The Gimmel Flask

by Douglas Clark

  “Do you mind if I don’t tell you?”

  “Of course not. Your professional secrets are yours to keep until you wish to divulge them. But your answer has intrigued me more than ever. The poison itself has become an enigma. I shall have to think about it—to see if I can’t come up with a reason for your reticence.”

  Masters laughed and got to his feet. “I’m not proposing to hold out on you too long, Mr Benson.”

  “You are hoping then to surprise me?”

  “If I were to say yes to that, it would be the literal truth. But I should be disguising the fact that I should be hoping to surprise something out of you.”

  “Something you feel I have been concealing from you.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t mean to imply that you have been concealing it from me knowingly, but I hope you will be able to help me.”

  “Please ask whatever it is you want to know.”

  “Very well. I should like to see the medicine chest you bought at auction in March.”

  “The medicine chest? Of course. Only too pleased. It’s over. . . .” Benson stopped in mid-sentence, and halted his slow walk across the room. He looked round at Masters. “I was about to tell you it is complete, filled with stoppered glass bottles, many of which still contain the original medicaments.”

  “I thought it must be.”

  “Why?”

  “Those are surely the most sought-after specimens. A complete chest would be a great find. I can’t imagine you going for anything less than a good specimen of any item.”

  “Mr Masters, you were honest enough to say you were hoping to surprise something out of me, and then you asked to see my chest, having behaved rather mysteriously about the poison that killed Hardy. Am I right in believing that you hope to find that poison in the chest in this room?”

  “I am.”

  “Am I to understand from that reply that you suspect me of murdering Hardy?”

  “No.”

  “No? When you expect to find the poison in my possession?”

  “No. If that astounds you, Mr Benson, I will again ask you if you know what poison was used?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Excellent. But if you still feel uneasy at not being under suspicion, I will set your mind at rest by using the old bromide. Everybody is under suspicion until the murderer has been found.”

  Benson shook his head. “I can’t say I’m not relieved at your words, but you’re not at all what I imagined a senior detective to be.”

  Green said: “We like to be different, Mr Benson. What about a gizz into this chest of yours while we still remember?”

  “Of course. It is the mahogany box on the top of the bookcase on the far wall. Perhaps one of you would carry it over.”

  “Leave it to me, sir,” said Reed, and hurried across to fetch it. Whilst he was doing so, Benson said: “I have examined the contents and even looked some of them up. I wouldn’t have said there was a deadly poison there. There are things like nutmeg, which apparently was used as a tonic. Zinc ointment, which was still in use in my day. As indeed was tincture of rhubarb and sweet nitre. There’s flowers of sulphur, powdered lime, linseed for poultices and various samples made from flowers. Oh, I was forgetting!”

  “What?”

  “A stomach mixture with deadly nightshade in it.”

  Masters shook his head.

  “No?”

  Benson remained quiet as the box was put on the table in the centre of the room. A big, ornate brass keyhole plate, three inches by two, graced the front of the box, but there was no key. When Masters remarked on it, Benson told him that he was having one made by hand. A locksmith who specialised in such things had brought soft steel blinds down from London and had filed out the prototype here in this room. The brass one would be cast from the mould and should be ready soon.

  Benson lifted the lid. On the inside of it were still eighteen original labels, stained, browned at the edges and coming unstuck at the corners. Standing proud from the tray, just far enough for ease of lifting, were sixteen glass-stoppered bottles, not laid out in the three rows of six that the labels would have led one to expect, but filling the space nonetheless, smaller bottles across the front—seven of them—the remainder anyhow. Masters peered at the labels in the lid. They were almost illegible, but he recognised the shortened form of some words of medical dog-latin—pulv., alb., mist. With care he began to lift out some of the bottles, starting with the front row. The third one he held up to get the light on the label caused a little sigh of satisfaction to escape from his lips.

  “That one?” asked Benson.

  “Oil of Croton Tiglium.”

