Scales opened his mouth to speak, and was suddenly assailed by a queer, sick qualm. He plunged for the door. As he went, he saw the doctor carry the flask behind the screen.
Damn that reporter! He was still hanging round. Meat and drink to the papers, this kind of thing. Heroic sacrifice by grateful author. Good story. Better story still if the heroic author were to catch him by the arm, pour into his ear the unbelievable truth – were to say, ‘I hated him, I hated him, I tell you – I’ve poisoned him – my blood’s poison – serpent’s blood, dragon’s blood—’
And what would the doctor say? If this really had gone wrong, would he suspect? What could he suspect? He hadn’t seen the plate move. Nobody had. He might suspect himself of negligence, but he wouldn’t be likely to shout that from the housetops. And he had been negligent – pompous, fat, chattering fool. Why didn’t he mark the specimens earlier? Why didn’t he match-up the blood with Drury’s? Why did he need to chatter so much and explain things? Tell people how easy it was to murder a benefactor?
Scales wished he knew what was happening. Walter was hovering outside in the passage. Walter was jealous – he had looked on enviously, grudgingly, as Scales came stumbling in from the operation. If only Walter knew what Scales had been doing, he might well look . . . It occurred to Scales that he had played a shabby trick on Walter – cheated him – Walter, who had wanted so much to sacrifice his right, his true, his life-giving blood . . .
Twenty minutes . . . nearly half an hour . . . How soon would they know whether it was all right or all wrong? ‘As well give him prussic acid,’ the doctor had said. That suggested something pretty drastic. Prussic acid was quick – you died as if struck.
Scales got up, pushed Walter and the pressman aside and crossed the passage. In Drury’s room the screen had been pushed back. Scales, peeping through the door, could see Drury’s face, white and glistening with sweat. The doctor bent over the patient, holding his wrist. He looked distressed – almost alarmed. Suddenly he turned, caught sight of Scales and came over to him. He seemed to take minutes to cross the room.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the doctor. ‘I’m very much afraid – you did your best – we all did our best.’
‘No good?’ Scales whispered back. His tongue and palate were like sawdust.
‘One can never be certain with these things,’ said the doctor. ‘I’m very much afraid he’s going.’ He paused and his eyes were faintly puzzled. ‘So much haemorrhage,’ he muttered as though explaining the trouble to himself. ‘Shock – cardiac strain – excitable’ – and, in a worried voice – ‘he complained almost at once of pain in the back.’ He added, with more assurance: ‘It’s always a bit of a gamble, you see, when the operation is left so late – and sometimes there is a particular idiosyncrasy. I should have preferred a direct test; but it’s not satisfactory if the patient dies while you wait to make sure.’
With a wry smile he turned back to the couch, and Scales followed him. If Drury could have acted death as he was acting it now! . . . Scales could not rid himself of the notion that he was acting – that the shine upon the skin was grease-paint, and the rough, painful breathing, the stereotyped stage gasp. If truth could be so stagey, then the stage must be disconcertingly like truth.
Something sobbed at his elbow. Walter had crept into the room, and this time the doctor made way for him.
‘Oh, Mr Drury!’ said Walter.
Drury’s blue lips moved. He opened his eyes: the dilated pupils made them look black and enormous.
‘Where’s Brand?’
The doctor turned interrogatively to the other two men. ‘His son?’
‘His understudy,’ whispered Scales. Walter said, ‘He’ll be here in a minute, Mr Drury.’
‘They’re waiting,’ said Drury. He drew a difficult breath and spoke in his old voice:
‘Brand! Fetch Brand! The curtain must go up!’
Garrick Drury’s death was very ‘good theatre’.
Nobody, thought Scales, could ever know. He could never really know himself. Drury might have died, anyhow, of shock. Even if the blood had been right, he might have died. One couldn’t be certain, now, that the blood hadn’t been right; it might have been all imagination about the smudged pink rose. Or – one might be sure, deep in one’s own mind. But nobody could prove it. Or – could the doctor? There would have to be an inquest, of course. Would they make a post-mortem? Could they prove that the blood was wrong? If so, the doctor had his ready explanation – ‘particular idiosyncrasy’ and lack of time to make further test. He must give that explanation, or accuse himself of negligence.
