Strong Poison

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  “Exactly. The nurse did have her suspicions.”

  “If he knew about them, he ought to have taken steps to refute them in the proper way. But I don’t think he did know about them. I was referring to what you told us today. The police have got in touch with the nurse again, Miss Williams, and she tells them that Norman Urquhart took special pains never to be left alone with the patient, and never to give him any food or medicine, even when she herself was present. Doesn’t that argue a bad conscience?”

  “You won’t find any lawyer or jury to believe it, Peter.”

  “Yes, but look here, doesn’t it strike you as funny? Listen to this, Miss Murchison. One day the nurse was doing something or the other in the room, and she had got the medicine there on the mantelpiece. Something was said about it, and Boyes remarked, ‘Oh, don’t bother, Nurse. Norman can give me my dope.’ Does Norman say, ‘Right-ho, old man!’ as you or I would? No! He says: ‘No, I’ll leave it to Nurse—I might make a mess of it.’ Pretty feeble, what?”

  “Lots of people are nervous about looking after invalids,” said Miss Murchison.

  “Yes, but most people can pour stuff out of a bottle into a glass. Boyes wasn’t in extremis—he was speaking quite rationally and all that. I say the man was deliberately protecting himself.”

  “Possibly,” said Parker, “but after all, old man, when did he administer the poison?”

  “Probably not at the dinner at all,” said Miss Murchison. “As you say, the precautions seem rather obvious. They may have been intended to make people concentrate on the dinner and forget other possibilities. Did he have a whisky when he arrived or before he went out or anything?”

  “Alas, he did not. Bunter has been cultivating Hannah Westlock almost to breach of promise point, and she says that she opened the door to Boyes on his arrival, that he went straight to his room, that Urquhart was out at the time and only came in a quarter of an hour before dinner-time, and that the two men met for the first time over the famous glass of sherry in the library. The folding-doors between the library and dining-room were open and Hannah was buzzing round the whole time laying the table, and she is sure that Boyes had the sherry and nothing but the sherry.”

  “Not so much as a digestive tablet?”

  “Nothing.”

  “How about after dinner?”

  “When they had finished the omelette, Urquhart said something about coffee. Boyes looked at his watch and said, ‘No time, old chap, I’ve got to be getting along to Doughty Street.’ Urquhart said he would ring up a taxi, and went out to do so. Boyes folded up his napkin, got up and went into the hall. Hannah followed and helped him on with his coat. The taxi arrived. Boyes got in and off he went without seeing Urquhart again.”

  “It seems to me,” said Miss Murchison, “that Hannah is an exceedingly important witness for Mr. Urquhart’s defence. You don’t think—I hardly like to suggest it—but you don’t think that Bunter is allowing his feelings to overcome his judgment?”

  “He says,” replied Lord Peter, “that he believes Hannah to be a sincerely religious woman. He has sat beside her in chapel and shared her hymn-book.”

  “But that may be the merest hypocrisy,” said Miss Murchison, rather warmly, for she was militantly rationalist. “I don’t trust these unctuous people.”

  “I didn’t offer that as proof of Hannah’s virtue,” said Wimsey, “but of Bunter’s unsusceptibility.”

  “But he looks like a deacon himself.”

  “You’ve never seen Bunter off duty,” said Lord Peter, darkly. “I have, and I can assure you that a hymn-book would be about as softening to his heart as neat whisky to an Anglo-Indian liver. No; if Bunter says Hannah is honest, then she is honest.”

  “Then that definitely cuts out the drinks and the dinner,” said Miss Murchison, unconvinced, but willing to be open minded. “How about the water-bottle in the bedroom?”

  “The devil!” cried Wimsey. “That’s one up to you, Miss Murchison. We didn’t think of that. The water-bottle—yes—a perfectly fruity idea. You recollect, Charles, that in the Bravo case it was suggested that a disgruntled servant had put tartar emetic in the water-bottle. Oh, Bunter—here you are! Next time you hold Hannah’s hand, will you ask her whether Mr. Boyes drank any water from his bedroom water-bottle before dinner?”

