Not to Be Taken

by Anthony Berkeley

  Frances smiled sweetly. ‘I’m so very sorry. I had no idea I was withholding evidence. As a matter of fact I’d forgotten all about the bottle in the upset and confusion over Mr Waterhouse’s death. Then when I heard you asking about it this morning, I remembered I still had it and thought the police might like it, so I brought it with me this afternoon and gave it to the Superintendent.’

  ‘Humph!’ The Coroner stroked his chin and gazed fixedly at her. As Frances showed no signs of wilting, he gave it up. ‘Well, I won’t say anything more about the matter here, though no doubt you will be hearing something from other quarters. Now let me see…’

  The rest of Frances’ evidence was a distinct anti-climax. She merely had to corroborate what Glen and I had already told about the after-dinner conversation and the little attack of indigestion on John’s part which had led up to it; but since it had now been so definitely stated that the poisoning must have been acute and not chronic, I could not see why any further importance need be attached to that episode.

  The eyes of everyone in the room followed her back to her seat. I did my best to look as if I thought that nothing of importance had occurred, but I don’t suppose anyone looked at me in any case. In fact I was so busy looking unconcerned that I quite failed to realise that Harold was not called next, as might have been expected.

  ‘Eileen Pritchard,’ summoned the Coroner.

  A faint jog from Frances’ elbow was followed by the whispered words: ‘Tell you about it afterwards.’ I nodded slightly and fixed my attention with a great show of interest on Angela’s parlourmaid, almost unrecognisable in a neatly cut coat and skirt and smart hat which even I instantly recognised as something in which I had not long ago seen Angela herself.

  Pritchard gave her evidence with an air of self-righteous importance. When the Coroner questioned her about the search of the house which she had helped Cyril Waterhouse to carry out, she gave us to understand that it had not been a matter of mere obedience to orders but the co-operation of two upright persons against an evildoer: for that Pritchard considered her mistress to be an evildoer was to be heard between every two words she uttered. I could have cheerfully smacked the girl for the smugness with which she identified each bottle and jar that was held up before her, and named the places from which they had been taken.

  As for the intercepted letter, Pritchard plainly expected the thanks not merely of the court but of every decent person for her action. I was glad to notice that the Coroner dealt with her in a severely impersonal way, with no hint either of praise or blame.

  Toward the end of her evidence Pritchard broke fresh ground.

  It was important in a case of this nature, the Coroner had remarked, to try to trace the movements of the deceased as closely as possible before he was taken ill. He therefore put to the parlourmaid a series of questions designed to show just what John had done that morning ever since he got up. From Pritchard’s replies a fairly clear idea could be gained, though, as the Coroner was the first to comment, there were gaps.

  He had come down to breakfast as usual, then, at half-past eight and had it, again as usual, alone with Mitzi Bergmann. Angela always breakfasted in bed. Pritchard had served porridge, kippers, and eggs and bacon, with the ordinary coffee, toast and marmalade. So far as she saw from the state of the dishes afterwards, John had eaten a normal breakfast: that is to say, a fairly large one. Not having been in the room, she had no idea whether John and Mitzi had talked, but she thought it was Mr Waterhouse’s habit to read the newspaper at breakfast and not say much.

  At about half-past nine, after his usual matutinal visit to his wife, Pritchard had seen him from her pantry cross the stable yard, presumably to visit the building operations which were taking place near there. Three men were employed on the building, a mason and two labourers. She had not seen Mr Waterhouse come back into the house, but it had not been a nice sort of day, and he might have come back at any time. In any case, when the parcel post came not long after ten (pressed, she thought it would be about ten minutes past) and she took a package which had come by it into the library, Mr Waterhouse was in there, reading his newspaper by the fire.

  The Coroner made a pause here to ask a few questions about this package. In answer Pritchard described it as not very big and not very small. Pinned down, she thought it would be about eight inches long by three or four wide and deep.

  ‘Well, I dare say you could have got a medicine bottle into it,’ she explained, evidently choosing the first example that came into her mind. (I glanced surreptitiously at Frances and saw that she was having the grace to blush.)

