Strong Poison

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  “Really!” said Miss Climpson.

  “She told us her story one night. So romantic. She was thrown to the lions because she was a Christian and refused to have anything to do with Nero.”

  “How very interesting.”

  “Yes, isn’t it? But she doesn’t speak very good English, and it’s sometimes rather hard to understand her. And she sometimes lets the tiresome ones in. Pongo was very quick at getting rid of George Washington. You will come again, Won’t you? Tomorrow night?”

  “Certainly, if you like.”

  “Yes, please do. And next time you must ask for a message for yourself.”

  “I will indeed,” said Miss Climpson. “It has all been such a revelation—quite wonderful . I never dreamed that I had such a gift.”

  And that was true, also.

  Chapter XVIII

  IT was, of course, useless for Miss Climpson to try to conceal from the boarding-house ladies where she had been and what she had been doing. Her return at midnight in a taxi had already aroused the liveliest curiosity, and she told the truth to avoid being accused of worse dissipations.

  “My dear Miss Climpson,” said Mrs. Pegler, “you will not, I trust, think me interfering, but I must caution you against having anything to do with Mrs. Craig or her friends. I have no doubt Miss Booth is an excellent woman, but I do not like the company she keeps. Nor do I approve of spiritualism. It is a prying into matters which we are not intended to know about, and may lead to very undesirable results. If you were a married woman, I could explain myself more clearly, but you may take it from me that these indulgences may have serious effects upon the character in more ways than one.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Pegler,” said Miss Etheredge, “I don’t think you should say that. One of the most beautiful characters I know—a woman whom it is a privilege to call one’s friend—is a spiritualist, and she is a real saint in her life and influence.”

  “Very likely, Miss Etheredge,” replied Mrs. Pegler, drawing her stout figure to its most impressive uprightness, “but that is not the point. I do not say that a spiritualist may not live a good life, but I do say that the majority of them are most unsatisfactory people, and far from truthful.”

  “I have happened to meet with a number of so-called mediums in the course of my life,” agreed Miss Tweall, acidly, “and all of them, without any exception, were people I would not have trusted any further than I could see them—if as far.”

  “That is very true of a great many of them,” said Miss Climpson, “and I am sure nobody could have better opportunities of judging than myself . But I think and hope that some of them are at least sincere if mistaken in their claims. What do you think, Mrs. Liffey?” she added, turning to the proprietress of the establishment.

  “We-ll,” said Mrs. Liffey—obliged, in her official capacity, to agree as far as possible with all parties. “I must say, from what I have read, and that is not a great deal, for I have little time for reading—still, I think there is a certain amount of evidence to show that, in certain cases and under strictly safeguarded conditions, there is possibly some foundation of truth beneath the spiritualists’ claims. Not that I should care to have anything to do with it personally; as Mrs. Pegler says, I do not as a rule care very much for the sort of people who go in for it, though doubtless there are many exceptions. I think perhaps that the subject should be left to properly qualified investigators.”

  “There I agree with you,” said Mrs. Pegler. “No words can express the disgust I feel at the intrusion of women like this Mrs. Craig into realms that should be sacred to us all. Imagine, Miss Climpson, that that woman—whom I do not know and have no intention of knowing—actually had the impertinence once to write to me and say that she had received a message at one of her séances, as she calls them, purporting to come from my dear husband. I cannot tell you what I felt. To have the General’s name actually brought up, in public, in connection with such wicked nonsense! And of course it was the purest invention, for the General was the last man to have anything to do with goings-on. ‘Pernicious poppycock,’ he used to call it in his bluff military way. And when it came to telling me, his widow, that he had come to Mrs. Craig’s house and played the accordion and asked for special prayers to deliver him from a place of punishment, I could only look on it as a calculated insult. The General was a regular Church-goer and entirely opposed to prayers for the dead or anything popish; and as to being in any undesirable place, he was the best of men, even if he was a little abrupt at times. As for accordions, I hope, wherever he is, he has something better to do with his time.”