  “Pardon me, my lord, the possibility had already presented itself in my mind.”

  “It had?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Do you never overlook anything, Bunter?”

  “I endeavour to give satisfaction, my lord.”

  “Well then, don’t talk like Jeeves. It irritates me. What about the water bottle?”

  “I was about to observe, my lord, when this lady arrived, that I had elicited a somewhat peculiar circumstance relating to the water-bottle.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” said Parker, flattening out a new page of his notebook.

  “I would not go so far as to say that, sir. Hannah informed me that she showed Mr. Boyes into his bedroom on his arrival and withdrew, as it was her place to do. She had scarcely reached the head of the staircase, when Mr. Boyes put his head out of the door and recalled her. He then asked her to fill his water-bottle. She was considerably astonished at this request, since she had a perfect recollection of having previously filled it when she put the room in order.”

  “Could he have emptied it himself?” asked Parker, eagerly.

  “Not into his interior, sir—there had not been time. Nor had the drinking-glass been utilised. Moreover, the bottle was not merely empty, but dry inside. Hannah apologised for the neglect, and immediately rinsed out the bottle and filled it from the tap.”

  “Curious,” said Parker. “But it’s quite likely she never filled it at all.”

  “Pardon me, sir. Hannah was so much surprised by the episode that she mentioned it to Mrs. Pettican, the cook, who said that she distinctly recollected seeing her fill the bottle that morning.”

  “Well, then,” said Parker, “Urquhart or somebody must have emptied it and dried it out. Now, why? What would one naturally do if one found one’s water-bottle empty?”

  “Ring the bell,” said Wimsey, promptly.

  “Or shout for help,” added Parker.

  “Or,” said Miss Murchison, “if one wasn’t accustomed to be waited on one might use the water from the bedroom jug.”

  “Ah!… of course, Boyes was used to a more or less Bohemian life.”

  “But surely,” said Wimsey, “that’s idiotically roundabout. It would be much simpler just to poison the water in the bottle. Why direct attention to the thing by making it more difficult? Besides, you couldn’t count on the victim using the jug-water—and, as a matter of fact he didn’t.”

  “And he was poisoned,” said Miss Murchison, “so the poison wasn’t either in the jug or the bottle.”

  “No—I’m afraid there’s nothing to be got out of the jug and bottle department. Hollow, hollow, hollow all delight, Tennyson.”

  “All the same,” said Parker, “that incident convinces me. It’s too complete, somehow. Wimsey’s right; it’s not natural for a defence to be so perfect.”

  “My God,” said Wimsey. “we have convinced Charles Parker. Nothing more is needed. He is more adamantine than any jury.”

  “Yes,” said Parker, modestly, “but I’m more logical, I think. And I’m not being flustered by the Attorney-General. I should feel happier with a little evidence of a more objective kind.”

  “You would. You want some real arsenic. Well, Bunter, what about it?”

  “The apparatus is quite ready, my lord.”

  “Very good. Let us go and see if we can give Mr. Parker what he wants. Lead and we follow.”

  In a small apartment usually devoted to Bunter’s photographic work, and furnished with a sink, a bench and a bunsen burner, stood the apparatus necessary for making a Marsh’s test of arsenic. The distilled water was already bubbling gently in the flask, and Bunter lifted the l
ittle glass tube which lay across the flame of the burner.

  “You will perceive, my lord,” he observed, “that the apparatus is free from contamination.”

  “I see nothing at all,” said Freddy.

  “That, as Sherlock Holmes would say, is what you may expect to see when there is nothing there,” said Wimsey, kindly. “Charles, you will pass the water and the flask and the tube, old Uncle Tom Cobley and all as being arsenic-free.”

  “I will.”

  “Wilt thou love, cherish and keep her, in sickness or in health—sorry! turned over two pages at once. Where’s that powder? Miss Murchison, you identify this sealed envelope as being the one you brought from the office, complete with mysterious white powder from Mr. Urquhart’s secret hoard?”

