Arnold paused for a moment, and was pleased to see that Constable Files was apparently taking down his statement.
“I approach the house at about 11.15,” he went on. “I enter through the open bay window of the drawing-room, knowing in advance that Mr. Hardstaffe is sure to have it opened, whatever the weather. (He’s a fresh-air fiend). I stand for a few minutes behind the heavy plush curtain which blacks out the whole alcove. On the wall at my left hand hangs a meerschaum pipe: on the right, a knobkerri. I’ve often heard Mr. Hardstaffe’s boast that he’d use the latter to split the skull of any parachutist who tried to force his way into the house. I take it, into my hand, and move silently through the curtains, blinking at first at the subdued light which comes from a standard lamp with a rose-coloured shade, which stands near the table at Mr. Hardstaffe’s right. (Mr. Hardstaffe is partial to rose-coloured light: he thinks it makes him look young and handsome).
“I am not afraid that he will hear me, because he has now been alone for over an hour, and the tantalus is half-empty already. Besides, he is an old man, and his hearing is not as good as he likes to pretend.
“I am not afraid that he will see me, because the back of his chair is directly in front of the window through which I have just entered. And again, he is old, and is not likely to move out of his comfortable chair until he is ready to go to bed.
“I move across quietly to the chair. I steady myself. I lift the knobkerri. I am too close to miss him. I bash his head in. I think of the cane beating a schoolboy to insensibility, and of the horsewhip cracking over his poor wife’s head. And I make quite sure that he can’t live!”
He shuddered.
“Then, sir,” remarked the Superintendent, “he fell to the floor, and you dropped the weapon beside him, after wiping your fingerprints away?”
A cunning smile spread itself over Arnold’s mild, round face.
“Oh, no. You’ll find that you can’t trip me up, Superintendent,” he replied. “Hardstaffe didn’t fall: he was held up by his own vanity! You see, although he was such a short, little man, he liked to pretend that he was really a Carnera. He took a large size in everything. Even collars, hats, and gloves were all a size too big for him—that’s why he always looked so badly-dressed. His chair, too, was too large for him. It’s one of those enormous, padded, enveloping ones with a low, inclined back. No one else is ever allowed to sit in it, and he never sits in any other, in that room. No. He just slumped in it, and his head rolled sideways towards the right arm. As for the knobkerri, I threw it into the shrubbery on my way out of the grounds, and I had no need to wipe it because I was wearing gloves. Now do you believe me?”
He leaned back in his chair, and passed his hand over his eyes. The excitement which the telling of his story had aroused in him had suddenly passed away, leaving him very tired and dejected.
Constable Files completed his notes, then looked at Cheam.
“Thank you, sir, for coming along,” said the Superintendent. “I expect you’re feeling tired after your journey. We know where to find you if we should happen to need you for anything.”
“But—but—” stammered Arnold. “Aren’t you going to arrest me?”
“Not this time, sir,” was the smiling reply.
“But—Mr. Hardstaffe? I—”
The Superintendent shook a weary head.
“He’s not dead yet.”
“Not dead?” Arnold stared unbelievingly. “Why, that’s impossible! Those head injuries!”
The Constable shook his head. Superintendent Cheam had turned to look at some papers on the desk, as if to make it clear that he had no further interest in the interview.
“I’m afraid you’re the only one whose head has been injured, sir,” said Files patiently. “Nobody’s even tried to murder Mr. Hardstaffe. I saw him walking down the village this morning.”
Arnold looked utterly bewildered.
“But all that I’ve been telling you...?”
“Ah! You’ve been letting your imagination run away with you a bit there. Been working a bit too hard on that book, I shouldn’t wonder, and it’s got on your nerves.” Arnold rose to his feet, and swayed unsteadily. The Constable came across, and, taking him by the arm, propelled him gently through the door and out into the hall.
