by John Bude
Meredith whistled.
“Five thousand—phew! And what about the position originally held by Penpeti—was it an honorary one?”
“Five hundred,” said Hansford shortly.
“I see. So Penpeti has gained considerably through Mildmann’s death?”
“To the tune of four thousand five hundred a year. Exactly four thousand five hundred more than he’s worth.”
“You don’t like the fellow, eh?”
“Don’t trust him. Never have. Ambitious. Hypocritical. Cunning.”
Meredith nodded but made no comment. Inwardly he was thinking that Boot’s assessment of Penpeti’s character ran counter to his own. And if Penpeti were two-faced and all that he appeared to be, then, with such a financial gain in the offing, he might well have poisoned Mildmann. The motive was there. But what about the time-factor?
With the arrival of Mr. Abingdon and Miss Mummery, however, Meredith’s suspicion fell flat on its face. Abingdon swore that Penpeti had arrived at the Chinese temple at nine o’clock. Miss Mummery swore that she had taken over from Penpeti at ten. Both claimed that several other members were in the temple at the time.
“So that it would have been impossible for Mr. Penpeti to have left the temple between the hours of nine and ten without his absence being noticed?”
Both witnesses agreed that it would have been utterly impossible. Abingdon went on:
“But why not question Miss Minnybell? I understand she came into the temple shortly after Mr. Penpeti arrived and stayed there until Miss Mummery took over. I warn you, Inspector, she’s a most extraordinary little woman. But observant. Extremely so.”
Meredith turned to Boot.
“Could you send somebody to find Miss Minnybell. I want to make quite sure about this point.”
And when, some ten minutes later, Miss Minnybell arrived, Meredith received final proof that Penpeti was not the wanted man. Miss Minnybell was at her most excited and voluble. It was a long straggling tale, pitted with irrelevances, but too full of circumstantial detail to be anything but true. She had, so she said, chanced to be outside the Manor when Penpeti had left the place after dinner. She had, in fact, followed him down the drive to the Chinese summer-house. Once there she had decided to enter, and she had chanced to stay there until it was time for him to be relieved at the end of his official period of meditation. Then she had chanced to follow him half-way down the drive towards the North Lodge, at which point she had turned aside to the Ladies’ Compound.
“There seems to be a very generous element of chance in your movements on Thursday evening,” commented Meredith with a twinkle. “You’re quite sure it was chance, Miss Minnybell? You weren’t following Mr. Penpeti for any specific reason, eh?”
Miss Minnybell suddenly emitted a sharp little whinny of astonishment.
“Oh, how clever of you, Constable! How very clever of you! I thought it was my own little secret. But I see it’s no use trying to keep any little secrets from you. In fact—no really, I think it would be foolish of me to do so. I ought to have thought of this before.”
“Of what?” demanded Meredith, amused yet puzzled.
“Why the law will protect me, of course.” She lowered her voice and drew Meredith away from the others into a far corner of the little marquee. “The fact is, Constable, my life is in danger! At any moment now he may make up his mind to strike! He’s only awaiting the opportunity until I’m off my guard and then—”
Meredith broke in:
“A moment, Miss Minnybell. Let’s get this straight. Who will strike?”
“Why Ali Hamed, of course. I thought, perhaps, you’d realised.”
“Ali How-much?” shot out Meredith, astonished.
“But surely you’ve guessed that Mr. Penpeti’s not his real name? Oh dear me, Constable, I felt sure you’d guessed the whole story. He’s really Ali Hamed, you know. And I have to watch him. I have to watch him very, very closely. Yes indeed, for months now I’ve…”
And bit by bit the whole fantastic tale was unrolled. Chancing to catch the inspector’s bewildered glance during this gabbled recital, Hansford tapped his forehead meaningly and nodded towards Miss Minnybell. However, when she had at length concluded, Meredith assured her that she had no further cause to worry. The police would now take the whole matter in hand. He commended her on her sensible decision to place the whole affair in the hands of the law. Then, gently, Meredith dismissed her.
“Phew!” he exclaimed, mopping his brow.
