The Ordeal of Mrs. Snow

by Patrick Quentin

  But his luck was in. Mrs. Loomis was so carried away by the iniquities of Dinah and her mother that she noticed nothing. By the end of dinner Mr. Loomis had been able to secrete one and three-quarter tarts in the manila envelope.

  Now every sensible wife will agree—and many who are not so sensible—that there comes a time in a man’s day, usually in the evening after supper, when he should feel free to go around to the nearest pub and discuss a game of darts with the boys over a pint or two of mild and bitter. But Mrs. Loomis believed that the place for the husband, when not safely in his office, was definitely at home. And Mr. Loomis, whether he believed it or not, was obliged to agree with her. This evening he sat in his chair before the now-lit gas fire and pretended to listen to his wife’s daily recital of her own perfections. In fact, he was not listening; his thoughts were wandering along unexpected and incurably romantic avenues.

  Lately they had been walking these avenues with increasing frequency, but they had taken the first step into this make-believe land some years ago, after his wife had discovered the doll’s house he had made for little Lucy Green and had insisted on presenting it herself—not to Lucy Green, but to some orphanage which she helped piously to support. Mr. Loomis’ anger had been none the less violent for being unexpressed, nor had it been quick to fade. The next morning, as he took his ledgers out of the office safe, his eyes had settled on a small green bottle which stood on the poison shelf. On its label they had traced the word santonin.

  Now Mr. Loomis was not a chemist, but he liked to think that his long association with Tinker & Smythe had given him a little more knowledge of drugs than that normally possessed by the layman. Mr. Loomis knew that minute quantities of santonin were used in the firm’s Worm Eliminant. He also knew that it was poison—a powerful but rarely used poison whose effects might well baffle the normal medical practitioner familiar with the toxic symptoms produced by arsenic, cyanide, or strychnine.

  From that day on the small green bottle had become very important in Mr. Loomis’ daydreams. They were nothing but dreams, of course—daring fantasies in which, by some eccentric accident, the bottle of santonin and Mabel … These thoughts remained in Mr. Loomis’ mind as unfinished symphonies.

  Now, as his wife’s voice ground relentlessly on, colored reveries floated before him—little Dinah Milton and a jam tart, little Rosie Henderson and the stick of candy rock, Mabel and the little green bottle….

  At last the time came for Mrs. Loomis to retire, which left Mr. Loomis a chance to retire also—not at once to the conjugal bed, but to the small den which was the one place he could almost call his own. Here he was planning to prepare the parcels of scraps for delivery to Dinah Milton.

  Just as he was entering the den, he heard his wife’s voice from the bathroom.

  “Light the gas and the gas fire in the bedroom, Loomis. And shut the windows. It’s turned a bit nippy.”

  Mr. Loomis did as he was bid and then, having also lit the gas bracket in his den, sat down at his small, homemade desk. With one ear cocked towards the bathroom, he drew out the manila envelopes and made two neat piles of the foodstuffs they contained. That done, he returned them to their envelopes which he wrapped around with string. Then, measuring off about ten feet of slack, he lowered the parcels out of the window so that they dangled a few feet above his wife’s chrysanthemum bed below.

  With a pleasant tingle of excitement he gave a long, low whistle to signify to his young conspirator next door that the coast was clear.

  Almost at once a small nightgowned form appeared at an open attic window in the Milton house.

  “All right, Daddy Bloomers?” whispered Dinah.

  For an answer Mr. Loomis jigged the food packages up and down on the end of the string, and Dinah disappeared from the window.

  Mr. Loomis knew that this method of delivery was melodramatic and quite unnecessarily dangerous, but he employed it because it made him feel that he and Dinah were living in some fairy tale, a prince and princess banded together against the wicked ogress who might at any minute pop out and catch them red-handed. This was the only spice to his home-life; it brought a heightening of every sensation—somewhat similar to that which he had felt during the worst days of the London blitz.

  At length a small white figure emerged from the back door of the Milton house. Dinah scrambled over the wall which separated the two gardens. Crouching in the shadows like an experienced commando, the little girl ran to the chrysanthemum bed where she trampled relentlessly over the plants in her eagerness.