  “A most shameful business,” said Miss Tweall.

  “Who is this Mrs. Craig?” asked Miss Climpson.

  “Nobody knows,” said Mrs. Pegler, ominously.

  “She is said to be a doctor’s widow,” said Mrs. Liffey.

  “It’s my opinion,” said Miss Tweall, “that she is no better than she should be.”

  “A woman of her age,” said Mrs. Pegler, “with henna’d hair and earrings a foot long—”

  “And going about in those extraordinary clothes,” said Miss Tweall.

  “And having such very odd people to stay with her,” said Mrs. Pegler. “You remember that black man, Mrs. Liffey, who wore a green turban and used to say his prayers in the front garden till the police interfered.”

  “What I should like to know,” said Miss Tweall, “is, where she gets her money from.”

  “If you ask me, my dear, the woman’s on the make. Heaven knows what she persuades people to do in these spiritualistic meetings.”

  “But what brought her to Windle?” asked Miss Climpson. “I should have thought London, or some big town, would have been a better place for her if she is the kind of person you describe.”

  “I shouldn’t be surprised if she was in hiding,” said Miss Tweall, darkly. “There is such a thing as making a place too hot to hold you.”

  “Without altogether subscribing to your wholesale condemnation,” said Miss Climpson, “I must agree that psychical research can be very dangerous indeed in the wrong hands , and from what Miss Booth tells me, I do doubt very much whether Mrs. Craig is a suitable guide for the inexperienced. Indeed, I quite felt it my duty to put Miss Booth on her guard, and that is what I am endeavouring to do. But, as you know, one has to do that kind of thing very tactfully—otherwise one may merely, so to speak, put the person’s back up. The first step is to gain her confidence , and then, little by little, one may be able to induce a more wholesome frame of mind.”

  “That’s so true,” said Miss Etheredge, eagerly, her pale blue eyes lighting with something that was almost animation. “I very nearly fell under the influence of a dreadful, fraudulent person myself, till my dear friend showed me a better way.”

  “Maybe,” said Mrs. Pegler, “but in my opinion the whole thing is best left alone.”

  Undeterred by this excellent advice, Miss Climpson kept her appointment. After a spirited exhibition of table-rocking, Pongo consented to communicate by means of the Ouija board, though at first he was rather awkward with it. He attributed this, however, to the fact that he had never learned to write while on earth. Asked who he was, he explained that he was an Italian acrobat of the Renaissance period, and that his full name was Pongocelli. He had lived a sadly irregular life, but had redeemed himself by heroically refusing to abandon a sick child during the time of the Great Plague in Florence. He had caught the plague and died of it, and was now working out the period of probation for his sins by serving as guide and interpreter to other spirits. It was a touching story, and Miss Climpson was rather proud of it.

  George Washington was rather intrusive, and the séance also suffered from a number of mysterious interruptions from what Pongo described as a “jealous influence.” Nevertheless, ‘Harry’ reappeared and delivered some consolatory messages, and there were further communications from Mabel Herridge, who gave a vivid description of her life in India. On the whole, and taking the difficulties into acco
unt, a successful evening.

  On Sunday there was no séance , owing to the revolt of the medium’s conscience. Miss Climpson felt that she could not, really could not, bring herself to do it. She went to church instead, and listened to the Christmas message with a distracted mind.

  On Monday, however, the two enquirers again took their seats about the bamboo table, and the following is the report of the séance , as noted down by Miss Booth.

  7.30 p.m.

  On this occasion proceedings were begun at once with the Ouija board; after a few minutes, a loud succession of raps announced the presence of a control.

  Question: Good-evening. Who is that?

  Answer: Pongo here. Good-evening! Heaven bless you.

