‘Surely you don’t expect to prove that it was induced in some way? You’d never convince a jury of that, Sergeant.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Well in that case I’m damned if I can see the point of going to the trouble of a post mortem examination.’
‘That’s where we differ, then, sir. I suppose I see it from another point of view. Today I was ready to arrest Guy Prothero for the Brighton beach murder. The boy was a homicidal maniac. I should have arrested him a week ago if I hadn’t had to grope my way through a welter of false statements invented by his family. Quite apart from any protective sentiments the Protheros had towards him, their own livelihood was at stake, you see. Respectable general practice in a country town—imagine the effect of a sensational murder trial on that. Now in my experience people of their station in life generally have a way of dealing with the member of the family who threatens to create a scandal; there’s private institutions that cater for almost any human aberration you can think of if someone’s prepared to pay. Guy Prothero would probably have been committed to some asylum for the well-to-do if he hadn’t gone as far as murder. That altered things. When it gets as serious as that, the law can’t be bought off, you see. Justice has to run its course. Oh, they wriggled and squirmed and tried to avoid it, but I was closing in day by day. And, as I tell you, I was ready to make the arrest today. What happens? The boy suffers a fatal attack of asthma on the way home. If that sounds like pure chance to you, sir, you’re entitled to believe it. If you tell me asthmatic death can’t be induced, I’ll take your word for it, but that won’t stop me from using every means at my disposal to ascertain whether it was asthma that killed Guy Prothero.’
Inspector Wood frowned. ‘You’ll find it difficult to get round those symptoms, Sergeant. The manager was there as a witness. I questioned him closely before I interviewed Dr. Prothero. He described it all in a layman’s terms, of course, but his statement bears out everything you heard the doctor say. It’s a singular thing to have happened, as you imply, but I think we have to reconcile ourselves to the fact that the boy died from natural causes.’
As if not one word of the inspector’s had percolated into his thoughts, Cribb asked, ‘What happened to the plates they ate from?’
‘Fortunately they hadn’t been washed when I arrived,’ said the inspector. ‘I had them put aside with the sherry glasses and the coffee cups as a matter of routine. One never knows, in cases of sudden death.’
‘Good,’ said Cribb, the gleam at last returning to his eye.
‘I’d like everything analysed by the best man available. As a matter of routine, sir,’ he added. ‘One never knows.’
Over a pint of half and half that evening, when all the arrangements had been made and every possible scrap of evidence removed to be examined by experts, Thackeray was sufficiently encouraged by Cribb’s more buoyant mood to observe, ‘You’ve worked out how Prothero could have arranged it, haven’t you, Sarge? It’s something the boy was given to eat or drink, something that could bring on an attack like that.’
Cribb gazed contemplatively into the beer-glass. ‘Just an idea, Thackeray. A memory of something I read. D’you remember the Wimbledon poisoning case last spring?’
‘That doctor?’
‘Yes. Lamson. Hanged at Wandsworth Prison for murdering his young brother-in-law. It interested me at the time because of the poison he employed—none of your conventional arsenic or strychnine. No, it was a doctor’s choice of poison, so rarely used that the lawyers could find only one other case to quote during the trial, and again the poisoner was a doctor. Aconitine, Thackeray. People grow it in their gardens and call it wolf’s-bane. The leaf is not unlike parsley, and the roots, if I remember correct, bear a close resemblance to horse-radish.’
‘Horse-radish! Blimey, Sarge! Horse-radish sauce!’
‘But let’s not leap to conclusions, Constable. Lamson’s victim took nearly four hours to die. Guy was dead within an hour of eating his lunch.’
‘A strong dose, Sarge?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Cribb. ‘We’ll need to find out more about it from the experts. The symptoms, so far as I recall, begin a few minutes after the poison is taken—a numbing of the mouth and throat, obstructing the victim’s breathing. Stomach pains, vomiting and convulsions. Breathing becomes progressively feebler, and eventually death is due to asphyxia or shock. Close enough to Guy’s symptoms to make it worth investigating, anyway.’
