite sure of their victim. It was remarkable, when one came to think of it, that they had been so impatient. Both arsenic and carbon monoxide were cumulative poisons, as Hanslet knew. If Mr Pershore had been allowed to continue to eat his olives, and breathe his inhalant, either or both would have killed him in time. But perhaps they had not known that. Or perhaps they were afraid that Mr Pershore’s suspicions would be aroused. He might have noticed a peculiar flavour in the olives, or some slight difference in the behaviour of the inhalant when heated.
But the superintendent had no time to waste in surmise. He was anxious to explore Firlands by daylight, and if he was to do so that day he must get a move on. He left Scotland Yard and, for the third time, made the journey to Weybridge.
Mrs Markle was growing accustomed to his visits, and welcomed him without surprise. ‘Jessie’s ever so much better,’ she said. ‘Doctor Formby is very pleased with her. Oh, and I asked her yesterday evening, after you had gone, if she remembered washing Mr Pershore’s medicine glass on Sunday. She told me that when she went into the study that morning to fetch it, she found that it was clean, and had not been used. The fork which was kept in the cupboard for Mr Pershore to get the olives out of the bottle with hadn’t been used either.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Markle. I’m glad to know that,’ Hanslet replied. ‘Now, I wonder if you would mind taking me into the garden, and showing me where you were standing when you heard that noise on Saturday evening?’
‘I’ll do that with pleasure,’ said the housekeeper. ‘The quickest way will be for us to go out by the side door.’
She led the way across the hall and opened a baize door at the farther side of it. This door Hanslet noticed for the first time, since it had been open and hooked back against the wall on the occasion of his previous visits to the house. He now saw that when not hooked back it was kept closed by a spring. Beyond this door was a short passage, off which opened on the left Mr Pershore’s study, and on the right a cloak-room and lavatory. The passage terminated in another door, with ground glass panels. Mrs Markle opened this and, on descending a couple of steps, they found themselves in the garden.
‘One moment, Mrs Markle,’ said Hanslet. ‘When you went out on Saturday evening to look at the greenhouse windows, did you leave the house by this door?’
‘Oh, no, I should never have thought of doing that,’ she replied. ‘Mr Pershore didn’t like anybody using this passage but himself. He always looked upon this as his own private part of the house, where he need not be disturbed. That is why he had the baize door put up at the end of the passage, so that he could be cut off from the rest of the house. On Saturday evening I went out by the front door, and walked round the outside.’
‘Mr Pershore had no objection to Miss Rissington using this door if she wanted to, I suppose?’ Hanslet remarked.
‘He didn’t like anybody to use it, even Miss Betty. If she wanted to go out into the garden, she always used the front door.’
Hanslet stood at the foot of the steps and looked out over the garden, dark and dreary in the gloom of the November afternoon. It was more extensive than he had anticipated, being perhaps two or three acres in all. A high wooden paling ran all round it, and inside this was a row of tall trees, with shrubs between them. Whoever had laid out the garden had taken every precaution that it should not be overlooked.
This enclosed space had a melancholy appearance. No doubt in summer it was a delightfully shady retreat. Now it was about as cheerful as a graveyard. It consisted mainly of rough grass, in which were set a few beds, now bare of flowers, and here and there a straggling and untended group of shrubs. The gravelled paths were overgrown and unweeded, and upon these the overshadowing trees dripped relentlessly.
Mrs Markle must have guessed what was passing through the superintendent’s mind. ‘It’s not very tidy, I’m afraid,’ she said apologetically. ‘But then, you see, Mr Pershore never took an interest in the garden. Bulstrode does his best, I’m sure, but he only comes three times a week, and there’s more ground than he can manage properly. It looks better in summer, for Miss Betty always sees that the beds are filled with geraniums, or something bright like that.’
‘It could do with a bit of brightening up,’ Hanslet replied. ‘N
ow, where’s this greenhouse, Mrs Markle?’
‘Just round the corner of the house.’ They walked along the path, under the study window, and reached a small lean-to structure, which badly needed a coat of paint. Within it were a few plants which the superintendent recognised as chrysanthemums. Outside the door of the greenhouse, Mrs Markle stopped. ‘This is where I was standing when I heard that noise,’ she said. ‘It seemed to come from the bottom of the garden.’
‘I see. And you started to walk in that direction. Will you show me?’
