The Monday Theory

by Douglas Clark

  “We have to bear it in mind,” admitted Robson, “but I still think it doesn’t prove they were here on the Monday, still less that they died that night.”

  “I think we should get going,” said Masters. “It’s almost dark now and I’d like to see the forensic report.”

  Green said to Robson, “You travel with us, mate. Your sergeant can take Berger with him and check that shop on the way. You never know, we might get another pointer.”

  Masters appeared to agree with this arrangement for a moment and then amended Green’s order. “I’d like Reed to stay with Middleton. He can dust those sets of glasses you saw in the wine cupboard. I want to know if any of them have been used recently and then washed.”

  Green turned to Reed. “Get your gear out of the boot.”

  *

  Dr Peter Fisk, the forensic pathologist, brought his report in person to the Chichester police station. He was a man in his fifties, with a lugubrious face, sparse grey hair and—when he was reading—a pair of half-moon spectacles which he wore low on his nose. When not using the lenses, he peered over their tops in a way which Green later described as reminiscent of an ageing Egyptian belly-dancer having trouble with her yashmak.

  “I came myself,” he explained to Masters, “because you have here a problem which I myself would not like to have to sort out.”

  “It has presented you with difficulties, has it, sir?”

  Fisk nodded. “Quite a problem. Quite a problem.” He paused for a moment and then continued. “You see, Chief Superintendent, I think it safe to say that the fundamental effects of arsenic—and arsine is only gaseous arsenic, after all—on the body tissues, have been elucidated . . . er . . . but slightly.” He leaned forward to make his next point. “One of the major observations that has been made is that arsenite inhibits lactate utilization in liver slices, of course, but . . .” he shook his head, “. . . but in a case of acute poisoning such as this . . .” He looked at Green who seemed completely lost. “Death, you see, occurred within a very few hours. Certainly during the first twenty-four, but the usual course runs from three days to a week . . .”

  Masters stepped in. “What you are saying, sir, is that death occurred so quickly that the usual pathological signs in the body had not developed.”

  “Quite. Normally, with acute arsenical poisoning, the digestive tract becomes inflamed and, indeed, may show ulceration.”

  “That’s why they vomit, isn’t it?” asked Green, determined to show he was keeping up.

  “Oh, yes, quite. And the mucus of the intestinal tract shreds into an oedematous fluid. And, as you no doubt know, when death is delayed for a few days, there is fatty degeneration of the liver, or even acute yellow atrophy.”

  “So you presume they died very quickly?” asked Masters.

  “That is my point.”

  “So they were subjected to a really high concentration of arsine?”

  “Yes, yes,” said Fisk a little testily. “That is the point I was about to make. The estimated safe concentration of arsine in air is just one-twentieth of one part per million. After a few hours in air containing as little as ten parts per million, one would get symptoms.”

  “Serious symptoms?”

  “Not to say serious, exactly, but nasty. For serious symptoms to emerge, I would estimate forty parts per million.”

  “One part in twenty-five thousand! Is that what these two were subjected to?”

  Fisk shook his head. “Oh, no. Far more than that. Far more. Though where it came from . . . but that is your problem. As I said, I would not like to tackle it myself.”

  “So how exactly did they die?” asked Robson.

  “Arsine produces poison by inhalation. The gas diffuses through the pulmonary sac. The symptoms would develop inside thirty minutes . . . yes, inside thirty minutes. Early respiratory irritation, you might say. Due to haemolysis . . . yes, arsine death is caused by respiratory collapse in cases like this, due to haemolytic action, though one would expect to find also excretion of blood cell debris by the kidney.”

  “Haemolytic action, Doc?” asked Green. “What’s that in words blokes like me might understand?”

  Fisk peered at him. “The destruction of the red blood cells and the resultant escape from them of haemoglobin. And haemoglobin is the respiratory pigment of the red blood cells. So you see they were killed by respiratory failure.”

  “Got it. Thanks.”

  “Why did they die so quickly?” asked Masters.

