Someone was knocking on the outer door.
Cairns hurriedly left to investigate and returned accompanied by Inspector Kane, who looked as if he had run all the way from the police station, although, in fact, he had left his car at the door. His face was flushed with excitement and he took off his official cap and mopped his bald head with heavy dabbing motions.
“Hullo, Kane. Called for a quick one on the way home?” said Littlejohn.
Kane hadn’t much sense of humour and made shocked and deprecating movements with his hands, like an incorruptible refusing a bribe.
“No, no, sir. Something far more important than that. I’m on my way to Trentvale Hall.… Miss Rickson’s dead and foul play’s suspected. I thought maybe you’d like to run along with me, sir.”
“I certainly would, Kane. Thanks for calling. I’ll be with you in a jiffy.…”
“You see, Miss Rickson doesn’t have the family doctor. They have a chap called Watterson; she has Cragg. She was friendly with Dr. Cragg’s wife, so I guess that’s how it was. Dr. Cragg’s the police surgeon, too. That’s how it happens I’m on the job so quick.”
They were on their way to the Hall and Kane was, in his usual laborious fashion, getting the whole tale off his chest.
“… Well, it turns out that Miss Rickson went to bed at her usual time to-night … ten o’clock.…”
“I called at the Hall and saw her earlier in the evening.…”
“You did, sir? That’s most important, and useful for you, too. For, knowing her, like, you won’t need so much explaining from me.…”
“Thank heaven,” thought Littlejohn inwardly.
“She generally took up a cup of chocolate, which one of the maids made for her, as a nightcap and then read in bed for, say, quarter of an hour, until she was sleepy.…”
“Where d’you get all this from, Kane? You haven’t been to the Hall yet, have you?”
“No. I learned all this after the death of Mr. Henry. I went up there and got everybody’s movements in detail on the night of the crime. It’s proving useful now, isn’t it …?”
“I congratulate you on your thoroughness, Inspector.”
Kane was a bit heavy, but not so sleepy as you’d think.
“H’m. At just after eleven, one of the maids, Clara, passed Miss Rickson’s room and saw a streak of light showing under the door. She thought perhaps the old lady’d fallen off and forgot to switch off the bed lamp, so she’d do it for her. However, when she went in, Clara didn’t like the look of Miss Rickson at all. She was breathing, but very laboured, like. Mr. Gerald was at home—in fact they all were—so they sent for Dr. Cragg. At a quarter to twelve, Miss Rickson died. Overdose of sleeping tablets. Cragg, who ’phoned me the story, refuses to believe that the old lady either made a mistake or took the dose deliberately. He says, in the first place, she’s too careful; and in the second too sane to take her own life.… Here we are, sir. Now we’ll soon know a bit more. Though why anyone should want to do-in a harmless old lady, I don’t know.…”
“The reason’s probably not far to seek. You say she’s a shrewd old lady. My impression of her was the same. She’s probably laid her finger on who killed Henry and confronted them with it, thereby signing her own death warrant.”
CHAPTER VI
CROSS CURRENTS AT TRENTVALE HALL
THE prevailing atmosphere at Trentvale Hall when the police officers arrived reminded Littlejohn of that on a football field just after the referee has blown the whistle for the line-up.
During Littlejohn’s previous visit earlier that evening, the place and its inhabitants had an informal air. The family scattered about and taking their ease; the servants enjoying time off either in the town or in their own quarters.
Now, the whole was transformed. The Worths presented a solid phalanx against inquiring outsiders. Their retainers were all on duty, serious and formal and taking orders from the butler, who seemed to have shrivelled the forward ones into silent submission and firmly restored the hysterical members to sense and coherence.
This butler opened the door to the Inspectors. He reminded Littlejohn of a fat and ancient carp in a fishpond. Bald head, protruding watery eyes, roman nose and a chin which seemed one with his thick flabby neck. The skin of his cheeks hung loosely over his cheek bones and his lips, when at rest, looked pursed and ready for blowing smoke rings. His side view presented a lovely convex sweep from head to feet, embracing a great paunch. He seemed to swim along rather than walk, like a perpendicular fish using the two prongs of its tail as a means of locomotion.