  Pritchard did not wait while the package was unwrapped, and she had no idea what it contained. The wrapper had been in the waste-paper basket the next morning, but it had gone with all the other rubbish into the refuse destructor, and she had not had the curiosity to examine it – why should she? The Coroner did his best to prod her memory, and she gave a tentative opinion that the name and address had been written in ink and not typed as if it had come from a shop, and though neat enough the package had not that air of having been born a package and nothing else which a shop’s packer is able to produce at will and no amateur can ever achieve.

  ‘Well, probably it’s of no importance,’ said the Coroner comfortably, having made quite certain that his witness could not even make a guess at what the package might have contained and had seen no object lying about later which might have come out of it. ‘But we have to consider everything.’

  After the incident of the package Pritchard had not seen her employer again until half-past twelve and had the idea that he had been out off and on during the morning. He had, however, certainly been in part of the time, for the bottle of medicine, which she had put on the hall table after taking it in from Dr Brougham’s boy at some time round about twenty minutes to eleven, had disappeared from it before half-past. She could not say at what time it had been taken from the hall, or by whom, but she did notice when passing through at about half-past eleven that the bottle had gone. Why had she not taken it into the library, like the postal package, seeing that it was addressed to Mr Waterhouse? Because, explained Pritchard with an air of finality, she always took in things that came by post in the proper way, but other things she put on the hall table. She did not add why postal material was thus singled out for special treatment but clearly considered it proper that it should be so.

  At half-past twelve, then, she had answered a ring from the library, and Mr Waterhouse had asked her to bring him a glass of cider. How had Mr Waterhouse appeared? Very queer. In what way queer? Well…queer - looked as if he had a pain – very quiet and subdued, sitting all huddled up in his chair. The Coroner, shrewdly suspecting that a too-vivid imagination was being called into play, ascertained that Mr Waterhouse had made no reference to feeling queer and had said nothing beyond the request for the cider, and then gave up that line of enquiry.

  Pritchard had next seen him when she served lunch. She admitted with reluctance that he seemed to have eaten a fairly normal meal. Miss Bergmann and Mrs Waterhouse were both present at lunch, no one else. She had not seen Mr Waterhouse again until she was called in to help Miss Brougham with him that evening. She had served tea as usual in the drawing-room but had not seen Mr Waterhouse there, and she had noticed afterwards that only two out of the three cups had been used.

  That concluded her evidence.

  The Coroner then adjusted his spectacles and looked exceedingly severe.

  ‘It is much to be regretted,’ he said after a premonitory clearing of the throat, ‘that another witness who might have given valuable evidence concerning the deceased’s movements on this day has seen fit to absent herself. I refer to Fräulein Bergmann. I understand that a subpoena was served upon her in the proper way, and I must take this opportunity to say that it is a very serious matter to fail to put in an appearance when one has been called as a witness, to this or any other court. I hope
the authorities will deal suitably with this young woman should she ever set foot in this country again.’

  We all looked very solemn while we wondered what treatment could suitably meet such an offence: from the Coroner’s tone, hanging seemed the least penalty Mitzi might expect.

  Superintendent Timms leaned forward and whispered to the Coroner, who suddenly became human again with a jerk.

  ‘Dear me, a most important question that I quite forgot to put to the last witness, yes. Miss – er – yes, Pritchard, will you take the stand again, please.’

  The question was whether, during the meals she had served that day, Pritchard had noticed if Mr Waterhouse had been the only person to partake of any fish. Pritchard had not exactly noticed that but thought not, on the grounds that she would have certainly noticed if it had been so. Nor any drink? Yes, Mr Waterhouse had been the only person to drink cider at lunch.

  ‘Yes, and there is that glass he had in the library, at about half-past twelve. Let me see, Superintendent, I believe Sir Francis has – Very well, Miss Pritchard, that is all, thank you. Yes, Superintendent…’ The Coroner had a short whispered conversation with the police officials.

