And into the middle of it there dropped, with irretrievable tragedy, the box of chocolates. Beresford gave her the chocolates after the meal as they were sitting over their coffee in the drawing-room, explaining how they had come into his possession. His wife made some laughing comment on his meanness in not having bought a special box to pay his debt, but approved the brand and was interested to try the new variety. Joan Beresford was not so serious-minded as not to have a healthy feminine interest in good chocolates.
She delved with her fingers among the silver-wrapped sweets, each bearing the name of its filling in neat blue lettering, and remarked that the new variety appeared to consist of nothing but Kirsch and Maraschino taken from the firm’s ordinary brand of liqueur chocolates. She offered him one, but Beresford, who had no interest in chocolates and did not believe in spoiling good coffee, refused. His wife unwrapped one and put it in her mouth, uttering the next moment a slight exclamation.
‘Oh! I was wrong. They are different. They’re twenty times as strong. Really, it almost burns. You must try one, Graham. Catch!’ She threw one across to him and Beresford, to humour her, consumed it. A burning taste, not intolerable but far too strong to be pleasant, followed the release of the liquid filling.
‘By Jove,’ he exclaimed, ‘I should think they are strong. They must be filled with neat alcohol.’
‘Oh, they wouldn’t do that, surely,’ said his wife, unwrapping another. ‘It must be the mixture. I rather like them. But that Kirsch one tasted far too strongly of almonds; this may be better. You try a Maraschino too.’ She threw another over to him.
He ate it and disliked it still more. ‘Funny,’ he remarked, feeling the roof of his mouth with the tip of his tongue. ‘My tongue feels quite numb.’
‘So did mine at first,’ she agreed. ‘Now it’s tingling rather nicely. But there doesn’t seem to be any difference between the Kirsch and the Maraschino. And they do burn! The almond flavouring’s much too strong too. I can’t make up my mind whether I like them or not.’
‘I don’t,’ Beresford said with decision. ‘I shouldn’t eat any more of them if I were you. I think there’s something wrong with them.’
‘Well, they’re only an experiment, I suppose,’ said his wife.
A few minutes later Beresford went out, to keep a business appointment in the City. He left her still trying to make up her mind whether she liked the new variety or not. Beresford remembered that conversation afterwards very clearly, because it was the last time he saw his wife alive.
That was roughly half-past two. At a quarter to four Beresford arrived at his club from the City in a taxi, in a state of collapse. He was helped into the building by the driver and the porter, and both described him subsequently as pale to the point of ghastliness, with staring eyes and livid lips, and his skin damp and clammy. His mind seemed unaffected, however, and when they had got him up the steps he was able to walk, with the porter’s help, into the lounge.
The porter, thoroughly alarmed, wanted to send for a doctor at once, but Beresford, who was the last man in the world to make a fuss, refused to let him, saying that it must be indigestion and he would be all right in a few minutes. To Sir William Anstruther, however, who was in the lounge at the time, he added after the porter had gone: ‘Yes, and I believe it was those infernal chocolates you gave me, now I come to think of it. I thought there was something funny about them at the time. I’d better go and find out if my wife’s all right.’
Sir William, a kind-hearted man, was much perturbed at the notion that he might be responsible for Beresford’s condition and offered to ring up Mrs Beresford himself, as the other was plainly in no fit state to move. Beresford was about to reply when a strange change came over him. His body, which had been leaning back limply in his chair, suddenly heaved rigidly upright; his jaws locked together, the livid lips drawn back in a horrible grin, and his hands clenched on the arms of his chair. At the same time Sir William became aware of an unmistakable smell of bitter almonds.
Believing that the man was dying under his eyes, Sir William raised an alarmed shout for the porter and a doctor. The other occupants of the lounge hurried up, and between them they got the convulsed body of the unconscious man into a more comfortable position. They had no doubt that Beresford had taken poison, and the porter was sent off post-haste to find a doctor. Before the latter could arrive a telephone message was received at the club from an agitated butler asking if Mr Beresford was there, and if so would he come home at once as Mrs Beresford had been taken seriously ill. As a matter of fact she was already dead.
