Strong Poison

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  “I’m sorry,” said Wimsey to Miss Murchison. “Can you bear it? I fancy this is the final outbreak.”

  The harmonium, harp, sackbut, psaltery, dulcimer and all kinds of music burst out with a blare which nearly burst the ear-drum, the assembly lifted its combined voices, and Miss Murchison, to her amazement, found herself joining—at first self-consciously and then with a fine fervour in that stirring chant—

  “Sweeping through the gates,

  Sweeping through the gates of the New Jerusalem,

  Washed in the Blood of the Lamb.”

  Wimsey, who appeared to find it all very good fun, carolled away happily, without the slightest embarrassment; whether because he was accustomed to the exercise, or merely because he was one of those imperturbably self-satisfied people who cannot conceive of themselves as being out of place in any surroundings, Miss Murchison was unable to determine.

  To her relief, the religious exercise came to an end with the hymn, and the company took their leave, with many hand-shakings all round. The musicians emptied the condensed moisture from their wind-instruments politely into the fireplace and the lady who played the harmonium drew the cover over the keys and came forward to welcome the guests. She was introduced simply as Bella and Miss Murchison concluded, rightly, that she was the wife of Mr. Bill Rumm and the mother of Esmeralda.

  “Well, now,” said Bill, “it’s dry work preachin’ and singin’—you’ll take a cup of tea or coffee, now, won’t you?”

  Wimsey explained that they had just had tea, but begged that the family might proceed with their own meal.

  “It ain’t ’ardly supper-time yet,” said Mrs. Rumm. “P’raps if you was to do your business with the lady and gentleman, Bill, they might feel inclined to take a bite with us later. It’s trotters,” she added, hopefully.

  “It’s very kind of you,” said Miss Murchison, hesitatingly.

  “Trotters want a lot of beating,” said Wimsey, “and since our business may take a little time we’ll accept with pleasure—if you’re sure we’re not putting you out.”

  “Not at all,” said Mrs. Rumm, heartily. “Eight beautiful trotters they is, and with a bit of cheese they’ll go round easy. Come along, ’Meraldy—your Dad’s got business.”

  “Mr. Peter’s going to sing,” said the child, fixing reproachful eyes on Wimsey.

  “Now don’t you worrit his lordship,” rebuked Mrs. Rumm, “I declare I’m ashamed of you.”

  “I’ll sing after supper, Esmeralda,” said Wimsey. “Hop along now like a good girl or I’ll make faces at you. Bill, I’ve brought you a new pupil.”

  “Always ’appy to serve you, sir, knowing as it’s the Lord’s work. Glory be.”

  “Thank you,” said Wimsey, modestly. “It’s a simple matter, Bill, but as the young lady is inexperienced with locks and so on, I’ve brought her along to be coached. You see, Miss Murchison, before Bill here saw the light—”

  “Praise God!” put in Bill.

  “He was the most accomplished burglar and safe-breaker in the three kingdoms. He doesn’t mind my telling you this, because he’s taken his medicine and finished with it all and is now a very honest and excellent locksmith of the ordinary kind.”

  “Thanks be to Him that giveth the victory!”

  “But from time to time, when I need a little help in a righteous cause, Bill gives me the benefit of his great experience.”

  “And oh! what ’appiness it is, miss, to turn them talents which I so wickedly abused to the service of the Lord. His ’oly Name be blessed that bringeth good out of evil.”

  “That’s right,” said Wimsey, with a nod. “Now, Bill, I’ve got my eye on a solicitor’s deed-box, which may or may not contain something which will help me to get an innocent person out of trouble. This young lady can get access to the box, Bill, if you can show her the way inside it.”

  “If?” grunted Bill, with sovereign contempt. “’Course I can! Deed-box, that’s nuffin’. That ain’t no field for a man’s skill. Robbin’ the kids’ money-box, that’s what it is with they trumpery little locks. There ain’t a deed-box in this ’ere city wot I couldn’t open blindfold in boxing-gloves with a stick of boiled macaroni.”

