“Yes, they have,” said Nigel. “Could you find the place you hid this clue, Wise?”
“Well, it ought to be just about here. In a clump of weeds—big, coarse-looking chaps—with white flowers. Parsley my eye, Easton. They’re not here now, anyway.”
“One of the varieties of wild parsley, I expect,” said Nigel. “If there’s been a hedger at work here since yesterday, he’s almost certain to be about still. Can anyone see him?”
Teddy Wise teetered aimlessly on his toes. “Don’t want to butt in on the man at the wheel, but is this going to get us anywhere? I mean, an innocent wild flower, it wouldn’t give you blisters, would it?”
“I don’t think what’s normally known as wild parsley—hedge-parsley, that is—is poisonous. But there’s cow-bane and fool’s-parsley, which certainly are—they’re the umbelliferous tribe too: and there’s cow-parsnip, which farmers often mistake for hemlock, but it’s supposed to be harmless. You can’t describe this stuff more accurately, can you?”
Teddy, however, was no more of a botanist than young Easton. Nigel was standing indecisively by the bank when a sharp click sounded not far away, followed by a round, vernacular oath.
“That’ll be him. Caught his bill-hook on a stone,” Nigel exclaimed. They went towards the end of the field, through a gap, and out into the lane which curved round just here. An old man, creaking with rheumatism, was in the act of bending down to pick up a whet-stone. When Nigel hailed him, he straightened himself up with the same cautious deliberation, as if any abrupt movement would cause his whole frame to fly asunder, and scrutinised the three of them in a somewhat hostile manner.
“They danged stones,” he remarked without preamble. “Which of you young shavers have been setting stones in my bank. You’m ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”
Nigel disclaimed any act of sabotage on their part, but the ancient was plainly incredulous.
“They sow tares in the wheat,” he continued sombrely. “They come as an enemy in the night. I will root them out utterly, and they shall be for a hissing. Turned my blade, you’m have. Their brains shall be dashed out on the stones thereof.”
“Was it you who cut the bank in the next field this morning?” asked Nigel.
“What if I did?” the old man replied suspiciously. “Be you from thic domned Milk Board? Us can tend ceows without no rules and regulations from ee.”
“No fear, dad. We’re from the holiday camp,” said Teddy.
“Holiday camp? Graacht!” The old man spat copiously on his whet-stone and set to sharpening the hook. “Heathens. Runnen over th’ filds stark naked. Might be the middle of Africa,” he muttered.
“It’s no good. You’ll not get anything out of him,” said Teddy.
Nigel, however, persevered. “Well, we’re quite decently dressed, anyway, aren’t we? When you were cutting that bank——”
“The Lord smote en with sore boils from the soles of his feet to the crown of his haid,” quoted the ancient, inaccurately but sensationally.
“What’s that?” exclaimed Nigel.
“Hast thou not poured me out as milk, and curdled me like cheese?” He giggled hoarsely. “That’ll larn ’em not to flaunt their nakedness in the Lord’s eyes.”
After a prolonged conversation, that would have tried the patience even of stricken Job himself, Nigel caught the old man’s drift. By his account it seemed that the “wild parsley,” as he called it, was exceedingly poisonous just at this time of the year, when it first began to flower. He admitted that he himself had never been affected by it: but, when he was cleaning the banks at the flowering time, he always wore leather gloves and carefully protected his legs. He recalled the case of a maiden, some fifty years ago, who had picked some flowering parsley and died a week after in agonies which he rendered with full detail.
Nigel asked him to point out some of this “wild parsley.” He did so: and Nigel, bandaging his hand in a handkerchief, pulled it up, gave it to Mr. Easton, and told him to take it straight back to Dr. Holford. He then drew Teddy Wise aside, and asked him if he would go to Brimscombe Farm, where the old man worked, and inquire about the reliability of his information.