  “That?” queried Benson. “That’s not a poison, it’s jollop. The medical dictionary says it’s a cathartic widely used in the last century.”

  “If it really was widely used,” said Green, “no wonder so many of our Empire builders died of dysentery, and people complained of long service in bad stations.”

  Benson rubbed his eyes with his hand. “Will somebody please explain to me how a laxative made in the nineteenth century could be used for murder in the twentieth century?”

  “Sit down, Mr Benson,” said Masters in a kindly voice. Only when their host had done so did the Superintendent explain how violent a cathartic croton oil was, how it blistered and burned flesh like mustard gas and how even medical students were warned against testing it.”

  “Why ever was it put in a medicine chest?”

  “I suppose it was diluted to reduce its potential. Two drops in a tumbler of water, perhaps. I honestly don’t know, but it was removed from the British Pharmacopoeia in 1914 because of its dangerous nature.”

  “I reckon they carried it for their horses,” said Green. “Mixed a teaspoonful in a bran mash for a constipated horse and it saw it all right for a year.”

  Masters ignored this observation and continued to talk to Benson. “So you see, sir, if Hardy took upwards of half a tablespoonful of croton oil, thinking it to be salad oil, the results would have been quickly fatal. I can’t believe that adding vinegar to fill the spoon and to mix with the oil would neutralise its action in any way. In any case, however much he took, it killed Hardy.”

  “And you believe that the oil came from that bottle?”

  “I do, sir. There is still half an inch left in the bottom, so we know there was a supply here. I can also tell you that every drug house, drug wholesaler, retail chemist and hospital chemist in the country has been asked if they have croton oil in their stocks. None has. It seemed there was no source in this country from which it could have come—until I read that there was this old medicine chest in Limpid, in your possession. Do you think I was wrong to be so sure the oil came from this bottle?”

  “Of course not. Your reasoning was sound, your logic impeccable. It would be stretching coincidence too far to suppose otherwise.”

  “That’s what I thought. The only other possibility would have been a supply which came from abroad. But that would argue a degree of pre-planning which I somehow cannot connect with this murder. It was carefully carried out, of course, but in an ad hoc way. What I mean by that is, that if you can plan a murder so thoroughly that you go to the lengths of importing the means, you do not bring in croton oil. You bring in something more traditional which you can use without waiting for your victim to have a salad for lunch and which doesn’t depend upon exchanging and stealing gimmel flasks. My belief is that croton oil was used simply because it was here to be used.”

  “But,” protested a bewildered Benson, “that would argue a murderer with a knowledge of medicine or at least of the properties of croton oil.”

  “True.” Masters didn’t dwell on this point. Instead he started a new tack. “So you see, Mr Benson, I shall have to ask you for a list of everybody who has been in your flat since you brought the chest two months ago. Particularly anybody who has had any dealings with the chest, or who ha
s been left alone with it in this room at any time while you have made coffee, say, or gone to the lavatory.”

  Benson nodded.

  “To begin with,” said Masters, “there is the locksmith you talked of. He must have had the chest open for a very long time, both in and out of your presence. And your housekeeper—Mrs Taylor—isn’t it? She’ll have been here alone many times in the last two months.”

  “No! Not Mrs Taylor. It’s unthinkable that she should . . . no! It’s unthinkable. As unthinkable as. . . .”

  “As what, Mr Benson? Or should I say who? Who else whom you consider to be incapable of crime have you had here in connection with the box?”

  Benson now looked thoroughly miserable. “Jack and Jill Racine,” he said quietly. “They came to photograph it. They’ve recently photographed all my items. But I wanted special shots of this one to illustrate an article I was proposing to write on it. They were here some time, but they’re young, nice, harmless people. Hard working kids who wouldn’t hurt anybody.”

  “We’re very anxious not to incriminate innocent people, Mr Benson. But somebody gave Hardy a dose of croton oil from this bottle. Let us assume that it wasn’t you. So who was it? It seems pretty certain it must have been a visitor to your flat.”