  “I know, Bill; but it isn’t you that’s got to do it. Can you teach the lady how to work it?”

  “Sure I can. What kinder lock is it, lady?”

  “I don’t know,” said Miss Murchison. “An ordinary lock, I think. I mean, it has the usual sort of key—not a Bramah or anything of that kind. Mr.— that is, the solicitor has one set of keys and Mr. Pond has another—just plain keys with barrels and wards.”

  “Ho!” said Bill, “then ’arf an hour will teach you all you want, miss.” He went to a cupboard and brought out half a dozen lock-plates and a bunch of curious, thin wire hooks, strung on a ring like keys.

  “Are those pick-locks?” asked Miss Murchison, curiously.

  “That’s what they are, miss. Ingines of Satan!” He shook his head as he lovingly fingered the bright steel. “Many’s the time sech keys as these ’ave let pore sinners in by the back gate into ’ell.”

  “This time,” said Wimsey, “they’ll let a poor innocent out of prison into the sunshine—if any, in this beastly climate.”

  “Praise Him for His manifold mercies! Well, miss, the fust thing is to understand the construction of a lock. Now jest you look ’ere.”

  He picked up one of the locks and showed how, by holding up the spring, the catch could be thrust back.

  “There ain’t no need of all them fancy wards, you see, miss. The barrel and the spring—that’s all there is to it. Jest you try.”

  Miss Murchison accordingly tried, and forced several locks with an ease that astonished her.

  “Well now, miss, the difficulty is, you see, that when the lock’s in place, you can’t use your eyes, but you ’as your ’earin’ and you ’as the feelin’ in your fingers, giv’ you by Providence (praise His Name!) for that purpose. Now what you ’as to do, miss, is to shet your eyes and see with your fingers, like, w’en you’ve got your spring ’ooked back sufficient ter let the catch go past.”

  “I’m afraid I’m very clumsy,” said Miss Murchison, at the fifth or sixth attempt.

  “Now don’t you fret, miss. Jest take it easy and you’ll find the right way of it come to you all of a sudden, like. Jest feel when it seems to go sweet and use your ’ands independent. Would you like to ’ave a little go at a Combination while you’re ’ere, sir? I’ve got a beauty ’ere. Giv’ to me it was by Sam, you know ’oo I mean. Many’s the time I’ve tried to show ’im the error of ’is ways. ‘No, Bill,’ ’e ses, ‘I ain’t got no use for religion,’ ’e ses, pore lost sheep, ‘but I ain’t got no quarrel with you, Bill,’ ses ’e, ‘and I’d like for ter give you this little sooveneer.’”

  “Bill, Bill,” said Wimsey, shaking a reproachful finger, “I’m afraid this wasn’t honestly come by.”

  “Well, sir, if I knowed the owner I’d ’and it over to ’im with the greatest of pleasure. It’s quite good, you see. Sam put the soup in at the ’inges and it blowed the ’ole front clean off, lock and all. It’s small, but it’s a real beauty—new pattern to me, that is. But I mastered it,” said Bill, with unregenerate pride, “in an hour or two.”

  “It’d have to be a good bit of work to beat you, Bill.” Wimsey set the lock up before him, and began to manipulate the lob, his fingers moving with micrometer delicacy and his ear bent to catch the fall of the tumblers.

  “Lord!” said Bill—this time with no religious intention—“wot a cracksman you’d a-made, if you’d a-given your mind to it—which the Lord in His mercy forbid you should!”

  “Too much work in that life for me, Bill,” said Wimsey. “Dash it! I lost it that time.”

  He turned the knob back and started over again.

  By the time the trotters arrived, Miss Murchison had acquired considerable facility with the more usual types of lock and a greatly enhanced respect for burglary as a prof
ession.

  “And don’t you let yourself be ’urried, miss,” was Bill’s final injunction, “else you’ll leave scratches on the lock and do yourself no credit. Lovely bit of work, that, ain’t it, Lord Peter, sir?”

