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“And what conclusion did you arrive at?”
“That they had not been changed. I could taste the Nux Vomica and smell the orange and the Liquor Arsenicalis—at least the lavender.”
“Did you realize what the lavender smell was due to?”
“Yes. I recognized it as the smell of Liquor Arsenicalis. I knew that deceased was taking Liquor Arsenicalis because I had asked Dr. Dimsdale about it when I first noticed the smell.”
The coroner wrote down this answer and then, raising his head, looked steadily at Madeline for some seconds without speaking; and the jury looked harder still. At length the former spoke, slowly, deliberately, emphatically.
“You have told us that you examined this medicine to find out what it contained, and that you were able to recognize Tincture of Cardamoms by its colour and Liquor Arsenicalis by its smell. It would seem, then, that you know a good deal about drugs. Is that so?”
“I know something about drugs. My father was a doctor and he taught me simple dispensing so that I could help him.”
The coroner nodded. “Was there any reason why you should have taken so much interest in the composition of deceased’s medicine?”
Madeline did not answer immediately. And as she stood trembling and hesitating in evident confusion, the coroner gazed at her stonily, and the jury craned forward to catch her reply.
“I used to examine his medicine,” she replied at length, in a low voice and a reluctant and confused manner, “because I knew that it often contained Liquor Arsenicalis and I used to wonder whether that was good for him. I understood from my father that it was a rather irritating drug, and it did not seem very suitable for a patient who suffered from gastritis.”
There was a pause after she had spoken and something in the appearance of the inquisitors almost as if they had been a little disappointed by this eminently reasonable answer. At length the coroner broke the silence by asking, with a slight softening of manner:
“You have said that the change in colour of the last medicine led you to taste and smell it to ascertain if the other ingredients had been changed. You have said that you decided that they had not been changed. Are you sure of that? Can you swear that the smell of lavender was not stronger in this bottle than in the previous ones?”
“It did not seem to me to be stronger.”
“Supposing the bottle had then contained as much Liquor Arsenicalis as was found in it by the analysts, would you have been able to detect it by the smell or otherwise?”
“Yes, I feel sure that I should. The analysts found three ounces of Liquor Arsenicalis; that would be nearly half the bottle. I am sure I should have detected that amount, not only by the strong smell but by the colour, too.”
“You are sure that the colour of this medicine was due to Cardamoms only?”
“Yes, that is to cochineal. I recognized it at once. It is perfectly unmistakable and quite different from the colour of Red Sandalwood, with which Liquor Arsenicalis is coloured. Besides, this medicine was only a deepish pink in colour. But if three ounces of Liquor Arsenicalis had been in the bottle, the medicine would have been quite a dark red.”
“You have had some experience in dispensing. Do you consider it possible that the Liquor Arsenicalis could have been put into the medicine by mistake when it was being made up?”
“It would be quite impossible if a minim measure-glass was used, as the glass would have had to be filled twelve times. But this is never done. One does not measure large quantities in small measures. Three ounces would be measured out in a four or five ounce measure, as a rule, or, possibly in a two ounce measure, by half refilling it.”
“Might not the wrong measure-glass have been taken up by mistake?”
“That is, of course, just possible. But it is most unlikely; for the great disproportion between the large measure-glass and the little stock-bottle would be so striking that it could hardly fail to be noticed.”
“Then, from your own observation and from Dr. Dimsdale’s evidence, you reject the idea that a mistake may have been made in dispensing this bottle of medicine?”
“Yes, entirely. I have heard Dr. Dimsdale’s evidence and I examined the medicine. I am convinced that he could not have made a mistake under the circumstances that he described and I am certain that the medicine that I saw did not contain more than a small quantity—less than a drachm—of Liquor Arsenicalis.”
“You are not forgetting that the analysts actually found the equivalent of three ounces of Liquor Arsenicalis in the bottle?”
“No. But I am sure it was not there when I examined the bottle.”
The coroner wrote down this answer with a deliberate air, and, when he had finished, turned to the jury.
“I think we have nothing more to ask this witness, unless there is any point that you want made more clear.”
There was a brief silence. Then the super-intelligent juryman interposed.
“I should like to know if this witness ever had any Liquor Arsenicalis in her possession.”
The coroner held up a warning hand to Madeline, and replied:
“That question, Sir, is not admissible. It is a principle of English law that a witness cannot be compelled to make a statement incriminating him—or herself. But an affirmative answer to this question would be an incriminating statement.”
“But I am perfectly willing to answer the question,” Madeline said eagerly. “I have never had in my possession any Liquor Arsenicalis or any other preparation of arsenic.”
“That answers your question, Sir,” said the coroner, as he wrote down the answer, “and if you have nothing more to ask, we can release the witness.”
He handed his pen to Madeline, and when she had signed her depositions—a terribly shaky signature it must have been—she came back to her chair, still very pale and agitated, but obviously relieved at having got through the ordeal. I had taken her arm as she sat down and was complimenting her on the really admirable way in which she had given her evidence, when I heard the name of
Anthony Wallingford called and realized that another unpleasant episode had arrived.