  “Why? Because of the high concentration of arsine to which they were subjected and . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Because, Mr Masters, they had been drinking heavily.”

  “Ah!”

  The doctor looked over his spectacles. “They had a great amount of alcohol inside them. In fact, they were drunk. Had they not been intoxicated it is my guess that so heavy a concentration of arsine would have caused them so much irritation that they would have awakened and so saved their lives. But I believe that they were dead to the world in a drunken stupor, breathing heavily and oblivious to any irritation. That is why all the usual pathological indications were not present. The one good thing is that they died quickly, without pain or distress.”

  “There you are, lad,” said Green to Robson. He then turned to Fisk. “Gin, was it, Doc?”

  Fisk considered the point. At length he replied: “I think the foundation was gin.” He consulted his report. “Yes, definitely gin. I estimate that they had taken some twenty-five centilitres each.”

  “That would be a third of a bottle each?”

  “Just so.”

  “Foundation, you said, Doc. Do you mean they built on it?”

  “Most assuredly.”

  “What did they use for bricks?”

  “Ah! There I cannot be quite so precise as to the true nature of the liquor. Suffice it to say that it was a white wine. No sign of red anywhere. But I am unable to identify it further.” He peered at them. “There were very definite indications of a gaseous liquid—aerated if you like. But I should remind you that the gin had been accompanied by tonic water which is, as you know, gaseous.”

  “Meaning that you are unable to say whether the wine was gaseous or not, doctor?” asked Masters.

  “That is my point. The wine could have been, for example, sparkling Niersteiner. In the mix-up within the body organs, I could only establish that there was something of a gaseous nature there.”

  “But you incline to the view that it could have been a sparkling wine.”

  “I merely admit the possibility.”

  “Thank you. Can you give us some idea of how much wine each had drunk?”

  “To be sure. I had to do some comparative calculations between blood and urine and other organ contents, of course, but my estimate—a conservative one—is that those sorry people had taken almost a litre each.”

  “Good heavens!”

  “It is certainly astounding. Not only the amounts imbibed, but the fact that the woman kept pace with the man.”

  “Even Steven,” grunted Green.

  “A litre each,” murmured Masters. “That’s the equivalent of three bottles between them.” He turned to Fisk. “An unhealthy combination, gin and wine, in those amounts, sir?”

  “Without a doubt. But my observations show that the gin was drunk before a meal of . . .” The pathologist again consulted his notes. “Soup, potatoes, ham and lettuce, whereas the wine came later.”

  “Later?” asked Masters. “Not with the meal?”

  “I cannot be entirely specific on the point because there has been a great deal of activity within the organs, but yes, I believe the wine to have been taken sometime after the meal. And that, gentlemen, is about all I can tell you. The technical details are all here, of course, in the Coroner’s report.”

  “Can I ask you a further question, sir?”

  Fisk removed his spectacles. “Please do, Chief Superintendent.”

  “When you inspected the
bodies, they were in every way clothed for bed?”

  “Yes.”

  “And there were no bottles or glasses in the bedroom they were occupying?”

  “None of either. When I am called to these cases I make a point of looking for such things.”

  “Can you then suggest how two people, obviously very much under the influence of drink when they died, managed to clear up all traces of their drinking spree, get upstairs, undress, and then get into bed without leaving a heap of discarded clothing on the floor?”

  Fisk shook his head. “This is one of the facets of the case which has defeated me. I can only assume that they retired to bed soon after their meal and then lay in bed drinking until they were . . . well, in my day we referred to it as paralytic.”

  Masters looked at Fisk. “Had they indulged in sexual intercourse, sir?”

  “I believe so, but the traces decay so rapidly that it is difficult indeed to say that intercourse took place after supper.”

  “Early bed-time,” said Green laconically. “She was about to get divorced. She was in bed with a man other than her husband.”