Beresford did not die. He had taken less of the poison than his wife, who after his departure must have eaten at least three more of the chocolates, so that its action in his case was less rapid and the doctor had time to save him. Not that the latter knew then what the poison was. He treated him chiefly for prussic acid poison, on the strength of the smell of bitter almonds, but he wasn’t sure and threw in one or two other things as well. Anyhow it turned out in the end that he could not have had a fatal dose, and by about eight o’clock that night he was conscious; the next day he was practically convalescent. As for the unfortunate Mrs Beresford, the doctor arrived too late to save her and she passed away very rapidly in a deep coma.
At first it was thought that the poisoning was due to a terrible accident on the part of the firm of Mason & Sons. The police had taken the matter in hand as soon as Mrs Beresford’s death was reported to them and the fact of poison established, and it was only a very short time before things had become narrowed down to the chocolates as the active agent. Sir William was interrogated, the letter and wrapper were recovered from the waste-paper basket, and, even before the sick man was out of danger, a detective inspector was asking for an interview just before closing-time with the managing director of Mason & Sons. Scotland Yard moves quickly.
It was the police theory at this stage, based on what Sir William and two doctors had been able to tell them, that by an act of criminal carelessness on the part of one of Mason’s employees, an excessive amount of oil of bitter almonds had been included in the filling mixture of the chocolates, for that was what the doctors had decided must be the poisoning ingredient. Oil of bitter almonds is used a good deal, in the cheaper kinds of confectionery, as a flavouring. However, the managing director quashed this idea at once. Oil of bitter almonds, he asserted, was never used by Mason’s. The inspector then produced the covering letter and asked if he could have an interview with the person or persons who had filled the sample chocolates, and with any others through whose hands the box might have passed before it was dispatched.
That brought matters to a head. The managing director read the letter with undisguised astonishment and at once declared that it was a forgery. No such letter, no such samples had been sent out by the firm at all; a new variety of liqueur chocolates had never even been mooted. Shown the fatal chocolates, he identified them without hesitation as their ordinary brand. Unwrapping and examining one more closely, he called the inspector’s attention to a mark on the underside, which he suggested was the remains of a small hole drilled in the case through which the liquid could have been extracted and the fatal filling inserted, the hole afterwards being stopped up with softened chocolate, a perfectly simple operation.
The inspector agreed. It was now clear to him that somebody had been trying deliberately to murder Sir William Anstruther.
Scotland Yard doubled its activities. The chocolates were sent for analysis, Sir William was interviewed again, and so was the now conscious Beresford. From the latter the doctor insisted that the news of his wife’s death must be kept till the next day, as in his weakened condition the shock might be fatal, so that nothing very helpful was obtained from him. Nor could Sir William, now thoroughly alarmed, throw any light on the mystery or produce a single person who might have any grounds for trying to kill him. The police were at a dead end.
Oil of bit
ter almonds had not been a bad guess at the noxious agent in the chocolates. The analysis showed that this was actually nitrobenzene, a kindred substance. Each chocolate in the upper layer contained exactly six minims, the remaining space inside the case being filled with a mixture of Kirsch and Maraschino. The chocolates in the lower layers, containing the other liqueurs to be found in one of Mason’s two-pound boxes, were harmless.
***
‘And now you know as much as we do, Mr Sheringham,’ concluded Chief Inspector Moresby; ‘and if you can say who sent those chocolates to Sir William, you’ll know a good deal more.’
Roger nodded thoughtfully. ‘It’s a brute of a case. The field of possible suspects is so wide. It might have been anyone in the whole world. I suppose you’ve looked into all the people who have an interest in Sir William’s death?’
‘Well, naturally,’ said Moresby. ‘There aren’t many. He and his wife are on notoriously bad terms and have been living apart for the last two years, but she gets a good fat legacy in his will and she’s the residuary legatee as well (they’ve got no children). But her alibi can’t be got round. She was at her villa in the South of France when it happened. I’ve checked that, from the French police.’