Chapter VI. The Verdict
I had not been taking much notice of Wallingford, my attention being occupied with the two women when it strayed from the proceedings. Beyond an irritated consciousness of his usual restless movements, I had no information as to how the soul-shaking incidents of this appalling day were affecting him. But when he rose drunkenly and, grasping the back of his chair, rolled his eyes wildly round the Court, I realized that there were breakers ahead.
When I say that he rose drunkenly, I use the word advisedly. Familiar as I was with his peculiarities—his jerkings, twitchings and grimacings—I saw, at once, that there was something unusual both in his face and in his bearing; a dull wildness of expression and an uncertainty of movement that I had never observed before. He had not come to the Court with the rest of us, preferring, for some reason, to come alone. And I now suspected that he had taken the opportunity to fortify himself on the way.
I was not the only observer of his condition. As he walked, with deliberate care, from his seat to the table, I noticed the coroner eyeing him critically and the jury exchanging dubious glances and whispered comments. He made a bad start by dropping the book on the floor and sniggering nervously as he stooped to pick it up; and I could see plainly, by the stiffness of the coroner’s manner that he had made an unfavourable impression before he began his evidence.
“You were secretary to the deceased?” said the coroner, when the witness had stated his name, age (33) and occupation. “What was the nature of your duties?”
“The ordinary duties of a secretary,” was the dogged reply.
“Will you kindly give us particulars of what you did for deceased?”
“I opened his business letters and answered them and some of his private ones. And I kept his accounts and paid his bills.”
“What accounts would those be? Deceased was not in business, I understand?”
“No, they were his domestic accounts; his income from investments and rents and his expenditure.”
“Did you attend upon deceased personally; I mean in the way of looking after his bodily comfort and supplying his needs?”
“I used to look in on him from time to time to see if he wanted anything done. But it wasn’t my business to wait on him. I was his secretary, not his valet.”
“Who did wait on him, and attend to his wants?”
“The housemaid, chiefly, and Miss Norris, and of course, Mrs. Monkhouse. But he didn’t usually want much but his food, his medicine, a few books from the library and a supply of candles for his lamp. His bell-push was connected with a bell in my room at night, but he never rang it.”
“Then, practically, the housemaid did everything for him?”
“Not everything. Miss Norris cooked most of his meals, we all used to give him his medicine, I used to put out his books and keep his fountain pen filled, and Mrs. Monkhouse kept his candle-box supplied. That was what he was most particular about as he slept badly and used to read at night.”
“You give us the impression, Mr. Wallingford,” the coroner said, dryly, “that you must have had a good deal of leisure.”
“Then I have given you the wrong impression. I was kept constantly on the go, doing jobs, paying tradesmen, shopping and running errands.”
“For whom?”
“Everybody. Deceased, Mrs. Monkhouse, Miss Norris and even Dr. Dimsdale. I was everybody’s servant.”
“What did you do for Mrs. Monkhouse?”
“I don’t see what that has got to do with this inquest?”
“That is not for you to decide,” the coroner said, sternly. “You will be good enough to answer my question.”
Wallingford winced as if he had had his ears cuffed. In a moment, his insolence evaporated and I could see his hands shaking as he, evidently, cudgelled his brains for a reply. Suddenly he seemed to have struck an idea.
“Shopping of various kinds,” said he; “for instance, there were the candles for deceased. His lamp was of German make and English lamp-candles wouldn’t fit it. So I used to have to go to a German shop at Sparrow Corner by the Tower, to get packets of Schneider’s stearine candles. That took about half a day.”
The coroner, stolidly and without comment, wrote down the answer, but my experience as a counsel told me that it had been a dummy question, asked to distract the witness’s attention and cover a more significant one that was to follow. For that question I waited expectantly, and when it came my surmise was confirmed.
“And Dr. Dimsdale? What did you have to do for him?”
“I used to help him with his books sometimes when he hadn’t got a dispenser. I am a pretty good accountant and he isn’t.”
“Where does Dr. Dimsdale do his bookkeeping?”
“At the desk in the surgery.”
“And is that where you used to work?”
“Yes.”
“Used Dr. Dimsdale to work with you or did you do the books by yourself?”
“I usually worked by myself.”
“At what time in the day used you to work there?”
“In the afternoon, as a rule.”
“At what hours does Dr. Dimsdale visit his patients?”
“Most of the day. He goes out about ten and finishes about six or seven.”
“So that you would usually be alone in the surgery?”
“Yes, usually.”
As the coroner wrote down the answer I noticed the superintelligent juryman fidgeting in his seat. At length he burst out:
“Is the poison cupboard in the surgery?”
The coroner looked interrogatively at Wallingford, who stared at him blankly in sudden confusion.
“You heard the question? Is the poison cupboard there?”
“I don’t know. It may be. It wasn’t any business of mine.”
