Death Makes a Prophet

by John Bude

  “Umph—it’s possible.” Meredith glanced at his watch. “What time did you say Maxton would arrive?”

  “About three o’clock.”

  “In about ten minutes, eh? Good. Suppose we go up to the girl’s room and wait for him.”

  IV

  It was actually some twenty minutes later when Maxton, the police surgeon, arrived in his car, escorted by the despatch-rider from County H.Q. In the interim Meredith and Rokeby had borrowed string and paper and cotton-wool and carefully packed the sherry decanter and two glasses. Before Meredith went into a huddle with Maxton, he wrote a note to Luke Spears, the chief analyst at the Yard, explaining exactly what he wanted. This note and the parcel he handed over to the despatch-rider.

  “You’d better stay the night in Town and bring back the analyst’s report to-morrow. And for God’s sake, don’t bump the exhibits! This way up, fragile, glass with care! Remember that and go easy on the acceleration!”

  The constable grinned, saluted and drove off soberly round the bend in the drive. Meredith returned upstairs to Maxton and Rokeby.

  “Good of you to come over so quickly,” said Meredith. “But I want to bring myself into line with the detailed medical evidence. There’s no question about the poison being prussic acid, I take it?”

  “None whatsoever,” said Maxton emphatically.

  “And in the case of the girl—what’s your frank opinion—was death instantaneous?”

  Maxton reflected for a moment and then said with professional caution:

  “I can’t be absolutely sure about that at present. When your analyst has determined the exact concentration of the poison in the residue left in the glass handled by the girl, it will be easier for me to give a more exact answer. All the symptoms suggest that the girl died, more or less, instantaneously.” Maxton smiled. “You’ll say that the expression ‘more or less instantaneously’ is a paradox, eh Meredith? And as a purist I’d be inclined to agree with you. But medically the term ‘instantaneous death’ is rather more elastic than it suggests. Take the case of a person who swallows a concentrated dose of prussic acid. Death has been known to intervene within two minutes which, from a coroner’s point-of-view, could be described as instantaneous. In many cases where the acid has been drunk from a bottle, the victim has not only replaced the cork but put the bottle back on a shelf before the fatal collapse occurred. In other cases a person’s senses may be atrophied at once, though the victim is not actually dead.”

  “And in this case?” asked Meredith.

  “As far as I can judge from the post-mortem symptoms, the girl was instantly affected by the poison and probably only lingered on for a very few minutes.”

  “Then can you explain why Mildmann, who presumably swallowed a solution of the acid equal in concentration to that swallowed by the girl, was able to open the door, walk down the stairs, let himself out of the house, walk twenty yards or more down the drive to where his car was parked, climb into it and, apparently, not collapse until the car was on the move?”

  Maxton shook his head.

  “Most emphatically—I can’t. Naturally I was unaware of these more detailed facts when I made my initial examination last night. Mind you, different constitutions suffer different reactions to equal doses of a poison. That’s a medical fact. But in this case…no, I’m damned if that can be the whole answer! The discrepancy between the times of the fatal effect is too great.”

  “When you examined Mildmann’s remains, what was your opinion then?” persisted Meredith.

  “My superficial examination led me to believe that, like the girl, death had intervened within a minute or two of taking the poison. The post-mortem appearance was identical.”

  “Is there any way we can check up on your assumptions?” asked Meredith anxiously. “Confound it, Maxton, this sounds damned rude of me, but it’s a devilish important aspect of the case.”

  “Oh, you needn’t study my professional feelings,” laughed Maxton. “I’m a pachyderm and don’t you forget it! And let me reassure you—we have two very good checks! First, an analysis of the liquid residue in the two glasses, as I mentioned before. Secondly, we could have an autopsy on both Mildmann and the girl with a subsequent analysis of the stomach content. And once we’re convinced that they drank a poisoned solution of equal strength, then we can fairly assume that they would have died within a minute of each other.”

  Meredith turned to Rokeby.

  “What’s your opinion, Rokeby?”

  “I think we should press for an autopsy in both cases. If you like, and Maxton’s agreeable, I’ll get in touch with the coroner at once and arrange for the police ambulance to take the bodies to the mortuary.”