‘Not another Marie Lafarge case, then,’ Roger murmured. ‘Though of course there never was any doubt as to Marie Lafarge really being innocent, in any intelligent mind. Well, who else?’
‘His estate in Worcestershire’s entailed and goes to a nephew. But there’s no possible motive there. Sir William hasn’t been near the place for twenty years, and the nephew lives there, with his wife and family, on a long lease at a nominal rent, so long as he looks after the place properly. Sir William couldn’t turn him out if he wanted to.’
‘Not a male edition of the Mary Ansell case, then,’ Roger commented. ‘Well, two other possible parallels occur to me. Don’t they to you?’
‘Well, sir,’ Moresby scratched his head. ‘There’s the Molineux case, of course, in New York, where a poisoned phial of bromo-seltzer was sent to a Mr Cornish at the Knickerbocker Club, with the result that a lady to whom he gave some at his boarding-house for a headache died and Cornish himself, who only sipped it because she complained of it being bitter, was violently ill. That’s as close a parallel as I can call to mind.’
‘By Jove, yes.’ Roger was impressed. ‘And it had never occurred to me at all. It’s a very close parallel indeed. Have you acted on it at all? Molineux, the man who was put on trial, was a fellow member of the same club, if I remember, and it was said to be a case of jealousy. Have you made enquiries about any possibilities like that among Sir William’s fellow members at the Rainbow?’
‘I have, sir, you may be sure; but there’s nothing in it along those lines. Not a thing,’ said Moresby with conviction. ‘What were the other two possible parallels you had in mind?’
‘Why, the Christina Edmunds case, for one. Feminine jealousy. Sir William’s private life doesn’t seem to be immaculate. I daresay there’s a good deal of off with the old light-o’-love and on with the new. What about investigations round that idea?’
‘Why, that’s just what I have been doing, Mr Sheringham, sir,’ retorted Chief Inspector Moresby reproachfully. ‘That was the first thing that came to me. Because if anything does stand out about this business it is that it’s a woman’s crime. Nobody but a woman would send poisoned chocolates to a man. Another man would never think of it. He’d send a poisoned sample of whiskey, or something like that.’
‘That’s a very sound point, Moresby,’ Roger meditated. ‘Very sound indeed. And Sir William couldn’t help you?’
‘Couldn’t,’ said Moresby, not without a trace of resentment, ‘or wouldn’t. I was inclined to believe at first that he might have his suspicions and was shielding some woman. But I don’t know. There may be nothing in it.’
‘On the other hand, there may be quite a lot. As I feel the case at present, that’s where the truth lies.’
Moresby looked as if a little solid evidence would be more to his liking than any amount of feelings about the case. ‘And your other parallel, Mr Sheringham?’ he asked, rather dispiritedly.
‘Why, Sir William Horwood. You remember that some lunatic sent poisoned chocolates not so long ago to the Commissioner of Police himself. A good crime always gets imitated. One could bear in mind the possibility that this is a copy of the Horwood case.’
Moresby brightened. ‘It’s funny you should say that, Mr Sheringham, sir, because that’s about the conclusion I’m being forced to myself. In fact I’ve pretty well made up my mind. I’ve tested every other theory there is, you see. There’s not a solitary person with an interest in Sir William’s death, so far as I can see, whether it’s from motives of gain, revenge, hatred, jealousy or anything else, whom I haven’t had to rule out of the question. They’ve all either got complete alibis or I’ve satisfied myself in some other way that they’re not to blame. If Sir William isn’t shielding someone (and I’m pretty sure now that he isn’t) there’s nothing else for it but some irresponsible lunatic of a woman who’s come to the conclusion that this world would be a better place without Sir William Anstruther in it—some social or religious fanatic, who’s probably never even seen Sir William personally. And if that’s the case,’ sighed Moresby, ‘a fat lot of chance we have of laying hands on her.’