“Is there any cupboard in the surgery? You must know that.”
“Yes, there is a cupboard there, but I don’t know what is in it.”
“Did you never see it open?”
“No. Never.”
“And you never had the curiosity to look into it?”
“Of course I didn’t. Besides I couldn’t. It was locked.”
“Was it always locked when you were there?”
“Yes, always.”
“Are you certain of that?”
“Yes, perfectly certain.”
Here the super-intelligent juror looked as if he were about to spring across the table as he demanded eagerly:
“How does the witness know that that cupboard was locked?”
The coroner looked slightly annoyed. He had been playing his fish carefully and was in no wise helped by this rude jerk of the line. Nevertheless, he laid down his pen and looked expectantly at the witness. As for Wallingford, he was struck speechless. Apparently his rather muddled brain had suddenly taken in the import of the question, for he stood with dropped jaw and damp, pallid face, staring at the juryman in utter consternation.
“Well,” said the coroner, after an interval, “how did you know that it was locked?”
Wallingford pulled himself together by an effort and replied:
“Why, I knew—I knew, of course, that it must be locked.”
“Yes; but the question is, how did you know?”
“Why it stands to reason that it must have been locked.”
“Why does it stand to reason? Cupboards are not always locked.”
“Poison cupboards are. Besides, you heard Dimsdale say that he always kept this cupboard locked. He showed you the key.”
Once more the coroner, having noted the answer, laid down his pen and looked steadily at the witness.
“Now, Mr. Wallingford,” said he, “I must caution you to be careful as to what you say. This is a serious matter, and you are giving evidence on oath. You said just now that you did not know whether the poison cupboard was or was not in the surgery. You said that you did not know what was in that cupboard. Now you say that you knew the cupboard must have been locked because it was the poison cupboard. Then it seems that you did know that it was the poison cupboard. Isn’t that so?”
“No. I didn’t know then. I do now because I heard Dimsdale say that it was.”
“Then, you said that you were perfectly certain that the cupboard was always locked whenever you were working there. That meant that you knew positively, as a fact, that it was locked. Now you say that you knew that it must be locked. But that is an assumption, an opinion, a belief. Now, a man of your education must know the difference between a mere belief and actual knowledge. Will you, please, answer definitely: Did you, or did you not, know as a fact whether that cupboard was or was not locked?”
“Well, I didn’t actually know, but I took it for granted that it was locked.”
“You did not try the door?”
“Certainly not. Why should I?”
“Very well. Does any gentleman of the jury wish to ask any further questions about this cupboard?”
There was a brief silence. Then the foreman said:
“We should like the witness to say what he means and not keep contradicting himself.”
“You hear that, Sir,” said the coroner. “Please be more careful in your answers in future. Now, I want to ask you about that last bottle of medicine. Did you notice anything unusual in its appearance?”
“No. I didn’t notice it at all. I didn’t know that it had come.”
“Did you go into deceased’s room on that day—the Wednesday?”
“Yes, I went to see deceased in the morning about ten o’clock and gave him a dose of his medicine; and I looked in on him in the evening about nine o’clock to see if he wanted anything, but he didn’t.”
“Did you give him any medicine then?”
“No. It was not due for another hour.”
“What was his condition then?”
“He looked about the same as usual. He seemed inclined to doze, so I did not stay long.”
“Is that the last time you saw him alive?”
“No. I looked in again just before eleven. He was then in much the same state—rather drowsy and, at his request, I turned out the gas and left him.”
“Did you light the candle?”
“No, he always did that himself, if he wanted it.”
“Did you give him any medicine?”
“No. He had just had a dose.”
“Did he tell you that he had?”
“No. I could see that there was a dose gone.”
“From which bottle was that?”
“There was only one bottle there. It must have been the new bottle, as only one dose had been taken.”
“What colour was the medicine?”
Wallingford hesitated a moment or two as if suspecting a trap. Then he replied, doggedly: “I don’t know. I told you I didn’t notice it.”
“You said that you didn’t notice it at all and didn’t know that it had come. Now you say that you observed that only one dose had been taken from it and that you inferred that it was the new bottle. Which of those statements is the true one?”
“They are both true,” Wallingford protested in a whining tone. “I meant that I didn’t notice the medicine particularly and that I didn’t know when it came.”
“That is not what you said,” the coroner rejoined. “However, we will let that pass. Is there anything more that you wish to ask this witness, gentlemen? If not, we will release him and take the evidence of Mr. Mayfield.”
I think the jury would have liked to bait Wallingford but apparently could not think of any suitable questions. But they watched him malevolently as he added his—probably quite illegible—
signature to his depositions and followed him with their eyes as he tottered shakily back to his seat. Immediately afterwards my name was called and I took my place at the table, not without a slight degree of nervousness; for, though I was well enough used to examinations, it was in the capacity of examiner, not of witness, and I was fully alive to the possibility of certain pitfalls which the coroner might, if he were wide enough awake, dig for me. However, when I had been sworn and had given my particulars (Rupert Mayfield, 35, Barrister-at-Law, of No. 64 Fig Tree Court, Inner Temple) the coroner’s conciliatory manner led me to hope that it would be all plain sailing.
