“I doubt it,” said Hawkes. “He has been too busy, I am sure, adequately to interest himself in the subject; is that not so, Lavorello?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Lavorello; “I have found time in my leisure moments to study it with a certain thoroughness.”
“Theory, theory, all is theory!” A. B. C. scoffed. “I’ll wager for example, that you, Lavorello, couldn’t even tell me the right way to hold those old knucklebones that are in your cabinet.”
“Surely knucklebones are played today pretty much as they ever were?” said the Italian. “The simplest and yet the most difficult game is to toss them one after the other in the air and to endeavour to catch the whole set—three or five—on the back of your hand. It is difficult, but after long practice I found I could do it.”
“So you have joined practice to theory after all,” said A. B. C. “I apologise for my unworthy doubts. Now, Johnstone, I give you one more chance to retrieve your reputation as an archaeologist. Tell me some other game that the ancients played on such occasions as these—and in such prodigious heat as this.”
“That’s easy,” I said. “I was reminded of it yesterday. Mr. Lavorello has the instruments in his cabinet. It is the old game of cottabos.”
“Oh, how do you play that, friend Lavorello?”
“I am afraid,” replied he, laughing, “my knowledge stops short at knucklebones. As you hinted, I am not a universal genius.”
“Now, splendid Johnstone, cover yourself with glory! Tell us how the royal and ancient game of cottabos was played.”
“As far as I remember,” I said, “the players amused themselves with it at drinking parties. The aim of the game was to throw wine from a specially shaped glass in such a way that the liquid travelled through the air without scattering. This was done, according to German scholars, who know everything about everything, by a particular twirling movement imparted to the glass. The object was to sink a little metal saucer floating in a sunken tank by casting the wine into it. Isn’t that right, Mr. Lavorello?”
Just at that moment Dorsi entered, smiling at the sight of us three in our scanty attire.
“What stifling heat!” he said. “You sent for me, Mr. Hawkes?”
“Yes,” said A. B. C. “I wanted you to know that I have discovered the murderer of Professor Ribotta.”
“You have?” we exclaimed, in one breath.
“I thought, sir, the police arrested him yesterday,” said Dorsi.
“No, dear Dorsi, no. The attendant had no hand in the crime.”
“But it was proved—” I began.
“It was proved, my intelligent compatriot, that the attendant entered the building at half-past five for a few minutes. The corpse was not discovered till six, and so it was taken for granted that the man had entered the professor’s room and dropped the poison in the filter.”
“Exactly,” I said.
“But when I saw the corpse,” A. B. C. went on, “I was struck at once by the peculiar red discoloration of the eyes. There is a certain obscure poison of the strychnine class which produces this effect. It also produces almost instantaneous death. As you know the eye is like a camera, with the retina at the back like a sensitive plate, on which the different pictures are continually formed. Now, this poison makes the lens lose its transparency, with the result that no light enters, and the eyeball becomes like a camera with the shutter closed.
“It occurred to me, therefore, that the picture that was cast on the retina at the moment of death might have persisted. Of course, we should not perceive this picture direct. I thought, however, that it might be possible, as it were, to develop the image. The doctors agreed to allow me to try. I will not give you details of the method, for they are not particularly pleasant to hear. We were not successful with the first eye; the work was more difficult than I had suspected. But from the second I got a blurred picture—not a studio photograph, perhaps, but sufficient for our purpose. That picture told me all I wanted to know.”
“What did it show?” I asked.
“Just the clock on the wall, on which, as I took the trouble to observe this afternoon, the rays of the afternoon sun fall. Now that photograph on the dead man’s retina, which was the last thing he saw in this life, showed with clearness that, at the moment of his death, the hands of the clock stood at exactly five o’clock!”
“Five o’clock,” cried Dorsi. “Then the attendant had not yet returned!”
“Before he came back on that unfortunate visit to his room,” said A. B. C. solemnly, “the professor was already dead.”
“But nobody else had entered the laboratory,” I objected.