“If you take my advice, sir,” he said, “you’ll go and see the doctor in the morning. That knock on the head must have been worse than you imagined. You need a good long rest. Just you leave London alone for a bit, and stay up here in Nether Naughton: it’s healthier.”
“Then it’s all nonsense?” demanded Arnold. “There isn’t any tragedy at the Hardstaffes’ after all?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” remarked the Constable as he ushered him through the front door. Mrs. Hardstaffe was found dead in her bed on Sunday morning.”
CHAPTER 11
The inquest on Mrs. Hardstaffe was held on the following day.
Arnold, whose suggestion that he should move to the local inn had been waved aside by an indignant Leda, drove the bereaved daughter and husband to the large, bleak, single-storied building lent by the Women’s Institute for the occasion. He sat with them in one of the small wooden chairs placed in rows, while the Coroner faced them over one of the green-baized card tables, and as many of the villagers as were not afraid of being dubbed “gawpers,” crowded into the spaces behind them.
The doctor who had performed the post-mortem was called first.
The Coroner, a white-haired country lawyer, fidgetted as though his task was distasteful to him, and listened as though he did not in the least care how many grains of morphia had been found in the body of the schoolmaster’s wife.
In fact, he did care very much.
He had lived in the village as long as he could recall—apart from such absences as were necessary for the purpose of education—and he had as a matter of course entered the legal firm in the nearby market town which bore his father’s and grandfather’s name. And so he remembered the time when Mrs. Hardstaffe had first come to live in Nether Naughton, a radiant little figure, suitably proud of being a headmaster’s wife, and prouder still of the two children whom she adored.
To preside at an inquiry into the death of old Joe Latham who, too venturesome at ninety, had fallen downstairs and broken his neck, or to hold an inquest on Sally Mason’s baby, left unattended in its gas-helmet during a mock attack by “invading forces;” such cases were part of his duty, and, legally, he found them a pleasant change from his routine work. But to inquire into the death of a woman with whom he had been friends as long as her husband permitted, and for whom he had remained a bachelor: a woman who, while appearing faded and nondescript to others, had remained radiant as a rose to him...
No, he did not like the task before him this morning.
He became aware that the young doctor had finished the medical discursion, and he hastily jerked himself into speech.
“There can be no doubt then, that Mrs. Hardstaffe died from an overdose of morphia. Did you at any time prescribe this drug for her, Dr. Lowell?”
The doctor hesitated.
“No, but I’m not Mrs. Hardstaffe’s medical adviser. I am Dr. Macalistair’s junior partner, as you probably know, but Macalistair always attended Mrs. Hardstaffe himself. She wouldn’t have anyone else to advise her. But Dr. Macalistair happened to be away over the week-end, I answered Miss Hardstaffe’s call, pronounced death extinct, and performed the post-mortem.”
Superintendent Cheam leaned across from his own little cardtable, and whispered. The Coroner nodded, and was heard to say, “We’ll call him later.”
Dr. Lowell was waved away, and Leda called.
As she rose to her feet and seemed to steady herself for the ordeal, Arnold pressed her hand in sudden sympathy, an action which she seemed not to notice.
The Coroner regarded her without sympathy.
This was Emily Hardstaffe’s daughter. A hard woman, competent, capable, and—to complete the a
lliteration, and only, he hoped, for that reason—callous. He’d like to bet that she’d led her poor mother the very devil of a life since her coming-of-age. And that had been a good many more years ago than Leda would care to admit.
Recollecting her as a pert, not unattractive, little girl, he reflected that, for her, the faery tale had been turned topsy-turvy: she was the Swan who had turned into the Ugly Duckling!
But he was not here to sit in judgment upon Emily’s daughter. He could at least be thankful that she was not the kind of woman to faint or have hysterics.
“Dr. Lowell has told us that you telephoned him on Sunday morning. I take it, then, that you were the first one to find—er—Mrs. Hardstaffe.’’
“Yes,” replied Leda.