  “I do.”

  “Kiss the Book. Thank you. Now then—”

  “Wait a sec,” said Parker, “you haven’t tested the envelope separately.”

  “That’s true. There’s always a snag somewhere. I suppose, Miss Murchison, you haven’t such a thing as another office envelope about you?”

  Miss Murchison blushed, and fumbled in her handbag.

  “Well—there’s a little note I scribbled this afternoon to a friend—”

  “In your employer’s time, on your employer’s paper,” said Wimsey. “Oh, how right Diogenes was when he took his lantern to look for an honest typist! Never mind. Let’s have it. Who wills the end, wills the means.”

  Miss Murchison extracted the envelope and freed it from the enclosure. Bunter, receiving it respectfully on a developing dish, cut it into small pieces which he dropped into the flask. The water bubbled brightly, but the little tube still remained stainless from end to end.

  “Does something begin to happen soon?” enquired Mr. Arbuthnot. “Because I feel this show’s a bit lackin’ in pep, what?”

  “If you don’t sit still I shall take you out,” retorted Wimsey. “Carry on, Bunter. We’ll pass the envelope.”

  Bunter accordingly opened the second envelope, and delicately dropped the white powder into the wide mouth of the flask. All five heads bent eagerly over the apparatus. And presently, definitely, magically, a thin silver stain began to form in the tube where the flame impinged upon it. Second by second it spread and darkened to a deep brownish black ring with a shining metallic centre.

  “Oh, lovely, lovely,” said Parker, with professional delight.

  “Your lamp’s smoking or something,” said Freddy.

  “Is that arsenic?” breathed Miss Murchison, gently.

  “I hope so,” said Wimsey, gently detaching the tube and holding it up to the light. “It’s either arsenic or antimony.”

  “Allow me, my lord. The addition of a small quantity of solute chlorinated lime should decide the question beyond reach of cavil.”

  He performed this further test amid an anxious silence. The stain dissolved out and vanished under the bleaching solution.

  “Then it is arsenic,” said Parker.

  “Oh, yes,” said Wimsey, nonchalantly, “of course it is arsenic. Didn’t I tell you?” His voice wavered a little with suppressed triumph.

  “Is that all?” inquired Freddy disappointed.

  “Isn’t it enough?” said Miss Murchison.

  “Not quite,” said Parker, “but it’s a long way towards it. It proves that Urquhart has arsenic in his possession, and by making an official enquiry in France, we can probably find out whether this packet was already in his possession last June. I notice, by the way, that it is ordinary white arsenious acid, without any mixture of charcoal or indigo, which agrees with what was found at the post-mortem. That’s satisfactory, but it would be even more satisfactory if we could provide an opportunity for Urquhart to have administered it. So far, all we have done is to demonstrate clearly that he couldn’t have given it to Boyes either before, during or after dinner, during the period required for the symptoms to develop. I agree that an impossibility so bolstered up by testimony is suspicious in itself, but, to convince a jury, I should prefer something better than a credo quid impossibile .”

  “Riddle-me-right, and riddle-me-ree,” said Wimsey, imperturbably. “We’ve overlooked something, that’s all. Probably something quite obvious. Give me the statutory dressing-gown and ounce of shag, and I will undertake to dispose of this little difficulty for you in a brace of shakes. In the meantime, you will no doubt take steps to secure, in an official and laborious manner, the evidence which our kind friends here have already so ably gathered in by unconventional methods, and will stand by to arrest the right man when the time comes?”

  “I will,” said Parker, “gladly. Apart from all personal considerations, I’d far rather see that oily-haired fellow in the dock than any woman, and if the Force has made a mistake, the sooner it’s put right the better for all concerned.”