Having thus got rid of his two associates, Nigel was free to put certain questions which he did not wish either of them to hear. The old man, when he was not wandering off down scriptural by-paths, showed flashes of considerable shrewdness. No, nobody from the holiday camp had talked to him about this wild parsley before: but it was a common belief in the countryside round about that the stuff was dangerous for one week of the year. Nigel turned the conversation to the subject of Old Ishmael. “He’m daft as a coney, but don’t harm nobody,” was the verdict. Nigel asked if anyone from the holiday camp had been showing particular interest in the recluse lately, or whether the latter had made any departures from his normal mode of living. The old man answered no to each of these questions: he recalled, however, that just over a year ago a gentleman who was staying at Brimscombe Farm, a holiday visitor, had asked all manner of questions about the hermit.
When he judged that Teddy Wise would have left the farm, Nigel made his way thither and interviewed the farmer. A friend of his, he believed, had stayed at Brimscombe last year: he himself being in the district for a few days, thought he might walk over to the farm; he had a family, and was looking for holiday quarters where he could bring them next year. Farmer Swetenham, a cheerful, robin-eyed, chubby man, pressed him to a mug of cider. He and the missus liked children about the place, as long as they remembered to shut the gates and didn’t chivvy the stock. Not that their last visitor, Mr. Strangeways’ friend, had brought his family. A quiet, civil chap he was: great on the bird-watching: took his field-glasses out on the cliffs most days. Yes, he had been very interested in Old Ishmael too. Wanted to go bird-watching in that wood up over, but Mr. Swetenham had told him the hermit didn’t like people going about in his wood. He had suggested that the visitor, Mr. Black, should drop in at the Mariner’s Compass in Applestock some Wednesday or Saturday. Old Ishmael was always there then, they said, and a bit mellower than usual, so he might give Mr. Black permission to go into his wood.
Nigel then brought the conversation round to Wonderland. Mentioning the treasure-hunt, he suggested that it was very good of Mr. Swetenham to let them go over his land. The farmer winked slyly:
“They buy a lot of their milk from me. I don’t want to lose their custom, if you take my meaning. Still, I was a bit surprised when young Mr. Wise—he’s just been in here—wrote and asked if he could put one of his clues in a field of mine. They don’t generally go so far away from the camp grounds on these treasure-hunts, not to my knowledge.”
“I suppose you told him whereabouts on your land he could plant the clues, so that the visitors wouldn’t do any damage?”
“No. He suggested the Long Bottom field. I hadn’t any cattle there this week, so I made no objection.”
“I don’t expect they’ll be troubling you again. One of the visitors, a young lady, got badly blistered after the treasure-hunt. We’ve——”
The farmer laughed merrily. “Don’t you believe it, sir. Young Mr. Wise has just been talking to me about it. Been listening to Joe Varley. That’s a labourer of mine. He’s got a bee in his bonnet about wild parsley. Well, it’s the talk round here that the stuff’s poisonous when it first flowers, but I’ve never known anyone it hurt—nor beast neither.”
Nigel took his leave of the farmer and walked back to Wonderland. There, after tea, he sought conversation with Dr. Holford. The doctor had examined the plant brought back by Mr. Easton, broken some of the coarse stalks and squeezed the juice over his own forearm. He was now awaiting developments.
“But I don’t think anything will come of it,” he said. “I examined some of the other people who were on the treasure-hunt and presumably routed about for the clue in the wild parsley, and they showed no signs of blistering. However, I’ll send some of the stuff up to be analysed.”
“Unfortuna
tely the hedger had cut all the stuff in the field where the clue was hidden. He’d got a pile of hedge-cuttings about five foot high, and I couldn’t very well bring it all back to see if any of it had been doped with something.”
“There would have been no point in it, anyway. If some irritant poison had been sprayed on those plants, more than one person would have been affected. Miss Arnold’s is plainly a case of idiosyncrasy to this particular plant.”
“Yes, that’s what I imagined. The hedger had a yarn about some girl years ago who died from the effects.”
“Died? One would hardly—I shall have to keep an eye on Miss Arnold for a bit. Stupid girl—I found she’d left the bandages off when I went to see her before lunch. Wish I’d got some more of my books here. Of course, there are cases of idiosyncrasy to almost every kind of substance, but I’d like to see if any similar to this one have actually been recorded. It’d make an interesting article for the Lancet. But I’m sorry, talking shop like this. How does it affect your investigation?”