  “I should feel happier about my findings after an autopsy,” said Maxton.

  Meredith rose.

  “Good. That’s settled then. I’ll leave you to make the arrangements. As a matter of fact, Rokeby, I don’t think it’s fair of me to take up any more of your time. If you can send me over a good sergeant with local knowledge and a police car from County H.Q. to-morrow, that’s all the help I shall need at present. Can do?” Rokeby nodded. “Right! Tell him to report at The Leaning Man. Nine o’clock on the dot!”

  Chapter XVI

  Terence Through the Hoop

  I

  When Rokeby and the police surgeon had left, Meredith sat for a good ten minutes without the movement of an eyelid. He looked as if he were asleep. But mentally he had never been more alert. The case both interested and irritated him. Interested him because it was complex and shot through with unexpected twists—irritated him because the evidence, most of it conflicting, was coming in faster than he could comfortably deal with it. From the easy assumption that Mildmann had murdered the girl and then committed suicide, he had now passed on to the indisputable fact that any one of three people might have committed the murder—Mildmann, the man who slipped out of the french-windows, the man seen by Menthu-Mut.

  His mind naturally turned once more to finger-prints. Mildmann’s he had been unable to isolate because he had undoubtedly worn gloves. But what of the man Hilda claimed to have heard leaving the house just before Mildmann arrived? Granted there were no recent finger-prints on either the decanter or the two glasses, save several clearly-defined specimens left by the girl on the particular glass she had used. But that did not mean Penelope Parker’s first visitor had also worn gloves.

  Meredith considered the facts. The man arrived in the room before the Parker girl returned from the Manor. He was in a position, therefore, to doctor the sherry without secrecy or haste. To do this it was only necessary for him to withdraw the stopper from the decanter and pour in the solution of prussic acid. This theory would at once dispose of the problem as to why the acid had not been poured direct into the glasses—all in all, a far more effective method. Time and secrecy being at a discount, it would be just as easy to pour the poison into the decanter. Immediate objection—the glass stopper had surrendered no finger-prints. Quite. But suppose the visitor merely covered the knob of the stopper with a handkerchief whilst withdrawing and replacing it? That disposed of that! But what about the other objects in the room that the man might have inadvertently handled?

  The tumbler switch? The door handle? Of no use. A dozen different people’s prints would have been left on both. Meredith’s keen eye roved round the room and suddenly came to rest on the mantelpiece, where he spotted a small beaten-silver ash-tray. Lying in the ash-tray, in splendid isolation, was a cigar-butt! Damn it! He ought to have noticed that before. In a flash Meredith drew on his rubber-gloves, picked up the butt and examined it. One point struck him at once. The cigar had not burnt out. It had been crushed out—quite obviously against the bottom of the ash-tray. (So Hilda’s nose had not let her down!) But how did this help from the finger-print angle? The cigar-leaf offered a very poor surface from which to “lift” a print. But hang on!
Wasn’t the ash-tray of a very light and flimsy design? What would be a man’s instinctive gesture when crushing out the butt? Surely to steady the ash-tray with the other hand?

  Three minutes later Meredith knew he had rung the bell. Several flawless prints were clearly visible after dusting over the highly-polished surface of the silver. And since the cigar-butt was the only object in the ash-tray, it was reasonable to suppose that these were the prints of Penelope Parker’s first visitor. Cautiously Meredith wrapped up the ash-tray in a clean piece of cloth, which he kept for such purposes in his attaché-case. Five minutes after that he had taken specimen prints from Hilda and the cook. Then, from the domestic quarters, he went straight through to the big downstairs sitting-room.

  He did not have much difficulty in finding just what he was after. On one of the glass panes, near the swivel-handle of the french-windows, he developed two or three prints, which under his magnifying-glass proved to be identical with those on the ash-tray! With a glow of satisfaction he turned back into the hall.

