“She had a long coat on, sir—rough, yellow stuff.”
“Here you are. Strands of yellow woollen fabric. Thus confirmin’ our hypothesis. Young Mrs. Colson fell down the steps on to the toad, and was stunned by the fall. Then dragged into the pool to drown while unconscious. Other indications confirm that. See the streaks in the moss on the tiles? Something was pulled across lately. Also the toad made further contacts. Somebody scraped a shoe on this fragment. You see? Black leather—fine leather. Probably kid. However. Not providin’ any explanation of the first act—how she fell.”
“Taking it altogether, I should say she was pushed,” said Underwood.
“Yes. Quite possible. Perhaps probable. But further investigation required.” Slowly he climbed the steps, again looking closely at each and the iron railings on either side. Just below the top he stood still. He pointed a little finger at the railings. “What about that, inspector?”
To the base of one rail a piece of string was tied—thin, green string. The loose end of it had been blown into the shrubs below. The inspector gathered it up. “Don’t seem to have been broken. But there’s a bit of dirt at the end. Tied to the other railing, and jerked off, I should say—the knot pulled loose—when the strain came. That’s it, a trip line to bring the young woman down.”
“Yes. That is indicated,” Reggie drawled. “Tied with a granny-knot. Well, well.” He gazed at the inspector and Underwood, and his round face was without expression. “Proceedin’ on these facts, you’d better occupy the attention of the ladies Colson—telling ’em nothing—while Underwood goes through the house lookin’ for green string and a black kid-shoe with a scratch on it. Is the man Colson here? No? Gone back to his widower’s home? You might ask him to come and have another heart-to-heart talk. I should be ready for him this afternoon. I must go and have a look at the dead woman now. Oh—Underwood—drop in next door and ask our Miss Pearse where the first Colson had his stroke, will you? Sort of question to keep her interested—which might be useful. I was wonderin’ if he had it on the tiles. And another little question—ask Cook if Minnie Colson eats saffron herself. Good-bye.”
In the squalid mortuary of Langdon he examined the body of young Mrs. Colson. She was not beautiful in death. Her face stared at him, swollen and pale, the pencilling about her blood-shot eyes smeared on the pouches below, the grease-paint on her lips lurid and grotesque across the bloated pallor…
It was some hours before he came back to the Colson house, and, in that dingy room off the hall, told Underwood his results. “Cause of death, drowning. Several bruises on head and body before death. Tear in the coat. Provisional hypothesis thus confirmed. Also, she’d had some drink shortly before death. Probably cocktails. She drank a good deal. Didn’t live a very nice life. That’s the medical evidence. What have you got? Identified our criminal of determination?”
“I rather think I’ve got a case, sir. I’ve found a ball of green string. In a cupboard in the room Minnie Colson uses for a sort of study. You never saw such a muck of a place. It’s a tumbled muddle of odds and ends—needlework, woolwork, church papers, girls’ club stuff, letters, and accounts all over the place. In the cupboard she keeps gardening things—gloves and basket and clippers, and what not—and there was this ball of green string. And what else do you think I found?”
“Oh, weed-killer. Arsenical weed-killer.”
“That’s right,” Underwood nodded. “It does look like a case now, don’t it?”
“Yes. If we could prove Mills got his arsenic here. Which we can’t. However. What about the shoes?”
“Minnie Colson’s shoes, put out to clean last night, are black kid, and they’re both scratched. Look here.”
“Yes. As you say,” Reggie murmured. “And what does the cook say? Does Minnie like saffron?”
“Never eats any cake, sir. Being bilious, I’m told. Only makes cakes and pastry for other people. So there you are.”
“Yes. These defects of eatin’ power are a factor. Dominatin’ factor. If Mrs. Colson junior had only eaten normally, quite a different case. However. What about our Miss Pearse? Could she tell you where grandfather Colson had his stroke?”
“She could, sir. She said he was found out there on the tiles, below the terrace.” Underwood looked at Reggie, rather like a dog, admiration and a certain awe in his brown eyes. “That was a facer to me. I don’t know how you got to it.”
