English Rose (A Jules Poiret Mystery Book 13)

by Frank Howell Evans

  “Your health, Stephen,” replied Lady Hassocks, with her usual tenderness.

  Poiret and Kimberley only touched their lips to the sherry, but Stephen Hassocks and Lady Hassocks drank theirs in the fashion they had become accustomed to, head back and draining the glass to the bottom, flinging the contents to the back of the throat. They had no more than done just so, when the arms manufacturer uttered an oath and tried to spit out what he had just drunk so heartily. Lady Hassocks stood up and spat violently also, looking with horror at her husband.

  “What is this?” cried the arms manufacturer, falling to the floor holding his throat with both hands.

  “What’s in the sherry?” cried Lady Hassocks in a thick voice, her eyes almost springing from her head.

  “We are poisoned,” cried the arms manufacturer, choking. “I’m burning inside.”

  Almost mad with anguish, Kimberley took her father’s head in her hands and cried to him, “Vomit, papa, vomit!”

  “We must find the emetic,” cried Poiret, looking from the arms manufacturer to his wife.

  Lady Hassocks, whose gagging noises were violent, hurried down the steps of the gazebo, crossed the garden as though a wild bear was behind her and sprang onto the patio. Poiret took a spoon from the table and forced it into the arms manufacturer’s mouth. He pushed the spoon to the root of his tongue. The arms manufacturer began to vomit.

  Kimberley could do nothing but cry, “My God, my God, my God!”

  Hassocks held onto his stomach. His watch in his pocket struck eight o’clock. Stephen Hassocks stood up in a final supreme effort.

  “Oh, it’s horrible! I’m burning inside!”

  Lady Hassocks came back, still choking, her mouth twitching, but she brought a little packet with her, that she waved in the air. When she had climbed the stairs, with trembling hands, she shook a powder into the first two empty glasses, which were on her side of the table and which were those she and her husband had just emptied. She still had strength to fill them with water, while Poiret was on the floor helping the arms manufacturer.

  “Drink,” cried Lady Hassocks and she made the arms manufacturer drink it.

  She didn’t drink until after him. The heroic woman must have exerted superhuman force to go herself to find the saving emetic in her medicine-chest, even while the poison was ravaging her vitals.

  Some minutes later both could be considered saved. The servants, Carswell at their head, were clustered around them. Most of them had been at the cottage and they had not seen what had happened, nor heard the cries of Kimberley and Poiret. Watkins arrived just then. It was he, with Kimberley, who helped them to get to bed. Then he asked one of his agents to go for the nearest doctor they could find.

  This done, the inspector went toward the gazebo, where he had left Poiret. But Poiret wasn’t to be found and the bottle of sherry and the glasses from which they had drunk were gone also. Carswell was nearby. Watkins asked him where Poiret was. He replied that he had just left, taking the bottle and the glasses with him. Watkins swore and looked around. The little man was gone. Watkins ran out of the gate, jumped into his car and hurried toward the town center. On the way he spoke to three agents, who only he knew were posted in the neighborhood. They told him the route Poiret had taken. The detective had taken a cab into town. Driving fast, he saw the cab in front of him with Poiret inside it. The cab drove into a little street, near the boulevard. This “alley of pharmacists” contained a sign indicating the presence of a doctor. Poiret made the driver stop there. As he stepped out of the cab to pay the driver, Poiret recognized Watkins. He didn’t wait, but cried to him, “Ah, there you are, mon ami. Please to follow Poiret.”

  He still had the bottle and the glasses in his hands. Watkins couldn’t help noticing how strange he looked. They went into the doctor’s surgery.

  “Say,” said Watkins, “how do you know Dr. Hartman?”