  “Quite, quite. You should take these things into consideration, but I cannot swear to them. One thing, however, does lead me to support your supposition. And that is that physical tiredness, if allied to heavy intoxication, would help to further explain the fact that they were stuporous beyond the point at which they would have reacted to the irritation caused by the arsine.”

  “Good point, that,” applauded Green. “But it doesn’t answer the question of what became of the glasses and bottles.” He turned to Masters. “Or does it?”

  “It seems to indicate very strongly the presence of a third person at Abbot’s Hall that night. And that, I suppose, merely adds confirmation to what we have all assumed.”

  “That there was a murderer there?” asked Robson.

  Masters nodded. “A murderer present who decided to tidy up the house. The point is, why?”

  Fisk got to his feet. “I cannot help you there, gentlemen, so if there are no more questions . . . dear me, how time flies! I promised my wife . . .”

  They saw Fisk away, and almost immediately thereafter were joined by Reed and Robson.

  Reed reported.

  “Two of the stemmed goblets have been washed recently, Chief. Not a print on them. Whoever did it was careful not to leave his dhobi marks for us to find. The other four were clean, too. Slightly dusty as though they hadn’t been used for a week or two, but they carried prints.”

  “And?”

  “You’re expecting an and, too, Chief?”

  “You wouldn’t surprise me if much the same could be said about a couple of glasses suitable for drinking white wine.”

  Reed grinned. “Well, Chief, you were the one who said I had to dust the glasses, so I can’t claim that I’ve really caught you out, but the wine glasses were all okay except . . .”

  “Come on, lad,” grated Green. “Don’t keep us in suspense, standing there looking pleased with yourself. Your face is like a riven dish, cracked across from ear to ear.”

  “Champagne glasses,” suggested Masters. “Three of them, perhaps.

  “How the hell did you know that, Chief?”

  “Got it,” grunted Green. “Sparkling Niersteiner, the man suggested. It wasn’t. It was shampers. Bubbly!”

  Reed looked crestfallen. “How did you know, Chief? And that there’d be three that had been washed and polished?”

  “As you heard the DCI say, the pathologist thought he had detected signs of sparkling white wine. He hadn’t been able to identify it, of course, and he wasn’t absolutely sure that it was a sparkling wine because there was tonic water there, too. As you know, tonic bubbles, though for a different reason, perhaps. However, that is immaterial. We know they were drunk on gin and champagne.”

  “But you guessed there would be three glasses, Chief.”

  “That was easy, I’m afraid.”

  “Not to me,” said Robson.

  “After we reckoned we had proof there was a third person present?”

  “No. At least not why whoever it was should clear up and wash a lot of glasses.”

  Masters looked closely at him. “No?”

  “Well . . . I suppose his own prints . . . Christ! Are you suggesting he was actually here, drinking with them?”

  “Go on.”

  “That he was somebody they knew and were matey enough with to ask him in for a drink?”

  “Basically, yes. But I would go even further than that.”

  “Think, lad,” said Green. “Before this joker arrived they were drinking gin and tonic. The gin bottle’s still there, and so is the crate of tonic. After he arrived, they drank champagne, and the champagne bottles have disappeared. Why? Because the joker brought them with him, so he had to get rid of them in case we could trace them to him. In fact, I reckon he was hoping or expecting we’d never get to know they’d had champagne. And he had to wash the glasses because he’d handled them—or at least one of them, and I don’t suppose he could remember which one or they got mixed up somehow.”

  “In that case, why wash the goblets they’d drunk the gin from? If he was wanting to mislead us, he’d have left those.”

  Green looked across at Masters. “There’s a point, George.”

  “A point, certainly, but it happened, so we ought to try and make use of the fact.”

  “Meaning?” asked Robson.