Because nobody could prove that the plate had been moved. Walter and the doctor had not seen it – if they had, they would have spoken. Nor could it be proved that he, Scales, had seen it – he was not even certain himself, except in the hidden chambers of the heart. And he, who lost so much by Drury’s death – to suppose that he could have seen and not spoken was fantastic. There are things beyond the power even of a coroner to imagine or of a coroner’s jury to believe.
SUSPICION
As the atmosphere of the railway carriage thickened with tobacco-smoke, Mr Mummery became increasingly aware that his breakfast had not agreed with him.
There could have been nothing wrong with the breakfast itself. Brown bread, rich in vitamin-content, as advised by the Morning Star’s health expert; bacon fried to a delicious crispness; eggs just nicely set; coffee made as only Mrs Sutton knew how to make it. Mrs Sutton had been a real find, and that was something to be thankful for. For Ethel, since her nervous breakdown in the Summer, had really not been fit to wrestle with the untrained girls who had come and gone in tempestuous succession. It took very little to upset Ethel nowadays, poor child. Mr Mummery, trying hard to ignore his growing internal discomfort, hoped he was not in for an illness. Apart from the trouble it would cause at the office, it would worry Ethel terribly, and Mr Mummery would cheerfully have laid down his rather uninteresting little life to spare Ethel a moment’s uneasiness.
He slipped a digestive tablet into his mouth – he had taken lately to carrying a few tablets about with him – and opened his paper. There did not seem to be very much news. A question had been asked in the House about Government typewriters. The Prince of Wales had smilingly opened an all-British exhibition of foot-wear. A further split had occurred in the Liberal party. The police were still looking for the woman who was supposed to have poisoned a family in Lincoln. Two girls had been trapped in a burning factory. A film-star had obtained her fourth decree nisi.
At Paragon Station, Mr Mummery descended and took a tram. The internal discomfort was taking the form of a definite nausea. Happily he contrived to reach his office before the worst occurred. He was seated at his desk, pale but in control of himself, when his partner came breezing in.
‘’Morning, Mummery,’ said Mr Brookes in his loud tones, adding inevitably, ‘Cold enough for you?’
‘Quite,’ replied Mr Mummery. ‘Unpleasantly raw, in fact.’
‘Beastly, beastly,’ said Mr Brookes. ‘Your bulbs all in?’
‘Not quite all,’ confessed Mr Mummery. ‘As a matter of fact I haven’t been feeling—’
‘Pity,’ interrupted his partner. ‘Great pity. Ought to get ’em in early. Mine were in last week. My little place will be a picture in the Spring. For a town garden, that is. You’re lucky, living in the country. Find it better than Hull, I expect, eh? Though we get plenty of fresh air up in the Avenues. How’s the missus?’
‘Thank you, she’s very much better.’
‘Glad to hear that, very glad. Hope we shall have her about again this winter as usual. Can’t do without her in the Drama Society, you know. By jove! I shan’t forget her acting last year in Romance. She and young Welbeck positively brought the house down, didn’t they? The Welbecks were asking after her only yesterday.’
‘Thank you, yes. I hope she will soon be able to take up her social activities again. But the doctor says she mustn’t over
do it. No worry, he says – that’s the important thing. She is to go easy and not rush about or undertake too much.’
‘Quite right, quite right. Worry’s the devil and all. I cut out worrying years ago and look at me! Fit as a fiddle, for all I shan’t see fifty again. You’re not looking altogether the thing, by the way.’
‘A touch of dyspepsia,’ said Mr Mummery. ‘Nothing much. Chill on the liver, that’s what I put it down to.’
‘That’s what it is,’ said Mr Brookes, seizing his opportunity. ‘Is life worth living? It depends on the liver. Ha, ha! Well now, well now – we must do a spot of work, I suppose. Where’s that lease of Ferraby’s?’
Mr Mummery, who did not feel at his conversational best that morning, rather welcomed this suggestion, and for half an hour was allowed to proceed in peace with the duties of an estate agent. Presently, however, Mr Brookes burst into speech again.
‘By the way,’ he said abruptly, ‘I suppose your wife doesn’t know of a good cook, does she?’
‘Well, no,’ replied Mr Mummery. ‘They aren’t so easy to find nowadays. In fact, we’ve only just got suited ourselves. But why? Surely your old Cookie isn’t leaving you?’