“’Tis fey she is an’ no mistake, sorr,” observed O’Hallidan.
“Borderline case,” explained Hansford. “Quite harmless. Lives at Welworth. Well-known character there.”
“Do you think her evidence about following Penpeti is reliable?” asked Meredith.
Hansford nodded. Already he had regained his self-possession, aware that on this occasion, at any rate, the police had not come to “pick him up.”
“Certainly I do. I’ve noticed it myself. Acting like Penpeti’s shadow. Thought it odd. But knowing how it was…” Hansford lifted his shoulders.
“Well, thanks for your assistance,” said Meredith, edging towards the entrance. “Come on, Sergeant.”
II
Barely had the two officials left the tent when O’Hallidan exclaimed:
“Sure an’ there’s somebody wanting to see us by the look of it, sorr. In the divil of a hurry, too.”
Meredith followed the line of his outstretched arm and saw a figure advancing rapidly down the drive, waving wildly to attract attention. A second or so later, Meredith recognised the gardener from the Dower House cottage.
“Hullo—what the deuce do you want?” he asked.
“You, Oi reckon, surr,” he said breathlessly. “’Tis something that’s come to my notice. To do with that little talk we had yesterday afternoon over to the Dower House. And in case you don’t catch on, Oi’m ’Erbert ’Uskings, the gardener at—”
“Oh I recognised you all right. What’s the trouble? Suppose we stroll towards the Dower House while you tell me. Too many people about here.”
As they set off over the springy turf beneath the shade of the great oaks and elms, Huskings began to talk.
“’Tis this way, surr. Last night down to the White Harte at Brocklebye chaps got a-talking natural like about this y’ere to-do at the Dower House. Seems they all got h-ideas as to ’oo dun it and why they dun it. Oi reckon we can take that with a darn good pinch o’ salt, o’ course. But one thing Oi did ’ear which struck me as h’odd. Chap named Charlie Bates—cowman up at Major Dobells ’e is—was going ’ome by the road south o’ the park, see? Tidy dark night ’twas as you know. Well, Charlie suddenly walks slap into a car what had been parked off on the road-edge. No lights on, ’e said, an’ nobody in it. Anyways, thinkin’ it a bit queer, Charlie strikes a match or two an’ has a good look-see. Stanmobile Eight, ’e says it was—saloon. Maybe you don’t know, but there’s a bit of a wood edging that stretch o’ the road. Well, Charlie suddenly ’ears somebody blunderin’ through that there wood, an’ ’e crouches back under some ’azel bushes to see what’s cookin’. Well, to cut a long story short, chap crashes through the ’edge and makes for the car with a small pocket-torch in his ’and. Charlie ’ad a good view of ’im afore ’e druv off. There weren’t no mistake about it, Oi reckon, surr. ’Twas same chap as me an’ Ruth seed pass our cottage a-Thursday night. Shooting ’at an’ no coat an’ everything.”
“And a very useful piece of information, too,” exclaimed Meredith, with a nod of approval. “Now what time was this? Did your friend happen to say?”
“Oi asked ’im the very same question myself. Just after ten, ’e reckoned. An’ that, surr, fits in pretty tidy with what we already knows!” Huskings’ Sussex burr took on a note of triumph. “Ar! An’ that’s not all, surr!”
“Well?”
III
Twenty minutes later, ringing from the Dower House, Meredith was in touch with the Car Registration Department of the County Offices at Hertford. His request was simple. He wanted the name and address of the owner of car number AHL-2414. Hertford promised to do their best.
“As you know, sir,” the clerk pointed out, “we can’t guarantee any result. The car may have changed hands since its original registration here. Or the owner may now be living in another county, in which case he’ll no longer be applying to us for a renewal of licence. Sorry, Inspector, but if your luck’s in I’ll ring you back in half-an-hour.”
Barely had Meredith turned from the ’phone, when O’Hallidan, who had been waiting by the front-entrance of the house, came in to report that a despatch-rider had just arrived from the Yard.