“Depends if Miss Arnold’s idiosyncrasy had ever come out before, and if anyone here could have known of it.”
“I think I can answer that. I inquired if she’d ever had blisters of this sort, and she said no. Of course, having this Christian Science bug, she’d be bound to pretend that they’d never happened——”
“—Which rather invalidates her evidence. Easton said she was a botanist, and you’d expect that anyone who went in for botany at all would have handled these plants some time or other.”
“But, my dear fellow,” said the doctor, “you realise what you’re leading up to? If it was known that Miss Arnold had this idiosyncrasy, the only people who could have made use of the knowledge were——”
“Exactly. Miss Jones worked out the rhyming clues: Captain Wise and his brother no doubt helped with suggestions as to where the clues should actually be planted. Teddy Wise, I discovered just now, applied to the farmer on whose land Miss Arnold received her injury for permission to place a clue: he specifically mentioned Long Bottom, a field where this stuff grows.”
Dr. Holford was plainly torn between curiosity and his own semi-official obligations to the management. Curiosity soon won. “But whatever motive could any of those three have for making Miss Arnold ill?” he said in faintly shocked tones.
“Oh, I’ve not got as far as motives yet. They’re the spring of crime, certainly, from the criminal’s point of view: but as far as the detective is concerned, they’re only a final polish on the finished article. But, theoretically, I could hand you several possible motives. The most obvious would be that one of the Wises, or Miss Jones, or a combination of them, is the Mad Hatter.”
Dr. Holford gripped the arms of his chair and leant back, staring at Nigel.
“But that’s fantastic. They’d be cutting their own throats, giving the camp a bad name. You can’t seriously——”
He looked comically concerned. He’s reflecting, guessed Nigel, what effect it might have on his career to be officially connected, even though remotely and by accident, with such a scandal.
“It’s quite hypothetical,” he said. “I have no reason at present to suppose that any of them could want to do the place down.” He could not resist adding mischievously. “But, of course, Edward Wise may be jealous of his brother’s position. You never know.”
“Are you always as frank as this about your suspects—and to your suspects? I suppose we all come into that category,” said the doctor slowly, after a pause. “I’d always imagined detectives kept their own counsel, or contented themselves with throwing out a few cryptic utterances.”
“Like doctors?” said Nigel, grinning amiably. “I can be excessively cryptic at times. But frankness often pays. It’s infectious, for one thing: if you talk quite unreservedly to a person, he assumes that you cannot possibly be suspecting him; and so he grows just a little careless.”
“This looks bad for me,” said Dr. Holford, not altogether comfortably. “Am I being grilled?”
“Well, you must agree that a doctor is much more likely to have strychnine at his disposal than any layman.”
“Really! If you’re suggesting that I poisoned that woman’s dog——” The young man was now quite distinctly huffy. His remonstrations were cut short, however, by sounds of strife outside the chalet. Nigel opened the door, took a half-step forward, then checked himself, motioning Dr. Holford not to interfere.
Sally Thistlethwaite and Paul Perry were there, glaring at each other, standing in the tense, arrested attitudes of people in whom a quarrel is on the point of boiling over.
“You were laughing at me,” she said.
“I was doing nothing of the sort, as it happens. Though that ridiculous costume you were all prancing about in would be enough to make a cat laugh.”
Paul twitched open her tennis-coat, revealing the brassière and short imitation-grass skirt in which Sally had just been rehearsing the South Sea maiden dance for the carabet.
“Don’t touch me, damn you! You were laughing. You and that Jones creature, with your heads together, giggling like two silly schoolgirls. I saw you. Who said you could come in, anyway? Snooping as usual, I suppose?”
“Miss Jones said I could come and watch. It’s part of my job, watching how people behave.”
“Job, hell! You just wanted a free leg-show. Well, I hope you enjoyed it.”
“If it’s any comfort to you, you didn’t look any more ridiculous than the rest of the troupe.”
“So you were laughing at me. Both of you.”
“I merely remarked to Miss Jones that the performance would be quite beyond the farthest Hebrides.”