  Sitting angler-fashion at the window, Mr. Loomis felt a tug on his line and released the string. Immediately, he heard the kitchen door slam and his heart missed a beat as he saw the figure of his wife standing, large and formidable, in the narrow pathway, blocking Dinah’s sole avenue of escape.

  For a moment the child stood irresolute; then, deciding to make a dash for it, she crouched again and ran under Mrs. Loomis’ outstretched arm.

  But that lady was too quick for her. Sensing her opponent’s strategy, she pounced with surprising agility and grabbed Dinah by the tails of her flowing nightgown.

  “Caught you, my fine miss,” she panted. “Trampling on my chrysanthemums.” She swung her free hand and delivered several hard slaps to Dinah’s face and head. “Thief! Wicked little thief!”

  Quivering with outrage, Mr. Loomis shouted, but his voice did not seem to carry. He rushed into the bedroom, tugged open the window just above his wife’s head and cried: “Stop it, Mabel. Stop it at once! The child is not stealing. I told her she might come over.”

  Surprised by this unexpected attack, Mrs. Loomis looked up, momentarily weakening her grasp. Dinah was quick to seize her opportunity. Wriggling herself free and leaving a large piece of her nightgown in her captor’s hand, she dropped her packages and made for the dividing wall as if all the trolls of Grimm and Andersen were after her.

  “I’ll deal with you in a minute, Loomis.”

  But Mr. Loomis’ only reply was to slam down the bedroom window. He hardly noticed that he shattered a pane of glass as he did so. Angrier than he had ever been in his life, he withdrew to his den for the inevitable encounter.

  Soon Mrs. Loomis swept up the stairs, carrying two manila envelopes and trailing the string behind her like the tail of a comet. Her face was blotched with purple wrath.

  “Food!” she screamed. “My food! Giving my food to that skinny little daughter of a cheap …”

  The words exploded in a violent hiccough. Mabel had been addicted to hiccoughs recently and they were almost the only force strong enough to stem her overflowing indignation.

  “It’s only scraps,” cried Mr. Loomis. “I wasn’t hungry.”

  “Scraps! My jam tarts—scraps!”

  Mrs. Loomis just managed to expel these words, but they were destined to be her swan song, for now a veritable hurricane of hiccoughing swept over her. Muttering something about: “My indigestion—now see what you’ve done,” she hiccoughed her way out of the den and into the bathroom where, Mr. Loomis knew, she was taking the sedative which Dr. Heather had prescribed for her last week. In a few moments he heard her go into the bedroom where she slammed and locked the door noisily behind her.

  But Mr. Loomis felt by no means ready for bed. Indignation had given him unwonted courage. Those carefully hoarded morsels were meant for Dinah. Dinah should have them. He scooped up the crumbled remnants of food and put them back into the envelopes. Then, without even bothering to go on tiptoe past the bedroom door, he made his way down to the kitchen pantry where he found the two remaining jam tarts. Defiantly he put these also into one of the envelopes and proceeded to the house of his next-door neighbor.

  His ring at the bell was answered by a rather pretty little woman with a crumpled pink dress and a great deal of crumpled pinkish hair. Her face was heavily made-up, but her eyes, smiling and friendly, gave her an expression of almost childish naïveté.

  “Oh, hello,” she said. “You’re Mr. Bloomers
from next door, aren’t you? Do come in.”

  Mr. Loomis followed her into the hall, stammered an apology for his wife’s action, offered the manila envelopes for Dinah and expressed a hope that she was none the worse for the encounter.

  “So that’s what all the shindig was about!” Mrs. Milton gave a careless laugh and peeped into one of the envelopes. “Oh, my! Jam tarts. What’s a box or two on the ears if you get jam tarts? I’ll pop ’em up to Dinah while you make yourself comfy in there.”

  She indicated the open door of the living room which, when he entered it, was warm and cosy, smelling pleasantly like an inn parlor. The wireless was going merrily and there were several bottles of beer, some full, some empty, on the center table. An enormous man rose to his feet.

  “Name of Potts,” he said, holding out a large, horny hand. “Al Potts and pleased to meet you.”

  Mr. Loomis murmured his name and indicated that the pleasure was mutual.

