Methylated Murder

by Methylated Murder (retail) (epub)

  “Whatever you have in your mind, Mrs. Cant,” said Harrison, gently, “I don’t want you to let your hopes rise too high. I saw Mr. Bonnington yesterday and it was he who gave me your address. His story interested me deeply and I thought I would call on you myself. I don’t want to appear to be intruding on you, and you must tell me if talking about the past is too painful for you.”

  “Painful?” the young woman’s voice rose a little. “Mr. Harrison, I want to talk about the past. I want you to understand everything that has happened. Only remember one thing—” Here she paused as if finding it difficult to continue.

  “And that is?” asked Harrison.

  “Lewis did not commit suicide. By everything holy I swear that he never did that. And you must prove it, Mr. Harrison. I would like to have done it myself, but I’m only a very weak woman.”

  Harrison looked keenly at her. Her eyes were shining with fanatical belief, but there was an assurance in her voice which greatly impressed him. He felt that this was no mere sentimental exhibition of affectionate grief. The woman’s conviction was based on some knowledge which she felt justified it.

  “You doubt it?” she said, misinterpreting his look. “All the Coroners in the world could shout me down, but that could not alter the truth.”

  “Suppose you tell me what you know yourself, Mrs. Cant,” said Harrison. “We might get along better then.”

  “You won’t think I’m mad to go on like this, will you, Mr. Harrison?” she answered. “I’m perfectly sane, but, after having waited so long and gone over and over the old ground, your coming here, just as I wanted, must affect me a bit, mustn’t it?”

  “I quite understand,” said Harrison. “But if you will tell me the facts as calmly as you possibly can, it will be so much easier for me to judge things and, as you say, to help you.”

  “Very well,” said the young woman, in a much calmer tone. “You say you have seen Mr. Bonnington. I expect he has told you nearly everything.”

  “But I want your story,” said Harrison.

  “It all seemed to start after Lewis had been for a walk in the country, Mr. Harrison,” said the young woman. “Occasionally he went off on his own on a Sunday and walked all day, getting back in time for supper. I didn’t mind. In fact I encouraged it. He had so much of me that I thought an occasional outing might do him good. On this particular Sunday—”

  “How long before was that?”

  “Some weeks, about six, I should think. On this particular Sunday he went off as usual and, to my astonishment, he turned up here again just about teatime. I was rather worried, thinking he might be ill. He certainly did not look his best. He said he was not ill but had suddenly grown tired of walking and had come home by train. That was obviously a very poor explanation. I was almost sorry for him to have to make it. I know you will forgive me, Mr. Harrison, but I must insist that Lewis was quite transparent to me. Even in those two years I knew him through and through. He was not a very good actor, at any time, but I am absolutely certain that he could not keep anything from me.”

  Harrison pitied the young wife as she spoke with such finality.

  “Eventually he told me that he had met someone on his walk, someone he had not wanted to meet, and then begged me not to ask him any more questions. He seemed so distressed that I did not do so, but I felt very miserable about him. I was certain there was something very wrong, but I did not dare to press him. From that moment he started sleeping badly, and, finally, saying that he was only disturbing me, he decided to sleep by himself in a tiny extra room we have. I argued with him, and implored him to see a doctor, but he looked at me so pitifully that I could not go any further with it. As you can imagine, life became more and more difficult. He was still the most thoughtful of husbands, but this cloud hung over him and he refused to talk about it. I was getting to the end of my tether. He had come home even more depressed than usual and had gone to bed early. I decided I could not stand it any longer, and I went up to his room to have it out with him, once and for all.”

  She stopped and held tightly to the arms of her chair. “He was lying in bed, breathing terribly heavily,” she went on, in a firm voice, “I sent for the doctor but he never came round again. By the side of the bed was an empty bottle which had contained some tablets.”

  “I know,” said Harrison, to save her the distressing details. “Veronal, or something of the kind.”