‘Good Lord, no!’ Mr Brookes laughed heartily. ‘It would take an earthquake to shake off old Cookie! No. It’s for the Philipsons. Their girl’s getting married. That’s the worst of girls. I said to Philipson, “You mind what you’re doing,” I said. “Get somebody you know something about, or you may find yourself landed with this poisoning woman – what’s her name – Andrews. Don’t want to be sending wreaths to your funeral yet awhile,” I said. He laughed, but it’s no laughing matter and so I told him. What we pay the police for I simply don’t know. Nearly a month now, and they can’t seem to lay hands on the woman. All they say is, they think she’s hanging about the neighbourhood and “may seek situation as cook.” As cook! Now I ask you!’
‘You don’t think she committed suicide, then?’ suggested Mr Mummery.
‘Suicide, my foot!’ retorted Mr Brookes, coarsely. ‘Don’t you believe it, my boy. That coat found in the river was all eyewash. They don’t commit suicide, that sort don’t.’
‘What sort?’
‘Those arsenic-maniacs. They’re too damned careful of their own skins. Cunning as weasels, that’s what they are. It’s only to be hoped they’ll manage to catch her before she tries her hand on anybody else. As I told Philipson—’
‘You think Mrs Andrews did it, then?’
‘Did it? Of course she did it. It’s plain as the nose on your face. Looked after her old father, and he died suddenly – left her a bit of money, too. Then she keeps house for an elderly gentleman, and he dies suddenly. Now there’s this husband and wife – man dies and woman taken very ill, of arsenic poisoning. Cook runs away, and you ask, did she do it? I don’t mind betting that when they dig up the father and the other old bird they’ll find them bung-full of arsenic, too. Once that sort gets started, they don’t stop. Grows on ’em, as you might say.’
‘I suppose it does,’ said Mr Mummery. He picked up his paper again and studied the photograph of the missing woman. ‘She looks harmless enough,’ he remarked. ‘Rather a nice, motherly-looking kind of woman.’
‘She’s got a bad mouth,’ pronounced Mr Brookes. He had a theory that character showed in the mouth. ‘I wouldn’t trust that woman an inch.’
As the day went on, Mr Mummery felt better. He was rather nervous about his lunch, choosing carefully a little boiled fish and custard pudding and being particular not to rush about immediately after the meal. To his great relief, the fish and custard remained where they were put, and he was not visited by that tiresome pain which had become almost habitual in the last fortnight. By the end of the day he became quite lighthearted. The bogey of illness and doctor’s bills ceased to haunt him. He bought a bunch of bronze chrysanthemums to carry home to Ethel, and it was with a feeling of pleasant anticipation that he left the train and walked up the garden path of Mon Abri.
He was a little dashed by not finding his wife in the sitting-room. Still clutching the bunch of chrysanthemums he pattered down the passage and pushed open the kitchen door.
Nobody was there but the cook. She was sitting at the table with her back to him, and started up almost guiltily as he approached.
‘Lor’, sir,’ she said, ‘you give me quite a start. I didn’t hear the front door go.’
‘Where is Mrs Mummery? Not feeling bad again, is she?’
‘Well, sir, she’s got a bit of a headache, poor lamb. I made her lay down and took her up a nice cup o’ tea at half-past four. I think she’s dozing nicely now.’
‘Dear, dear,’ said Mr Mummery.
‘It was turning out the dining-room done it, if you ask me,’ said Mrs Sutton. ‘“Now, don’t you overdo yourself, ma’am,” I says to her, but you know how she is, sir. She gets that restless, she can’t abear to be doing nothing.’
‘I know,’ said Mr Mummery. ‘It’s not your fault, Mrs Sutton. I’m sure you look after us both admirably. I’ll just run up and have a peep at her. I won’t disturb her if she’s asleep. By the way, what are we having for dinner?’
‘Well, I had made a nice steak-and-kidney pie,’ said Mrs Sutton, in accents suggesting that she would readily turn it into a pumpkin or a coach-and-four if it was not approved of.
‘Oh!’ said Mr Mummery. ‘Pastry? Well, I—’
‘You’ll find it beautiful and light,’ protested the cook, whisking open the oven-door for Mr Mummery to see. ‘And it’s made with butter, sir, you having said that you found lard indigestible.’