  * * *

  Wimsey sat late that night in the black-and-primrose library, with the tall folios looking down at him. They represented the world’s accumulated hoard of mellow wisdom and poetical beauty, to say nothing of thousands of pounds in cash. But all these counsellors sat mute upon their shelves. Strewn on tables and chairs lay the bright scarlet volumes of the Notable British Trials—Palmer, Pritchard, Maybrick, Seddon, Armstrong, Madeleine Smith—the great practitioners in arsenic—huddled together with the chief authorities on Forensic Medicine and Toxicology.

  The theatre-going crowds surged home in saloon and taxi, the lights shone over the empty width of Piccadilly, the heavy night-lorries rumbled slow and seldom over the black tarmac, the long night waned and the reluctant winter dawn struggled wanly over the piled roofs of London. Bunter, silent and anxious, sat in his kitchen, brewing coffee on the stove and reading the same page of the “British Journal of Photography” over and over again.

  At half-past eight the library bell rang.

  “My lord?”

  “My bath, Bunter.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  “And some coffee.”

  “Immediately, my lord.”

  “And put back all the books except these.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “I know now how it was done.”

  “Indeed, my lord? Permit me to offer my respectful congratulations.”

  “I’ve still got to prove it.”

  “A secondary consideration, my lord.”

  Wimsey yawned. When Bunter returned a minute or two later with the coffee, he was asleep.

  Bunter put the books quietly away, and looked with some curiosity at the chosen few left on the table. They were: The Trial of Florence Maybrick ; Dixon Mann’s Forensic Medicine and Toxicology ; a book with a German title which Bunter could not read; and A. E. Housman’s A Shropshire Lad .

  Bunter studied these for a few moments, and then slapped his thigh softly.

  “Why, of course!” he said under his breath, “why, what a mutton-headed set of chumps we’ve all been!” He touched his master lightly on the shoulder,

  “Your coffee, my lord.”

  Chapter XXI

  “THEN you won’t marry me?” said Lord Peter.

  The prisoner shook her head.

  “No. It wouldn’t be fair to you. And besides—”

  “Well?”

  “I’m frightened of it. One couldn’t get away. I’ll live with you, if you like, but I won’t marry you.”

  Her tone was so unutterably dreary that Wimsey could feel no enthusiasm for this handsome offer.

  “But that sort of thing doesn’t always work,” he expostulated. “Dash it all, you ought to know—forgive my alluding to it and all that—but it’s frightfully inconvenient, and one has just as many rows as if one was married.”

  “I know that. But you could cut loose any time you wanted to.”

  “But I shouldn’t want to.”

  “Oh, yes, you would. You’ve got a family and traditions, you know. Caesar’s wife and that sort of thing.”

  “Blast Caesar’s wife! And as for the family traditions—t
hey’re on my side, for what they’re worth. Anything a Wimsey does is right and heaven help the person who gets in the way. We’ve even got a damned old family motto about it—‘I hold by my Whimsy’—quite right too. I can’t say that when I look in the glass I exactly suggest to myself the original Gerald de Wimsey, who bucked about on a cart horse at the Siege of Acre, but I do jolly well intend to do what I like about marrying. Who’s to stop me? They can’t eat me. They can’t even cut me, if it comes to that. Joke, unintentional, officers, for the use of.”

  Harriet laughed.

  “No, I suppose they can’t cut you. You wouldn’t have to slink abroad with your impossible wife and live at obscure continental watering-places like people in Victorian novels.”

  “Certainly not.”

  “People would forget I’d had a lover?”

  “My dear child, they’re forgetting that kind of thing every day. They’re experts at it.”

  “And was supposed to have murdered him?”

  “And were triumphantly acquitted of having murdered him, however greatly provoked.”

  “Well, I won’t marry you. If people can forget all that, they can forget we’re not married.”

  “Oh, yes, they could. I couldn’t, that’s all. We don’t seem to be progressing very fast with this conversation. I take it the general idea of living with me does not hopelessly repel you?”

  “But this is all so preposterous,” protested the girl. “How can I say what I should or shouldn’t do if I were free and certain of—surviving?”