Methylated Murder

by Methylated Murder (retail) (epub)

  She still looked undecided, and Peary said, “Quite seriously, knowing now who we are, do you think we should take all the trouble to bring you here for fun?”

  “I suppose not,” was the reply. “Very well. I believe you want to help me, but how are you going to do it?”

  “You must trust me by telling me exactly why you were visiting Bonnington’s,” said Harrison.

  “Hadn’t I better be going?” asked Peary. “I’ve done my job?”

  “I think Miss—”

  “Mrs.,” corrected the lady.

  “I think Mrs. Packard would prefer you to stay,” said Harrison.

  “I should indeed.”

  “Very well,” said Peary.

  “Now, Mrs. Packard,” went on Harrison.

  “I was going to make my will.”

  “And why?”

  “Because I had been advised to,” said Mrs. Packard, swallowing hard.

  “Who gave you that advice?”

  “I don’t want to go into that.”

  “Now, Mrs. Packard,” said Harrison, solemnly, “we know you are up against something very unpleasant; something, I am afraid, that you are not very proud of, but I can only help if I know everything.”

  “Everything?” she asked, sadly.

  “I’m afraid so,” answered Harrison. “But first you might tell me something about yourself and then the other may come more easily.”

  “I’m a widow, Mr. Harrison,” said Mrs. Packard. “My husband died some years ago and left me with a very small income, one on which, quite honestly, I should hate to try and live. Indeed I don’t think I could. My father, who is now a very old man, makes me a good allowance and will leave me well provided for, but he has very decided ideas, and might cut me right out of his will if I did anything of which he disapproved. I am afraid these are very long preliminaries—”

  “Not at all, Mrs. Packard,” answered Harrison. “Thank you for the detail. It is very helpful and I am certain it is just what I need to know.”

  “I took a pleasant house at Redford—”

  “How long ago?”

  “About five years. It has a nice outlook and a good garden and suits me admirably. I made a lot of friends and was very happy.” She stopped and repeated “was very happy” mournfully, emphasising the past tense.

  “Until when?” asked Harrison.

  “Until I started playing a lot of bridge,” answered Mrs. Packard. “Even then it was all right until we changed from ‘auction’ to ‘contract.’ The new style beat me completely. I lost and lost and nothing seemed to go right. Indeed I was thoroughly ashamed of myself.” She lowered her voice. “Then I began to cheat. I know it was a shocking thing to do.” Her heavy face wrinkled as if she were going to burst into tears as she cried, “But I am being punished. I am being punished.”

  Harrison waited while she composed herself.

  “And it wasn’t the money I did it for, Mr. Harrison, really it wasn’t,” she went on in a tone imploring belief. “I didn’t mind the money part at all. But I hated to lose, always lose, and my friends to talk about it. I couldn’t bear it.”

  “I understand,” said Harrison.

  “Thank you, Mr. Harrison, I believe you do. It all seemed very easy. Nobody realised it, and they congratulated me on the improvement. Then they discovered it. I may have grown careless or I may not have been so very expert, after all. Whatever the reason, one awful afternoon they found me out. I had nothing to say. I had no defence. I just threw myself on their mercy.”

  “Women?” asked Harrison.

  “Yes, all women,” was the reply. “I thought at least they would expect me to get out of Redford. But they didn’t. Do you know, Mr. Harrison, they said they were sorry for me?”

  “That’s fine,” intervened Peary.

  “It was fine,” emphasised Mrs. Packard. “They said it should make no difference to me except that I must promise never to play bridge again.”

  “That was fair,” said Harrison.

  “So I thought, too,” was the reply. “But if they knew what I am going through now they would never have made me sign that paper.”

  “Sign a paper?”

  “Yes, they said that, for my own sake as well as theirs, I ought to write it down. I agreed, too. It didn’t seem much to have to do after they had been so kind. So I wrote down that I admitted I had often cheated at cards and that I solemnly promised I would never play again for money.”

  “And what happened to the paper?” asked Harrison, eagerly.