“Workin’ on a series,” Reggie mumbled. “Repetitions probable. Grandfather found unconscious—like Mills—possibly after knock-out dose of arsenic—down there under the terrace—like young Mrs. Colson—possibly tripped on the steps. That was in 1914. Eighteen years ago. After the children grew up. As Miss Pearse was careful to indicate. By the way, has our Miss Pearse been in to condole with the bereaved?”
“Yes, sir. When I saw her, she said she must come in and see old Mrs. Colson, and she came and stayed some time.”
“Very proper. She is proper,” Reggie purred. “Well, well. At the time of grandfather’s death, I should say Minnie was twenty-five or so. And her brother was—what?”
“Oh, about the same. He’s over forty, I’ll swear. I phoned for him, like you said, and he’s come. He’s with his mother.” Reggie nodded, and sat silent in meditation which seemed gratifying. “Well—I suppose the next thing is to put Miss Minnie through it?” Underwood suggested.
Reggie gazed at him solemnly. “Is she with her mother, too?”
“No. Miss Pearse sent her away to lie down. She’s in her own room.”
“That’s all right. Minnie can wait. I’ll talk to mamma. Go and tell the son to clear out, and stand by.”
Old Mrs. Colson’s bedroom was large and furnished with mid-Victorian state. Through its close-curtained windows only dim light could enter, but that did not conceal the faded age of all its colours.
She lay on a couch, in a corner, covered with an eiderdown quilt which had been pink before it turned grey. Reggie saw in her no likeness to her lank, ungainly daughter. The old face was tired and sorrowful, but composed to calm endurance. Above the quilt, her dress showed an ample bosom. Everything about her was in a pretty order—the abundance of grey hair, the little, plump, white hands, the lace at her neck. But her dark, deep-set eyes gazed at the two men as if they were not there.
Underwood began with something apologetic about necessary enquiries. “I understand,” she said gently. “Pray forgive me, I am not as young as I was. Ask me what you wish. I will tell you anything I can.”
“Needn’t ask you very much,” Reggie murmured. “Did your son know his wife was coming here last night?”
“Dear me, no. Nobody knew. Nobody thought of the poor child coming till Minnie suggested telephoning to ask her to sit with me. It was just Minnie’s idea.”
“I see.” Reggie nodded. “And how was the lady when she came?”
“Quite well. Just as usual.”
“Oh, yes. Did it occur to you she’d been drinking?”
Mrs. Colson raised herself a little. “I never thought of such a thing. It is cruel to suggest it.”
“You think so? She did drink, didn’t she?”
“That is an amazing thing to say.”
“Really? Never thought of it before? Well, well. Was her husband on good terms with her?”
“Perfectly. Alfred was devoted to her. I don’t know what can have put this into your head.”
“No? Well, well. Do you know where Alfred was last night?”
“He was in Town. He was dining at his club.”
“Oh, he’d told you that. Yes. And when did his wife leave you?”
“I am not sure of the time. Minnie had only just gone. If she had gone. She always takes so long to get ready.”
“Mrs. Alfred didn’t sit with you long, then?”
“She wanted to go as soon as it grew dark. She never liked the dark, poor t
hing.”
“Left at dusk,” Reggie repeated. “Half past seven or eight. And Alfred dined at his club. Well, well.” He gave Underwood a long, impressive stare. “That’s all, Mrs. Colson. Thank you.”
He led the way back to the little morning-room, and there turned on the puzzled Underwood. “My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap! Get on. Bring in Alfred, the son.”
Alfred Colson was brought. He also had no likeness to the lean, long Minnie. He took after his mother: a well-made man, rather solid, with neat, small hands and feet, and a regular oval of a face almost as feminine as hers. But he was not so well preserved. His complexion was mottled; he had a loose double chin; his eyes and his hands were unsteady.
“I want to know where you were when your grandfather died,” Reggie snapped.
Alfred’s mouth came open. “I don’t remember. How should I? It’s twenty years ago.”