The newcomers felt like schoolboys as they followed this huge mass into the house.
The place was cosy and well lighted, but cluttered up with Victorian furniture. The indescribable aura of death hung about the interior. Henry had been brought home that night and now there was Miss Rickson.
The flunkey led his charges into a large lounge in which the family were assembled. A log fire was burning in the huge open hearth, easy chairs were scattered all over the place, but nobody seemed easy enough to use them. They were all on their feet, like scholars who rise when the Head enters the room. Littlejohn noticed the unusual number of small tables standing about, as though someone had been preparing for a whist drive.…
One person in the assembly was evidently unwelcome. Dr. Cragg. The family had expected him to give a death certificate on the strength of heart failure. Instead, he had declined and called in the police. As if they hadn’t enough on their hands with Henry’s body!
Cragg didn’t seem to care, however. Some of the party had been reviving themselves with nice cups of tea; others with whisky. There were china and glasses on some of the tables. But Cragg had not been drinking. Either he had declined or, in wrath, they had ignored him. He was a tall, spare man apparently in the late forties. There was no nonsense about him. Probably that was why Miss Rickson liked him. He was dark, alert and well groomed, with a healthy red face and sharp, humorous brown eyes. He had a huge panel practice among the workpeople of the town and treated all his patients alike, as though they were paying maximum fees. At one time, the humbler section of the population of the valley had, through the channel of a deputation from the local labour party, informed him that they would see to it that he got to Westminster if he would put up as their M.P. But Dr. Cragg had replied that he could serve them better as a physician than as politician.
The doctor was fastening his bag when the officers entered. He had been ministering to Clara, the maid who had found Miss Rickson and who had fainted afterwards from shock.
“… but it’s preposterous. I think we’ve every right to know.…”
Littlejohn assumed that it was Gerald Worth who was complaining to the doctor, for he was the one of the family he hadn’t already met.
“It’s not incumbent on me to give you medical chapter and verse for my opinion, Mr. Worth. I’ll do that to the coroner and the police. Suffice it to say that the dilated pupils and the mode of death are not indicative of heart trouble …” Cragg was saying. “Ah, here are the police now. Evening, Kane.…”
Kane introduced Littlejohn in general terms.
Normally, Gerald Worth would have been a pleasant fellow. He had a mop of crisp curly hair, effeminate large brown eyes, a rather weak face and a pleasant smile. He was tall and well built and the well cut suit he was wearing gave him a distinguished appearance. He had once fancied the stage in preference to engineering and bore the stamp of his inclination about his dress. His clothing came from Savile Row, albeit he insisted on a fashion of his own. The narrow cut of his trousers and the absence of turn-ups had recently brought him a minor triumph over his equals in the locality, for he had been able to bear the Board of Trade sartorial restrictions with equanimity.
When Littlejohn first encountered Gerald, however, he was petulantly trying to bully Dr. Cragg and might as well have beaten his head against the wall.…
Vera Worth, too, was fully dressed in the riding habit in which Littlejohn had seen her at
an earlier hour. She was standing, legs apart, in front of the fire, drinking whisky. She looked somewhat amused at all the fuss and seemed to be leaving it all to the doctor and Gerald.
The Count and his wife had apparently been in bed when the upheaval occurred, for they were in night attire with dressing gowns. Châteaulcœfs hair was disordered and he still looked half asleep. His monocle was screwed in its usual place, but his dignity was at a low ebb, for he looked to be suffering from a hangover. Alice, in a dressing gown of mannish cut, looked more like his nurse, for she kept regarding him apprehensively as though at any time expecting him to open his mouth and put his foot in it.
A clock in the hall struck one.
“… Well, it’s one o’clock. Let’s get done what must be done and then retire,” said Gerald ungraciously. “I suppose you want to question us all, although before we definitely know that Ricky didn’t die naturally, it all seems damned silly to me.…”
Cragg shrugged his shoulders at Kane, who nodded sympathetically.