‘Worth investigating, Sarge? I should think you’ve got it! He finally decided that he couldn’t save his son from the gallows, so he saved his own reputation instead by slipping him the aconitine, knowing everyone would think it was asthma the boy had died of. It’s a good thing you was there today or there wouldn’t have been no post mortem at all!’
Cribb accepted this heart-felt tribute with a small shrug and added deprecatingly, ‘The pity of it is that there’s no chemical test for identifying aconitine in the human body. It’s about the most difficult of all poisons to base a prosecution on. There are just two ways of identifying it: by taste and by administering it to animals. It’s going to take more than a few dead mice to build a case against Prothero.’
‘Could we find out if he purchased any of the stuff, Sarge?’
‘That wouldn’t help overmuch. A doctor might be expected to have some. It’s recommended as an ointment for use in rheumatism and neuralgia.’
‘Good Lord!’ said Thackeray, his hand going rapidly to the small of his back.
‘I’d stick to red flannel, if I were you,’ said Cribb. ‘Well, Constable. It’s time we made our way back to Brighton, unless you fancy one for the road. The sherry of the house has quite a kick, I understand.’
‘Takes your breath away,’ said Thackeray, grinning widely.
But there were no grins at Scotland Yard later in the week when Thackeray found Cribb reading the post mortem report. ‘I can’t understand it,’ the sergeant said at intervals, as his eyes travelled over the several sheets of finely-written hand-writing. At last he swept the report aside. ‘Not a trace, Constable. Not aconitine, nor any other poison known to science. Nothing in the food, the drink or the contents of the stomach. They carried out the most exhaustive tests, injected frogs and mice with extracts, tried the effects of all the substances on the tongue and produced not one positive result. It’s unbelievable.’
‘You said it would be difficult to identify the poison, Sarge.’
‘Yes, but a man was convicted last March on the evidence of less than a twentieth of a grain and our theory was that Guy was given a heavier dose. They were looking for it, Thackeray. Two of the leading pathologists in the land have signed that report.’
‘Well, what did they report as the cause of death, Sarge?’
‘Respiratory failure. The lungs were found to be uncommonly inflated. Constriction of the bronchial muscles, you see. Some retention of fluid in the lungs. Small haemorrhages on the underside of the diaphragm and in the viscera. I’ve read my medical books in the last few days, Constable. There’s nothing there that ain’t consistent with death from asthma.’
‘It looks as though we’re beaten, then.’
‘Beaten?’ said Cribb. ‘We’re on our own, Constable. That’s the situation. We’ve got to think again. Get down the file with all the statements we took at Brighton. We’ll start from the beginning again. We might never get Prothero into court, but I’m damned if I’ll leave this case until I know how he did it.’
CHAPTER
16
ALBERT MOSCROP HAD BEEN back in London almost a week when Sergeant Cribb and Constable Thackeray called at the shop. For a moment he failed to recognise them; in his mind they were so firmly connected with his recent short vacation in Brighton that it was as preposterous as if the bathing-machine woman or the bicycle-boy had appeared in Oxford Street. Quite understandably he looked up from a lens he was polishing and simply saw two gentlemen customers. In his professional way he was deciding from their ma
nner and appearance which counter was most appropriate to greet them from, the sporting or the astronomical, when Cribb’s brisk salutation jolted him into realisation.
‘Ah, Mr. Moscrop. Good to see you.’
He nodded vigorously. ‘You too, Sergeant. And the constable, of course.’
‘Smart shop,’ said Cribb. ‘Carpeted, too.’
‘Thank you. Did you—er—’
‘—wish to see you in private? If you please,’ said Cribb.
They passed through a baize door into the rear of the shop. Instruments of every description were ranged about the small room. They had to move a large brass telescope before there was room to sit down on three stools.
‘A most unexpected pleasure, Sergeant.’
‘What was that?’ said Cribb. ‘Oh, our visit. Strictly business, Mr. Moscrop, strictly business. Possibly you heard of the—er—decease of young Guy Prothero.’
‘At Horsham. Yes, I had got to hear of it. What a beastly tragedy for the family! An attack of asthma was responsible, I understand.’