  “Mrs Horbium,” murmured Benson. “She asked to see the chest after she knew I’d bought it. She came with Joanna Wellerby.”

  “And you left them in here while you went to make them tea or coffee, like a good host does?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’ll be others come to mind if you think about it. Why not sleep on it and prepare me a list tomorrow morning?”

  “I shall do that, of course, even though I’m hoping against hope you are wrong.”

  Green said: “Cheer up, Mr Benson. If we are wrong, you’ll know a lot sooner once we get the list and can check it out.”

  “In that case, I shall start the list now. No, I don’t wish you to go, gentlemen. If for no other reason, you must stay to take the names I give you. Constable, there is still a little something in the wine cupboard or, alternatively, there is coffee in the kitchen—and biscuits if anybody would like a snack. How about rummaging while I set to work here?”

  Berger and Reed went to the kitchen after Masters said he would welcome a cup of black coffee. While Benson wrote, Masters and Green chatted in low voices.

  “We’ll have to take that bottle, George. Do you want the whole chest?”

  “Just the bottle, I think. No need to deprive the old boy of his treasure. But it makes me sweat to think of the lethal substances there must be littered across the countryside. Don’t forget that the bottle here is not necessarily the only consignment of that particular poison in Limpid.”

  “How d’you mean?”

  “If the gimmel flask is still in existence it may still have some in it.”

  “Oh, that! For one moment I thought you were going to come up with a bright idea about some other source of this croton muck.” Masters grimaced. Green went on: “Old Telford isn’t going to be too pleased when he knows the stuff he scoured the country for was sitting not four hundred yards from his own nick.”

  “What he’ll be most annoyed about is that we found it, and found it without his two men being present. I’ve a feeling he’s going to accuse me of not sticking to the spirit of our agreement to take them on the strength.”

  “You’re worried about that, I’ll bet. Hell’s bells, somebody had to find it.”

  “Local pride is fierce. We don’t always appreciate that when we are called in the locals not only resent us taking over a job they feel they can’t do, but they’re also a bit touchy that such crime as we are called on to investigate lets down the whole of a tight little community such as this one in Limpid. We hurt both civic and professional pride.”

  “Well hard luck! Ah, Mr Benson! Finished, is it, sir?”

  “Complete to the best of my knowledge. If I think of any additions I will contrive to give them to you tomorrow.”

  Masters took the list. There were 23 visits on it. None of the names, other than those mentioned to him previously, were familiar to him.

  “Now for the coffee,” said Benson. “Oh, by the way, did you notice, when you looked into the chest, the little scales, the ointment slab and the plaster iron? No? Come along, I’ll show you them.”

  “He’s back on top,” whispered Green to Masters as they got to their feet.

  Chapter Nine

  Masters lay awake when he got to bed. He had again read the list supplied by Benson, and though he accepted that any of the people whose names appeared on it could have been guilty of murdering Hardy, he felt inclined to disregard those that were unfamiliar to him. He intended to have them checked out, of course, but more as a matter of form than out of any hope that he would find corn in Egypt by so doing.

  So far, though they had no firm suspect, Green was inclined to favour Lamont as the man to look at. He had a knowledge of gimmel flasks. He had tried to buy one at an auction. He was said to be in financial straits through enforced high living. He was to be seen around with Joanna Wellerby. He—according to Benson—might be getting less than his fair share of Hardy’s dealings with the ring. He was somebody who could come and go in the Hardy garden at any time without remark. He would know Hardy’s liking for an oil and vinegar dressing, that Hardy was on a salad diet, that he used a gimmel flask at table. And Lamont, as a fully fledged partner, would almost certainly stand to gain financially by Hardy’s death. All circumstantial evidence that would lead one to suspect Lamont, but the big gap in the case against him was that he had not visited Benson since the medicine chest had been in the latter’s flat, and it was certain that nobody could have broken in there unbeknown to Benson. Of course, Lamont could have tried to acquire the croton oil through a second person—an agent—like Joanna Wellerby, perhaps? Masters thought not. Joanna Wellerby might be so fond of male company that she was not too particular as to its quality, but he was convinced she would draw the line at actively aiding and abetting murder. She might make use of Lamont because there was no better male available, but she must have a knowledge of his true worth. He was just not worth risking her liberty and an outstanding musical career for—always assuming she was willing to connive at murder in the first place, which Masters doubted.