“Good!” exclaimed Meredith. “That’ll be the report from the police analyst. Sign for the receipt of the package, Sergeant, and tell the constable he can report back to Chichester.”
A few minutes later Meredith was devouring the analyst’s report with unconcealed eagerness. O’Hallidan watched him with a speculative eye. Suddenly Meredith snapped his fingers and slapped the report down on the hall table.
“Well, I’ll be—!”
“It’s something ye didn’t anticipate, sorr?”
“You’ve said it, Sergeant! Something totally unexpected and, to my mind, completely inexplicable. I asked Luke Spears, the chief analyst at the Yard, to make an analysis of the contents of the decanter and the liquid residue in the two glasses. This is his answer.” Meredith snatched up the typewritten sheet and read: “‘Conclusive tests show that the amount of prussic acid in solution in the two glasses was equal—in each case a high concentration of HCN being present. In the case of the decanter, however, a far weaker concentration of the acid was noticeable. It appears, therefore, that the two glasses were not filled from the decanter; or, if so, an extra dose of acid had been added after the solution had been poured out. There is little doubt that the poisoned sherry in the glasses would have been sufficient to bring about an instantaneously fatal effect. That in the decanter, however, was diluted enough to have given the victim a fair chance of recovery if medical treatment were available within a reasonable period of time.’ Well, O’Hallidan, what the devil are we to make of that? A further complication, eh? I just can’t fathom it.”
“An’ it’s myself that can’t make head or tail of it either, sorr. But ’tis most likely as the analyst suggests—an extra dose o’ the prussic acid was added after the weaker solution o’ the poisoned sherry had been poured out.”
“But, in heaven’s name, why?” demanded Meredith with a flash of irritation. “Why trouble to poison the sherry in the decanter at all, when the acid was to be poured direct into the glasses? It just doesn’t add up.”
They fell silent for a moment, wrestling with this queer unexpected twist in the evidence. Suddenly O’Hallidan observed:
“Sure an’ there’s one ither way it might have happened.”
“And that?”
“P’what if one of the poisoned glasses was poured into the decanter, sorr? Each o’ the glasses would then contain a residue o’ equal strength but the decanter, being half-full o’ sherry, would then contain a far weaker solution.”
“Good God, Sergeant! I believe you’ve got something there. It’s certainly a possible explanation. But I can’t for the life of me see why it was done. If Mildmann had poisoned the girl, and wanted to suggest that he had poisoned himself and then disappeared, it might make sense. But Mildmann happens to be dead and we know that he died of prussic acid poisoning. It just doesn’t work out. On the other hand—”
The telephone on the nearby table began to ring stridently. Meredith snatched up the receiver.
“Hullo—yes? So my luck’s in, eh? Splendid! Half-a-minute—I’ll make a note. John Keith Dudley, The Grove, Bridge Street, Hitchin. O.K.—yes. I’ve got that. Most useful. Thanks. Good-bye.” As Meredith hung up, he swung round, elated, on O’Hallidan. “Well, that’s something on the credit side. Hertford have traced the owner of that car. I’ll get on to the Hitchin police at once and get them to take a statement.” He was already dialling exchange. “Perhaps if we get a line on this mysterious gentleman, we shall be half-way to solving the rest of our problems. Hullo! Hullo! Exchange? Give me the Hitchin police will you? No—I don’t know the number. All right, ring me back the moment you’re through. It’s an urgent police call.”
Chapter XIX
A Young Lady Gives Evidence
I
The moment Meredith had concluded his long and detailed call to Inspector Baker of the Hitchin police, he set out to walk from the Dower House to The Leaning Man. As in the case of Rokeby the day before, he had sent O’Hallidan ahead in the car. Once more he was anxious to do a little hard and solitary thinking.
The biggest jolt he had received since the case opened had been handed to him that morning by Luke Spears. Weak solution of the prussic acid in the decanter. Concentrated solution in the glasses. Why? Well, more and more, it could be assumed that the set-up of the double tragedy was far more complicated than he had originally supposed. The mystery surrounding the tray of drinks seemed insoluble. It wasn’t merely a question of who had poisoned the sherry, but how they had doctored it. O’Hallidan’s theory that one glass of strongly poisoned sherry had been emptied back into the unpoisoned sherry in the decanter was full of good sense. But why had the murderer done this? What was he to gain by it? There must be a reason for such a crazy action. If so, what was it? Exactly. What? Meredith gave it up. The mystery, so far, did seem insoluble.
