Not to be Taken (9 page)

I must say I have never known anyone who could be so offensive as Glen when he was minded to be, and in such a careless way, too, which made it all the worse. For the first time that I had seen, Waterhouse flushed to the roots of his hair.

‘And if I say that I have no faith in you as Angela’s medical man or anyone else’s, and refuse to go?’

‘In that case,’ said Glen cheerfully, ‘I shall advise Angela to hire a couple of toughs to throw you out: and I’ll volunteer as one of them. Now then, go upstairs and get packed, and don’t be silly.’

Waterhouse glared at both of us for a moment, then turned on his heel and went out of the room.

‘I don’t really like that merchant,’ said Glen unnecessarily, and followed him.

I decided it was time to go home.

As I went I pondered the conversation I had had with Waterhouse. Had he or had he not answered Frances’ question as to how he had known from the beginning that something was wrong? In any case one thing was certain. As I had told Frances last night, that bottle of medicine must now be handed over to the police, whether it contained arsenic or whether it did not, and irrespective of the interpretation which might be placed on the fact that it did. The police would almost certainly be coming during the day to interview me, as one of the persons who had seen Waterhouse when he was first taken ill. I would give them the bottle then.

As soon as I got indoors I went upstairs to the drawer where I had hidden it under a pile of handkerchiefs.

The handkerchiefs were still there, but the bottle was not. It had gone.

Disappearance of a Nazi

If this account of John Waterhouse’s death is to be considered as a detective story, I suppose I am telling it quite wrongly. After all these pages I have only just reached the point at which a detective story usually begins: with the mysterious death and the inevitable problem of accident, suicide or murder. All the various events which I have already set out would be brought to the reader’s notice later, under the questioning of the detective.

But I cannot view John’s death as a detective story, in spite of the fact that the problem it presented was as complicated and as baffling as that to be found in any work of fiction. Anyone who has lived on the inside of a suspected murder, and yet outside the confidence of the police executives, will understand what I mean. Just as at a sensational trial it is said that the spectator quite loses sight of the issues of guilt or innocence in watching the game as it is played between the opposing counsels, so in a way we tended to overlook the huge question of who, if anyone, poisoned John Waterhouse, in the excitement of wondering what was going to happen next. Our point of view was, in fact, quite different from that of the readers of the newspaper sensation; we were as much in the dark as they were, and yet we could not help feeling that we ourselves were a part of the sensation. And we were, of course. None of us knew on whom amongst us police suspicion, when once it had veered away from the unlikely person of poor Angela, would next alight. It was an uncanny and a most uncomfortable feeling.

Another reason why I cannot look on this tale of mine as a detective story is the simple one that there is no detective: that is to say, no detective as the central figure whose investigations, discoveries and suspicions the reader is allowed to share. I may have known more or less what was going on in the minds of the local police; but into those of the Scotland Yard men later I was not given a glimpse. And as for a central figure, I suppose the central figure of this story is John himself. I at any rate have no wish to usurp that position. I was only a very small cog in the general machinery, given a transient importance greater than I deserved by the mere accident of propinquity; and I have been at some pains, therefore, to tell my story as impersonally as possible. I have indeed only one justification for telling it at all. For strangely enough in the end it was I and not any of the official detectives who eventually solved the mystery of John’s death; and I solved it entirely out of my own knowledge of the case and of the people involved in it. For a pretty dull, stolid fruit farmer that was not so bad.

We in Anneypenny were a sensation, true enough; but I do not want to make sensations where none existed. Within ten minutes I had discovered the secret of the vanished medicine bottle.

‘Listen, darling,’ said Frances when I asked her in some anxiety if she knew anything about its disappearance.

‘Listen very carefully, because I’m going to speak very carefully. You’ve mislaid that bottle, do you see? You thought you put it in that drawer; but you can’t have done because it isn’t there. You probably have a vague memory of moving it to a safer place, haven’t you? Yes, I expect you have. But for the life of you, you can’t remember where that place was. Very awkward and irritating, but on the whole perhaps rather a good thing; because you can’t give it to the police now, although you want to.’

‘Frances,’ I said, ‘you’re taking a very big responsibility.’

‘I’m not afraid of responsibilities.’

‘But what’s the idea?’ I asked doubtfully. ‘I don’t like it, you know. Why is it on the whole rather a good thing that I can’t give that bottle to the police?’

‘Well you see, supposing there
is
arsenic in it –’

‘We know there is,’ I interrupted. ‘The police have searched Oswald’s Gable from roof to cellar. There’s no arsenic anywhere else. It must be in that bottle.’