  The Waterhouses’ cook was the next witness: or rather, the late cook, for it soon appeared that the lady had been under notice to leave when John was first taken ill, and had in point of fact left the next day, causing Mitzi to scour Torminster in vain for a successor until Rona, with an aplomb that any other woman must almost reverence, had rung up a friend of hers in the neighbourhood who was leaving in a week’s time to winter abroad and had calmly borrowed her cook then and there, under the plea of extreme urgency and serious illness. This story, the full details of which I did not hear until after the court had adjourned, was complete news to me, so modest over her achievement had Rona been.

  The woman, who gave her name as Maria Pfeiffer and her nationality as Austrian, was an enormous creature, almost qualified to deputise for the fat lady in a penny show; never have I seen such a broad expanse of back view as she waddled to the stand.

  ‘You were cook to Mrs Waterhouse?’ asked the Coroner after the preliminaries had been settled.

  ‘I am perfect cook,’ responded the witness with a beaming smile.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I am perfect cook. Vairy good. Wiener Schnitzel – Apfel Torte – Bratkartoffeln – ah!’ She kissed her pudgy fingers.

  ‘Yes, yes. Er – you understand English?’

  ‘I spik perfect. I am perfect cook,’ agreed the lady, who seemed to want to bring the latter point home.

  ‘Yes.’ The Coroner looked a trifle harassed. ‘Now tell us, please. You were acting as cook to Mrs Waterhouse at the time Mr Waterhouse was taken ill?’

  A frown appeared on the rubicund, full-moon face. ‘I not make him ill. I am perfect cook.’

  ‘No, no, of course not. Er – you were under notice to go at the time?’

  ‘Notice? What is that, pliz?’

  ‘You had been dismissed? You were leaving?’

  ‘Of course I leave,’ agreed the cook indignantly. ‘I no stay in Chew house.’

  ‘Chew?’ The Coroner looked helplessly at his attendant officials, who looked helplessly back at him.

  ‘Chew?’

  ‘Mitzi Bergmann. She is Chew. I am Nazi,’ announced the witness proudly. ‘I Austrian Nazi.’

  ‘Yes, yes. But that has nothing to do with us. Did you –’

  ‘Pritchard, she Chew also. I not stay with Chews.’

  ‘I’m quite sure Miss Pritchard is nothing of the sort,’ retorted the Coroner testily. ‘In any case, it does not matter now if she is. Will you kindly answer my question: you were under notice to go at the time Mr Waterhouse was taken ill?’

  ‘I tell Madam I not stay with Chews,’ responded the witness proudly. ‘I poosh her out of kitchen. I perfect cook.’ She looked round for applause.

  The Coroner gave up that line and tried another. ‘Now listen carefully, please. Are you quite sure that on the day Mr Waterhouse was taken ill nothing improper – that is to say, nothing that should not have been there – could have got into the food that you sent into the dining-room?’

  The witness appeared to consider this. Then she replied again with a beaming smile: ‘I cook vairy good. I perfect cook. Wiener Schnitzel – Apfel Torte – Bratkartoffeln – ah!’

  The Coroner wiped his forehead.

  ‘You see to the dishes that come out from the dining-room?’

  ‘Oah yaas.’

  ‘Could you tell from the appearance whether any dish had been partaken of by one person only?’

  ‘One person onlee?’ The witness pondered. Then she brightened. ‘I one person onlee. I eat all that from dining-room comes. Ja wohl. Ich esse alles was aus Speisezimmer zurück kommt. Ich esse viel,’ she added with pride. ‘Sehr viel. Kolossal Grossartig! Ach!’

  The Coroner gave it up. ‘I think,’ he explained to the jury, ‘that the witness is telling us that she finishes anything that comes out from the dining-room. That answers the question I put to her, and shows that nothing harmful – that is to say, of course, arsenic – could have inadvertently found its way into the food on the day Mr Waterhouse was taken ill.’ He had one more try. ‘Do you remember whether you finished the dishes on the day Mr Waterhouse was taken ill?’ he asked the witness loudly.

  She beamed on him. ‘I eat all,’ she said simply, ‘I perfect cook.’

  ‘That will do,’ said the Coroner.

  Glen jogged my elbow. ‘Interesting case of arrested development,’ he murmured. ‘I should say she stopped short at the age of eight. But it might have been seven.’