  As he did so there was a prolonged peal on the front-door bell. Without waiting for Hilda, Meredith decided to take matters into his own hands and open up. There was a momentary pause as the visitor looked him over with a fierce and beady eye, then a booming voice demanding:

  “You’re the man from Scotland Yard, aren’t you? No need to tell me. It sticks out a mile. You’re just the person I want to see.” Then over Meredith’s shoulder: “No, no, Hilda. Run along! I wish to speak with this gentleman in private.” Then as Hilda, bolt-eyed and a little dazed, scampered off, she added: “I’m Mrs. Hagge-Smith. I own Old Cowdene. Suppose we go into that room and have a long heart-to-heart talk about this terrible contretemps.”

  II

  Ten minutes later Meredith was also bolt-eyed and a little dazed. The forceful tide of Mrs. Hagge-Smith’s monologue broke over him and took his breath away. He sensed his peril at once. He was up against a woman possessed of that awful virtue, “a strong personality”. But his long professional experience had bred in him an almost superhuman tolerance in dealing with voluble female witnesses. He refused to be overwhelmed by this momentous avalanche of words. After all, amid all this verbal chaff, might there not be concealed a few grains of wheat?

  Mentally he catalogued the salient points of Mrs. Hagge-Smith’s robust discourse.

  The tragedy had been a surprise and shock to all of them.

  To none more than Mr. Penpeti and herself.

  Mr. Penpeti would now be called upon to shoulder the responsibilities of high office.

  There was to be a meeting of the Inmost Temple that evening to elect the new High Prophet.

  There was no doubt that Mr. Penpeti would be elected.

  She had long suspected that Penelope Parker and Eustace Mildmann had been “platonically interested in each other”.

  But the subterfuge adopted by Mr. Mildmann to gain entrance into her house was not only a very uncharacteristic piece of behaviour, but certainly suggested that there had been some sort of quarrel between them.

  “So she obviously hasn’t yet learnt of the existence of those letters,” thought Meredith. “Or of the manner in which they were to be used.”

  She was convinced that the Movement was passing through a phase of “adverse astrological influences”. There had been the theft of a valuable piece of altar decoration from the Welworth temple.

  There was the attempt on the life of Mr. Mildmann’s chauffeur when returning from a dance. It was a strange coincidence that at the time Arkwright had also “very insultingly adopted the habiliments of our dear Prophet-in-Waiting”.

  But beyond that point Meredith refused to let Mrs. Hagge-Smith continue with her monologue. Here, suddenly, unexpectedly, was the grain of wheat for which he had been hoping. Curtly he dammed up the boisterous flow of Mrs. Hagge-Smith’s speech with:

  “When and where was this attempt made on Arkwright’s life?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Mrs. Hagge-Smith was dumbfounded. She was unaccustomed to interruption once started on a verbal gallop. She eyed the inspector with undisguised hostility. Meredith repeated his question. “But does it really matter?” asked Alicia. “It was several months ago now and it was only poor Eustace’s chauffeur. Nobody of any importance. I’m sure you don’t want to be troubled with such irrelevances.”

  Meredith flatly disagreed.

  “It’s essential that I should know the details.” Mrs. Hagge-Smith supplied them in a surly voice and tried once more to get into her stride. Again Meredith drew her up snorting. “There was, I presume, a police enquiry into the matter.”

  “Yes.”

  “But no arrest?”

  “No.”

  “Do you recall who handled the case?”

  “No, really I…oh yes, of course…an Inspector Dubby or some such curious name. Or was it Duffy? Yes—Inspector Duffy of the Welworth Borough Police.”

  Meredith made a note.

  “Now tell me, madam, have you any ideas about this unfortunate affair?”

  “Emphatically,” boomed Alicia. “There can be only one explanation. A suicide pact. I think Mr. Mildmann had some form of hypnotic influence over poor dear Penelope and that he willed her to do this dreadful thing. I imagine that she had given him his congé and, realising that she was lost to him, he mesmerised her into taking the poison. In the fond belief and hope,” added Mrs. Hagge-Smith, “that they would meet and communicate in perfect amity on a Higher Plane.”

  “Had Mr. Mildmann any enemies?” asked Meredith practically.

  “What a ridiculous question!” exclaimed Mrs. Hagge-Smith. “It’s quite exhausting enough to find out who are one’s own enemies. How can I conceivably give you a list of poor Eustace’s? Hostility is also a matter of degree. Dislike and hatred are poles apart.”