“I’m certain my autopsy to-morrow will confirm my provisional diagnosis,” said the surgeon.
“Very well now … I’ll just take statements, brief ones, from you all, and then we’ll leave the rest till morning,” said Kane, rubbing his bald head with the flat of his hand in embarrassment. He had stood in awe of the family nearly all his life and had to summon up his resolution to bring about his wishes. He turned to Littlejohn and muttered briefly.
“Yes. I’ll do that,” said Littlejohn. “Is Clara fit to be interviewed, doctor?”
“She’s in bed.… I was just going to give her a sedative when you arrived. Come along, we’ll give it her together, although I wouldn’t like you to worry her much now. Just an odd question or two won’t do her any harm, however.…”
The butler was summoned and swam before them upstairs and to the servants’ quarters. They found Clara in a neat room, watched over by the cook, and wide awake.
“Well, Clara,” said Littlejohn. “Here we are again.…”
The sympathetic greeting must have upset the stricken girl for she burst into tears.
Cook made soothing noises. “There there, lovey, don’t take on so,” and glared hard at the Inspector.
“There now, Clara,” answered Littlejohn, “I’ve only come up to see how you are. I’m here to help you, not upset you, so dry your tears, my dear.”
“I’m all right, sir, thank you very much. Silly of me to cry like that.…”
“Well, the doctor’s got something to put you to sleep, so you can settle without worrying. First of all, though, he says I can ask you a few simple questions, then you won’t have them on your mind and I won’t need to bother any more. Do you feel up to it?”
“Certainly, sir.”
The doctor motioned the cook and the butler to leave them and closed the door behind their protesting backs.
“Now, I’ll be very brief. Miss Rickson went to bed at ten. You gave her her chocolate?”
“Yes, sir. It wasn’t really chocolate. That’s so hard to get on account of the war. It was sweetened cocoa.…”
“Right, Clara. You made it?”
“Yes. At the same time as I made my own. I drank mine, too. So it couldn’t have been that that killed ’er.…”
Tears began to fall again. The maid had evidently taken to heart their previous conversation about the tea which poisoned Mrs. Worth’s dog.
“Don’t be upset, Clara. Nobody’s accusing you of anything. Just answer the questions and trust me.… How did Miss Rickson seem when she retired? I mean, was she her normal self?”
“No, sir. She seemed upset about something. After you left her, she went to see all the family, a thing she rarely does at that time of night.”
“She saw them all?”
“Yes. Mr. Gerald came in about ten minutes after you left, so she saw ’im before she went to bed.”
“I see. Any idea what upset her?”
“No, sir. She didn’t say anything to me. I thought something you’d told her ’ad made ’er a bit excited.”
“You gave her her cocoa, then, about ten?”
“Yes, sir. She was then in bed. I put the tray on the table at the side. The cocoa wasn’t sweetened, so I put her some glucose in it from the sugar basin she keeps it in.…”
“Glucose?”
“I prescribed that instead of sugar, Inspector,” interposed Cragg. “She was a bit feeble and it’s a greater energiser than ordinary sugar. She used it in place of sugar in her drinks.”
“So you gave her the glucose, Clara?”
“Yes, sir. She was sitting up in bed, reading a little book as she always does before she falls off, like.…”
“Thomas à Kempis, Inspector …” said the doctor.
“And did she say anything about taking sleeping powders?”
“No, sir. She has a bottle of tablets in her drawer. I know that because I’ve passed them to her once or twice when she’s been in bed and wanted them. But she hasn’t needed them since last spring, when she got run-down after the ’flu.…”
“That’s right, Clara,” confirmed Cragg.
“So you think, maybe she got up and took them after you’d gone?”
“Not to poison herself, sir. Never that. She was too religious to commit suicide and too wide awake to make a mistake and take too many. Besides, come to think of it, there were only five tablets in her bottle. I remember her saying she’d need a fresh lot from the doctor here if she was ever took sleepless again.”