  “So you’re Bloomers, eh? Mamie’s Dinah don’t talk of nothing but her Daddy Bloomers.” Al Potts winked and poured out a tumbler of beer. “Here, have a drink, Bloomers.”

  For a moment Mr. Loomis hesitated. He had not touched any alcoholic beverage since his fire-watching days. But this had turned out to be a new, reckless type of evening.

  “Thank you, Mr. Potts. I could do with a drop.”

  As he seated himself and sipped at his beer, Al continued: “She’s a greedy kid, Dinah, but you can’t blame ’em these days. We none of us get enough solids. But I myself am more of a one for the liquids.” He laughed heartily at his own joke and then drained his glass.

  Mrs. Milton returned to the room. “Dinah says thank Daddy Bloomers and give him a big kiss.” She looked archly at Al. “What would you say if I was to do it, Al?”

  Al grunted good-naturedly.

  “And she sent another message to another party with words in it a kid didn’t ought to know, so I told her to hush her mouth and eat up her tarts.”

  The beer was making Mr. Loomis a trifle giddy. “Mabel had no business to slap the child. I told her off myself. Yes, I told her off good and proper.” Mr. Loomis expanded his meager chest.

  “You did?” queried Mamie admiringly.

  “I certainly did. And she went off to bed and—she locked the door.”

  Mamie said: “Well, I never.” Al refilled Mr. Loomis’ glass. As the warmth engendered by the beer increased, Mr. Loomis felt that the “telling-off” was worth enlarging upon. It was gratifying and unfamiliar to have a sympathetic audience. Their casual friendliness was most gratifying too. Soon they were all chatting with pleasant intimacy. Al, who was a smalltime contractor, expressed his dissatisfaction with current conditions in England and announced that he had decided to emigrate to Australia. With a broad grin he confided that he was trying to persuade Mamie to marry him and come along. Mamie laughed and called him “a card” and “a caution.” Later, after another round of beer, she sat on his lap. It was so free and relaxing. Mr. Loomis found it delightful.

  And all the time, adding a touch of rhapsody, was the thought of the little girl, her hunger sated by jam tarts, curled happily asleep upstairs, dreaming, perhaps, of her Daddy Bloomers.

  In his own happiness Mr. Loomis lost count of time and was only brought back to a sense of the hour when a voice on the wireless announced the familiar nightly message: “Residents of the Pimlico district are warned again that, because of the present coal crisis, the gas will be shut off at the main in three minutes—that is at eleven o’clock. Service will be resumed at five-thirty tomorrow morning. If your gas is on now—whether for lighting, cooking, or heating—turn it off immediately.”

  “Well,” exclaimed Mr. Loomis in a happy haze, “eleven o’clock already, I declare. I had no idea.”

  Despite his hostess’ coaxing offer of a nightcap, Mr. Loomis took his leave and let himself into his own cold, dark hall. The familiar chilliness and the knowledge that instead of the slumbering Dinah, Mabel lay asleep upstairs, did not cool his exhilaration. Mabel, he knew, would become a reality in the morning. But now was now. He groped his way up the stairs and through the darkness of his den to the couch, where he fell into a warm sleep.

  Dreams of children lulled him all night, culminating with a dream in which he was walking on the sands of Burnham-on-Sea with Dinah clutching one hand and little Rosie Henderson clutching the other. Both little girls were sucking gay pink sticks of candy rock. They romped together on the sands; they paddled; they made castles; they rode donkeys.

  Then something went wrong with the dream. A great purple cloud formed over the sea. It began to swoop towards them. The little girls, scuffing and dancing, seemed to notice nothing. Mr. Loomis knew that it was some new horrible form of gas invasion. He tried to shout out to warn them: “The gas … the gas …”

  But his voice would not sound. He heaved himself up in a mighty effort to throw off the dream tentacles that held him immobile. Then, conscious of a bump, he woke up to find himself on the floor, having rolled off his narrow couch in his struggles.