“How long have you known deceased?” was the first question.
“About two and a half years,” I replied.
“You are one of the executors of his will, Mrs. Monkhouse has told us.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know why you were appointed executor after so short an acquaintance?”
“I am an old friend of Mrs. Monkhouse. I have known her since she was a little girl. I was a friend of her father—or rather, her stepfather.”
“Was it by her wish that you were made executor?”
“I believe that the suggestion came from the deceased’s family solicitor, Mr. Brodribb, who is my co-executor. But probably he was influenced by my long acquaintance with Mrs. Monkhouse.”
“Has probate been applied for?”
“Yes.”
“Then there can be no objections to your disclosing the provisions of the will. We don’t want to hear them in detail, but I will ask you to give us a general idea of the disposal of deceased’s property.”
“The gross value of the estate is about fifty-five thousand pounds, of which twelve thousand represents real property and forty-three thousand personal. The principal beneficiaries are: Mrs. Monkhouse, who receives a house valued at four thousand pounds and twenty thousand pounds in money and securities; the Reverend
Amos Monkhouse, land of the value of five thousand and ten thousand invested money; Madeline Norris, a house and land valued at three thousand and five thousand in securities; Anthony Wallingford, four thousand pounds. Then there are legacies of a thousand pounds each to the two executors, and of three hundred, two hundred and one hundred respectively to the housemaid, the cook and the kitchen maid. That accounts for the bulk of the estate. Mrs. Monkhouse is the residuary legatee.”
The coroner wrote down the answer as I gave it and then read it out slowly for me to confirm, working out, at the same time, a little sum on a spare piece of paper as did also the intellectual juryman.
“I think that gives us all the information we want,” the former remarked, glancing at the jury; and as none of them made any comment, he proceeded:
“Did you see much of deceased during the last few months?”
“I saw him usually once or twice a week. Sometimes oftener. But I did not spend much time with him. He was a solitary, bookish man who preferred to be alone most of his time.”
“Did you take particular notice of his state of health?”
“No, but I did observe that his health seemed to grow rather worse lately.”
“Did it appear to you that he received such care and attention as a man in his condition ought to have received?”
“It did not appear to me that he was neglected.”
“Did you realize how seriously ill he was?”
“No, I am afraid not. I regarded him merely as a chronic invalid.”
“It never occurred to you that he ought to have had a regular nurse?”
“No, and I do not think he would have consented. He greatly disliked having any one about his room.”
“Is there anything within your knowledge that would throw any light on the circumstances of his death?”
“No. Nothing.”
“Have you ever known arsenic in any form to be used in that household for any purpose; any fly-papers, weed-killer or insecticides, for instance?”
“No, I do not remember ever having seen anything used in that household which, to my knowledge or belief, contained arsenic.”
“Do you know of any fact or circumstance which, in your opinion, ought to be communicated to this Court or which might help the jury in arriving at their verdict?”
“No, I do not.”
This brought my examination to an end. I was succeeded by the cook and the kitchen-maid, but, as they had little to tell, and that little entirely negative, their examination was quite brief. When the last witness was dismissed, the coroner addressed the jury.
“We have now, gentlemen,” said he, “heard all the evidence that is at present available, and we have the choice of two courses; which are, either to adjourn the inquiry until further evidence is available, or to find a verdict on the evidence which we have heard. I incline strongly to the latter plan. We are now in a position to answer the questions, how, when and where the deceased came by his death, and when we have done that, we shall have discharged our proper function. What is your feeling on the matter, gentlemen?”
The jury’s feeling was very obviously that they wished to get the inquiry over and go about their business, and when they had made this clear, the coroner proceeded to sum up.
“I shall not detain you, gentlemen, with a long address. All that is necessary is for me to recapitulate the evidence very briefly and point out the bearing of it.
“First as to the cause of death. It has been given in evidence by two fully qualified and expert witnesses that deceased died from the effects of poisoning by arsenic. That is a matter of fact which is not disputed and which you must accept, unless you have any reasons for rejecting their testimony, which I feel sure you have not. Accepting the fact of death by poison, the question then arises as to how the poison came to be taken by deceased. There are three possibilities: he may have taken it himself, voluntarily and knowingly; he may have taken it by accident or mischance; or it may have been administered to him knowingly and maliciously by some other person or persons. Let us consider those three possibilities.