  Q. We are very glad to have you with us, Pongo.

  A. Good—very good. Here we are again!

  Q. Is that you, Harry?

  A. Yes, only to give my love. Such a crowd.

  Q. The more the better. We are glad to meet all our friends. What can we do for you?

  A, Attend. Obey the spirits.

  Q. We will do all we can, if you will tell us what to do.

  A. Boil your heads!

  Q. Go away, George, we don’t want you.

  A. Get off the line, silly.

  Q. Pongo, can’t you send him away?

  (Here the pencil drew the sketch of an ugly face.)

  Q. Is that your portrait?

  A. That’s me. G. W. Ha, ha!

  (The pencil zig-zagged violently and drove the board right over the edge of the table. When it was replaced it started to write in the hand we associate with Pongo.)

  A. I have sent him away. Very noisy tonight. F. jealous and sends him to disturb us. Never mind. Pongo more powerful.

  Q. Who do you say is jealous?

  A. Never mind. Bad person. Maladetta .

  Q. Is Harry still there?

  A. No. Other business. There is a spirit here who wishes your help.

  Q. Who is it?

  A. Very hard. Wait.

  (The pencil made a series of wide loops.)

  g. What letter is that?

  A. Silly! don’t be impatient. There is difficulty. I will try again.

  (The pencil scribbled for a few minutes and then wrote a large C.)

  Q. We have got the Letter C. Is that right?

  A. C-C-C

  Q. We have got C.

  A. C-R-E

  (Here there was another violent interruption.)

  A. (in Pongo’s writing) She is trying, but there is much opposition. Think helpful thoughts.

  Q. Would you like us to sing a hymn?

  A. (Pongo again, very angry) Stupid! Be quiet! (Here the writing changed again) M-O

  Q. Is that part of the same word?

  A. R-N-A.

  Q. Do you mean Cremorna?

  A. (in the new writing) Cremorna, Cremorna. Through! Glad, glad, glad!

  At this point, Miss Booth turned to Miss Climpson and said in a puzzled voice:

  “This is very strange. Cremorna was Mrs. Wrayburn’s stage name. I do hope—surely she can’t have passed away suddenly. She was perfectly comfortable when I left her. Had I better go and see?”

  “Perhaps it’s another Cremorna?” suggested Miss Climpson.

  “But it’s such an unusual name.”

  “Why not ask who it is?”

  Q. Cremorna—what is your second name?

  A. (The pencil writing very fast) Rosegarden—easier now.

  Q. I don’t understand you.

  A. Rose—Rose—Rose—Silly!

  Q. Oh!—(My dear, she’s mixing up the two names)—Do you mean Cremorna Garden?

  A. Yes.

  Q. Rosanna Wrayburn?

  A. Yes.

  Q. Have you passed over?

  A. Not yet. In exile.

  Q. Are you still in the body?

  A. Neither in the body nor out of the body. Waiting. (Pongo interposing) When what you call the mind is departed, the spirit waits in exile for the Great Change. Why can’t you understand? Make haste. Great difficulties.

  Q. We are so sorry. Are you in trouble about something?

  A. Great trouble.

  Q. I hope it isn’t anything in Dr. Brown’s treatment, or mine—

  A. (Pongo) Do not be so foolish. (Cremorna) My will.

  Q. Do you want to alter your will?

  A. No.

  Miss Climpson . That is fortunate, because I don’t think it would be legal. What do you want us to do about it, dear Mrs. Wrayburn?

  A. Send it to Norman.

  Q, To Mr. Norman Urquhart?

  A. Yes. He knows.

  Q. He knows what is to be done with it?

  A. He wants it.

  Q. Very well. Can you tell us where to find it?

  A. I have forgotten. Search.

  Q. Is it in the house?

  A. I tell you I have forgotten. Deep waters. No safety. Failing, failing…

  (Here the writing became very faint and irregular.)

  Q. Try to remember.

  A. In the B—B—B—(a confusion and the pencil staggering wildly)—No good. (Suddenly, in a different hand and very vigorously) Get off the line, get off the line, get off the line.