“Well, thank you for your help, Clara, and sorry to disturb you after you’d got settled in bed, but the sooner we get all the facts, the quicker we’ll find out who did this to Miss Rickson. Hence the hurry. Now, I’m just going to ask you to be patient for another minute whilst I have a look in Miss Rickson’s room and then you can get to sleep right away.…”
“Very good, sir. I’m most anxious to ’elp you.”
“I’m sure you are, Clara. The doctor has told me how you came to find Miss Rickson, so we’ll not wade through all that again now. Later, we’ll get you to sign a statement about it, but not now.”
Littlejohn and Cragg left the girl and the doctor led the way down a flight of stairs to Miss Rickson’s room. He produced the key and unlocked the door. It was a cosy little place, furnished as might be expected for one who belonged to another age and who had served the family most of her life. A modern wash basin with running water stood in sharp contrast to so many old-fashioned things. Framed photographs of children and family groups on the walls. A few text-cards hung here and there, as well as a profusion of calendars, probably sent by Ricky’s charges of days gone by. There was an armchair, too and a corner cupboard. The dressing-table bore a few toilet articles and two rings, a watch, ticking merrily, and a long jade necklace, just as the victim had placed them before she took to her bed for the last time.
Cragg opened the top drawer of a chest and produced the phial of sleeping tablets mentioned by Clara.
“I remember giving her these,” he said. He counted the contents. There were still five.
“So the fatal dose was brought from outside, doctor?”
“Looks like it.”
“The empty cocoa cup has been moved from the bedside table, I see.”
There was nothing on the table but a copy of The Imitation of Christ, previously mentioned by Cragg, and Miss Rickson’s gold framed glasses.
The sheet had been drawn over the body of Miss Rickson. Littlejohn turned down one corner and looked at the frail face, quiet and composed in death. He had seen plenty of corpses, untimely victims of brutality and crime, but few had filled him with greater rage at the thought of wanton and ungrateful destruction of a useful and innocent life. He replaced the coverlet.
“We were saying, the cup’s gone.”
“Yes, Inspector. I asked about it. It seems, Clara, with the instinctive tidiness of a good servant, took away the tray when she rushed off for help after finding Miss Rickson in dist
ress. She dumped it on the table at the bottom of the stairs as she went to find Mr. Gerald and later put it in the kitchen to be washed in the morning.”
“And then … I can guess what you’re going to say.…”
“I told her to get it. It had been washed and put away. I’d some time to spare whilst I was waiting for you.… You can see that I’m not very popular with the family. I’m not their doctor and they seem to think that I should have signed a death certificate just because they’re the Worths.… However, we weren’t very matey whilst waiting for you to arrive so, to pass the time, I tried to find out who’d washed the cocoa cup … it was a beaker to be precise. Nobody knew. Bancroft, the butler, asked all the servants. No. They’d gone to bed. It was customary to do the late night’s dishes first thing the day after. And I shocked the family by asking them which of them had been in the kitchen and done it! They all denied it like mad.”
“Thanks, doctor. That’s saved me a bit of trouble. It also gives us a pointer as to how the deed was done. Somebody doped the cocoa. But Clara apparently took it straight to Miss Rickson after she made it. And she had a cup for herself from the same packet apparently.… So the packet couldn’t have been doctored. Wait a minute, didn’t Clara say something about putting sugar in … or rather glucose. Where’s the sugar basin Clara mentioned?”
The doctor seemed to know all about Miss Rickson’s room. He opened a corner cupboard and produced a china ornament bearing the crest of the town and the superscription, “A Present from Brighton.”
“Here we are, Inspector. You’re thinking that the poison might have been put in here with the glucose and then Clara put it in the cocoa.… H’m.… Very likely. Everybody knew about Miss Rickson and her little pot of sugar. It was a bit of a family joke. Pinch Ricky’s hoard when the ration runs short, kind of thing.”
Cragg examined the contents of the dish, about a tablespoonful in the bottom of it. He moistened the tip of his finger, dipped it in and gingerly tasted the stuff.
“Seems all right to me,” he said, smacking his lips. “… Wait a minute.… This isn’t glucose.… It’s castor sugar. Now, what the …”
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