His next consideration was Terence Mildmann. That he had withheld his true reason for not accompanying Mrs. Summers to Downchester was undeniable. It was equally undeniable that just prior to the tragedy Terence Mildmann had been lurking about not four hundred yards from the Dower House. And if that wasn’t significant…!
“All right,” reflected Meredith, “accept the fact that Terence is well up on my list of suspects. Could he have worked the crime? Assume he managed to creep into the house—what then? Did he sneak upstairs and break in on his father’s tête-à-tête with the Parker girl? Did he then manage to slip the acid into the sherry when they weren’t looking and persuade them to take a drink? But why poison the girl? He had nothing against her. His father—yes. In that case he had motive, since they were at loggerheads over most things, including his friendship with this Miss Blake. Not a strong motive, I admit. But in a moment of blind anger…But even then, how does this explain away the queer allocation of the prussic acid? Oh hell! That lad’s concealing something from me and I’m damned if I know exactly what it is. He may be the murderer, on the other hand there’s a kind of likeable naivete about the young fellow that half-convinces me he isn’t!”
And Penpeti? Well, Penpeti would make a very nice murderer. His appearance, his character, his strange two-faced behaviour—all dovetailed beautifully into such a rôle. And Penpeti, above all others, had motive. Strong motive. He had a great deal to gain by Mildmann’s sudden death. The kudos of the High Prophetship; the very handsome annual salary that went with the position. And the girl? Well, he had been in league with Penelope Parker over the threatened publicising of those foolish letters. Suppose the girl had ratted at the last minute and sworn, not only to burn the letters, but to tell Mrs. Hagge-Smith and the other big-wigs in the Movement of Penpeti’s plot to discredit Mildmann to his own advantage?
Meredith’s pulse quickened. By heaven! This new theory had a sound ring about it. Beside it his previous assumptions seemed half-bake
d. Wasn’t it possible that the idea of using those letters had originated with Penpeti? The girl had been persuaded against her will to play this underhand trick on the High Prophet, then at the last minute her conscience had rebelled. What then? Penpeti could see the High Prophetship and that five thousand a year dissolving before his eyes. So he acts. He acts quickly. He must get rid of, not only Mildmann, but the girl! And somehow he had learnt that Mildmann was to visit the girl that night, and somehow he had managed it so that they had both drunk a glass of poisoned sherry.
Wonderful! Superb! A faultless piece of reasoning. Except for two factors. How did Penpeti get the poison into the glasses and persuade them to drink it? And how could he have been near the Dower House when he, above all other suspects, had a perfect alibi?
The theory was good. But the objections to the theory were far, far better. To suspect Penpeti of being the murderer was to walk into a blind-alley with one’s eyes shut on a foggy night! No—Penpeti was definitely “off the menu”.
II
Then came more startling news. More bewildering evidence. This time it was Maxton ringing The Leaning Man from Chichester shortly after lunch.
“Well, Meredith, I’ve performed the autopsies.”
“That’s fine.”
Maxton’s sardonic chuckle floated down the line.
“Is it? You wait until you’ve heard the details of my findings. They’re going to knock you for a six. I won’t trouble you with analytical minutiae and percentages of concentration and that sort of thing. I’ll just give you the plain facts.”
“I’m a plain man,” Meredith reminded him.
“Well, here’s something to be getting on with. I’ve analysed the stomach content in each case, as I said I would. Point A is this—the girl died of a fairly concentrated dose of prussic acid diluted with sherry. Point B is this—Mildmann died of a far more concentrated dose of prussic acid that had not been diluted with sherry!”
“Good God!”
“It’s my considered opinion that Mildmann took that poison neat. A four per cent Scheele solution. He must have gone out like a snuffed candle.”