  “Beyond me, I’m afraid,” said Wimsey, with a laugh.

  “Practice,” said Bill, “that’s all it is. If you’d a-started early enough you’d a-been a beautiful workman.” He sighed. “There ain’t many of ’em now-a-days—glory be!—that can do a real artistic job. It fair goes to my ’eart to see a elegant bit o’ stuff like that blowed all to bits with gelignite. Wot’s gelignite? Any fool can ’andle it as doesn’t mind makin’ a blinkin’ great row. Brutal, I calls it.”

  “Now, don’t you get ’ankerin’ back after them things, Bill,” said Mrs. Rumm, reprovingly. “Come along, do, now and eat yer supper. Ef anybody’s goin’ ter do sech a wicked thing as breakin’ safes, wot do it matter whether it’s done artistic or inartistic?”

  “Ain’t that jest like a woman?—beggin’ your pardon, miss.”

  “Well, you know it’s true,” said Mrs. Rumm.

  “I know those trotters look very artistic,” said Wimsey, “and that’s quite enough for me.”

  The trotters having been eaten, and “Nazareth” duly sung, to the great admiration of the Rumm family, the evening closed pleasantly with the performance of a hymn, and Miss Murchison found herself walking up the Whitechapel Road, with a bunch of picklocks in her pocket and some surprising items of knowledge in her mind.

  “You make some very amusing acquaintances, Lord Peter.”

  “Yes—rather a jape, isn’t it? But Blindfold Bill is one of the best. I found him on my premises one night and struck up a sort of an alliance with him. Took lessons from him and all that. He was a bit shy at first, but he got converted by another friend of mine—it’s a long story—and the long and short of it was, he got hold of this locksmith business, and is doing very well at it. Do you feel quite competent about locks now?”

  “I think so. What am I to look for when I get the box open?”

  “Well,” said Wimsey, “the point is this. Mr. Urquhart showed me what purported to be the draft of a will made five years ago by Mrs. Wrayburn. I’ve written down the gist of it on a bit of paper for you. Here it is. Now the snag about it is that that draft was typed on a machine which, as you tell me, was bought new from the makers only three years ago.”

  “Do you mean that’s what he was typing that evening he stayed late at the office?”

  “It looks like it. Now, why? If he had the original draft, why not show me that? Actually, there was no need for him to show it to me at all, unless it was to mislead me about something. Then, though he said he had the thing at home, and must have known he had it there, he pretended to search for it in Mrs. Wrayburn’s box. Again, why? To make me think that it was already in existence when I called. The conclusion I drew is that, if there is a will, it’s not along the lines of the one he showed me.”

  “It looks rather like that, certainly.”

  “What I want you to look for is the real will—either the original or the copy ought to be there. Don’t take it away, but try to memorise the chief points in it, especially the names of the chief legatee or legatees and of the residuary legatee. Remember that the residuary legatee gets everything which isn’t specifically left to somebody else, or anything which falls in by a legatee’s dying before the testatrix. I specially want know whether anything was left to Philip Boyes or if any mention of the Boyes family is made in the will. Failing a will there might be some other interesting document, such as a secret trust, instructing the executor to dispose of the money in some special way. In short, I want particulars of any document which may seem to be of interest. Don’t waste too much time making notes. Carry the provisions in your head if you can and note them down privately when you get away from the office. And be sure you don’t leave those skeleton keys about for people to find.”

  Miss Murchison promised to observe these instructions, and, a taxi coming up at the moment, Wimsey put her into it and sped her to her destination.

  Chapter XIV

  MR. NORMAN URQUHART glanced at the clock, which stood at 4.15, and called through the open door:

  “Are those affidavits nearly ready, Miss Murchison?”

  “I am just on the last page, Mr. Urquhart.”

  “Bring them in as soon as you’ve finished. They ought to go round to Hanson’s tonight.”