Roger reflected for a moment. ‘You may be right, Moresby. In fact I shouldn’t be at all surprised if you were. But if I were superstitious, which I’m not, do you know what I should believe? That the murderer’s aim misfired and Sir William escaped death for an express purpose of providence: so that he, the destined victim, should be the ironical instrument of bringing his own intended murderer to justice.’
‘Well, Mr Sheringham, would you really?’ said the sarcastic chief inspector, who was not superstitious either.
Roger seemed rather taken with the idea. ‘Chance, the Avenger. Make a good film title, wouldn’t it? But there’s a terrible lot of truth in it. How often don’t you people at the Yard stumble on some vital piece of evidence out of pure chance? How often isn’t it that you are led to the right solution by what seems a series of sheer coincidences? I’m not belittling your detective work; but just think how often a piece of brilliant detective work which has led you most of the way but not the last vital few inches, meets with some remarkable stroke of sheer luck (thoroughly well-deserved luck, no doubt, but luck), which just makes the case complete for you. I can think of scores of instances. The Milsom and Fowler murder, for example. Don’t you see what I mean? Is it chance every time, or is it Providence avenging the victim?’
‘Well, Mr Sheringham,’ said Chief Inspector Moresby, ‘to tell you the truth, I don’t mind what it is, so long as it lets me put my hands on the right man.’
‘Moresby,’ laughed Roger, ‘you’re hopeless. I thought I was raising such a fruitful topic. Very well, we’ll change the subject. Tell me why in the name of goodness the murderess (assuming that you’re right every time) used nitrobenzene, of all surprising things?’
‘There, Mr Sheringham,’ Moresby admitted, ‘you’ve got me. I never even knew it was so poisonous. It’s used a good deal in various manufactures, I’m told, confectionery for instance, and as a solvent; and its chief use is in making aniline dyes. But it’s never reckoned among the ordinary poisons. I suppose she used it because it’s so easy to get hold of.’
‘Isn’t there a line of attack there?’ Roger suggested. ‘The inference is that the criminal is a woman who is employed in some factory or business, the odds favouring an aniline dye establishment, and who knew of the poisonous properties of nitrobenzene because the employees have been warned about it. Couldn’t you use that as a point of departure?’
‘To interrogate every employee of every establishment in this country that uses nitrobenzene in any of its processes, Mr Sheringham? Come, sir. Even if you’re right the chances are we should
all be dead before we reached the guilty person.’
‘I suppose we should,’ regretted Roger, who had thought he was being rather clever.
They discussed the case for some time longer, but nothing further of importance emerged. Naturally it had not been possible to trace the machine on which the forged letter had been typed, nor to ascertain how the piece of Mason’s notepaper had come into the criminal’s possession. With regard to this last point, Roger suggested, as an outside possibility, that it might not have been Mason’s notepaper at all but a piece with a heading especially printed for the occasion, which might give a pointer towards a printer as being concerned in the crime. He was chagrined to learn that this brilliant idea had occurred to Moresby as a mere matter of routine, and the notepaper had been definitely identified by Merton’s, the printers concerned, as their own work. He produced the piece of paper for Roger’s inspection, and the latter commented on the fact that the edges were distinctly yellowed, which seemed to suggest that the sheet was an old one.
Another idea occurred to Roger. ‘I shouldn’t be surprised, Moresby,’ he said, with a certain impressiveness, ‘if the murderer never tried to get hold of this sheet at all. In other words, it was the chance possession of it which suggested the whole method of the crime.’
It appeared that this notion had also occurred to Moresby. If it were true, it only helped to make the crime more insoluble than before. From the wrapper, a piece of ordinary brown paper with Sir William’s name and address hand-printed on it in large capitals, there was nothing at all to be learnt beyond the fact that the parcel had been posted at the office in Southampton Street, Strand, between the hours of eight-thirty and nine-thirty p.m. Except for the chocolates themselves, which seemed to offer no further help, there was nothing else whatsoever in the way of material clues. Whoever coveted Sir William’s life had certainly no intention of purchasing it with his or her own.
Capital Crimes: London Mysteries Page 30