‘Exactly. And that means – well, what doesn’t it mean? The end of Glen as a doctor. Perhaps they might even arrest him for manslaughter. I know Glen was incredibly foolish and careless and ought to be punished; but not that way. If that bottle ever turns up again, much later, I’m going to send it somewhere to be analysed myself; and I shall tell Glen what was in it. That will be quite enough punishment for him, to know he killed one of his greatest friends.’

‘Humph!’ I said, still doubtfully. ‘But, my dear girl, it’s not so simple as all that. Who’s to say that he didn’t put it there deliberately?’

Frances stared at me. ‘
What
?’

‘I mean, as a blunder it’s almost too much. Glen has a poison cupboard. I’ve seen it. Though it’s true that, like any other doctor’s poison cupboard I’ve ever seen, it’s never locked and half the poisons aren’t kept in it. But arsenic in an ordinary, mild indigestion mixture – no! As a mere mistake, the thing’s incredible. You know the rumours that are going round the village. Glen hoped to step into John’s shoes. He had his eye on Angela and her money as John’s widow. What easier than to poison John and certify the death himself as from epidemic diarrhoea?’

Frances’ eyes almost popped out of her head. ‘You – you
can
’
t
believe what you’re saying, Douglas.’

‘I don’t, my dear,’ I assured her. ‘I know Glen, and I know that such a thing is impossible. But the police mightn’t think it impossible. They might think it very logical. Or, if they didn’t think that, what’s to stop them believing that the bottle arrived at Oswald’s Gable perfectly innocuous but that Angela herself stuffed it with arsenic from some secret store of her own? In other words, we’re up against big issues. Are we justified in interfering?’

Frances did not pause to think.

‘Doubly! Trebly! Fifty-fold!’ she exclaimed indignantly. ‘If it’s even possible that such ridiculous conclusions might be drawn, we must stop them. I don’t care if it is interfering with the police in the execution of their duties, or whatever the phrase is. Besides, it isn’t. It’s stopping them from rushing to silly conclusions. We know that can’t be the truth, and that’s all that matters. So remember, Douglas – you’ve forgotten where you hid that bottle. And you won’t remember till I tell you to. Promise?’

Well, some husbands may condemn me, but not, I think, many. Frances has twice the head that I have, and I’m not ashamed to admit it – any more than Frances would be ashamed to admit that I have twice her physical strength. I promised. And I still believe I was right to do so.

2

Anneypenny was in the news now.

It was amusing, in a way, to us to see how the newspapers handled the situation. They knew all about the arsenic, of course, but not a hint of the word did they print. Instead they ran long stories about the post-mortem (to satisfy a grief-distracted widow), the dramatic semi-exhumation (ordered at the last minute by the same widow, kindly assisted by her helpful brother-in-law), and the insistence upon an analysis of the organs (still by that self-same widow). At the same time there were unexplained prophecies of an early inquest, explanations of just how wealthy the grief-stricken widow would now find herself and just how little difference the death would make financially to all members of the deceased’s own family, and apparently pointless descriptions of John’s habits, life and friends in Anneypenny, all sandwiched in between appreciations of his work and importance in the engineering world. Many of their readers must have been puzzled by what looked like an attempt to make a newspaper story out of just nothing at all; but we who knew realised how cunningly the ground was being prepared for what was evidently expected to be a sensation of the first magnitude.

As for ourselves, things were, rather against our expectations, quiet and comparatively normal for the next two days. The inquest was announced for the third day, and Frances and I duly received subpoenas to attend, and we were, of course, interviewed by the police.

This interview took place in the early afternoon after my somewhat eventful visit to Oswald’s Gable. I was at work in the smallest apple orchard and had to be summoned indoors by a flustered but delighted maid. Frances, I learned, had already ‘been good enough to answer a few questions’ from Superintendent Timms and Detective Inspector Carson, and I professed my willingness to follow suit.

There is no need to write out the interview in full. Both police officers were bland and courteous, though formal, the superintendent massively rotund, as suited his rank and responsibilities, the detective inspector tall and loosely built. I had not seen them in Angela’s bedroom but found, rather to my surprise, that I knew both of them by sight, and they seemed to take it for granted that they knew me; so the atmosphere, if official, was friendly.