‘So we’re told, sir, so we’re told.’
‘The boy was certainly a sufferer from periodic attacks of asthma. His mother told me so. I think that was why they tolerated his unsociable behaviour. I am sure that they were most solicitous about his health. He did disobey his father and indulge in secret bathing, of course, which might have upset him in some way, but there is a school of thought which says that nothing but good can come from sea-bathing. Now that I am back in London, I rather regret not having swum from the beach myself. I did take the plunge at Brill’s, as I believe I told you.’
‘You did, sir. There was something else you told me, another thing that Mrs. Prothero mentioned to you, I believe, and I want to ask you once again if you’re quite sure about it.’
‘Certainly, Sergeant. It must be something important if you have come here to verify it.’
‘Could be very important, sir. When you made your first state- ment in Brighton you told me the period of time the Protheros were proposing to spend there. D’you remember, sir?’
‘Indeed I do. Zena told me when we first met. She said they had escaped from the practice at Dorking for three weeks. I distinctly remember remarking that I was planning to stay for the same length of time. Our holidays did not quite coincide, however, as they had already spent a week in Brighton before I arrived.’
‘Three weeks,’ said Cribb. ‘Yet the doctor and the boy stayed for four.’
‘Come to think of it, they must have. They were still in Brighton during my third week. What a singular thing. Perhaps the tragic passing of their servant delayed them. There are things one is obliged to attend to on occasions like that.’
Cribb shook his head. ‘Everything could have been settled in a week, yet they stayed for fifteen days after Bridget’s death. My investigation was going on all the while. Seems unlikely they were having such a jolly time that they couldn’t bear to leave.’
‘A week would represent a sizeable sacrifice of income for a doctor in practice,’ said Moscrop.
‘Good point. And so far as we know, the locum was standing in for three weeks, not four. But for some reason the doctor and his son extended their holiday by another week. When they did leave, it was a full two weeks after Mrs. Prothero and Jason. Important things must have kept them in Brighton.’
‘But, Sergeant, I was observing Dr. Prothero almost without interruption. His daily routine continued unchanged, except for the day when he met his wife at the Dyke. The fourth week was a repetition of the others. There was no social function that he attended and the only appointments he had were with Miss Floyd-Whittingham.’
‘She wasn’t his reason for staying,’ said Cribb, more to himself than Moscrop. ‘He had more important things on his mind—principally Guy. The boy was liable to be arrested any time. Yet they stayed for another week, and Prothero did nothing and saw no one except his lady-friend. That’s hard to account for. Then, at the end of the week, the boy conveniently died. Not at Dorking, you notice; that would open all sorts of sinister possibilities. At a hotel they’d never visited before, in the presence of an independent witness. “Asthma” on the death certificate and Dr. Prothero’s problems were neatly solved. The question I have to answer—if I choose to feel suspicious, that is—is why it didn’t happen a week before. And I think I’ll take my question to Harley Street.’
Thackeray jerked up from his notes. ‘Harley Street, Sarge?’
‘That’s our next call, Thackeray. I’ve made an appointment with one of London’s foremost specialists in asthma. We’re grateful for your help, Mr. Moscrop. If ever the Yard decides to equip its officers with telescopes, I’ll put a word in, depend upon it.’
His mind reeling with the implications of what Cribb had said, Moscrop escorted the detectives through the shop to their cab.
The inquest on the late Guy Prothero the following week established that he died from natural causes. The medical evidence, the coroner pointed out, could lead to no other conclusion than that the boy was the victim of a chronic attack of asthma.
‘You wouldn’t object if I walked with you to the station?’ said Cribb to Dr. Prothero, as they came down the court steps together. ‘I presume you’re going back to Dorking.’
‘I am, as it happens,’ said Prothero, without much warmth. ‘By all means let us go that way together.’ He set off at a rate suggesting he had no intention of prolonging the conversation.
‘I’ll be getting the same train,’ said Cribb airily. ‘I go to London, though. The next one should be the 4.23 if Bradshaw can be relied upon.’