“The suggestion that deceased might have taken the poison voluntarily is highly improbable in three respects. First, since deceased was mostly bed-ridden, it would have been almost impossible for him to have obtained the poison. Second, there is the nature of the poison. Arsenic has often been used for homicidal poisoning but seldom for suicide; for an excellent reason. The properties of arsenic which commend it to poisoners—its complete freedom from taste and the indefinite symptoms that it produces— do not commend it to the suicide. He has no need to conceal either the administration or its results. His principal need is rapidity of effect. But arsenic is a relatively slow poison and one which usually causes great suffering. It is not at all suited to the suicide. Then there is the third objection that the mode of administration was quite unlike that of a suicide. For the latter usually takes his poison in one large dose, to get the business over; but here it was evidently given in repeated small doses over a period that may have been anything from a week to a year. And, finally, there is not a particle of evidence in favour of the supposition that deceased took the poison himself.
“To take the second case, that of accident: the only possibility known to us is that of a mistake in dispensing the medicine. But the evidence of Dr. Dimsdale and Miss Norris must have convinced you that the improbability of a mistake is so great as to be practically negligible. Of course, the poison might have found its way accidentally into the medicine or the food or both in some manner unknown to us. But while we admit this, we have, in fact, to form our decision on what is known to us, not what is conceivable but unknown.
“When we come to the third possibility, that the poison was administered to deceased by some other person or persons with intent to compass his death, we find it supported by positive evidence. There is the bottle of medicine for instance. It contained a large quantity of arsenic in a soluble form. But two witnesses have sworn that it could not have contained, and, in fact, did not contain that quantity of arsenic when it left Dr. Dimsdale’s surgery or when it was delivered at deceased’s house. Moreover, Miss Norris has sworn that she examined this bottle of medicine at six o’clock in the
evening and that it did not then contain more than a small quantity —less than a drachm—of Liquor Arsenicalis. She was perfectly positive. She spoke with expert knowledge. She gave her reasons, and they were sound reasons. So that the evidence in our possession is to the effect that at six o’clock in the afternoon, that bottle of medicine did not contain more than a drachm—about a teaspoonful—of Liquor Arsenicalis; whereas at half-past ten, when a dose from the bottle was given to deceased by the housemaid, it contained some three ounces—about six tablespoonfuls. This is proved by the discovery of the poison in the stomach of deceased and by the exact analysis of the contents of the bottle. It follows that, between six o’clock and half-past ten, that a large quantity of arsenical solution must have been put into the bottle. It is impossible to suppose that it could have got in by accident. Somebody must have put it in; and the only conceivable object that the person could have had in putting that poison into the bottle would be to cause the death of deceased.
“But further; the evidence of the medical witnesses proves that arsenic had been taken by deceased on several previous occasions. That, in fact, he had been taking arsenic in relatively small doses for some time past—how long we do not know—and had been suffering from chronic arsenical poisoning. The evidence, therefore, points very strongly and definitely to the conclusion that some person or persons had been, for some unascertained time past, administering arsenic to him.
“Finally, as to the identity of the person or persons who administered the poison, I need not point out that we have no evidence. You will have noticed that a number of persons benefit in a pecuniary sense by deceased’s death. But that fact establishes no suspicion against any of them in the absence of positive evidence; and there is no positive evidence connecting any one of them with the administration of the poison. With these remarks, gentlemen, I leave you to consider the evidence and agree upon your decision.”
The jury did not take long in arriving at their verdict. After a few minutes’ eager discussion, the foreman announced that they had come to an unanimous decision.
“And what is the decision upon which you have agreed?” the coroner asked.
“We find,” was the reply, “that deceased died from the effects of arsenic, administered to him by some person or persons unknown, with the deliberate intention of causing his death.”
“Yes,” said the coroner; “that is, in effect, a verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons unknown. I agree with you entirely. No other verdict was possible on the evidence before us. It is unfortunate that no clue has happened as to the perpetrator of this abominable crime, but we may hope that the investigations of the police will result in the identification and conviction of the murderer.”
The conclusion of the coroner’s address brought the proceedings to an end, and as he finished speaking, the spectators rose and began to pass out of the Court. I remained for a minute to speak a few words to Mr. Holman and ask him to transcribe his report in duplicate. Then, I, too, went out to find my three companions squeezing into a taxicab which had drawn up opposite the entrance, watched with ghoulish curiosity by a quite considerable crowd. The presence of that crowd informed me that the horrible notoriety which I had foreseen had even now begun to envelop us. The special editions of the evening papers were already out, with, at least, the opening scenes of the inquest in print. Indeed, during the short drive to Hilborough Square, I saw more than one news-vendor dealing out papers to little knots of eager purchasers, and once, through the open window, a stentorian voice was borne in with hideous distinctness, announcing: “Sensational Inquest! Funeral stopped!”
I glanced from Wallingford, cowering in his corner, to Barbara, sitting stiffly upright with a slight frown on her pale face. As she caught my eye, she remarked bitterly:
“It seems that we are having greatness thrust upon us.”