“You were living here?”
“Of course I was. What’s all this about?”
“He fell where your wife fell. How much money did he leave?”
“I don’t know.” Alfred stared sullen fear. “He left everything to my father.”
“You must know. How much?”
“About seventy thousand, I think.”
“And when your father died—gastric influenza, that was called—how much did he leave?”
“He left everything to mother.”
“Did he? And much less than grandfather?”
“It was nearly fifty thousand,” Alfred said loudly.
“Good deal less. Someone had spent some money. Not on this house, what?”
“There was the war in between. Everything was down.”
“And when your mother dies, who does the money go to?”
“Under father’s will, it’s divided between Minnie and me.” Alfred licked his lips. “What are you asking all this for?”
“Clearin’ up the case. Where were you when your wife died?”
“I was dining at the club.”
“Sure?” Reggie drawled.
“What do you mean? I don’t know when she died exactly. I dined at the club.”
“Time?”
“I don’t know. About eight, I suppose. I was in the club all the evening.”
“Any evidence?”
“What do you mean? Fellows must have seen me.”
“Can you think of any fellows?”
Alfred’s hands fidgeted. “I didn’t notice. Why should I?”
“Your affair. When did you arrange to dine at the club last night?”
“I often do.”
“Oh, yes. Told your wife you would?”
Alfred took time to think what he should answer, and decided to say, “Yes.”
“Why?” Reggie drawled. “Why leave your wife to dine alone?”
“Nothing unusual,” Alfred snarled.
“Wasn’t it? Not on good terms with her. What was the trouble? Drink? Money?”
“There wasn’t any trouble.”
“Oh. Somebody had been spending the family money, though. How much have you and your wife drawn from the estate?”
“I can’t tell you. What is it to do with you?”
“Quite a lot. And with you. But you can’t tell me. Better think it over. Go on.” Reggie waved him away, and, after a flinching look of enquiry and fear, he went in a hurry.
Reggie sat erect and alert.
“I say, you handled him rough, sir,” said Underwood uneasily. “I—”
Reggie put up a finger and he stopped, and, in silence, they listened. Over Reggie’s face came a slow benign smile. “There you are,” he whispered. “Upstairs. Into mother’s room. That’s the reaction. To talk over my cruel suspicions.” He slid to the door, and, without a sound, opened it and sat down again…
After a while they heard more movement overhead: a heavy-footed bustle. “Sister Minnie,” Reggie murmured. A door opened and shut on a high-voiced question. “Sister Minnie gone to ask how things are goin’. The more they are together the happier they’ll be.”
“What’s the idea, sir?” Underwood whispered.
“Next reaction. Shut up.”
It was some time before the bedroom door sounded again. Then came a hurry of heavy feet on the stairs and away down the hall.
“Gone to the kitchen,” Underwood indicated.
“Yes. That is indicated. Come on. Quiet.”
They made their way to the kitchen door. That was open, but they saw only the cook and the daily maid sitting over their tea. “Where is Miss Colson?” Reggie said softly.
The cook jumped. “Miss Minnie’s in the scullery, sir. Warming a glass of milk for the mistress.”
“Oh, all right.” Reggie drew back behind Underwood, and whispered in his ear: “Take her away for a minute. Ask how mother is. Something like that. Three or four minutes.” He slipped out of sight round a corner of the hall.
Underwood went into the scullery. He saw Minnie Colson’s untidy head bent over a saucepan on the gas-stove. At the sound of the door she started back, looking, it remains in his memory, like a frightened horse. When he said he wanted to speak to her, she made stammering difficulties. Oh, but she couldn’t; the milk would boil over, and mother hadn’t had anything all day. Underwood turned off the gas. “Come along. It’s your mother I want to ask you about.” He took her off.
Then Reggie strolled into the kitchen. “I can get out to the garden through the scullery, can’t I?” He smiled at the cook. “Door opens under the terrace? Thanks.”