“And nobody had!” said A. B. C. “That’s what made me so curious about the game of cottabos. You see, a really skilled player, standing in the corridor with the proper kind of glass, might well throw the poison through the barred window into the filter. It would be difficult, I admit, but a practised hand could achieve it. The professor at his desk would not notice the liquid passing across the room.”
A choking sound came from the slab where Lavorello lay. He was gasping as if unable to draw his breath. A. B. C. strode across to him and spoke softly but distinctly in his ear, while Dorsi and I watched with a terrible suspicion in our minds.
“Lavorello,” said Hawkes, sternly, “you understand!”
The young scientist groaned and fought for air. Then a sudden agitation of his body threw him off the slab on to the floor. Dorsi and I rushed to raise him, but A. B. C. waved us back.
“It’s too late,” he said. “I knew his heart was weak—he was foolish to use these hot rooms. The heat of the bath, the strain of his recent crime, and the knowledge that it had been detected have killed him. I must confess that this was my reason for staging this little scene here. We may now be able to avert a very nasty scandal; whereas, if it had come to a public trial—” He shook his head. “Yes, he was a great experimenter, was young Lavorello, but his ambition was too great for him. A true scientist should await results, not force them, even when a stupid, vain old man stands in the way.”
The Contents of a Mare’s Nest
R. Austin Freeman
Richard Austin Freeman (1862–1943) qualified as a doctor and worked in Africa as Assistant Colonial Surgeon until poor health caused him to return to England. He started writing to supplement a modest income from his day job, and after a couple of false starts made his name as the creator of Dr John Evelyn Thorndyke, who (like Holmes) had a real-life inspiration. His professional expertise was modelled on that of Dr Alfred Swaine Taylor, whom Freeman described as “the father of medical jurisprudence.” Freeman also endowed Thorndyke with good looks and an amiable if slightly austere character; he is entirely lacking in the personality quirks that make Sherlock Holmes so memorable.
“The Contents of a Mare’s Nest” was included in The Magic Casket, published in 1927, when Freeman’s fame was at its peak; this was a period when no less an authority than T. S. Eliot, an enthusiast of detective fiction and occasional critic of the genre, ranked Austin Freeman alongside Freeman Wills Crofts as the two leading British detective writers—ahead, in other words, of Agatha Christie and Dorothy L. Sayers. This clever story demonstrates Freeman’s authoritative handling of forensic investigation.
* * *
“IT is very unsatisfactory,” said Mr. Stalker, of the ‘Griffin’ Life Assurance Company, at the close of a consultation on a doubtful claim. “I suppose we shall have to pay up.”
“I am sure you will,” said Thorndyke. “The death was properly certified, the deceased is buried, and you have not a single fact with which to support an application for further inquiry.”
“No,” Stalker agreed. “But I am not satisfied. I don’t believe that doctor really knew what she died from. I wish cremation were more usual.”
“So, I have no doubt, has many a poisoner,” Thorndyke r
emarked dryly.
Stalker laughed, but stuck to his point. “I know you don’t agree,” said he, “but from our point of view it is much more satisfactory to know that the extra precautions have been taken. In a cremation case, you have not to depend on the mere death certificate; you have the cause of death verified by an independent authority, and it is difficult to see how any miscarriage can occur.”
Thorndyke shook his head. “It is a delusion, Stalker. You can’t provide in advance for unknown contingencies. In practice, your special precautions degenerate into mere formalities. If the circumstances of a death appear normal, the independent authority will certify; if they appear abnormal, you won’t get a certificate at all. And if suspicion arises only after the cremation has taken place, it can neither be confirmed nor rebutted.”
“My point is,” said Stalker, “that the searching examination would lead to discovery of a crime before cremation.”
“That is the intention,” Thorndyke admitted. “But no examination, short of an exhaustive post-mortem, would make it safe to destroy a body so that no reconsideration of the cause of death would be possible.’
