Not to be Taken (21 page)

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but what I don’t understand is why Angela should have imagined that a perfectly harmless tablet could change itself into arsenic as soon as it got into the cider.’

Glen laughed shortly. ‘Then you don’t know much about egocentrics, my lad. They can imagine anything they darned well like – and persuade themselves it’s true, too. Little anomalies like that wouldn’t worry Angela. She wanted subconsciously to have fed John arsenic; the fact that she’d only fed him aloes and soap and limonspong didn’t matter a bit; to suit her purpose (and mind you, everything exists only to suit an egocentric’s purpose, laws of nature and all) the aloes and soap must possess the peculiar property of generating arsenic on contact with cider. My dear old chap, there’s no difficulty about that; none at all.’

I felt lazily combative. ‘Well, why shouldn’t something and something else generate arsenic? What
is
arsenic? What does it come from? How do they get it? What do you know about it?’

‘Arsenic is a metal,’ said Glen austerely.

‘No doubt, but I suppose even metals come from somewhere. Can’t anything
make
arsenic? One hears of arsenical wallpapers, arsenic in cooking utensils, arsenic in beer barrels. There seems to be a good deal of arsenic about the place in a small way. Where does it come from? What causes it?’

‘Good Lord, I don’t know. I’m no chemist. Here, if you really want to know, have a look through these, and let me read the paper in peace.’ Glen got up, collected three or four books from a window seat and dumped them in my lap. They were the same ones that he had shown me before. Probably they had been lying on the window seat ever since. The Broughams’ is one of those comfortable houses where everything does not have to be tidied away out of reach the instant one has finished with it, or even before.

I turned through the pages, but there was little or no information on the thoroughly fundamental questions I had posed; the books, which were medical ones, were concerned only with the causes of arsenical poisoning, its symptoms and its treatment, with all of which I was becoming quite familiar. That is always the trouble with technical books, for the layman; they never begin early enough. I still do not know what arsenic is or where it comes from or anything about it except that it is a metal, which means little or nothing to me.

I pushed the books aside and looked at Glen, sprawled in his chair, all arms and long legs. Something put into my mind the village rumours coupling his name with Angela’s. There could never have been a rumour with less foundation. Apart altogether from the existence of Philip Strangman, of whom, of course, Glen had never heard and when he did took him with complete calm, Glen seemed to have no feeling for Angela as a person beyond a mild dislike or at most a pitying contempt; though as a case he seemed to have found her a peach. No, there was nothing along that line.

Queer about John’s arsenical washes. Why had I had the idea that he was experimenting only with the tar distillates? He could not have told me so, of course; there would have been no point; on the other hand, he had certainly said nothing about arsenic.

A pity (my mind flitted on) that no other secret cupboards had been discovered. Those two were so interesting that goodness knew what might not have been concealed in a third. Some other totally unexpected aspect of John’s unexpected hidden life.

What kind of a man had John really been? Glen was as puzzled as I was. But in my opinion he went too far in making out that John had been the exact opposite of everything he had suggested himself to us as being. He was a kindly, good-natured man, that at least was certain. His treatment of Angela alone showed that. It would take a kindly, good-natured man to put up with Angela in marriage for so many years, and then see to it that she came in for a fortune afterwards.

How unfairly as well as unevenly wealth is distributed, I mused. In all her life Angela had never done a thing to deserve a penny from anyone, while there were excellent and conscientious gentlefolk in the district – I could name a dozen at least – who hardly knew how to make both ends meet. The deliberate destruction of a type, and a fine type, too, with all its faults, by the politicians to gain the votes of urban mobs is a tragedy when one is living in the middle of it.

But about John…what did I really think?

It will be seen that I was meditating very much at haphazard, certainly with no idea of worrying to the roots of the problem of John’s death. Indeed I was hardly conscious that it still was a problem to me. The revelation, when it came, was therefore all the more of a shock.

Idly I allowed to skim across the surface of my mind the various events, rumours and surprises of the last five or six weeks. It was the middle of November now; John had died early in September. Equally idly, I reviewed the course of this same evening and the different items of information which I had gleaned or of which I had been reminded.

Suddenly a chord of memory vibrated, most disconcertingly …a voice…something said, which had been called to my notice again tonight…

I sat up, thinking hard.

If it was true, if I was right, it could only mean…

But it was true. I was right. There was no possible doubt about that. Then I began to trace the thing out, step by step. Yes, each bit fell into place. The jigsaw was complete. It only remained to compare it with the picture on the box.

I sank back into my chair, feeling quite overwhelmed by the revelation which had come to me. I could only regard it as a revelation, though the vision was logical enough.

