Methylated Murder

by Methylated Murder (retail) (epub)

“Why not?”

  “Not a bad idea, Harrison.”

  “But only an idea at the moment, Peary,” was the reply. “It fits in Harringway and his letters satisfactorily enough, but I can’t see why Sybil Norton should be driven to suicide.”

  “She was very highly strung,” said Peary.

  “Maybe,” answered Harrison, “and it is possible that she might have done so almost on sudden impulse, but I am certain something was needed beside those letters. Something very strong, too, and, at present, I can’t see what it might be.”

  “If you had an idea as to the person concerned it might be something,” said Peary.

  “I have a glimmering,” said Harrison; “but it comes from such a curious trail that I can hardly credit it myself.”

  ‘‘That’s some news for Tim, at any rate. Man or woman?”

  “Definitely a man, if I am right. But, really, Peary, I can’t go any further than that.”

  “Very well,” said Peary, gathering his gown around him, “I’ll accept that, insufficient as it might seem to other members of the Bar, but on one condition.”

  “I never accept conditions,” said Harrison.

  “But this is an easy one,” went on Peary. “Don’t stay away from the club because you’re afraid of meeting young Hillyard. He’s quite satisfied at having brought Tim and you together. He has such implicit faith in you that he is certain you will put everything straight. And so, for that matter, has Tim. You ought to turn up at the club if only to check the flow of young Hillyard’s adjectives about you. The older members, like myself, are getting tired of the manner in which he manages to make you so exclusively a topic of conversation.”

  “Won’t he be a bit hurt if you report to Norton after talking to me?” asked Harrison. “In a way, it’s his responsibility.”

  “Lord bless you, no,” said Peary. “If you want to know, he’s been urging me to come and see you. He says he thinks I might get more out of you than he could.”

  “Hillyard’s a sportingly unselfish young man,” commented Harrison. “The more I think about him the more I like him.”

  Peary was turning the handle of the door when he suddenly came back, saying, “There’s a bit of gossip at the club you ought to have heard.”

  “I’m not very keen on club gossip, Peary, you know that well enough,” was the answer.

  “But this is very curious, really it is,” the barrister went on, seating himself on the corner of Harrison’s table. “It’s about Tommy Fennel and his wife.”

  “Really, Peary,” protested Harrison.

  “You may or may not know, being an extremely unsociable person,” went on Peary, “that Tommy and Helen Fennel are famous for their entertaining.”

  “Any gossip writer will tell you that,” was the reply.

  “Then the gossip writer is to be congratulated on unusual accuracy. To be invited to stay at ‘the Bank,’ their Hampshire place, is, therefore, a pleasant thing to happen to one. Well, a day or two ago, something went wrong. The house party did not enjoy itself. Helen had an attack of nerves and poor Tommy got a biff on the head.”

  “From her?”

  “Really, Harrison, give Helen Fennel a chance. No, that’s the strange part of the story. Everybody went to bed a bit bored and then there was a terrific commotion in the middle of the night. The noble Sir Thomas Fennel was found knocked out in the middle of his own lawn and not the ghost of an idea who did it.”

  “What do the police say?”

  “Nothing,” answered Peary; “because Tommy wouldn’t have them called in. Indeed, he asked no one to mention it, and immediately trotted off to the South of France with Helen, hardly giving the doctor time to fix a bandage round his head.”

  “And the house party?”

  “Oh, they scattered with the most indecent haste.”

  “I am surprised Sir Thomas didn’t call in the police,” said Harrison. “But a lot of people are like that.”

  “Even now you haven’t heard the odd thing about the whole business.”

  “Haven’t I?” asked Harrison, with the air of one resigning himself to a lingering torment.

  “There’s a queer story going round about Tommy’s assailant or whatever is the fitting word. They say he didn’t look human. A horrible sight. A fellow of terrific height who looked like the devil.”

  “Splendid,” said Harrison. “Witchcraft in Hampshire. Sir Thomas Fennel knocked out by the Devil. A great newspaper story. You’re excelling yourself.”