  Meredith smiled and nobly curbed his impatience.

  “Let me put it another way. Was there anybody in his immediate circle who might have had cause to dislike him?”

  “At times I had cause to dislike him!” retorted Mrs. Hagge-Smith. “Over matters of policy and even theology he often irritated me to distraction. I know Mr. Penpeti felt exactly the same. We represent, shall I say, the progressive element in Cooism. Poor Eustace was a reactionary. And then, of course, that great overgrown boy of his, Terence…he and his father were always at loggerheads. Though in this case my sympathies were all with Eustace. A rebellious, ill-mannered, gross young man. He had the temerity to make love to my secretary. Eustace soon put a stop to that!”

  “Is this young lady still with you?” Mrs. Hagge-Smith nodded. “Then perhaps the lad is still in love with her?”

  “Of course he is!” said Alicia shortly. “But since Eustace and I have forbidden him to see the girl, I’ve no doubt his infatuation will die a natural death.”

  “I see. And what about Miss Parker?”

  “I can’t imagine anybody disliking poor dear Penelope. I think she was adored by nearly everybody. I, myself, found her a trifle vapid, a little too disorganised…but a sweet and charming disposition.” Mrs. Hagge-Smith added, with what might be described as “an aristocratic leer”: “Men, apparently, found her highly desirable.”

  “She sounded like an estate agent,” thought Meredith, “describing an item of house property!”

  III

  But it had been an interesting interview. So Terence had been up against his father, had he? In love with a girl, whom his father had refused to let him see. A dangerous policy in the case of a hot-headed youngster who was probably in the throes of his first wild infatuation. Was there motive here? Yes, possibly. But according to Arkwright his employer’s visit to the Dower House was a secret shared only between them. Then, if Terence were desperate enough to want his father out of the way, how could he have anticipated that visit? Well, as a member of the North Lodge ménage, he might have overheard his
father talking with the chauffeur. And Penelope Parker? He had no grudge against her. Quite. But she may well have been a mere victim of circumstances. Terence had crept into the house, poisoned the sherry and both she and Mildmann had taken the rap.

  “But whoa!” thought Meredith wryly. “This won’t do. Mildmann was a strict T.T. Terence would have known that. Pointless to dope the sherry decanter when he knew that, in normal circumstances, his father wouldn’t have touched the stuff.”

  And yet—that hatless lurker by the lily-pond in the belted rain-coat. Was that by any chance Terence Mildmann? Tall, well-built, with fairish hair—well, that certainly footed the bill. On the night of the murder, however, he claimed to have been in Downchester with the housekeeper. They had left the North Lodge shortly after lunch and not returned until eleven o’clock. Exactly! But, in the circumstances, wouldn’t it be as well to check up on these details?

  Meredith decided to drop in at the North Lodge on his way back to The Leaning Man. He could at the same time warn young Mildmann that an autopsy would have to be performed and that the ambulance would doubtless call to remove his father’s body.

  On reaching the North Lodge he decided first to interview the housekeeper. It was his idea to get her story about that alleged visit to Downchester and then check up with Terence afterwards. Mrs. Summers, herself, answered his ring and, at his request, preceded him into the little parlour. Once inside Meredith closed the door and began his cross-examination.

  It did not take him ten seconds to realise that Mrs. Summers was nervous. Her replies at first were so vague and evasive that Meredith’s suspicions were quickly aroused. He began to pin her down to more circumstantial details. What time had they arrived in Downchester? About three-fifteen off the Tappin Mallet bus. What had they done on their arrival? She had gone off to do some shopping. And Terence? Mrs. Summers didn’t know. He said he was going to take a look round the book-shops. Had they met for tea? Mrs. Summers hesitated. Meredith repeated the question. Mrs. Summers admitted that they had, by arrangement, at four-thirty. Where? Again the hesitation—then finally: “Patty’s Parlour in Castle Street.” And after that? Oh, they had taken a walk down to the river-bank and eventually gone on to the theatre where there was a good variety bill. Had Mrs. Summers got a programme? Yes. No. She wasn’t sure if she’d kept it. Then she suddenly made up her mind and produced it from her hand-bag, which was on the book-case.