  “Our third person—the murderer—was obviously known to Mrs Carvell and Ralph Woodruff. We’ve already agreed that. He brought the champagne. A friendly gesture, you might say. But friends don’t come to a party wearing gloves. I suspect that in the normal course of events, while he was serving champagne, he had to touch the other glasses. What I mean is this. He offers a glass of champagne to Rhoda Carvell who is sitting by the fire. She accepts it, says thank you, and then hands him her empty gin glass, asking if he would mind putting it on the drinks tray. He has to do as she asks. So he knows he has to wash that glass, at least. Perhaps the same thing was repeated with Woodruff or—worse from our murderer’s point of view—Woodruff gets up and puts his own empty gin glass on the tray. As he does so, his body hides his movements. Which glass is which? Our murderer can’t be sure, so he has to wash both.”

  “So he had to wash all five glasses? Right,” acknowledged Robson. “Then what?”

  Masters grinned. “You wouldn’t want me to speculate, would you, Mr Robson?”

  Robson raised his eyes. “Oh, no, sir! I wouldn’t want you to do anything like that. Not you! You’ve only guessed when they died. You’ve only guessed they were drunk. You’ve only guessed this, that and the other.”

  “Not guessed, surely?”

  “It seems like it to me.”

  “Do you reckon we’re getting anywhere, lad?” Green asked him.

  Robson shrugged.

  “You reckon not?”

  “There’s all this business about missing dripping tins and missing champagne bottles. How do we find those? There’s the English Channel not two hundred yards from the doorstep of Abbot’s Hall.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” conceded Masters. “However, we haven’t heard, from Sergeant Middleton, how he got on with his enquiries at the shop.”

  The local DS said: “You got it right, sir. They bought all the provisions as well as the gin and the tray of tonics on the Monday evening, just before closing time. From the grocer’s shop.”

  “The shopkeeper is sure it was Monday?”

  “Yes, sir. You see, I thought it a bit funny they should buy a whole tray of tonics and only one bottle of gin. It seemed a bit lopsided like. So I mentioned this in the shop and they said that Mrs Carvell had actually asked for three bottles of Gordon’s. But he’d only got the one of those. He’d offered her some other sort, but she turned them down when he told her the new lot of Gordon’s would be in next day. He always gets his booze delivered on Tuesdays.”

  Masters murmured
his appreciation of this piece of sagacity on the part of Middleton who continued: “And I don’t think they sell champagne there, sir, so I don’t think the three bottles could have been bought locally.”

  “Thank you. That is most useful information.” He got to his feet. “Would you mind ringing Mrs Masters again, please, Sergeant, to tell her I shall be back by eight o’clock?”

  As Middleton left them, Masters said to Robson: “We’ll get off now. I think we could all do with a few hours away from our problem. We shall be in touch tomorrow.”

  *

  As they sped towards London, Green asked: “What’s the form, George? Young Robson wasn’t kidding, you know. We’ve got a hell of a lot of fact, but we don’t know who we’re after, do we? Or if we do, we can’t pin it on him.”

  Masters, packing his large-bowled cadger’s pipe with freshly rubbed Warlock Flake, didn’t reply immediately. He put the stem in his mouth and tested the draw before answering.

  “The title of an essay written by Thomas de Quincey was ‘Murder Considered as One of the Fine Arts’.”

  “I’m not familiar with it. Are you trying to say we’ve got something here done by an old master? Something that’s beyond us?”

  “Preparing you for it, shall we say.”

  “Oh, come on, Chief,” expostulated Berger. “We’ve been at it for two days and we . . . that is you . . . have got no end of fact to work on.”

  “Not all that much. True, we know when, we know where and we reckon we know how. But we don’t know why and who.”

  “I’ll go along with that,” said Green. “I don’t have to remind you of the quote that every detective constable learns on his first day in civvies, but I’m going to. ‘Murder, like talent, seems occasionally to run in families’.”

  Masters lit his pipe, waiting for the tobacco to glow evenly before asking: “You would go nap on Professor Ernest Carvell?”

  “He’s my bet.”

  “On what evidence specifically?”

  Green thought for a moment. “He seems the most likely.”

  “Not good enough really, is it?”

  “No,” grunted Green. “He was getting rid of his wife on advantageous terms anyway. He wasn’t going to lose a penny by it.”