I must have made some exclamation, for Glen put down his paper and looked at me.

‘Hullo,’ he said, ‘what’s the matter with you? Seen a ghost or something? You’re as white as a sheet.’

‘A ghost?’ I said with a silly little laugh. ‘No, I don’t think that ghost wanted to be seen… What? No, I’m all right, thanks. Just a bit of – of indigestion.’

I wonder what Glen would have done then if I had said: ‘The fact is I’ve just hit on the truth about John’s death. I know how he died, why he died, how the arsenic got into him, what was the purpose of that letter to the coroner, and just how much truth there was in the letter and how little, and why. In fact I know all. And I wonder what I’d better do about it.’

Instead I said:

‘I think I’ll go home.’

At this point in the narrative all the evidence has been put before the reader, who is in exactly the position of Douglas Sewell. Readers of this book may like to amuse themselves by pausing at this point and endeavouring to answer the following questions:

1.
Who (or what) was responsible for John Waterhouse’s death
?

2.
How did the arsenic find its way into John Waterhouse’s body, and why? Give a concise outline of the story behind his death.

3.
List as many deductions as you can draw from Douglas Sewell
’
s narrative
,
and the clues to them.

4. Do you think there is a Dominant Clue in this story
?
If so, what is it
?

Unrepentant Sinner

The next morning I was still wondering what to do about it.

To Frances, of course, I had said not a word. It was in any case not the kind of thing one wanted to talk about. But after an almost sleepless night, during which I had gone over my arguments again and again, I was even more convinced that my inspiration had been right and that I (and presumably I alone) knew the real truth about John’s death. Moreover, now that my mind had begun to work along these lines, a dozen little points had recalled themselves to my memory, insignificant in themselves, no doubt, but making a formidable sum. Indeed when one added these to the one outstanding fact which had presented itself to me the previous evening in the light of a revelation, it was difficult to see how the truth had escaped so long.

One thing at least I could do, by way of eliminating a certain possibility; for naturally, during the night, in my reluctance to accept what was now obvious, I had cast about for alternatives.

The masons and labourers who had been employed by John were still at their work at Oswald’s Gable, finishing off the job on which John had last been engaged. I strolled over to have a word with them immediately after breakfast.

‘Mr Green,’ I said when the morning’s greetings had been exchanged and the weather prospects duly discussed. ‘Mr Green, I want to ask you rather a curious question. Did Mr Waterhouse ever give any of you caramels?’

Mr Green pushed back his cap and grinned. ‘Well, it’s funny you should ask that, sir, because he did. Many a time.’

‘Did he give you any the last day you saw him?’

‘Well, sir,’ said Mr Green, ‘it’s funny you should ask me that, because he did. Three parts of a boxful.’

‘Not a whole boxful?’

‘Well, I wouldn’t say as it mightn’t have been a whole boxful, because the top was stuffed with paper; but when you took the paper out there wasn’t more than three parts of a boxful.’

‘Was it the sort of box you’d get in a shop?’

‘Well, sir,’ said Mr Green, ‘it’s funny you should ask me that, because it wasn’t. It was a cigarette box. One of them that holds a hundred.’

‘Did Mr Waterhouse ever say why he gave you caramels?’

‘Oh yes. He said his sister sent them to him, but he and Mrs Waterhouse didn’t like sweets, and he knew I’d a couple of youngsters at home – well, getting on for eighteen the eldest is now – and he thought they might like them. Very thoughtful gentleman, Mr Waterhouse always was. We shall miss him properly in this village, sir.’

So that was that, and the problem of the mysterious postal package solved at all events.

I was not a little pleased with my astuteness, following the conviction that John really could not have had a secret passion for caramels.

As for the main matter, it was not until after tea that I made up my mind what to do.

In Anneypenny whenever anyone had a trouble, a problem or a doubt, there was one person to whom it was invariably taken: Rona. From Rona one could expect calm, intelligent and sympathetic discussion and, in nine cases out of ten, a resolution of the doubt, a solution to the problem or a lightening of the trouble. To Rona accordingly I resolved to take my present worry.

And I had remembered, too, during the night, more than one little incident which had somehow suggested to me even at the time that she suspected, or perhaps even knew, more about John’s death than the rest of us: a suggestion which, in the odd way that minds have, mine at the time had refused to accept, though afterwards it was ready to present me with the fully fledged conviction. Some kind of inhibition, I suppose, automatically rejecting the unwelcome guest.

I knew when I could be sure of catching Rona alone: between six and seven when Glen was in his surgery.

At two minutes past six, therefore, I was ringing the Broughams’ doorbell – the one rather pointedly marked ‘Visitors.’