Prothero put his hand to his watch-chain, but Cribb added, ‘There’s no need to check. There’s a jeweller’s opposite with a clock outside. D’you see? We’ve three-quarters of an hour in hand. Time for a good yarn, eh, Doctor?’
The prospect seemed to have a discouraging effect on Prothero, so Cribb went on, ‘You’ll be satisfied with the verdict, I dare say. It quite upheld your own opinion. Disposed of any doubts entertained by certain persons, eh? I should have known better than to question the opinion of a recognised authority, but, there, I’m trained to be a sceptic. Now that I’ve read your papers on the subject, I’m somewhat better informed.’
‘You have read my monographs?’ said Prothero, in surprise.
‘Every one, Doctor. There’s a very good library at the Royal College of Physicians. I ain’t a member, but the Yard has certain connections with the profession, you know, and I can usually obtain what I want by mentioning a word in the right quarter. You make a regular splash in the index, having written so much. No trouble at all finding your writings. Very readable they are, too.’
‘Thank you, but I had no idea—‘
‘That I was so interested? Insatiable curiosity, Doctor. It’s a kind of habit. If I meet a man I like to know all about him. Not that I was reading your papers only, you understand. I had nearly a week in that library. Shall we cross? Devil of a lot of traffic. Market day, would you say?’
‘Medicine must interest you,’ Prothero observed, when they had safely negotiated the road.
‘I find it irresistible,’ said Cribb. ‘When there’s a problem to solve, that is. Take the case of your son’s unfortunate death, for instance. Now the inquest’s over and everything’s settled, you might be surprised I should ever have harboured any uncertainty about the circumstances of his—er—going.’
‘Oh, I can understand that any sudden death must be accounted for,’ said Prothero, generously.
‘We know that he murdered your servant Bridget,’ Cribb said, as if he were talking about the weather. ‘Probably strangled her, although we never found enough of her to tell for certain. It was strangling that nearly killed Jane Brett, the servant girl at the Eastbourne school, wasn’t it? It must have been a regular nightmare to you and your wife. No wonder your memory of things was a little awry—when you said that Bridget went back to Dorking with your wife on the morning after the murder, for exam
ple. No, don’t look alarmed, Doctor. If I were leading up to anything incriminating, I’d have a man with me and a pair of handcuffs in my pocket. It’s your son I should have charged, and I left it too damned late. I’ve more important things to do than go over evidence looking for false statements. In a way, the boy’s death closed the account for me. No further danger to the public, you see. I say, that looks a fetching plate of doughnuts. D’you fancy a pot of afternoon tea? We’ve time, you know. There’s the station, not fifty yards away.’
Prothero acquiesced and presently found himself incarcerated in a bow-fronted tea-shop, watching Sergeant Cribb devour doughnuts as if he had not eaten for a week. Possibly the facilities at the Royal College had not included lunch.
‘What was the object of your researches?’ the doctor asked, steering the conversation in a more general direction.
Cribb bolted the rest of his third doughnut, raising a finger meanwhile to indicate the imminence of a response. ‘I’m glad you asked me that. They were quite misdirected. I’m a stubborn cove, Doctor. Should have sought the advice of some authority such as yourself. Would have saved me several days’ hard work. You see, I had it in my mind that Guy’s death was—er—induced. It was just too neat to be believable. Record of asthma, inherited from his mother. Sudden attack, following a stiff ride on a horse and a heavy meal, both known to affect asthmatics. Symptoms observed by an independent witness. Post mortem evidence irrefutable.’
‘How could the boy’s death have been induced?’ said Prothero. ‘It is possible, I suppose, to arrange certain conditions which might bring on an attack of asthma, but it is most unlikely to result in death. If a patient were chronically ill anyway, I suppose it is not impossible to hasten his departure in such a way, but I have never heard of it. And Guy was quite a fit young man. Besides, this all happened in a public hotel. There were no irregular conditions. As for the horse-ride and the heavy meal, they were in no way unusual for Guy, as his headmasters, whom you appear to have been in touch with, will verify.’
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