Stalker smiled as he picked up his hat. “Well,” he said, “to a cobbler there is nothing like leather, and I suppose that to a toxicologist there is nothing like an exhumation,” and with this parting shot he took his leave.
We had not seen the last of him, however. In the course of the same week he looked in to consult us on a fresh matter.
“A rather queer case has turned up,” said he. “I don’t know that we are deeply concerned in it, but we should like to have your opinion as to how we stand. The position is this: Eighteen months ago, a man named Ingle insured with us for fifteen hundred pounds, and he was then accepted as a first-class life. He has recently died—apparently from heart failure, the heart being described as fatty and dilated—and his wife, Sibyl, who is the sole legatee and executrix, has claimed payment. But just as we were making arrangements to pay, a caveat has been entered by a certain Margaret Ingle, who declares that she is the wife of the deceased and claims the estate as next of kin. She states that the alleged wife, Sibyl, is a widow named Huggard who contracted a bigamous marriage with the deceased, knowing that he had a wife living.”
“An interesting situation,” commented Thorndyke, “but, as you say, it doesn’t particularly concern you. It is a matter for the Probate Court.”
“Yes,” agreed Stalker. “But that is not all. Margaret Ingle not only charges the other woman with bigamy; she accuses her of having made away with the deceased.”
“On what grounds?”
“Well, the reasons she gives are rather shadowy. She states that Sibyl’s husband, James Huggard, died under suspicious circumstances—there seems to have been some suspicion that he had been poisoned—and she asserts that Ingle was a healthy, sound man and could not have died from the causes alleged.”
“There is some reason in that,” said Thorndyke, “if he was really a first-class life only eighteen months ago. As to the first husband, Huggard, we should want some particulars: as to whether there was an inquest, what was the alleged cause of death, and what grounds there were for suspecting that he had been poisoned. If there really were any suspicious circumstances, it would be advisable to apply to the Home Office for an order to exhume the body of Ingle and verify the cause of death.”
Stalker smiled somewhat sheepishly. “Unfortunately,” said he, “that is not possible. Ingle was cremated.”
“Ah!” said Thorndyke, “that is, as you say, unfortunate. It clearly increases the suspicion of poisoning, but destroys the means of verifying that suspicion.”
“I should tell you,” said Stalker, “that the cremation was in accordance with the provisions of the will.”
“That is not very material,” replied Thorndyke. “In fact, it rather accentuates the suspicious aspect of the case; for the knowledge that the death of the deceased would be followed by cremation might act as a further inducement to get rid of him by poison. There were two death certificates, of course?”
“Yes. The confirmatory certificate was given by Dr. Halbury, of Wimpole Street. The medical attendant was a Dr. Barber, of Howland Street. The deceased lived in Stock-Orchard Crescent, Holloway.”
“A good distance from Howland Street,” Thorndyke remarked. “Do you know if Halbury made a post-mortem? I don’t suppose he did.”
“No, he didn’t,” replied Stalker.
“Then,” said Thorndyke, “his certificate is worthless. You can’t tell whether a man has died from heart failure by looking at his dead body. He must have just accepted the opinion of the medical attendant. Do I understand that you want me to look into this case?”
“If you will. It is not really our concern whether or not the man was poisoned, though I suppose we should have a claim on the estate of the murderer. But we should like you to investigate the case; though how the deuce you are going to do it I don’t quite see.”
“Neither do I,” said Thorndyke. “However, we must get into touch with the doctors who signed the certificates, and possibly they may be able to clear the whole matter up.”
“Of course,” said I, “there is the other body—that of Huggard—which might be exhumed—unless he was cremated, too.”
“Yes,” agreed Thorndyke; “and for the purposes of the criminal law, evidence of poisoning in that case would be sufficient. But it would hardly help the Griffin Company, which is concerned exclusively with Ingle deceased. Can you let us have a précis of the facts relating to this case, Stalker?”
“I have brought one with me,” was the reply; “a short statement, giving names, addresses, dates, and other particulars. Here it is”; and he handed Thorndyke a sheet of paper bearing a tabulated statement.