2

Rona’s finely drawn eyebrows rose.

‘You…what did you say, Douglas?’

‘I know the truth about John’s death,’ I repeated. ‘And so; Rona,’ I added firmly, ‘do you.’

After all, I have known Rona all my life. We are in a position to speak frankly.

Rona looked at me steadily. ‘What makes you think that, my friend?’

‘A dozen things. I’ve known it all along, really, but my mind wouldn’t realise it.’

‘Well?’ said Rona after a pause. ‘Then what is the truth about John’s death, which you know and I know?’

I contemplated the end of my cigarette. ‘He was killed,’ I said, ‘by a caramel impregnated with arsenic, sent him by the girl he kept in Torminster. She’s a good sort. She didn’t know what she was doing. The arsenic was introduced by a young man who wants to marry her, a chemist’s assistant with easy access to arsenic or any other poison. She wouldn’t marry him while John was alive. Moreover, John left her a substantial legacy. He had told her of it, and no doubt she would have discussed it with the young man. That would have weighed with him, you can see. He would have had no difficulty in introducing the arsenic into the caramel mixture. She made it at a fixed time every week. He had only to call on her in her flat, make a pretext to get her out of the room, or even only turn her back, and drop the arsenic into the mixture. So very simple, isn’t it?’

Rona was staring at me. ‘And you believe that’s how John was killed?’

‘No, Rona,’ I smiled. ‘I don’t. I was only pretending. Actually he was killed (wasn’t he?) by Angela and Philip Strangman; though it’s a doubt how far Angela really knew what she was doing when she dropped that tablet Strangman gave her into the cider. She had a grand story to account for it – how she meant to drink the cider herself and all the rest of it. And in the absence of any further tablets, what’s to prove that this wasn’t a perfectly innocent one? It was a good idea to say she’d thrown the rest of them away. What do you think, Rona? Was Angela Strangman’s accomplice, or only his tool? You were with her. You had an opportunity of judging. Were those hysterical self-accusations afterwards genuine or faked?’

‘You’re imagining things, my friend,’ Rona said grimly. ‘Rather dangerously. I should stick to fruit farming if I were you. Angela’s as innocent as you are. And so is Philip Strangman.’

‘I know.’ I smiled again. ‘I just wanted you to tell me so. But you do know the truth, Rona; and I know why you’ve kept
silent
about it. It was for John’s own sake.’

‘Indeed?’ Rona spoke quite impassively.

‘Yes. We all liked John, and it would be rotten to have him branded as a murderer. No wonder he wrote that letter to the War Office to explain everything away.’

‘Aren’t you forgetting,’ Rona said kindly, ‘that it was John himself who was murdered?’

‘Oh no. Because it was John who murdered himself – by accident, so to speak. That is, when his plan to murder Angela misfired. What a bit of poetic justice, eh?’

‘You must know,’ said Rona steadily, ‘that you’re just talking nonsense, Douglas.’

‘Am I?’ I retorted. ‘No, we must face the truth, Rona – as you’ve been facing it all this time. There can’t be any doubt about it. John had arsenic in his possession. The empty bottle in the secret cupboard proves it. That’s Point No. 1. Then John had borrowed a pill-making machine from Glen. He returned it, saying that he couldn’t make it work. Fancy! John Waterhouse, the world-famous engineer, couldn’t make a paltry pill-making machine work! Is that likely? I ask you. Point No. 2. Those are very suggestive, but Point No. 3 must surely be conclusive. It is this. During the period when John must have swallowed that arsenic there were only three known vehicles: Glen’s medicine, since proved innocent, Frances’ sherry, equally innocent, and his own cider. That means the arsenic
must
have been in the cider. Well, if Angela didn’t put it there, who did? The cook? Pritchard? Hardly. But who drew the cider? John did. For whom? For Angela… My dear Rona, you can’t defend him. It’s obvious.’

Rona was breathing a little more quickly. ‘No, Douglas. You’re wrong. There’s a mistake somewhere. John – John wasn’t like that. I can’t let you say he was.’

‘Are you sure there’s a mistake?’ I pursued. ‘And what would the inference be if there was? You surely can’t believe Frances put arsenic in the sherry?’

‘No, no, of course not.’

‘You think perhaps she might have had some kind of a
motive
?’

There was no mistaking Rona’s astonishment. ‘Motive? What motive could Frances possibly have?’

‘Exactly,’ I agreed. ‘None. So what remains? You may be thinking there was a fourth possible vehicle: the caramels which came by post that morning. But I’ve already found out that John gave them to one of the men working at Oswald’s Gable. It’s too much to believe that he could have eaten just one or two himself first, and by incredibly bad luck hit on the poisoned ones. No, it wasn’t the caramels. And it wasn’t the sherry. And we know it wasn’t the medicine, don’t we? So if it wasn’t the cider, what was it?’