“That was damned witty, I suppose, if anyone could understand it.”
“Evidently you can’t. It involves a quotation from Wordsworth, and the New Hebrides Islands in the South Seas. Miss Jones and I happened to be talking about the initiation ceremonies among the islanders there, before we came in. Now are you satisfied?”
“I suppose you spend quite a lot of your time with the Jones laughing at me? The two little high-brows having a good snigger together.”
“I keep on telling you. We were not laughing at you in particular. It was just the spectacle of all those girls from Balham trying to go native. The trouble with you is that you imagine everyone is looking at you all the time. You’re so self-conscious, it never occurs to you that we might have something more interesting to talk about than you. Not that anyone mightn’t feel self-conscious in that vulgar, sexy, man-trap of a costume.”
Aha, so that’s it, thought Nigel: and at the same instant Sally’s hand struck Paul’s cheek with a noise like a pistol-crack. He stared at her for a moment, bemused, almost appealingly. Then his face darkened, and he began shaking her furiously by the shoulders. The two had only just begun to struggle, when Teddy Wise came running up and sent Paul staggering aside.
“Has he been molesting you?” asked Teddy. “My brother told me to keep an eye on you, and it’s apparently needed.”
“He said my cabaret dress was indecent. So I smacked his face, and then he went for me.”
“Oh, you did, did you?” said Teddy to Paul. “And what business was it of yours, may I ask?”
“Don’t be so pompous. Sally started on me long before that. She’d got some absurd idea that——”
“I think you’d better apologise to Miss Thistlethwaite,” Teddy interrupted menacingly, “or I shall have to teach you manners.”
Sally’s eyes, under her dishevelled hair, looked dark, frightened, yet fascinated and queerly eager. There was a slight quaver in Paul Perry’s voice when he replied:
“You’re not paid to knock the guests about, you know.”
“Very true. But I’ll do it without salary if you don’t apologise instantly, little man.”
Paul glanced desperately at Sally, who gave him back a cool, challenging gaze. Then he exclaimed, sulky, trembling, beaten:
“Oh, all right, all right. I apologise. You c
an call off your tame thug, Sally.”
“But that won’t do at all,” said Teddy. “You must say it nicely, or else——”
“Pipe down, will you, Teddy!” Sally’s voice suddenly broke, and crying out, “Oh, I hate you both,” she began to weep.
“Oh well, now,” said Teddy uncomfortably. Looking round as if for help out of this embarrassing situation, his eye caught Nigel standing in the door of the doctor’s chalet. He seemed as if about to speak, but then strode off with hunched shoulders.
“I’m sorry, Sally.” Paul’s voice was infinitely dejected now. The girl walked away without looking at him. Nigel felt a certain sympathy for the young man standing there so miserably: he could not, of course, express it—Paul Perry was in a mood when sympathy would sound like an insult. Instead, Nigel approached him and in a business-like voice, as though he had not witnessed the scene, asked if Perry could spare half an hour to go over the work on the questionnaire papers which he had done with Mr. Thistlethwaite.
Nigel’s friendly yet impersonal manner soon thawed the reserve that his snubbing of Perry at lunch had created. They examined the questionnaire papers together, Paul pointing out to him from a special list the names of all the visitors whose home addresses were in the same localities. After this, Nigel took him over the events of the last few days, since his arrival in the camp, paying particular attention to his account of his brush with the hermit during the treasure-hunt, and his dealings with the management. Paul had a very fair memory for detail, so that Nigel was able to build up for himself a pretty comprehensive picture of all the happenings in which the young man had played a part. Whether it was a truthful picture depended, of course, on Paul’s own veracity: he was a trained observer; but he might also be the practical joker, in which case inconsistencies would appear in his account when Nigel reconsidered it.
“I don’t know if this would be any help,” Paul said after they had brought the case up to date. “It’s the note-book in which I jot down all the bits of gossip I hear. I’m afraid it’s almost useless to me for any survey of normal holiday-camp life, because this Mad Hatter has rather dominated the conversation. But you might get some ideas out of it.”
Malice in Wonderland Page 13