  Frances jogged my other elbow. ‘What lies!’ she whispered indignantly. ‘She couldn’t cook a thing. Angela had awful trouble with her.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ I whispered back. ‘She ate.’

  ‘From the look of her,’ whispered Frances, ‘she’d eat the cat’s dinner.’

  ‘She probably did,’ whispered Glen across me. I caught the disapproving eye of Superintendent Timms, and guiltily hushed them.

  There was some whispering going on among the officials round the Coroner, and I saw the latter nod to Mr Bellew, who rose.

  ‘One moment, please,’ said Mr Bellew pleasantly to the witness, who had been about to leave the stand. ‘Can you tell me if Mrs Waterhouse was in the kitchen the morning Mr Waterhouse was taken ill – that is, the day before you left?’

  ‘Bitte?’ The cook looked puzzled.

  ‘With the Court’s permission, I’ll repeat the question in German,’ said Mr Bellew affably, and did so.

  A flood of German answered him. Mr Bellew put another question in the same language. Another flood greeted it.

  ‘Come, come, Mr Bellew,’ said the Coroner testily, ‘this is most irregular. We should have a properly qualified interpreter.’

  ‘I’ll repeat the substance of the witness’ remarks in the form of a question to her,’ soothed Mr Bellew. He did not add that anyone could play old Harry with the rules of evidence in a mere Coroner’s court, but his gentle smile implied it.

  ‘Am I to understand that this is what you have been telling me?’ he went on to the witness. ‘That on the morning Mr Waterhouse was taken ill Mrs Waterhouse came into the kitchen and herself prepared a… I’m sorry, my German isn’t good enough for that. Can you tell us in English what Mrs Waterhouse made?’

  ‘A limonspong,’ replied the witness promptly.

  ‘A…a…?’

  ‘A lemon sponge,’ supplied Rona in a clear voice.

  ‘Ja wohl,’ nodded the witness vehemently. ‘A limonspong. Gewiss. I spik perfect English.’

  ‘Yes, a lemon sponge. For whom did you think she was making it?’

  ‘She make for herself, natürlich.’

  ‘You understood her to be making it
for herself. Now tell us, Maria: did you like Mrs Waterhouse? Did you find her a liebe Dame?’

  ‘Gar nicht!’ shouted the witness, flushing to the point of apoplexy. ‘She not good lady. She bad lady’

  ‘And why did you think Mrs Waterhouse a bad lady?’ asked Mr Bellew blandly.

  ‘She say I not can to cook. I! She say I must go. I poosh her out of kitchen. She is Chew. I perfect cook.’

  ‘That is all, thank you,’ observed Mr Bellew gratefully to the Coroner.

  But that gentleman had not received a legal training for nothing.

  ‘Did you eat the remains of the lemon sponge when it came out of the dining-room?’ he asked the witness, slowly and distinctly.

  ‘I eat?’ repeated the witness with a virtuous air. ‘No, no. I not eat what should be for the night dinner. Pritchard, she eat it. Pritchard vairy greedy, like all Chews.’

  The Coroner waved her away.

  ‘I suppose we had better have Miss Pritchard back, since the point has been raised, though I really don’t think it has any importance. Miss Pritchard! Ah, there you are. Yes, take the stand again, please. Miss Pritchard, you served a lemon sponge for lunch on the day in question?’

  ‘I did,’ said Pritchard, breathing rapidly.

  ‘Did any of it go out?’

  ‘Pretty well all of it went out, sir.’

  ‘Ah! And did you finish it, in the kitchen?’

  ‘Not me. It’s a lie, sir. Maria, she ate the lot. She was like that. Eat us all out of house and home, she would. I never seen anyone so greedy in my life. And it’s a lie to call me a Jew. I –’

  ‘Miss Pritchard,’ interposed Mr Bellew deftly, having received the Coroner’s permission during these heated remarks. ‘Miss Pritchard, can you tell us who had any of the lemon sponge in the dining-room?’

  ‘Only Mr Waterhouse, sir. It was his favourite dish. He always used to say no one could make it like Mrs Waterhouse. But she never touched it. Didn’t care for it herself.’