She set off down the path, Hanslet following her. The lower part of the garden was hidden from them by an intervening shrubbery round which the path wound its way. Just as they reached this shrubbery, Mrs Markle stopped a second time. ‘This is where I met Mr Pershore, and spoke to him,’ she said.
‘After he had told you about the wasps’ nest he went into the house, didn’t he? Which door did he go in by?’
‘The side door, the one we came out of just now. I went round to the front door, and by the time I got in he was at the top of the stairs. I heard him go into his bedroom and shut the door.’
‘I’d rather like to go down to the bottom of the garden and see if there are any signs of that wasps’ nest,’ said Hanslet.
The path circled round the shrubbery, revealing a waste of kitchen garden, untended like the rest. The greater part was occupied by plants of the cabbage tribe, exhaling a rank smell in the damp atmosphere. Elsewhere it was weed-grown, save for one patch which had been recently dug over. This was the only sign of Bulstrode’s activities.
‘You thought the noise came from somewhere down here?’ asked Hanslet?
‘That’s what it sounded like. But of course it’s very difficult to tell where a sound does come from, especially at night. And it’s a funny thing that Mr Pershore should have thought of blowing up a nest with gunpowder. I never heard of anybody doing that.’
‘Are you much troubled with wasps here?’
‘Sometimes we get a lot, especially about the time the fruit is ripe. Bulstrode finds a nest occasionally. But then he comes up to the house and gets some paraffin and pours it in. I never heard of Mr Pershore finding one before. He must have noticed it one day when he was walking through the garden.’
‘Did he often walk through the garden? I thought you told me that it didn’t interest him?’
‘Oh, no, it didn’t. But then, you see, he often walked down this way to get to the gate at the bottom. I’ll show you where that is, if you like.’
She led the way to the extreme end of the kitchen garden. There, set in the surrounding paling, was a narrow door. The superintendent tried the handle, and found it locked.
‘It’s always kept locked,’ Mrs Markle explained. ‘Mr Pershore had the key, and used to carry it in his pocket. Nobody else ever used this door but him.’
‘What’s on the other side of it?’ Hanslet asked.
‘A narrow lane, which runs between this house and the next. It’s all rough and muddy. I should never think of using it, myself. But Mr Pershore always said that it was the shortest way to walk to the station. It may save a few yards, but I’d far rather go round by the road. The lane’s so dirty, and very dark at night.’
Hanslet nodded. But he was only giving half his attention to what Mrs Markle was saying. He was thinking of Dr Priestley’s remark of the previous evening. Mr Pershore, when he was shot, might have been engaged upon some business the nature of which he wished to remain secret.
There might be something in this, after all. Pershore seemed to have arranged matters so that he could enter or leave the house without anyone being a penny the wiser. That prohibition against anyone but himself using the passage by the study. The provision of the baize door, as a barrier against observation. The side door, sacred to himself. And now this entry from the lane, of which he alone possessed the key. Everything suggested that he might have had affairs which he guarded in jealous secrecy from the rest of the household.
And even from his niece. But, had she by any chance learnt the secret? Was there some hitherto unguessed motive for murder, unconnected with the provisions of Pershore’s will? And, if Miss Rissington knew the secret, who shared this knowledge with her? Her cousin, Philip Bryant? Her intimate friends, the Sulgraves? There was something about the mysterious and dismal hush of this neglected garden that drove the superintendent’s thought into channels of morbid speculation.
As he turned away from the locked door, he caught sight of a cylindrical object, standing in the centre of the patch of waste ground. It was made of galvanised iron, and was surmounted by a low chimney, of the same material. ‘What’s that, Mrs Markle?’ he asked as he pointed to it.
‘That’s what Mr Pershore bought to burn up the rubbish in,’ she replied. ‘Bulstrode calls it an insinuator, but I don’t know whether that’s the proper name or not.’
‘Insinuator? Oh, I expect he means incinerator. What sort of rubbish is burnt in it?’
‘All the rubbish from the house. It’s put in the refuse bin, and Bulstrode brings it down here when he comes and burns it.’
Hanslet was struck with an idea. He walked across to the incinerator and lifted the lid. Inside was a small heap of damp ashes. Evidently nothing had been burnt in it for the last couple of days.