‘But John’s letter!’ Rona cried. ‘You’re forgetting everything. John explained it all.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And you know as well as I do, Rona, that there wasn’t a word of truth in the whole story he told.’

‘But…but John couldn’t invent a story like that.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘
He
couldn’t. And that’s a clue in itself. Don’t you agree?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Rona said, quite feebly.

‘Oh yes, you do.’ I looked at her straight. ‘No, Rona: none of those theories is the right one, because all of them leave out of account one vital factor –
the
vital factor, one might say, in the whole problem. That factor is known only to you and me, Rona, and to one other person who, a thousand to one, will never realise its significance – just as I didn’t myself till yesterday evening.’

‘And what is this vital factor?’ Rona asked, quietly enough but with a faint hostility.

‘The fact that you knew that John was suffering from arsenical poisoning the moment you heard he had been taken ill, before you’d even seen him.’

There was a silence.

‘I knew…what?’ said Rona.

‘Yes. Don’t fence, Rona. The items you enumerated to your maid on the telephone were the ordinary antidotes for arsenical poisoning; the treatment you carried out on John afterwards, before Glen took charge, was the proper treatment for arsenical poisoning. You knew John had taken arsenic, days, almost weeks before arsenic was ever mentioned.’

Rona looked at me steadily.

‘Well?’ she said.

I was relieved that she had not denied it. Rona was always straightforward.

‘Well, I’ve been asking myself ever since last evening, naturally, what that meant. John had hinted to you that he was going to commit suicide with arsenic, and you had disbelieved him at the time, to find later that he had really meant it? No. You had supplied John with arsenic for his tree-washing experiments and instantly divined that he must have swallowed some accidentally? I don’t think so. Even that John had planned to murder Angela, as I said just now, with arsenic unwittingly supplied by you, and you saw the whole plan in a flash there at the front door, realised that it had gone wrong and instinctively knew what had happened? Not very likely. No. There’s only one feasible explanation of your knowledge. You knew that it was intended to use the arsenic criminally. In other words, Rona, you and John conspired together to poison Angela; you supplied the arsenic, and you knew when the attempt was to be made; that’s why you went to Torminster that day. You came back with that excuse about the gramophone records to call at the house and hear how things had gone. When you heard that it was John who was so ill, and no word was said about Angela, you knew that things must have gone wrong and you telephoned at once for the
antidote
. That’s the truth, isn’t it, Rona? You and John planned murder together?’

‘It is not the truth,’ Rona said.

‘But how can you deny it? Everything hangs together.’

‘It is not the truth.’ Rona was breathing a little quickly, though she appeared otherwise unmoved; but a little more warmth came into her voice as she went on. ‘You knew John. He was incapable of anything like that. John was…was…’ She choked suddenly.

‘I know he was incapable of it,’ I said as gently as I could. ‘So that leaves only one possibility, and that’s the truth. Of course I knew it was the truth. I just wanted to hear you exculpate John with your own lips, realising what it meant. That was plucky of you, Rona, at all events. But you’ve been plucky all along. You needed pluck, too, when your plan went so disastrously wrong. I think you’ve found that a worse punishment than the official one, haven’t you?’

Rona had pulled herself together. Imperturbably she looked me in the eye and said:

‘I think you’d better tell me just what’s in your mind, my friend.’

‘I think I’d better, too, and I can tell you in half-a-dozen words. It was you who poisoned John.’

Not a muscle of Rona’s face moved.

‘You can have no proof of such a remarkable accusation.’

‘Oh yes, I have,’ I retorted. ‘I’ve plenty of proof. But if you mean “evidence,” no, I admit I haven’t. Proof and evidence aren’t by any means the same thing.’

‘Then let me hear your proofs.’

I lit another cigarette. It was an extraordinary situation, I suppose, but I knew Rona so well that it was not so impossible as it might have been with a stranger.

‘Well,’ I began, and I remember my voice was quite conversational. ‘Well, it all goes back to that conversation you, John, Harold and I had that evening at the Waterhouses’. I wonder if you remember the details? I can recall quite a number of the things that were said, and most illuminating they look now. For instance, do you remember giving your views on the elimination of the community’s drones? “Why keep them alive?” you said. Then, a little later, John paid you a compliment, and you blushed with pleasure like a young girl. I noticed it particularly. Rona, that gave you away. I realised that evening that you must be in love with John, though I didn’t attach any great importance to it.