Chapter VII. The Search Warrant
The consciousness of the horrid notoriety that had already attached itself to us was brought home to me once more when the taxi drew up at the house in Hilborough Square. I stepped out first to pay the driver, and Barbara following, with the latch-key ready in her hand, walked swiftly to the door, looking neither to the right nor left, opened it and disappeared into the hall; while the other two, lurking in the cab until the door was open, then darted across the pavement, entered and disappeared also. Nor was their hasty retreat unjustified. Lingering doggedly and looking about me with a sort of resentful defiance, I found myself a focus of observation. In the adjoining houses, not a window appeared to be unoccupied. The usually vacant foot-way was populous with loiterers whose interest in me and in the ill-omened house was undissembled; while raucous voices, strange to those quiet precincts, told me that the astute news-vendors had scented and exploited a likely market.
With ill-assumed indifference I entered the house and shut the door—perhaps rather noisily; and was about to enter the diningroom when I heard hurried steps descending the stairs and paused to look up. It was the woman—the cook’s sister, I think who had been left to take care of the house while the servants were absent; and something of eagerness and excitement in her manner caused me to walk to the foot of the stairs to meet her.
“Is anything amiss?” I asked in a low voice as she neared the bottom of the flight.
She held up a warning finger, and coming close to me, whispered hoarsely:
“There’s two gentlemen upstairs, Sir, leastways they look like gentlemen, but they are really policemen.”
“What are they doing upstairs?” I asked.
“Just walking through the rooms and looking about. They came about a quarter of an hour ago, and when I let them in they said they were police officers and that they had come to search the premises.”
“Did they say anything about a warrant?”
“Oh, yes, Sir. I forgot about that. One of them showed me a paper and said it was a search warrant. So of course I couldn’t do anything. And then they started going through the house with their note-books like auctioneers getting ready for a sale.”
“I will go up and see them,” said I; “and meanwhile you had better let Mrs. Monkhouse know. Where did you leave them?”
“In the large back bedroom on the first floor,” she replied. “I think it was Mr. Monkhouse’s.”
On this I began quickly to ascend the stairs, struggling to control a feeling of resentment which, though natural enough, I knew to be quite unreasonable. Making my way direct to the dead man’s room, I entered and found two tall men standing before an open cupboard. They turned on hearing me enter and the elder of them drew a large wallet from his pocket.
“Mr. Mayfield, I think, Sir,” said he. “I am Detective Superintendent Miller and this is Detective-Sergeant Cope. Here is my card and this is the search warrant, if you wish to see it.”
I glanced at the document and returning it to him asked: “Wouldn’t it have been more in order if you had waited to show the warrant to Mrs. Monkhouse before beginning your search?”
“That is what we have done,” he replied, suavely. “We have disturbed nothing yet. We have just been making a preliminary inspection. Of course,” he continued, “I understand how unpleasant this search is for Mrs. Monkhouse and the rest of your friends, but you, Sir, as a lawyer will realize the position. That poor gentleman was poisoned with arsenic in this house. Somebody in this house had arsenic in his or her possession and we have got to see if any
traces of it are left. After all, you know, Sir, we are acting in the interests of everybody but the murderer.”
This was so obviously true that it left me nothing to say. Nor was there any opportunity, for, as the superintendent concluded, Barbara entered the room. I looked at her a little anxiously as I briefly explained the situation. But there was no occasion. Pale and sombre of face, she was nevertheless perfectly calm and self-possessed and greeted the two officers without a trace of resentment; indeed, when the superintendent was disposed to be apologetic, she cut him short by exclaiming energetically: “But, surely, who should be more anxious to assist you than I? It is true that I find it incredible that this horrible crime could have been perpetrated by any member of my household. But it was perpetrated by somebody. And if, either here or elsewhere, I can help you in any way to drag that wretch out into the light of day, I am at your service, no matter who the criminal may be. Do you wish any one to attend you in your search?”
“I think, Madam, it would be well if you were present, and perhaps Mr. Mayfield. If we want any of the others, we can send for them. Where are they now?”
“Miss Norris and Mr. Wallingford are in the dining room. The servants have just come in and I think have gone to the kitchen or their sitting room.”
“Then,” said Miller, “we had better begin with the dining room.”
We went down the stairs, preceded by Barbara, who opened the dining room door and introduced the visitors to the two inmates in tones as quiet and matter-of-fact as if she were announcing the arrival of the gas-fitter or the upholsterer. I was sorry that the other two had not been warned, for the announcement took them both by surprise and they were in no condition for surprises of this rather alarming kind. At the word “search,” Madeline started up with a smothered exclamation and then sat down again, trembling and pale as death; while as for Wallingford, if the two officers had come to pinion him and lead him forth to the gallows, he could not have looked more appalled.
Our visitors were scrupulously polite, but they were also keenly observant and I could see that each had made a mental note of the
effect of their arrival. But, of course, they made no outward sign of interest in any of us but proceeded stolidly with their business; and I noticed that, before proceeding to a detailed inspection, they opened their note-books and glanced through what was probably a rough inventory, to see that nothing had been moved in the interval since their preliminary inspection.
The examination of the dining room was, however, rather perfunctory. It contained nothing that appeared to interest them, and after going through the contents of the sideboard cupboards methodically, the superintendent turned a leaf of his note-book and said:
“I think that will do, Madam. Perhaps we had better take the library next. Who keeps the keys of the bureau and the cupboard?”