Nearby was a pile of half rotted pea-sticks. With one of these he raked out the ashes and ran his fingers through them. He was rewarded by the discovery of a dozen or so trouser buttons, all showing signs of having been subjected to the action of fire.
Mrs Markle watched these strange proceedings with unconcealed surprise. ‘Why, whatever have you got there, superintendent?’ she asked.
Hanslet held them out for inspection. ‘What do you think they are, Mrs Markle?’
‘Why, they’re trouser buttons! However did they come to be there? I’m sure that none of the girls would ever throw away good buttons with the rubbish.’
‘No, they wouldn’t be likely to do that. I think the buttons were put in here while they were still sewn to the trousers to which they belonged. In fact, I’m pretty sure that they are all you will ever see of Mr Pershore’s best evening trousers.’
‘Well, I never!’ Mrs Markle exclaimed. ‘I’ve hunted high and low for those trousers, and I can’t find them anywhere. But whoever would have burnt a good pair like that?’
‘Perhaps Mr Pershore burnt them himself, having no further use for them.’
Mrs Markle shook her head vigorously. ‘He’d never do that,’ she replied with conviction. ‘He always used to let me have his old clothes to give away to anybody who wanted them. And those trousers weren’t old. Why, he only had them at the beginning of the year.’
Hanslet did not think fit to enlighten Mrs Markle as to her employer’s possible motives for destroying his trousers. They walked back to the house together, and shortly afterwards Hanslet took his leave. He returned to Scotland Yard, and, on reaching his office, found Jarrold waiting for him. ‘Well, what’s your news?’ he asked.
‘I’ve made the inquiries you told me to,’ Jarrold replied. ‘We’ll take Pershore first, shall we? He seems to have been a harmless enough old boy, from what I can hear. He made a very good thing out of speculative building in the suburbs, and retired a few years ago, just before he bought that house at Weybridge.’
‘Well, if he had retired, what about that office that he’s supposed to have been in the habit of going to?’
‘That’s all right. This is the way of it. When he retired, he liked the idea of still having a finger in the pie. So he retained an interest in a firm of builders with an office in Lambeth. He was on the board of directors, and used to blow into the office three or four times a week.
‘I had a chat with the manager, who seems to have liked Pershore well enough. He admitted that he was a bit testy at times, but otherwise, taking him all round, he was a very decent fellow. His attendance at the office was only to give him something to do. He’d turn up, have a yarn, and then go
off to lunch. The last time he was there was on Friday morning.’
‘He didn’t put in an appearance on Monday, then?’ Hanslet asked.
‘No. He told the people in the office on Friday that they wouldn’t see him again till Tuesday.’
‘Right. Now what about Sulgrave?’
‘Sulgrave is in the London showrooms of the Comet Cars Ltd. Somewhere round about thirty, married, and lives at High Elms, Byfleet. Is generally supposed to have money beyond his salary. Sort of chap who believes in a high standard of living. Popular with his friends, and no notorious vices.
‘I hadn’t much difficulty in establishing his movements during the last few days. The Motor Show opened on Thursday the fourth. On the night of Wednesday the third he took a room at an hotel in Kensington. He has slept there every night since. During the daytime he is on the Comet stand at Olympia from before ten in the morning until after ten at night. The Motor Show not being open on Sunday, he went home in the morning, but he was back at his hotel before midnight.’
Hanslet frowned. This dealt a blow to his carefully elaborated theory. ‘Are you sure that he was on the stand at Olympia at nine o’clock on Saturday evening?’ he asked.
‘Certain. He didn’t leave it until about half-past ten, and then went straight back to his hotel. There’s not the slightest doubt about that.’
‘He was on the stand all day Monday?’
‘On and off. He never left Olympia. He went to lunch in the dining-room at half-past twelve, and was back on the stand by half-past one. He was actually demonstrating this new transmission that the Comet people have got out when Pershore collapsed.’
‘What did he do when that happened?’
‘Just went on demonstrating. I’ve been to the stand, and had a look at things for myself, though I was careful to say nothing to Sulgrave. There’s a mob of people round it all day. They crowd on to the stand until there’s hardly room to move. There wouldn’t be the slightest chance of anybody on the stand recognising an individual at the back of the crowd. Sulgrave wouldn’t have seen Pershore, and he wouldn’t know who it was that had fainted. They’re quite used to that sort of thing, I’m told.’