I was interested to see how like a detective story their questioning was. If there was a difference, it lay in the complete lack of subtlety. They questioned me closely about my visit to John on the day he was first taken ill, and I gave them a minute and careful account of everything I had seen, fixing the times (about which they were insistent) as closely as I could. They asked me what I knew of John’s indigestion, and I told them what little I did know, adding for good measure how much more seriously John’s doctor had viewed it than had the patient himself. They asked me if I knew of anyone who had a grudge against him, and I had to admit that I could think of no one; everybody had liked him and wished him well; I found it impossible to believe that anyone could deliberately have poisoned him; the thing must have been an accident.

‘Maybe, sir, maybe,’ the superintendent answered non-
committally
.

It was then, at the end of the interview, that I imperilled the friendly atmosphere by presuming to offer advice.

‘I hope, Superintendent,’ I ventured, diffidently enough, ‘that you won’t concentrate too much on any single line to the possible exclusion of others. You know what I mean. There is violent prejudice in a certain quarter against one particular person. Those of us who know that person well feel that the suspicion is absurd: not merely because the lady is our friend, but because such a thing is entirely outside her character. You won’t, of course, attach any importance to that as evidence, but I do hope you won’t allow yourselves to be persuaded, or even tricked, into chasing a red herring.’

‘I think, Mr Sewell,’ said the superintendent stiffly, ‘that you can safely leave it to the police what lines of enquiry they
pursue
.’

‘Oh, of course,’ I agreed hurriedly.

And that was that.

But my hope that the police might keep an open mind was not to be fulfilled. Frances went up to Oswald’s Gable after tea to offer Angela a consoling word and was denied admittance to her bedroom. A large policeman (not our local friend) on duty in the passage outside informed her that the medical officer considered Mrs Waterhouse too ill to see anyone except her nurse and himself.

At that point Rona pushed her head out of the bedroom, saw Frances and took her downstairs to explain.

‘They’d let Rona stay, in the end,’ Frances told me afterwards. ‘They didn’t want to, but you know what Rona is when she’s made up her mind; and after all, they’d no real excuse for turning her out. But they’ve made Glen give an undertaking not to attend Angela; the Torminster police doctor, Doctor Fitch, is going to look after her, and Rona has agreed to take instructions from him.’

‘They’re keeping Glen away, are they?’ I said gloomily. ‘That means they’ve heard those damned silly rumours in the village, I suppose. But what’s happening? Have they arrested Angela?’

‘No. As far as I can make out they’d like to, and they would have done if they could have found a single grain of arsenic in the house. But of course there isn’t any, so they’ve got no evidence against her.’

‘Well, of course they haven’t, the idiots; because everyone except themselves and that fellow Cyril knows she didn’t do it, so naturally there’s no evidence against her,’ I said somewhat snappily, for I was still worried over the very vital evidence that we were withholding. ‘But if she’s not under arrest, what right have they to say who may see her and who mayn’t?’

‘I don’t know. But there’s always a way for the police to do what they want, isn’t there? I think she’s under surveillance, or preventive detention, or something like that; anyhow, she’s under it all right, and they won’t let anyone see her but her solicitor and Rona, who’s supposed to be nursing her.’

‘Well, it’s a blessing she’s got one ordinary contact with the outside world still. And for that matter she couldn’t have a better. Rona won’t stand any more nonsense than she can help. Any other news?’

‘I don’t think so. Oh yes, Rona said the police had taken samples from the drains and traps for analysis.’

‘A lot of use that will be. Oh, my goodness, Frances, I wish you’d never sneaked that bottle of medicine.’

‘Do you? I can’t make up my mind whether I do or not. But I promise you one thing. If the police do go off their heads and arrest Angela, you shall have it back – and do what you like with it.’

3

Excitedly as the whole of Anneypenny discussed the case during these two or three days before the inquest, opinion was, I think, almost unanimously in favour of Angela’s innocence. There were, of course, those who remembered her brother, and opined that blood would out and you never could tell and all the rest of it, but of the large majority Mrs Robert Perriton was a fair example.

Mrs Perriton, elderly, poker-backed and suspected of dyeing her hair, lived with her prim little old husband in an attractive Queen Anne house with a few acres of park to it, out on the other side of the village. She was known as a fussy but kind-hearted person, and was generally regarded as our local busybody; that is to say, she ran the branch of the Girls’ Friendly Society, the Village Institute and half-a-dozen other worthy activities, and was the recognised person for a girl to run to in time of trouble. I had always liked Mrs Perriton, and so did Frances; but there were many who laughed at her as a typical old maid who had somehow got married by mistake.