  Q. Who is that?

  A. (Pongo) She has gone. The bad influence back. Ha, ha! Get off! Finished now. (The pencil ran right out of the medium’s control, and on being replaced on the table, refused to answer any further questions.)

  “How dreadfully vexatious!” exclaimed Miss Booth.

  “I suppose you have no idea where the will is?”

  “Not the least. ‘In the B—’ she said. Now, what could that be?”

  “In the Bank, perhaps,” suggested Miss Climpson.

  “It might be. If so, of course, Mr. Urquhart would be the only person who could get it out.”

  “Then why hasn’t he? She said he wanted it.”

  “Of course. Then it must be somewhere in the house. What could B stand for?”

  “Box, Bag, Bureau—?”

  “Bed? It might be almost anything.”

  “What a pity she couldn’t finish the message. Shall we try again? Or shall we look in all the likely places?”

  “Let’s look first, and then, if we can’t find it, we can try again.”

  “That’s a good idea. There are some keys in one of the bureau drawers that belong to her boxes and things.”

  “Why not try them?” said Miss Climpson, boldly.

  “We will. You’ll come and help, won’t you?”

  “If you think it advisable. I’m a stranger, you know.”

  “The message came to you as much as to me. I’d rather you came with me. You might be able to suggest places.”

  Miss Climpson made no further ado, and they went upstairs. It was a queer business—practically robbing the helpless woman in the interests of someone she had never seen. Queer. But the motive must be a good one, if it was Lord Peter’s.

  At the top of the beautiful staircase with its ample curve was a long, wide corridor, the walls hung thickly from floor to ceiling with portraits, sketches, framed autograph letters, programmes, and all the reminiscent bric-a-brac of the greenroom.

  “All her life is here and in these two rooms,” said the nurse. “If this collection was to be sold, it would fetch a lot of money. I suppose it will be, some day.”

  “Whom does the money go to, do you know?”

  “Well, I’ve always thought it would be to Mr. Norman Urquhart—he’s a relation of hers, about the only one, I believe. But I’ve never been told anything about it.”

  She pushed open a tall door, graceful with curved panels and classical architrave, and turned on the light.

  It was a stately great room, with three tall windows and a ceiling gracefully moulded with garlands of flowers and flambeaux. The purity of its lines was, however, defaced and insulted by a hideous rose-trellised wall-paper, and heavy plush curtains of a hot crimson with thick gold fringes and ropes, like the drop-curtain of a
Victorian playhouse. Every foot of space was crammed thick with furniture—buhl cabinets incongruously jostling mahogany chiffoniers; whatnot tables strewn with ornaments cuddling the bases of heavy German marbles and bronzes; lacquer screens, Sheraton bureaux, Chinese vases, alabaster lamps, chairs, ottomans of every shape, colour and period, clustered thick as plants wrestling for existence in a tropical jungle. It was the room of a woman without taste or moderation, who refused nothing and surrendered nothing, to whom the fact of possession had become the one steadfast reality in a world of loss and change.

  “It may be in here or in the bedroom,” said Miss Booth. “I’ll get her keys.”

  She opened a door on the right. Miss Climpson, endlessly inquisitive, tip-toed in after her.

  The bedroom was even more of a nightmare than the sitting-room. A small electric reading-lamp burned dimly by the bed, huge and gilded, with hangings of rose brocade cascading in long folds from a tester supported by fat golden cupids. Outside the narrow circle of light loomed monstrous wardrobes, more cabinets, tall chests of drawers. The dressing-table, frilled and flounced, held a wide, threefold mirror, and a monstrous cheval-glass in the centre of the room darkly reflected the towering and shadowy outlines of the furniture.

  Miss Booth opened the middle door of the largest wardrobe. It swung back with a creak, letting out a great gush of frangipani. Nothing, evidently, had been altered in this room since silence and paralysis had struck the owner down.