Into the scullery he went, and closed the door behind him. He sniffed at the milk in the saucepan, looked round, opened the larder, and in it found a bottle of milk three parts empty, another sealed. The sealed bottle he took, and, returning to the scullery, poured a portion of it into a clean saucepan. The saucepan with the milk which Minnie had prepared he set down outside in the garden. Under his own saucepan he lit the gas, and stood by it till he heard Minnie’s heavy steps returning. Then he put out the gas and slid away through the garden door, to stop, out of sight, beyond the window.
He watched Minnie take the saucepan with hurried bungling hands, taste the milk, pour it into a jug. She spilt some; she exclaimed hysterically, wiped up the mess, and thudded away.
Then he came in, and followed her quickly to meet Underwood in the hall. “Up you go,” he muttered. “After her. See her give it to her mother. Then call her away. Ask her anything you dam’ like. Don’t let her make any more food for mother, that’s all. Anything mother wants, the cook must make. Stay here till further notice. See?”
“What, you mean that milk—?” Underwood gasped.
“The milk she’s taken is all right. I’ve got the milk she cooked. Get on, get on.”
Underwood ran upstairs, and, as he went, Alfred came down, gave a sidelong look of fear and hate at Reggie, and left the house. Reggie followed, but only to take a rug from his car. When he returned to the car, the saucepan and the bottle of milk were hidden under the rug. He drove away to his laboratory…
It was some hours later; he was not in the laboratory, but in the room beyond—in an easy chair, on the small of his back—when the telephone rang.
The voice of Underwood came to him, emotional and aggrieved: “I’ve been ringing up your house, sir. There’s the very devil of a business here. The old lady’s been taken bad. Sick and convulsions, and I don’t know what. She can’t hardly speak now, but she says Minnie poisoned her. Her doctor says it looks like arsenic poisoning.”
“Oh, yes. Yes. I should think he’s right,” Reggie drawled. “I’ll come and see.”
“Did you expect it?” Underwood’s voice rose.
“One of the possibilities. Yes,” Reggie murmured, “probable possibility,” and he rang off.
Again he came into Mrs. Colson’s room. As he enter
ed, his head jerked back and his nostrils dilated. There was a faint smell of garlic. A doctor and a nurse were by the bed, and from it came a groaning sound. But he went first to the gas-stove, and looked down into it. Though it was not alight, some charred matter lay on the hearth, and the upper part of the cream fire-brick bore a brown stain. He gave that a little smile of satisfaction.
Then he moved slowly to the bedside. The old face was now of a bluish pallor and drawn with pain, and beads of sweat stood upon it. The eyes were sunken—looked fear, looked at no one. The body was contorted in slow faint spasms…
He beckoned the doctor out, and took him to the dingy little room downstairs where Underwood waited, nervous and impatient. He sank into a chair and sighed. “Well, well. Quite clear, what?” He surveyed the doctor with placid eyes. “Acute poisonin’. As you said. Irritant poison. No doubt arsenic. You noticed the garlic smell? Also brown sublimation on the gas-stove? Arsenic has been burnt there. Resolute bit of poisonin’. I should say you won’t save her.”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Fortune.” The doctor shook a melancholy head. “She’s old; she has no power of resistance. It’s a dreadful tragedy.”
“Yes. Tragic elements,” Reggie murmured.
“Her own daughter!” the doctor exclaimed with horror.
“Oh, no. No.” Reggie smiled. “Not her daughter. Herself.”
The doctor drew back. “But she has said it was her daughter, sir. The inspector, here, has it written down. He—”
“That’s right, Mr. Fortune,” Underwood broke in. “It’s like this. First I knew of her being taken bad—there was a scream, and I ran up, and she was in a ghastly mess; and she said, ‘Minnie, Minnie,’ and cried, and then afterwards—she couldn’t speak properly—she wrote down—look—”
He produced a paper, and Reggie saw written, in a shaken hand, “Milk Minnie gave me. Tasted strange. She poisoned me.”
“Here is some of the milk left, sir.” The doctor pointed to a jug and a dirty glass on the table. “You have only to make a test.”
The Measure of Malice Page 23