“Mr. Wallingford has charge of the library,” replied Barbara. “Will you give the superintendent your keys, Tony?”
“There’s no need for that,” said Miller. “If Mr. Wallingford will come with us, he can unlock the drawers and cupboard and tell us anything that we want to know about the contents.”
Wallingford rose with a certain alacrity and followed us into the library, which adjoined the dining room. Here the two officers again consulted their note-books, and having satisfied themselves that the room was as they had left it, began a detailed survey, watched closely and with evident anxiety by Wallingford. They began with a cupboard, or small armoire, which formed the upper member of a large, old-fashioned bureau. Complying with Miller’s polite request that it might be unlocked, Wallingford produced a bunch of keys, and, selecting from it, after much nervous fumbling, a small key, endeavoured to insert it into the keyhole; but his hand was in such a palsied condition that he was unable to introduce it.
“Shall I have a try, Sir?” the superintendent suggested, patiently, adding with a smile, “I don’t smoke quite so many cigarettes as you seem to.”
His efforts, however, also failed, for the evident reason that it was the wrong key. Thereupon he looked quickly through the bunch, picked out another key and had the cupboard open in a twinkling, revealing a set of shelves crammed with a disorderly litter of
cardboard boxes, empty ink-bottles, bundles of letters and papers and the miscellaneous rubbish that accumulates in the receptacles of a thoroughly untidy man. The superintendent went through the collection methodically, emptying the shelves, one at a time, on to the flap of the bureau, where he and the sergeant sorted the various articles and examining each, returned it to the shelf. It was a tedious proceeding and, so far as I could judge, unproductive, for, when all the shelves had been looked through and every article separately inspected, nothing was brought to light save an empty foolscap envelope which had apparently once contained a small box and was addressed to Wallingford, and two pieces of what looked like chemist’s wrapping-paper, the creases in which showed that they had been small packets. These were not returned to the shelves, but, without comment, enclosed in a large envelope on which the superintendent scribbled a few words with a pencil and which was then consigned to a large handbag that the sergeant had brought in with him from the hall.
The large drawers of the bureau were next examined. Like the shelves, they were filled with a horrible accumulation of odds and ends which had evidently been stuffed into them to get them out of the way. From this collection nothing was obtained which interested the officers, who next turned their attention to the small drawers and pigeonholes at the back of the flap. These, however, contained nothing but stationery and a number of letters, bills and other papers, which the two officers glanced through and replaced. When all the small drawers and pigeonholes had been examined, the superintendent stood up, fixing a thoughtful glance at the middle of the range of drawers; and I waited expectantly for the next development. Like many old bureaus, this one had as a central feature a nest of four very small drawers enclosed by a door. I knew the arrangement very well, and so, apparently, did the superintendent; for, once more opening the top drawer, he pulled it right out and laid it on the writing flap. Then, producing from his pocket a folding foot-rule, he thrust it into one of the pigeonholes, showing a depth of eight and a half inches, and then into the case of
the little drawer, which proved to be only a fraction over five inches deep.
“There is something more here than meets the eye,” he remarked pleasantly. “Do you know what is at the back of those drawers, Mr. Wallingford?”
The unfortunate secretary, who had been watching the officer’s proceedings with a look of consternation, did not reply for a few moments, but remained staring wildly at the aperture from which the drawer had been taken out.
“At the back?” he stammered, at length. “No, I can’t say that I do. It isn’t my bureau, you know. I only had the use of it.”
“I see,” said Miller. “Well, I expect we can soon find out.”
He drew out a second drawer and, grasping the partition between the two, gave a gentle pull, when the whole nest slid easily forward and came right out of its case. Miller laid it on the writing flap, and, turning it round, displayed a sliding lid at the back, which he drew up; when there came into view a set of four little drawers similar to those in front but furnished with leather tabs instead of handles. Miller drew out the top drawer and a sudden change in the expression on his face told me that he had lighted on something that seemed to him significant.
“Now I wonder what this is?” said he, taking from the drawer a small white-paper packet. “Feels like some sort of powder. You say you don’t know anything about it, Mr. Wallingford?”
Wallingford shook his head but made no further reply, whereupon the superintendent laid the packet on the flap and very carefully unfolded the ends—it had already been opened—when it was seen that the contents consisted of some two or three teaspoonfuls of a fine, white powder.
“Well,” said Miller, “we shall have to find out what it is. Will you pass me that bit of sealing-wax, Sergeant?”
He reclosed the packet with the greatest care and having sealed both the ends with his signet-ring, enclosed it in an envelope and put it into his inside breast pocket. Then he returned to the little nest of drawers. The second drawer was empty, but on pulling out the third, he uttered an exclamation.
“Well, now! Look at that! Somebody seems to have been fond of physic. And there’s no doubt as to what this is. Morphine hydrochlor, a quarter of a grain.”