Admirable witness, thought the coroner.
She’s really marvellous, admired Arnold. Takes it all in her stride!
“Will you tell me about it—just in your own words?”
“Certainly,” came Leda’s calm words. “It was all very simple. We—that is, my father, mother, any guests we happen to have, and I—always breakfast together. Since rationing started, we’ve given up early cups of tea, so the maids don’t go into the bedrooms before were up. We all rely on ourselves to wake on time: we’re never called, like many people. On Sunday morning, Mother didn’t come down at the usual time, and I thought it strange at once, because I’ve never known her late for a meal before.”
I’ll bet you haven’t! thought Arnold grimly, as he pictured the scene: Mr. Hardstaffe, pulling out his watch, growing more testy every minute, and finally allowing his temper to flare out at the unfortunate culprit. Only, this time, the culprit had not appeared—would never do so again.
“After about ten minutes, my father and I felt uneasy,” continued Leda, “so I went to find out why she did not come down.” She paused, and for a second showed some sign of emotion. “She was quite dead. I went down to tell Daddy, and then rang up the doctor.”
“It must have been a great shock,” said the coroner.
“Yes. I thought at first that it was heart failure, but although Mother was always complaining about her health, I knew she was really as strong as a horse.”
Poor Emily!
The Coroner restrained himself from any comment. He must, above all things, remain impartial, and remember that he was now the mouthpiece of Justice.
“I don’t mean to sound unkind,” said Leda hurriedly, as though she had sensed his antagonism, “but I once asked Dr. Macalistair if she had a weak heart, because if she had I knew she must be protected from all shocks, and he said that there was nothing wrong with it.”
“I see. You’ve heard the evidence, now, that Mrs. Hardstaffe died from morphia poisoning. Have you any idea how she could have taken such a large dose?”
“Why, of course I have,” replied Leda. “It’s quite obvious that she took too many sleeping powders—the doctor had sent her a fresh supply a few days before. I’ve always been afraid that she might do so. She was always so careless over such things.”
“Your mother took sleeping-draughts prescribed by Dr. Macalistair?”
“Yes. She’s taken them for a year or more.”
“And what makes you think that they contain morphia?”
“Oh, everybody knows that, even the servants,” said Leda. “Mother liked to tell everyone that she slept badly and had to take morphia powders.”
“Do you know how she knew they contained morphia?”
“I suppose Dr. Macalistair told her.”
“So, in your opinion, Miss Hardstaffe, your mother accidentally took too many of the sleeping powders?”
“It’s obvious, surely. What other explanation could there possibly be?”
The coroner glanced down at a pencilled note on the pad before him.
“When did you last see your mother alive?” he asked. “The night before she died. At about twenty-five minutes past nine when she said good-night before going upstairs to bed.”
“You didn’t go into her bedroom to see her?”
“No. I never did. She liked to read in bed, and didn’t care to be disturbed.”
“Did she seem any different from usual? Did she, for example, seem to be worried about anything?”
“No. She was worried about her health, of course, but there was nothing unusual in that.”
“You didn’t hear any sound from her room after you had gone to bed?”
“No. But my bedroom is on the opposite side of the house. Unless it was some loud noise, like a scream or a bang, I shouldn’t hear it.”
“Thank you, Miss Hardstaffe.”
She was dismissed.
Hardstaffe gave a similar version of the breakfast scene, and he had last seen his wife alive a few seconds before Leda.
Arnold could picture the frail old lady bending down to drop a conventional kiss upon his half-averted brow, one over-ringed hand resting on his unresponsive shoulder. He had often wondered whether she still squeezed some sentimental pleasure from the habit, or whether it was merely a long-disused custom resuscitated for his own benefit. For Mrs. Hardstaffe’s creed undoubtedly held the command, “Thou shalt always keep up appearances before strangers.”
“You noticed nothing unusual about Mrs. Hardstaffe’s manner that night?”