  “I didn’t say I believed it,” snapped Peary, somewhat annoyed. “How could anyone? I personally would like to have that particular devil in the witness-box for five minutes. But that’s the story. Heaven knows where it started, but it is being repeated by quite a lot of sensible people.”

  “I doubt their sense,” said Harrison.

  “Maybe, but that’s the persistent story, you old unbeliever, and why, I ask you, why did the Fennels dart off to the South of France so quickly? And why hush it up?”

  “From what you say, my dear Peary, it seems very far from being hushed up.”

  “Very well, Mr. Harrison,” said Peary, marching majestically to the door, “I advise you to get some nice lubricating oil for that brain of yours. As a detective, you can’t afford to let it get rusty.”

  Peary’s dignified retreat turned to flight as Harrison picked up a heavy law book in menacing fashion from his desk.

  The detective smiled as the door was hastily closed. Peary was always a joy to listen to, and he had an amazing habit of mixing fact with exaggeration. Still it was not likely that the fact that Sir Thomas Fennel had been hit over the head would help him to solve the problem of Sybil Norton’s suicide. Possibly it might be wise, with the fresh information he had gleaned, to call on the worthy Mr. Bonnington again.

  The telephone bell rang.

  “What is it, Henry?” he asked.

  “Mr. Bonnington waiting outside to see you, sir.”

  That saves me the trouble, thought Harrison, as he gave orders for him to be shown in.

  “Sorry to take your time, Harrison,” said the solicitor, in his gentle tones, “but I am a bit worried.”

  “Go ahead, Mr. Bonnington, I am honoured by a call from you.”

  “It’s about Miriam Cant,” went on Bonnington. “You called on her, I believe?”

  “That is so,” answered Harrison, “you gave me her address.”

  “I know, I know,” was the reply. “Mr. Sleet went to see her himself last night. He does drop in occasionally, you know. We neither of us want her to feel neglected. He informed me this morning that he found the young woman in a most excitable state.”

  “Oh!” said Harrison.

  “She was talking quite wildly about her husband. Sleet said she suggested that there must have been some conspiracy against him. Indeed that the whole of the inquest was a fabrication. He says she made really extravagant accusations. You won’t mind my asking, Mr. Harrison, but how did she impress you?”

  “Quite normal,” was the answer.

  Bonnington looked unconvinced.

  “Mrs. Cant struck me as a very sensible young woman,” added Harrison.

  “Of course you discussed her husband during your visit?” asked the solicitor.

  “Certainly,” was the reply.

  “It may be, although I should be loth to think so, that such a conversation had a bad effect on her,” said Bonnington, almost as if talking reflectively to himself.

  “Hardly, I should say,” said Harrison.

  “Yes, I think I agree with you,” said Bonnington. “The evil is of much longer standing than that. She has been brooding on the sad subject too long. Of course I should really have insisted on her dropping the idea of living entirely alone, but she seemed so anxious to do so that I gave in. That was a great pity.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand,” interjected Harrison.

  “And the fact that she was able to appear quite sane to you gives further
support to what I feared,” went on the solicitor, as if still ruminating aloud rather than addressing Harrison.

  “You don’t suggest the girl’s mad, do you?” asked Harrison.

  “Call it what you will. Nervous breakdown, if you like. But I can only come to the conclusion that she is quite unbalanced. It is extremely sad and yet understandable, poor girl. Still, something must be done about it. She can’t be allowed to go on in this way. These wild statements will only get worse and worse, and heaven knows what she might get up to.”

  “Do you really think that?” asked Harrison.

  “I have no option, Mr. Harrison,” answered the solicitor; “especially as I can see from your manner that you yourself were impressed.”

  “But I cannot think that, even if I was impressed, you are justified in your extreme view of Mrs. Cant’s condition.”

  “There, of course, we must differ, Mr. Harrison,” said Bonnington, decisively.

  “And what do you propose to do?”