As he spoke, he took out of the drawer a little bottle filled with tiny white discs or tablets and bearing on the label the inscription which the superintendent had read out. Wallingford gazed at it with a foolish expression of surprise as Miller held it up for our and particularly Wallingford’s—inspection; and Barbara, I noticed, cast at the latter a side-long, inscrutable glance which I sought in vain to interpret.
“Morphine doesn’t seem much to the point,” Miller remarked as he wrapped the little bottle in paper and bestowed it in his inner pocket, “but, of course, we have only got the evidence of the label. It may turn out to be something else, when the chemical gentlemen come to test it.”
With this he grasped the tab of the bottom drawer and drew the latter out; and in a moment his face hardened. Very deliberately, he picked out a small, oblong envelope, which appeared once to have contained a box or hard packet, but was now empty. It had evidently come through the post and was addressed in a legible business hand to “A. Wallingford Esq., 16 Hilborough Square.” Silently the superintendent held it out for us all to see, as he fixed a stern look on Wallingford. “You observe, Sir,” he said, at length, “that the postmark is dated the 20th of August; only about a month ago. What have you to say about it?”
“Nothing,” was the sullen reply. “What comes to me by post is my affair. I am not accountable to you or anybody else.”
For a moment, the superintendent’s face took on a very ugly expression. But he seemed to be a wise man and not unkindly, for he quickly controlled his irritation and rejoined without a trace of anger, though gravely enough:
“Be advised by me, Mr. Wallingford, and don’t make trouble for yourself. Let me remind you what the position is. In this house a man has died from arsenic poisoning. The police will have to find out how that happened and if any one is open to the suspicion of having poisoned him. I have come here to-day for that purpose with full
authority to search this house. In the course of my search I have asked you for certain information, and you have made a number of false statements. Believe me, Sir, that is a very dangerous thing to do. It inevitably raises the question why those false statements should have been made. Now, I am going to ask you one or two questions. You are not bound to answer them, but you will be well advised to hold nothing back, and, above all, to say nothing that is not true. To begin with that packet of powder. What do you say that packet contains?”
Wallingford, who characteristically, was now completely cowed by the superintendent’s thinly-veiled threats, hung his head for a moment and then replied, almost inaudibly, “Cocaine.”
“What were you going to do with cocaine?” Miller asked.
“I was going to take a little of it for my health.”
The superintendent smiled faintly as he demanded:
“And the morphine tablets?”
“I had thought of taking one of them occasionally to—er—to steady my nerves.”
Miller nodded, and casting a swift glance at the sergeant, asked: “And the packet that was in this envelope: what did that contain?”
Wallingford hesitated and was so obviously searching for a plausible lie that Miller interposed, persuasively: “Better tell the truth and not make trouble”; whereupon Wallingford replied in a barely audible mumble that the packet had contained a very small quantity of cocaine.
“What has become of that cocaine?” the superintendent asked. “I took part of it; the rest got spilt and lost.”
Miller nodded rather dubiously at this reply and then asked: “Where did you get this cocaine and the morphine?”
Wallingford hesitated for some time and at length, plucking up a little courage again, replied:
“I would rather not answer that question. It really has nothing to do with your search. You are looking for arsenic.”
Miller reflected for a few moments and then rejoined, quietly:
“That isn’t quite correct, Mr. Wallingford. I am looking for anything that may throw light on the death of Mr. Monkhouse. But I don’t want to press you unduly, only I would point out that you could not have come by these drugs lawfully. You are not a doctor or a chemist. Whoever supplied you with them was acting illegally and you have been a party to an illegal transaction in obtaining them. However, if you refuse to disclose the names of the persons who supplied them, we will let the matter pass, at least for the present; but I remind you that you have had these drugs in your possession and that you may be, and probably will be compelled to give an account of the way in which you obtained them.”
With that he pocketed the envelope, closed the drawers and turned to make a survey of the room. There was very little in it, however, for the bureau and its surmounting cupboard were the only receptacles in which anything could be concealed, the whole of the walls being occupied by open book-shelves about seven feet high. But even these the superintendent was not prepared to take at their face value. First, he stood on a chair and ran his eye slowly along the tops of all the shelves; then he made a leisurely tour of the room, closely inspecting each row of books, now and again taking one out or pushing one in against the back of the shelves. A set of box-files was examined in detail, each one being opened to ascertain that it contained nothing but papers, and even one or two obvious portfolios were taken out and inspected. Nothing noteworthy, however, was brought to light by this rigorous search until the tour of inspection was nearly completed. The superintendent was, in fact, approaching the door when his attention was attracted by a row of books which seemed to be unduly near the front edge of the shelf. Opposite this he halted and began pushing the books back, one at a time. Suddenly I noticed that one of the books, on being pushed, slid back about half an inch and stopped as if there were something behind it. And there was. When the superintendent grasped the book and drew it out, there came into view, standing against the back of the shelf, a smallish bottle, apparently empty, and bearing a white label.