  Vaguely he looked at his watch and saw in the thin early light that it was twenty-five minutes to six. He sat up on the floor and sniffed. Still half in the dream, he was certain he could smell gas. All nonsense, of course. But was it nonsense? Mr. Loomis held his breath and listened. Yes, there was no doubt about it. He could detect a faint hissing from the neighborhood of the gas bracket above his desk. The smell was growing stronger, too. In a flash he remembered the unfamiliar pleasures of last night. Before going over to the Miltons’, he had lit the gas in his den, but in his rapturous return he had forgotten, since the company had stopped the flow, that the tap was still on. He ran to the wall and turned it off at the bracket. The hissing ceased. Then he threw the window wide open, admitting cold gusts of morning air.

  Feeling shaky but rather important from such a near brush with disaster, Mr. Loomis put on his carpet slippers and dressing gown, went out into the passage, and closed the den door. As was his regular custom, he proceeded to the kitchen and filled the kettle preparatory to making morning tea, a cup of which he habitually took to his wife in bed.

  As he applied a lighted match to the gas ring, another chord was struck in his memory. Last night, before the quarrel, he had, at his wife’s request, lit the gas fire in the bedroom. Mabel was a sound sleeper who fell asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. It was her invariable habit to leave the gas burning for him to turn off when he came to bed which, in normal circumstances, was far earlier than the gas company’s deadline of eleven o’clock. In addition, she had last night taken one of the sedatives prescribed by Dr. Heather. Even though she had locked the door against him, it was more than likely that she had fallen asleep without remembering to turn off the gas fire.

  Acting on automatic reflex, Mr. Loomis was out of the kitchen in a twinkling and running anxiously up the stairs. He reached the bedroom door and standing breathless on the thick woollen mat at its threshold, tried the handle.

  It did not yield.

  “Mabel,” he called. “Mabel.”

  There was no reply.

  Mr. Loomis sniffed. His nostrils were still tainted by the odor of gas from the den, but there was unquestionably another leak here. It came from the crack beneath the bedroom door. Mabel always slept with the windows closed. She was lying in there suffocating to death.

  “Mabel!”

  Mr. Loomis rattled ineffectually at the doorknob and then spun around for something with which to break down the heavy wood panels. Panic came and went. Its place was taken by a strange feeling almost of awe, as if Mr. Loomis were in the presence of Destiny herself.

  Mabel had locked the door against him. Mamie and Al were aware of this fact. It was Mabel herself who had been responsible for all the trivial little actions which had led to this moment. His private dream of the santonin bottle—even at its most roseate—had always involved some impossibly aggressive act from Mr. Loomis himself. But here was the dream in
reality. By the obscure workings of Destiny, Mabel and the santonin bottle—disguised now as a gas fire—had met, and in such a manner that no overt act was demanded from him. No act, no courage, no skill—no risk.

  For a long moment Mr. Loomis stood quite still. Slowly he felt a terrible secret pleasure stir and scurry through him like a mouse.

  Deliberately, he stooped. He picked up the pink and brown mat, decorated with roses, which Mabel had worked on before the war. He pushed it forward so that it tightly blocked the air passage between the bottom of the door and the floor boards.

  He stood for another moment, sniffing the pungent but diminished odor, feeling a sensation far headier than the fisherman’s thrill when Dinah had tugged at the string. Then he returned to the kitchen and made a pot of tea. He carried it into the living room and sat down with it in the least uncomfortable chair. The bleak morning light revealed the embroidered text hanging above the fireplace: THOU LORD SEEST ME. Mr. Loomis crossed to it and carefully turned its face to the wall. He sat down again and picked up his teacup.

  He felt larger, somehow, than he had ever felt in his life.

  One will never know—one cannot even imagine—what were the thoughts that passed through Dr. Crippen’s mind immediately after he had killed his wife and disposed of her remains in the cellar. One shudders from speculating on the images which drifted through the warped brain of George Joseph Smith after he had drowned his various brides in cheap tin bathtubs. The murderer’s mind is a closed book, not to be opened by the impious fingers of average citizens like ourselves who have perhaps never been tempted to perpetrate this, the most spectacular and usually the most heinous of all crimes. And so one cannot, one dare not, try to delineate with any accuracy the mental processes of Mr. Loomis as he sat there in his unfriendly but scrupulously tidy living room, sipping his second and then his third cup of early morning tea.