  “Mr. Bonnington was frightfully upset,” said Mrs. Cant, “for he himself had given Lewis the tablets because he had complained of being unable to sleep. Mr. Bonnington said he had found them very helpful himself when the worries of the office got out of hand.”

  “That’s very curious, isn’t it?” commented Harrison.

  “Curious, in what way?”

  “That Mr. Bonnington should give his clerk what appear to be very dangerous drugs.”

  “I don’t think so. Mr. Bonnington reproached himself, he said, but he had acted for the best. He had never known any harm come from them, and Lewis obviously needed something to calm his nerves. Oh no, I don’t think it’s curious. Mr. Bonnington was like a father to Lewis.”

  “Did you know he was taking these tablets?”

  “I had no suspicion whatever,” was the reply.

  “And the bottle, have you kept that?” asked Harrison.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Do you know what happened to it?”

  “The police or somebody took it away, I expect.”

  “What was it like. Do you remember that?”

  “I only just caught a glimpse of it when I first went into the room. It seemed to me like the bottles you have aspirin in. Is it really so important, Mr. Harrison?”

  “I don’t know,” was the reply.

  “Of course,” she said, as if reproaching herself for not having thought of such a thing before, “Mr. Bonnington could tell you at once.”

  “Of course,” echoed Harrison.

  “You see,” went on Mrs. Cant, almost apologetically, “everything then seemed to happen so quickly. Mr. Sleet came here at once.”

  “Just a moment, Mrs. Cant. Was Mr. Sleet a friend of your husband?”

  “A great friend,” was the reply. “And of mine, too. He has been as good to me as Mr. Bonnington. He has taken any amount of trouble, and he comes to see me when he can

  spare the time. You can imagine he was terribly upset. Of course, I wasn’t in a fit state to discuss it. Mr. Sleet called the police.”

  “He assumed it was suicide straight away?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Did he know about the tablets?”

  “I expect so.”

  “I’m sorry to ask so many questions,” said Harrison, “but it is the only way to straighten things out. Especially so long afterwards.”

  “I don’t mind how many questions you ask,” answered Mrs. Cant. “I want you to know everything.”

  “Did he know then about the missing money?”

  “Oh no,” was the reply. “That was next morning. He had told me there had to be an inquest and that I should have to go. I felt much calmer then. Just as I arrived at the place he met me and said he had something rather awful to tell me, and he explained that Lewis had been helping himself to Mr. Bonnington’s money for a long time.”

  “More than six months?”

  “Oh yes, much longer, according to his tone. I just didn’t believe it, and told him so. He said he could hardly believe it either, but there was no doubt whatever. I insisted there must be some mistake, but he said there couldn’t be. And then came the final blow of this woman appearing, from nowhere, it almost seemed.”

  “Dorice Locket?”

  “That was her name. She said she seen about Lewis in the paper and thought she ought to come and tell what she knew about him. He had told her he was not married, and had kept her, in a very modest way, for six months.”

  “How did she strike you?”

  “I don’t want to sound hard, Mr. Ha
rrison, but just like something very ordinary out of the street.”

  “And that was how she looked? Her appearance, I mean. She was not particularly well dressed?”

  “Oh no,” said Mrs. Cant. “Quite the other way. Cheap through and through. That knocked me right out. I don’t know how I got through it. The coroner said it was a clear case of suicide, and said some beastly things about Lewis. He said he felt terribly sorry for me, and that he was even a bit sympathetic for that woman. Both Mr. Bonnington and Mr. Sleet were exceedingly kind to me, but I could tell by their tone that they agreed with him. I didn’t argue with them. I hadn’t the spirit left then. Later on I realised it would not have been any use.”

  “You tried?”

  “Of course I tried.”

  “And they remained unconvinced?”

  “Absolutely,” answered the young woman, sadly.

  “I gather that Mr. Bonnington is still kind to you.”