  So where could Lamont have got the croton oil from if she had not tried to get it? Tried? Something clicked in Masters’ brain. He got out of bed and took the invoice book from his jacket pocket. Benson had paid . . . he turned the leaves . . . he remembered noticing that Benson had paid . . . yes! There it was. Benson had paid twenty-one pounds for the chest. That must mean he had bought it against opposition. Benson would be too wily a buyer to make an opening bid of twenty-one pounds. Besides, the amount was not the opening bid an auctioneer would call for. Twenty, perhaps, or twenty-five, but not twenty-one. So somebody had forced Benson up. Somebody besides Benson had wanted that medicine chest. Not an ordinary buyer’s item. No housewife would want an old box of bottles. The ring then? Masters thought not. If the ring had wanted it, the price would be more than twenty-one pounds before they dropped out. So who? Masters looked at his watch. Twenty past twelve. Benson would be in bed. Masters gave up the idea of calling him.

  As soon as he had breakfasted next morning he got to his feet.

  “Where away?” asked Green, spreading marmalade an inch thick on toast. “Forgotten something?”

  “I’ll be down again in two minutes, then I’m going along the street to see Benson. If you’re ready when I get down, you can come with me.”

  “Thanks.” Green bit into the toast with a noise like a coke-hammer breaking into action. Then he spoke through the mouthful. “I recognise the signs. You got an idea after you went to bed last night.” He used a finger to take a blob of marmalade from the corner of his mouth. “And I know from experience that whatever it was is going to be significant. I’ll be at the door, waiting.”

  A minute or two late
r, as they walked the hundred and fifty yards to Benson’s flat, Masters said: “I’ll not try to tell you about it. It’ll appear as we talk with Benson.” Green grunted his assent to this arrangement, and no more was said until they came to the flat door between its flanking shops, which were now beginning to open.

  The door was opened by a woman Masters had not seen before, but it did not need much acumen to guess who she was.

  “Mrs Taylor? My name is Masters. Could I have a word with Mr Benson, please?”

  “Well, he’s just having his breakfast.”

  “I’m sure he won’t mind our seeing him. We are policemen, you know.” This worked the oracle. Once more they climbed the stairs into the flat.

  “I thought I heard your voices,” said Benson. “Two more cups, Mrs Taylor, please.”

  “No, thank you, Mr Benson. There is just one quick question I would like to ask you and it’s this. Who was bidding against you at the auction for the medicine chest?”

  “Only one person.”

  “I guessed as much. Somebody who withdrew at twenty pounds?”

  “Quite right. Bert, the head porter, was against me.”

  “Bert Spooner?” asked Green incredulously. “He went to twenty pounds for . . . for that?”

  Benson laughed and offered Green a cigarette. “Not on his own behalf, Mr Green.”

  “Whose then?”

  “For the man on the stand at the time, I think.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Lamont.”

  Masters and Green exchanged glances. “You think? Can you be sure?”

  “Not absolutely, but the way the bidding was conducted led me to believe so at the time. I can see no reason for not still thinking so.”

  “Can you tell me what went on?”

  “In detail.” Benson then proceeded to recount how Lamont had not called for an opening bid, but had announced that he already had one for four pounds. Then Benson went through the bidding, much as a top bridge player can remember months later how a certain hand has been played.

  “Thank you,” said Masters when the account was finished.