“Nothing whatever.”
The coroner gritted his teeth before forcing himself to ask the next question.
“Miss Hardstaffe has said that you all met for the first time each day at breakfast. Am I correct in assuming that you and your wife did not occupy the same bedroom?”
“Quite right,” came the bland reply, but Arnold saw the schoolmaster’s hands clench until the knuckles were white.
He’s having a job to control himself, he thought. I should think he’s got a guilty conscience, too, after the way he treated that poor woman.
“You heard no sound during the night?”
“None whatever.”
“Did you sleep near Mrs. Hardstaffe?”
Hardstaffe glared.
“We had adjoining rooms, if that’s what you mean,” he said.
“It is exactly what I do mean,” returned the Coroner. “Are the two rooms connected or separate?”
“There is a communicating door which is always kept locked, but I don’t see what...”
“And the key?”
“Oh, that was lost many, many years ago,” replied Hardstaffe, whereat two of the men present were filled with a violent desire to punch his jaw.
“Have you any idea how your wife came to take an overdose of morphia?” persisted the coroner.
Hardstaffe relaxed his stance a little, and put his hands into his trousers pockets, jingling some loose coins.
“I see no reason to differ from my daughter’s opinion,” he said. “The first thing I noticed when I went into Mrs. Hardstaffe’s bedroom was a number of wrapping papers from the powders scattered on the bedside table. Mrs. Hardstaffe had access to morphia through the powders, and evidently took an overdose by accident. I’ve told Dr.
Macalistair dozens of times that it was dangerous to let her take these strong powders, but he simply took no notice. I hope that he will be publicly reprimanded for such gross carelessness.”
“You don’t think it possible that your wife deliberately took an overdose of morphia?”
“I can see no reason why she should have done such a thing,” replied the schoolmaster.
Arnold could barely restrain his feelings. He could see nearly five feet of reason at present answering the coroner’s questions.
CHAPTER 12
Dr. Macalistair next faced the bowling: a solid tower of a man with a wise face and brown, twinkling eyes.
“You have attended Mrs. Hardstaffe for many years, I believe, Doctor.”
“Ever since she first came to the village some thirty years ago.”
“For any particular ailment?”
“Apart from the usual bouts of bronchitis, influenza—that kind of thing—n
o.”
“Your visits, then were not frequent?”
The doctor smiled.
“On the contrary. During the past few years or so, I have called regularly every month to see Mrs. Hardstaffe, and more often if she sent for me for any special reason.’
(“My doctor’s such a wonderful man,” a quiet voice echoed in Arnold’s mind. “I don’t know what I should do if he didn’t visit me regularly. I feel better as soon as he walks into the room. He’s so sympathetic. I feel that he understands everything.”)
“Professionally, of course?”
“Certainly.”
“Perhaps it might be helpful if you enlarged on this a little,” suggested the coroner.
The doctor smiled.
“With pleasure,” he said, while his big burly figure seemed also to enlarge itself as if preparing to hold the audience. “Mrs. Hardstaffe was a highly-strung woman whose nerves were frequently upset. As a result, she suffered considerably from the little ills, such as indigestion, fatigue, palpitation, etc. which are produced by nervous strain. She was never in really good health, but there was nothing organically wrong with her...”
Leda and her father glanced at each other.
“...Like most of us, she exaggerated her little ailments until they assumed important proportions in her own mind. It was all a part of the nervous trouble. Her insistence on her ill-health was a kind of escape-mechanism from certain personal troubles which—” He paused deliberately—“were real enough.”
The coroner looked as if he were about to ask for yet more enlargement, made a note instead, then said,
“You prescribed sleeping draughts for her?”
“I sent powders from time to time for her to take with a little warm milk after she went to bed.”
“Why did you prescribe them?”
Dr. Macalistair seemed to weigh the meaning of the question.
“Mrs. Hardstaffe complained of Insomnia,” he said cautiously.
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