  “He has been marvellous,” said Mrs. Cant. “That is why I hate to think he is so definite about Lewis. Knowing the way he feels, I suppose I ought to be paying him back what he thinks Lewis took instead of his paying for me to stay on here. I don’t know whether I did right to accept his help, but I was so convinced that one day someone like you would come along and I felt that, if I went away, I might miss you.”

  Again Harrison was impressed by the tone of certainty in her voice. She spoke with an unshakable conviction which not only impressed him but made him wonder that Bonnington and Sleet had been able to maintain their opinion in the opposite direction.

  “Before we go any further, Mrs. Cant,” he said, “I am going to ask you a few simple but very definite questions. You are convinced that you really knew your husband, even after all this?”

  “Of course, of course,” was the reply.

  “It may sound obvious,” said Harrison, “but I have heard other people say the same thing when, to my personal knowledge, they have known nothing whatever of certain parts of the lives of the people whom they swore they could read like a book.”

  “You must believe me, Mr. Harrison,” was the despairing answer.

  “Let me go on with my questions,” said Harrison, gently. “Feeling as you do, would you say that your husband could not have systematically robbed Mr. Bonnington for nearly a year without your having some suspicion of it?”

  “I swear it,” said Mrs. Cant, solemnly. “That is why it was such a shock to me.”

  “Now for my second question,” went on Harrison. “Knowing your husband as you say you did, would you also say that it was quite impossible for him to have lived with another woman for six months without your having any suspicion of it?”

  “Again I swear it,” was the reply. “It was absolutely impossible, that more than the taking of the money.”

  “He concealed the facts about his walk,” suggested Harrison.

  “Only because I didn’t press him,” said Mrs. Cant. “Now I rather wish I had. It might have made all the difference. But I am certain he would have told me if I had really insisted.”

  “Very well.”

  “You don’t believe it,” she cried. “I can see you don’t.”

  “Gently, gently, Mrs. Cant,” said Harrison. “The only way I can help you—if I can—is by getting everything perfectly clear. I must have the facts.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Possibly I sympathise with you more than you imagine I do—” the young woman looked at him gratefully—“but I must know a lot more yet. This Dorice Locket, do you know anything about her?”

  “Nothing more than came out at the inquest,” was the reply. “At first I thought I would go and see her and tell her what I thought about her.”

  “You knew where she lived?”

  “I think it was printed in one of the papers at the time.”

  “Do you, by any chance, remember what it was?” asked Harrison.

  “I could soon find out,” was the reply, “I kept all the cuttings.”

  “Good,” said Harrison. “But you didn’t go and see her?”

  “No, I realised that it would do no good. If she was what I thought she was, it would be a sheer waste of time. And if she wasn’t, and she really felt she had been badly treated, as the coroner suggested, I might have felt sorry for her myself. And I should have hated doing that.”

  “And you haven’t heard of her since?”

  “No.”

  “Has she been mentioned by Mr. Bonnington or Mr. Sleet?”

  “After what happened, Mr. Harrison, they were hardly likely to.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Cant, I stand rebuked,” said Harrison. “My ideas were running on a certain line, that’s all.”

  “It’s for me to apologise, Mr. Harrison,” said the young woman. “I should have realised. You can see something strange about it?”

  “Very strange,” answered the detective. “Now let me go on with my questioning. Everything we know at present turns on the walk your husband took that particular Sunday. Can you help me with any more details? Think hard and try and remember, for it might lead to something important.”

  Harrison watched Mrs. Cant as she sat deep in thought, her brows knit in heavy lines. This opportunity of looking at her more closely made him revise his opinion of her looks. She was much more attractive than he had first realised when she opened the door to him. In happier circumstances and enjoying life as she was entitled to do, she would have been considered pretty by those around her. There were signs of a rarely displayed animation which would have given astonishing charm to a face which was at present almost like a mask as a result of the events of the last six months. The vivacity she had shown when she had thought that Harrison would be able to help her was a sure indication of what lay beneath. The doubt and incredulity which her own eager defence of her husband must have produced among her acquaintances were responsible for this unhappy repression; but, at the same time, Harrison realised that a character strong enough to remould itself under such a strain was hardly one which would hold fast to a fixed notion to the verge of insanity.