  “Yes, Mr. Urquhart.” Miss Murchison galloped noisily over the keys, slamming the shift-lever over with unnecessary violence and causing Mr. Pond once more to regret the intrusion of female clerks. She completed her page, ornamented the foot of it with a rattling row of fancy lines and dots, threw over the release, spun the roller, twitching the foolscap sheets from under it in vicious haste, flung the carbons into the basket, shuffled the copies into order, slapped them vigorously on all four edges to bring them into symmetry, and bounced with them into the inner office.

  “I haven’t had time to read them through,” she announced.

  “Very well,” said Mr. Urquhart.

  Miss Murchison retired, shutting the door after her. She gathered her belongings together, took out a hand-mirror and unashamedly powdered her rather large nose, stuffed a handful of odds-and-ends into a bulging hand-bag, pushed some papers under her typewriter cover ready for the next day, jerked her hat from the peg and crammed it on her head, tucking wisps of hair underneath it with vigorous and impatient fingers.

  Mr. Urquhart’s bell rang—twice.

  “Oh, bother!” said Miss Murchison with heightened colour.

  She snatched the hat off again, and answered the summons.

  “Miss Murchison,” said Mr. Urquhart, with an expression of considerable annoyance, “do you know that you have left out a whole paragraph on the first page of this?”

  Miss Murchison flushed still more deeply.

  “Oh, have I? I’m very sorry.”

  Mr. Urquhart held up a document resembling in bulk that famous one of which it was said that there was not truth enough in the world to fill so long an affidavit.

  “It is very annoying,” he said. “It is the longest and most important of the three, and is urgently required first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “I can’t think how I could have made such a silly mistake,” muttered Mss Murchison. “I will stay on this evening and re-type it.”

  “I’m afraid you will have to. It is unfortunate, as I shall not be able to look through myself, but there is nothing else to be done. Please check it carefully this time, and see that Hanson’s have it before ten o’clock tomorrow.”

  “Yes, Mr. Urquhart. I will be extremely careful. I am very sorry indeed. I will make sure that it is quite correct and take it round myself.”

  “Very well, that will do,” said Mr. Urquhart. “Don’t let it happen again.”

  Miss Murchison picked up the papers and came out, looking flustered. She dragged the cover off the typewriter with much sound and fury, jerked out the desk drawers till they slammed against the drawer-stops, shook the top-sheet, carbons and flimsies together as a terrier shakes a rat, and attacked the machine tempestuously.

  Mr. Pond, who had just locked his desk, and was winding a silk scarf about his throat, looked at her in mild astonishment.

  “Have you some more typing to do tonight, Miss Murchison?”

  “Got to do the whole bally thing again,” said Miss Murchison. “Left out a paragraph on page one—it would be page one, of course—and he wants the tripe round at Hanson’s by 10 o’clock.”

  Mr. Pond groaned slightly and shook his head.

  “Those machines make you careless,” he reproved her. “In the old days, clerks thought twice about making foolish mistakes, when it meant copying the whole document out again by hand.”

  “Glad I didn’t live then,” said Miss Murchison, shortly. “One might as well have been a galley-slave.”

  “And we didn’t knock o
ff at half-past four, either,” said Mr. Pond. “We worked in those days.”

  “You may have worked longer,” said Miss Murchison, “but you didn’t get through as much in the time.”

  “We worked accurately and neatly,” said Mr. Pond, with emphasis, as Miss Murchison irritably disentangled two keys which had jammed together under her hasty touch.

  Mr. Urquhart’s door opened and the retort on the typist’s lips was silenced. He said good-night and went out. Mr. Pond followed him.

  “I suppose you will have finished before the cleaner goes, Miss Murchison,” he said. “If not, please remember to extinguish the light and to hand the key to Mrs. Hodges in the basement.”

  “Yes, Mr. Pond. Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight.”

  His steps pattered through the entrance, sounded again loudly as he passed the window, and died away in the direction of Brownlow Street. Miss Murchison continued typing till she calculated that he was safely on the tube at Chancery Lane. Then she rose, with a quick glance round her and approached a higher tier of shelves, stacked with black deed-boxes, each of which bore the name of a client in bold white letters.