  “I am arranging for a mental specialist to see her in the morning. For her own sake, I think any delay would be dangerous.”

  “Will you be present at the interview?”

  “Very likely.”

  “Would you have any objection to my being present also? ” asked Harrison.

  “Very decidedly,” was the reply. “I appreciate your solicitude for Mrs. Cant, Mr. Harrison, although hardly understanding it, but I feel that any action of the kind on your part would be an unwarranted interference.”

  The solicitor spoke gently, with an unvaryingly calm tone of voice, but there was no doubt of the finality which he intended to convey.

  “Very well,” said Harrison. “I think you are making a grave mistake, but that, after all, as you suggest, is your own affair. You are a solicitor. You know the law and you know your own responsibility.”

  “I trust so,” said Bonnington.

  “But one thing I cannot understand—”

  “Yes, Mr. Harrison?”

  “Why on earth you should think it necessary to come and tell me your plans?”

  “I should have thought that was more than obvious,” said Bonnington, smoothly. “You are a very intelligent man, Mr. Harrison. You have powers beyond the ordinary in the matter of detection. If you had not been deceived by Mrs. Cant, if you had said that you were convinced hers was a cock and bull story, I should have said to myself that there is no need for action. No harm would be likely to result. But the fact that as able a man as yourself can be deceived forces me to these rather unpleasant steps in connection with poor Mrs. Cant.” He paused. “Even now, Mr. Harrison,” he continued, “if I had your assurance that I had myself convinced you that no reliance could be placed in Miriam Cant’s wild utterances, I might be disposed to leave matters as they stand. For, believe me, such action is very repugnant to me.”

  Harrison looked sharply at the solicitor and then rose from his chair, at the same time ringing the bell for Henry.

  “You must do what you consider your duty, Mr. Bonnington,” he said. “It would be wrong of me to attempt to stand in the way. Good afternoon.”

  The solicitor smiled and shrugged his shoulders, thereupon making a dignified departure.

  Henry found quite a different master when he came back. The somewhat listless manner of a short while before had disappeared. Harrison was keyed up and in a state of high mental activity. Henry realised that the last interview must have supplied him with a particular line of investigation which would throw more light than they had, up to the present, been able to obtain.

  “Take this down, Henry,” said Harrison, speedily dictating a summary of his interview with the solicitor.

  Henry whistled when Harrison reached the suggestion of Mrs. Cant’s insanity.

  “You would call that fishy, wouldn’t you, Henry?” asked his master.

  “Brutal would be my word, sir,” was the reply.

  “Let’s finish,” said Harrison, “before we give any more opinions.”

  Henry shut his book after Harrison had dictated a few more sentences. “Pretty rotten lot,” was his comment.

  “Nothing more?” asked Harrison. “Still we won’t worry about that for the moment. We must decide what to do. I think it would be best, Henry, if you called at Mrs. Cant’s house in the morning, saying you came from me.”

  “And warn her?”

  “If you like,” was Harrison’s non-committal reply. “Now for Eric. Let’s have him in.”

  The red-headed youth appeared from the outer regions, his face almost disappearing in the expansiveness of his smile. “You haven’t done much detection for a week or so, Eric?” asked Harrison.

  “No, sir.”

  “I’ve a job for you now. It’s not an easy one, but it is frightfully important. I can hardly risk your falling down on it.”

  “I’m not likely to fall down, sir.”

  “Splendid,” said Harrison. “I expect Henry has told you something about Bonnington’s? I want you to get me a list of the people in Mr. Bonnington’s engagement book as far back as you can possibly go.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Eric, calmly.

  “You think you can do it?”

  “In my own way, sir,” answered Eric.

  “Very well, Eric,” said Harrison. “I leave the method to you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” exclaimed the boy, and immediately disappeared from the room.

  “Bonnington’s frightened, Henry,” said Harrison.

  “How do you make that out, sir?”

  “If I don’t drop my inquiries he has Mrs. Cant certified; that’s clear, isn’t it?”