  “I wonder,” she suddenly exclaimed and, jumping up from her chair, dashed to a bureau and began to go through a number of papers neatly arranged on the desk. She came back to Harrison with a collection of ordnance maps.

  “You see,” she explained, “Lewis was very methodical. He very seldom did the same walk twice, and, some evening after a Sunday expedition, he would mark out the walk he had done on one of his maps and put the date by it. I never thought he could have done it with the last one because he was so upset about it. But he might have done.”

  “He certainly might,” said Harrison. “Habit’s a powerful master.”

  “Let’s see,” said Mrs. Cant, eagerly.

  Together they studied the maps and appreciated Lewis Cant’s methodical habits as his wife opened each one and spread it on a table. His walks were carefully plotted in ink. Mainly they had been circular and a date neatly printed at the point where he had obviously set out. When, however, his rambles led him to finish in a different spot from his starting place, he had put a date at each end of the line.

  After a complete survey they found that there was one line much shorter than the rest which had no date whatsoever, but which ended, in ugly fashion, in a dark black cross which seemed to possess a sinister emphasis compared with the neat precision of the others.

  “That must be it,” said Harrison.

  “You really think so?” asked the young woman eagerly.

  “There can be no doubt, to my mind.”

  “But it hasn’t a date?”

  “All the more convincing,” said Harrison. “But the cross would be sufficient. Let’s see where it is.”

  Again they pored over the map together, and finally decided that Cant’s last walk must have finished at a small town called Hested, in the heart of Kent.

  “Good,” exclaimed Harrison. “Have you ever been to Hested yourself, Mrs, Cant?”

  “No.”
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br />   “Has your husband ever mentioned it to you?”

  “No.”

  “Very well,” said Harrison, folding up the map with the ugly cross, “I shall take this, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course,” was the reply, while the expression of intense animation passed rapidly across Mrs. Cant’s face.

  “Now that’s one thing we’ve discovered already,” said Harrison, cheerfully. “Obviously you must settle down and think again after a success like that.”

  “I’ll do my best,” said the young woman, with the nearest approach to a smile that Harrison had yet seen. “Can you give me a lead?”

  “You are certain your husband had no other worries, nothing beside this queer meeting with someone at Hested?”

  There was a pause while Mrs. Cant obviously thought deeply. “I can’t recall anything,” she said at last. “There were the usual tiny worries. Still, everyone has those.”

  “Office worries?”

  “Lewis was terribly conscientious, so naturally little things going wrong with his work often upset him out of all proportion.”

  “Do you remember any of them?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t,” was the apologetic reply. “They were really so ordinary that, when he had blown off to me about them, we used to laugh over them.”

  “I understand.”

  “You see, Mr. Harrison, that’s why I can’t possibly believe these dreadful things. Lewis was so very scrupulous. He even got heated about Mr. Sleet one day because he thought he was deceiving Mr. Bonnington.”

  “What happened?”

  “It was really something frightfully absurd. Let me see now. I know, it was connected with methylated spirit.”

  “Well?”

  “I don’t remember the details but really, Mr. Harrison, it was so ridiculously trivial it does not seem worth bothering about.”

  “But it stuck in your mind?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it may be worth bothering about,” said Harrison. “At any rate, I think I had better judge for myself.”

  “Of course,” said Mrs. Cant, hastily as if fearing she had given offence. “One morning, Mr. Bonnington who, according to Lewis, had a very keen sense of smell, complained that the room in which Mr. Sleet and Lewis worked reeked of methylated spirit. Lewis didn’t smell it but Mr. Sleet immediately said that it was due to a spirit stove they used for making their tea.”