  “They agreed, and I agreed, too, for that matter,” answered Mrs. Packard, “that it would be wrong for any one of them to keep it. One never knew, it might be brought up against me in some personal argument later. So it was decided to seal it up in an envelope, put my name on the outside, and hand it to our vicar, Mr. Ponsford, to take care of. He was to destroy it if I died.”

  “And Mr. Ponsford has lost it?” asked Harrison.

  “How did you know?” asked Mrs. Packard, a look of fear coming into her eyes.

  “Not difficult to guess, Mrs. Packard. Still, I should like to know exactly how it happened.”

  “You may not believe it, but I had almost forgotten its existence,” she said. “I had given up bridge, and everybody was so kind to me. Then, about a fortnight ago, I heard that there had been burglars at the Vicarage. I thought of the envelope and dashed off to see Mr. Ponsford. He said it was quite all right, the burglars had only taken some small pieces of silver. Then he looked at a drawer in his desk and found it had been forced open and my confession had disappeared. He said the burglars must have thrown it out when looking for valuables. They were not likely to steal odd papers like that. We searched everywhere and found no trace of it. He told me not to worry about it and, as I couldn’t tell him what was inside, I said I wouldn’t. But I was very unhappy about it. I felt it had been stolen for a purpose.”

  “You were right,” said Harrison.

  “But how did they know it was there?” asked Mrs. Packard.

  “I don’t expect they did,” was the reply. “But once they found it they knew of someone who could make full use of it.”

  “You really think that?” said the woman in a frightened voice.

  “I’m afraid I do,” answered Harrison, gravely. “Who told you to go to Mr. Bonnington?”

  “A voice over the telephone.”

  “Just a moment, Mrs. Packard,” said Harrison, ringing his bell. “This is so important that I think my assistant ought to make notes of exactly what you say.”

  “Very well,” was the reply as Henry appeared and, as if by some telepathic effort, settled down quietly with his notebook and pencil.

  “Now, Mrs. Packard.”

  “Two days ago I was rung up on the telephone and a voice asked if I was Martha Packard. I said I was, but the voice asked again, saying it was most important that it should be speaking to Martha Packard herself. I snapped back, and the voice told me not to lose control, for I should need all I had by the time it had finished. I thought it was bad news about my father—”

  “Naturally,” said Harrison.

  “But the voice went on to say that it knew all about me, even to my strange habits at bridge. My heart sank then, but I told the person at the other end not to talk nonsense. ‘Very well,’ said the voice, ‘you had better hang up your receiver.’ Of course I couldn’t do that, and I told it to go on. There was a horrible laugh, and the voice said I was a sensible woman and hoped I should always be one. Then it said it was in touch with a collector of autographs, such a remarkable collector that he had been able to obtain a copy of mine, together with a message of the most confidential character. Then it laughed again.”

  “Pretty cheap,” said Peary.

  “I suppose so,” went on Mrs. Packard. “But the voice said it did not hear me laughing and couldn’t possibly continue if I didn’t see a good joke, too.”

  “Beastly,” commented Peary.

  “I did my best to laugh,�
� said the woman, sadly. “And the voice congratulated me on my exquisite sense of humour. Then it said that the collector might be persuaded to part with my rare specimen on terms to be arranged. I asked how much, but the laugh came again as the voice told me not to be so hasty. A business like this needed time to transact. There were all sorts of formalities. First of all I had to make a will. Any kind of will would do. I could leave everything to the local vicar, if I liked.”

  “What a swine,” said Peary, heatedly.

  “But I must make a will, and I must make it with a firm called Bonnington, Cardew and Bonnington, whom the voice said it absolutely trusted. It had even gone to the immense trouble of making an appointment for me this morning so that I could see Mr. Bonnington as quickly as possible. Better not mention anything to him except the will, the voice said, that will be enough for the moment. And, by the way, it said casually, if you talk to anyone at all, my collector friend has an idea that your father might also be interested in a bargain.”