  “Good Lord, sir.”

  “The first threat, Henry,” said Harrison. “Things are really moving.”

  Chapter X

  Ominous Alliance

  A man and a woman drove up in a taxicab to the door of a somewhat dilapidated house in the outer suburbs of London. The place had certainly seen better days and, in the last century, must have been the home of a reasonably well-to-do family. The front door was reached by a few stone steps and was protected by a stone portico. In the days of its prosperity the house might have been able to boast of its approach with legitimate pride, but now the stonework was so discoloured and decayed that it seemed to be suffering from some cruel disease.

  Even the lighting was gloomy and did not suggest the necessary gaiety which should belong to a “social club” such as a painted sign affixed to the door proclaimed it to be. This seemed to strike the man who, having paid the taxi-cab driver, looked at his surroundings with unconcealed distaste.

  “Why on earth come to a place like this, Rose?” he grumbled.

  “Because I thought it was safe, Francie,” was the reply.

  “But you said you had often been here?” urged the man. “They’ll recognise you, won’t they? I think it’s risky.”

  “They don’t know my name,” said the girl. “No one knows anybody’s name here. That’s what makes it so safe. Besides, I know how we can have a quiet talk here—and that’s not so easy in any old place.”

  “Very well, Rose,” was the grudging answer. “But you know how I feel about it.”

  “Let’s get inside, at any rate,” said Rose. “We don’t want to argue on the doorstep all night.”

  They rang the bell, and were received by a bushy-browed individual who seemed partly waiter, partly doorkeeper and partly pugilist. He looked at them suspiciously, but eventually recognised Rose, and gave them a satisfactory welcome. Rose led the way to a door from which strains of “hot jazz” emerged, and led Manners after her. In the days of its splendour this room had obviously been a spacious drawing room and even now was excellently proportioned but, like the exterior of the house, showed evidences of ugly decay.

  The atmosphere within was almost overpoweringly thick. Round the walls were small tables, barely accommodating two persons, and these were occupied by men and women. At one end of the room was a small platform whereon a richly adorned woma
n was singing to the accompaniment of a pianist and saxophone player. She was screeching in the approved style of the later American vaudeville performers of the unfaithfulness of some male friend to whom she had lost her heart, and any moment it seemed likely that she would tear her throat with the effort, like the pulling apart of a length of coarse material. Still the room was strangely quiet.

  “We mustn’t interrupt the cabaret,” said Rose, steering Manners to one of the few unoccupied tables.

  The song went on, and the woman’s high-pitched wailing grew even more of a strain upon the car. She finished with a note like a prolonged train whistle such as wakens one with a start when upon a night journey on the Continent. There was a pause as if her hearers were unable to break away from her spell, then noisy applause and cries for another effort. This was graciously granted and dealt with the joys of loving rather than the pangs of losing, but there was the same shrill discordancy and the same fear of some horrible physical consequence from the manner in which her notes were produced.

  There was the same pause followed by the gust of applause. A coy refusal to oblige again, with a promise of a later reappearance, and the singer disappeared, to the sound of a rising tide of conversation.

  A waiter came across to the table and asked their needs. He also recognised Rose and made heavy humour of her long absence. A short bout of whispering between the two, much to the discomfort of Manners, who was growing more and more irritable, and the waiter agreed that something would be, “OK.” He thereupon led them out of the room across the hall to a door which was labelled as being solely for “artists,” the general public being strictly forbidden to enter.

  Smaller than the other, this room was mainly occupied by card tables and gave no hint of its suitability for “artists.” Certainly the lady who had just performed was sitting in a corner on an exceedingly comfortless chair, but it was obvious that she herself was there on sufferance, for the waiter, with no show of delicacy, bade her retire.

  “What sort of a hole is this, anyhow?” she asked, in exquisite Cockney.

  “Better than you’ve been used to,” graciously observed the waiter. “Hurry up, now.”

  “Surely it’s worth a drink?” grumbled the performer, with an ogling eye on Manners.