When Stalker had gone Thorndyke glanced rapidly through the précis and then looked at his watch. “If we make our way to Wimpole Street at once,” said he, “we ought to catch Halbury. That is obviously the first thing to do. He signed the ‘C’ certificate, and we shall be able to judge from what he tells us whether there is any possibility of foul play. Shall we start now?”
As I assented, he slipped the précis in his pocket and we set forth. At the top of Middle Temple Lane we chartered a taxi by which we were shortly deposited at Dr. Halbury’s door and a few minutes later were ushered into his consulting room, and found him shovelling a pile of letters into the waste-paper basket.
“How d’ye do?” he said briskly, holding out his hand. “I’m up to my eyes in arrears, you see. Just back from my holiday. What can I do for you?”
“We have called,” said Thorndyke, “about a man named Ingle.”
“Ingle—Ingle,” repeated Halbury. “Now, let me see—”
“Stock-Orchard Crescent, Holloway,” Thorndyke explained.
“Oh, yes. I remember him. Well, how is he?”
“He’s dead,” replied Thorndyke.
“Is he really?” exclaimed Halbury. “Now that shows how careful one should be in one’s judgments. I half suspected that fellow of malingering. He was supposed to have a dilated heart, but I couldn’t make out any appreciable dilatation. There was excited, irregular action. That was all. I had a suspicion that he had been dosing himself with trinitrine. Reminded me of the cases of cordite chewing that I used to meet with in South Africa. So he’s dead, after all. Well, it’s queer. Do you know what the exact cause of death was?”
“Failure of a dilated heart is the cause stated on the certificates—the body was cremated; and the ‘C’ Certificate was signed by you.”
“By me!” exclaimed the physician. “Nonsense! It’s a mistake. I signed a certificate for a Friendly Society—Mrs. Ingle brought it here for me to sign—but I didn’t even know he was dead. Besides, I went away for my holiday a few days after I saw the man and only came back yesterday. What makes you think I signed the death certificate?”
> Thorndyke produced Stalker’s précis and handed it to Halbury, who read out his own name and address with a puzzled frown. “This is an extraordinary affair,” said he. “It will have to be looked into.”
“It will, indeed,” assented Thorndyke; “especially as a suspicion of poisoning has been raised.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Halbury. “Then it was trinitrine, you may depend. But I suspected him unjustly. It was somebody else who was dosing him; perhaps that sly-looking baggage of a wife of his. Is anyone in particular suspected?”
“Yes. The accusation, such as it is, is against the wife.”
“H’m. Probably a true bill. But she’s done us. Artful devil. You can’t get much evidence out of an urnful of ashes. Still, somebody has forged my signature. I suppose that is what the hussy wanted that certificate for—to get a specimen of my handwriting. I see the ‘B’ certificate was signed by a man named Meeking. Who’s he? It was Barber who called me in for an opinion.”
“I must find out who he is,” replied Thorndyke. “Possibly Dr. Barber will know. I shall go and call on him now.”
“Yes,” said Dr. Halbury, shaking hands as we rose to depart, “you ought to see Barber. He knows the history of the case, at any rate.”
From Wimpole Street we steered a course for Howland Street, and here we had the good fortune to arrive just as Dr. Barber’s car drew up at the door. Thorndyke introduced himself and me, and then introduced the subject of his visit, but said nothing, at first, about our call on Dr. Halbury.
“Ingle,” repeated Dr. Barber. “Oh, yes, I remember him. And you say he is dead. Well, I’m rather surprised. I didn’t regard his condition as serious.”
“Was his heart dilated?” Thorndyke asked.
“Not appreciably. I found nothing organic; no valvular disease. It was more like a tobacco heart. But it’s odd that Meeking didn’t mention the matter to me—he was my locum, you know. I handed the case over to him when I went on my holiday. And you say he signed the death certificate?”
The Measure of Malice Page 15