‘Thank you, thank you,’ said Mr Mummery. ‘I’m sure it will be most excellent. I haven’t been feeling altogether the thing just lately, and lard does not seem to suit me nowadays.’
‘Well, it don’t suit some people, and that’s a fact,’ agreed Mrs Sutton. ‘I shouldn’t wonder if you’ve got a bit of a chill on the liver. I’m sure this weather is enough to upset anybody.’
She bustled to the table and cleared away the picture-paper which she had been reading.
‘Perhaps the mistress would like her dinner sent up to her?’ she suggested.
Mr Mummery said he would go and see, and tiptoed his way upstairs. Ethel was lying snuggled under the eiderdown and looked very small and fragile in the big double-bed. She stirred as he came in and smiled up at him.
‘Hullo, darling!’ said Mr Mummery.
‘Hullo! You back? I must have been asleep. I got tired and headachy, and Mrs Sutton packed me off upstairs.’
‘You’ve been doing too much, sweetheart,’ said her husband, taking her hand in his and sitting down on the edge of the bed.
‘Yes – it was naughty of me. What lovely flowers, Harold. All for me?’
‘All for you, Tiddley-winks,’ said Mr Mummery, tenderly. ‘Don’t I deserve something for that?’
Mrs Mummery smiled, and Mr Mummery took his reward several times over.
‘That’s quite enough, you sentimental old thing,’ said Mrs Mummery. ‘Run along, now, I’m going to get up.’
‘Much better go to bed, my precious, and let Mrs Sutton send your dinner up,’ said her husband.
Ethel protested, but he was firm with her. If she didn’t take care of herself, she wouldn’t be allowed to go to the Drama Society meetings. And everybody was so anxious to have her back. The Welbecks had been asking after her and saying that they really couldn’t get on without her.
‘Did they?’ said Ethel with some animation. ‘It’s very sweet of them to want me. Well, perhaps I’ll go to bed after all. And how has my old Hubby been all day?’
‘Not too bad, not too bad.’
‘No more tummy-aches?’
‘Well, just a little tummy-ache. But it’s quite gone now. Nothing for Tiddley-winks to worry about.’
Mr Mummery experienced no more distressing symptoms the next day or the next. Following the advice of the newspaper expert, he took to drinking orange-juice, and was del
ighted with the results of the treatment. On Thursday, however, he was taken so ill in the night that Ethel was alarmed and insisted on sending for the doctor. The doctor felt his pulse and looked at his tongue and appeared to take the matter lightly. An inquiry into what he had been eating elicited the fact that dinner had consisted of pig’s trotters, followed by a milk pudding, and that, before retiring, Mr Mummery had consumed a large glass of orange-juice, according to his new régime.
‘There’s your trouble,’ said Dr Griffiths cheerfully. ‘Orange-juice is an excellent thing, and so are trotters, but not in combination. Pigs and oranges together are extraordinarily bad for the liver. I don’t know why they should be, but there’s no doubt that they are. Now I’ll send you round a little prescription and you stick to slops for a day or two and keep off pork. And don’t you worry about him, Mrs Mummery, he’s as sound as a trout. You’re the one we’ve got to look after. I don’t want to see those black rings under the eyes, you know. Disturbed night, of course – yes. Taking your tonic regularly? That’s right. Well, don’t be alarmed about your hubby. We’ll soon have him out and about again.’
The prophecy was fulfilled, but not immediately. Mr Mummery, though confining his diet to Benger’s food, bread-and-milk and beef-tea skilfully prepared by Mrs Sutton and brought to his bedside by Ethel, remained very seedy all through Friday, and was only able to stagger rather shakily downstairs on Saturday afternoon. He had evidently suffered a ‘thorough upset’. However, he was able to attend to a few papers which Brookes had sent down from the office for his signature, and to deal with the household books. Ethel was not a business woman, and Mr Mummery always ran over the accounts with her. Having settled up with the butcher, the baker, the dairy and the ‘coal-merchant, Mr Mummery looked up inquiringly.
‘Anything more, darling?’
‘Well, there’s Mrs Sutton. This is the end of her month, you know.’
‘So it is. Well, you’re quite satisfied with her, aren’t you, darling?’
In the Teeth of the Evidence Page 21