  The woman stopped and Harrison looked at her. Then he said, “But that isn’t all, Mrs. Packard?”

  “Yes, it is,” was the reply.

  “That isn’t the only reason you went to Bonnington’s,” said Harrison, severely.

  “I have told you about my father,” answered Mrs. Packard, nervously. “I said he had very decided ideas. One of them is about honesty at cards. It would finish me with him.”

  “And what you call ‘the voice’ definitely mentioned your father?” asked Harrison.

  “Definitely.”

  “And you assumed that, somehow or other, it had some knowledge of your father’s ideas?”

  “The voice spoke with absolute assurance,” said Mrs. Packard.

  “Very remarkable,” was Harrison’s comment. “You are certain it belonged to a man?”

  “I never said so.”

  “But did it?”

  “It was a bit high pitched—”

  “The easiest way to disguise the voice, Mrs. Packard,” said Peary.

  Mrs. Packard thought again and then said, “Yes, it must have been a man.”

  “And now,” said Harrison, “I am afraid you must tell me what else the voice said.”

  Mrs. Packard hesitated.

  “If the voice belongs to the person to whom I feel certain it does,” Harrison went on, “it must have said something else. You may not like to repeat it, but I must know, Mrs. Packard.”

  “But it was so ridiculous,” was the reply. “In broad daylight, too.”

  “It was a threat of what might happen to you?” said Harrison. Mrs. Packard’s eyes opened wide.

  “Yes, it was,” she answered. “But said so strangely that I was greatly impressed at the time. Now I have had time to collect myself it sounds so absurd. Very quietly the voice asked me if I had ever woken up in the night as a child with the feeling of something horrible in the room. Had my face felt cold with sweat and my very skin tingled with fear? Had I been certain there was some strange horror near me, with my throat so paralysed and tight with terror that I could not call out? Had I even imagined what such a horror might look like, staring back at me from the darkness all around? It was said in such a way that I wanted to scream, but the voice seemed to hold me tightly to the telephone. I was nearly frightened out of my wits as I listened. Very foolish of me.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” said Harrison. “Go on. This is most important.”

  “The voice said that such childish dreams could come again. It had the power to make them return. One night I might find myself waking up suddenly in the darkness with the self-same horror upon me. Unable to move, unable to cry out, but knowing, feeling and seeing that there was something awful in the room with me. My terror as a child would be nothing to what would come to me out of the darkness. It rested with me whether I would take the risk. And then the voice disappeared. But, Mr. Harrison, absurd as it may sound now, it was utterly convincing while I was listening. As a matter of fact, since then my maid has slept in my room with me.”

  “Very wise,” said Harrison. “And certainly it doesn’t sound absurd.”

  “Thank you for being so sympathetic,” said Mrs. Packard, mopping her forehead, “I thought you would laugh at me.”

  “It’s much too serious to laugh about,” said Harrison. “I suppose you finally made up your mind that the voice must be that of a man when you thought of this strange threat?”

  “I suppose I did,” was the reply. “Yes, I must have done.”

  “I think you are right,” said Harrison.

  “You have an idea who he is?” asked Mrs. Packard, eagerly.

  “An idea, but that is all. The next point is what are you going to do with yourself now?”

  “I shall stay in London tonight, at any rate. I did not tell anyone at home exactly where I was going, but I said that if I was not back to dinner they needn’t expect me. Just to lock up the house carefully and go to bed.”

  “Very well,” said Harrison. “Don’t get into touch with anybody who might be in a position to let Bonnington’s know where you are. You have disobeyed orders, Mrs. Packard, and someone might be disappointed.”

  “You don’t mean—” she asked, with a frightened look.

  “We are up against something extremely unpleasant,” said Harrison solemnly, “and we shall have to take every precaution. Now I realise that there is something I must do today, so you had better get into touch with me tomorrow morning. You are going to friends, I expect?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, you had better stay indoors. We must take no chances.”

  It was obvious that, by now, Martha Packard had complete confidence in Harrison, for she rose without a word and, gathering her belongings together, prepared to depart.

  “Mr. Harrison,” she said, quietly. “I am really sorry for anything I said when I first came here. I was entitled to be a bit suspicious, I think. But now I realise what you are doing for me and I am certain you will make things come out all right.”

  Her face shone with gratitude as Eric opened the door to show her out.

  “A marvellous woman,” said Harrison, as the door closed; “don’t you think so, Peary? As plucky as you make them. Frightened to death at that telephone message, but with the grit not to show it. And now what do you make of it?”

  “Stout work, Harrison,” was Peary’s reply.

  “And you, Henry?” asked Harrison.

  “The devil,” answered Henry.

  “Quite right,” was Harrison’s comment.

  “The same as with Betty Craig and Helen Fennel?” asked Peary.

  “There can be no doubt of it,” said Harrison. “They were all on Bonnington’s list. The coincidence would be too strong with three of them. There is one possibility, however, which we have not recognised. Mrs. Packard’s ‘voice’ said some very queer things on the telephone. All that stuff about bad dreams sounded very convincing, even to us as we sat here in the prosaic old chambers, didn’t it?”

  “It certainly did,” said Peary.

  “Could there be such a thing as hypnotism by telephone?” asked Harrison. “Could this voice reduce these women to a state of nervous prostration merely by suggestion?”

  Peary thought for a moment and then a twinkle came into his eye and he said, “Surely, Harrison, you’re not suggesting that the whack Fennel got on the head was the result of hypnotic suggestion?”

  “That’s the flaw, Peary,” said Harrison. “We must look for something entirely natural. Luckily, with Mrs. Packard, we’re in at the beginning and not at the end, as with the other cases. We can watch for our criminal. He is not likely to leave Mrs. Packard alone, and I see no reason why he should be suspicious of us because she did not keep her appointment today. I think we’ll go back with Mrs. Packard to Redford tomorrow, Henry. I’d like to go today, but there is another trip we must make. We ought to have done it before.”

  “Where, sir?”

  “Hested, Henry,” answered Harrison.


  “I’ll get the car round, sir,” said Henry.

  “Just a moment,” said Harrison, “you might tell Eric to try and keep in touch with his dull friend at Bonnington’s. We mustn’t neglect them altogether.”

  “I should think not,” said Peary, warmly. “They seem to be mixed up much too much in this business.”

  “Bonnington will keep,” said Harrison, definitely. “We have no real evidence yet. The great point is that we are now in front of the criminal instead of behind him. And he doesn’t know it. Eric will do his job all right.”

  “Hested,” mused Peary, as Henry departed. “In Kent, isn’t it? Pretty spot. Quite famous for its caves. Ever been in them?”

  “I’ve only heard of them.”

  “Quite a show place, but they warn you to stick close to the guide. He makes a terribly impressive speech on how easy it is to lose oneself in the unexplored parts.”

  Harrison, who did not appear to be listening, was writing quickly on a piece of paper which he finally handed to Peary.

  “Do you know where Fennel is staying in the South of France?” he asked.

  “Not exactly,” answered Peary. “But I can find out.”

  “I wish you would,” said Harrison; “and get someone to send him this telegram. You can word it how you like to make sure of an answer, but that is the question I want asked. Can you read it?”

  “Only just,” replied Peary, with a surprised look on his face as he came to the last words, “‘Did your assailant smell of methylated spirit?’”

  Chapter XIV

  Bitter Beer

  “You’re very quiet, Henry,” commented Harrison, as they drove down a reasonably unfrequented road in Kent, after negotiating the heavy midday traffic in the Southern borders of London.

  “I have a confession to make, sir,” was the portentous answer.

  “Excellent,” said Harrison. “I have to confess my shortcomings to you, Henry, so often that it will be more than refreshing to exchange our characters.”

  “I might almost say I have been disobeying orders, sir,” answered Henry.

  “That sounds serious,” said his master.

  “Well, it’s more doing something on my own responsibility.”