  Poiret didn’t respond. After explaining to the nurse that they needed the help of the doctor, they were led into his office. Dr. Hartman had been in Folkestone for more years than he cared to remember. The only reason he remained there was that he had no better place to go and the only reason he was still practicing his trade was because he had nothing better to do. He had a bushy, wild beard and his hair fell to his shoulders. When he noticed the newcomers he rose. He recognized Poiret and came over to shake his hand. He nodded at the inspector.

  “Well, here you are again, old boy. Do you bring poison again today?”

  “Monsieur le Docteur,” said Poiret, “Poiret, he does bring to you the poison again. Please to tell to us what poison it is in these four glasses and what poison it is still in this bottle of the sherry and this small medicine bottle.”

  “What is that little medicine bottle?” demanded Watkins.

  The detective replied, “Poiret, he has put into this small bottle the sherry that was poured into the glasses of Mademoiselle Kimberley and Poiret and that we have not drunk.”

  “Someone has tried to poison you!” exclaimed Dr. Hartman.

  “Non, pas moi,” replied Poiret. “Please to hurry, Dr. Hartman! Please to also analyze these two napkins.”

  And he took from his coat pocket two soiled napkins.

  “Well,” said Watkins, “you have thought of everything.”

  “They are the napkins, which the arms manufacturer and his wife, they used.”

  “Dr. Hartman,” asked the inspector, wishing to take charge of the evidence, “when can we have the result of your analysis?

  “In an hour, at the latest.”

  “Very well,” said Watkins. “Now I don’t need to tell you to hold your tongue. I’m going to leave one of my men here. Write us a note, seal it and my man will bring it to headquarters. Alright, doctor?”

  “Alright,” was the curt response. “Oh, you can expect my bill too in an hour,” the doctor hastily added.

  Poiret and Watkins left the surgery. Watkins asked Poiret to get into his car. As they drove to the police station Watkins asked Poiret again how he had met Dr. Hartman. Poiret didn’t reply and Watkins wound up demanding what was the matter with him.

  “The matter, it is,” replied Poiret, unable longer to conceal his anguish, “that the poisoning, it continues.”

  “Does that astonish you?” returned Watkins. “It doesn’t me.”

  Poiret looked at him and shook his head. His lips trembled as he said, “Poiret, he knows what you think. It is horrible. But the thing Poiret, he has done, it is certainly more horrible still.”

  “What have you done, then, Mr. Poiret?”

  “Perhaps Poiret, he has caused the death of a man, who is innocent.”

  “So long as you aren’t sure of it, you would better not fret about it.”

  “It is enough that the doubt, it has arisen,” said the detective, “almost enough to make Poiret sick.” He sighed deeply.

  Watkins looked at him. He tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Come, come, Poiret, you ought to know by this time, you were a policeman too one time, you can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs.”

  Poiret turned away from him with horror in his heart, because he knew the inspector was right. It was the reason he had left the police force, himself. He wished with all his heart that it was Adam’s hand that had appeared to Lady Hassocks and him during that mysterious night. But still what if Adam had been innocent? He remembered the words he had exchanged with Kimberley. They were singing in his ears as though they wished to deafen him.

  “Do you still doubt,” he had asked her, “that Adam tried to poison your father?”

  Kimberley had replied, “I wish to believe it, for your sake.” And then he remembered her other words, still more frightful. “Couldn’t someone have tried to poison my father and not have come in through the window?” He had answered her with certainty then, but now that the poisoning had occurred again, within the house, where he believed himself fully aware of all people, even after Adam Ashby’s death, he was no lo
nger certain of himself. For Poiret doubt, in a case in which one man had died as a result of his actions, was torment worse than death.

  When they arrived at the police station, Poiret jumped from Watkins’s car and without saying a word hailed an empty cab that was passing. He had himself driven the cab back to Dr. Hartman, if necessary. His doubt overwhelmed his will. He couldn’t bear to wait any longer. At the doctor’s office he saw once more the policeman Watkins had placed there with the order to bring him Dr. Hartman’s message. The man looked at him in astonishment. Poiret crossed the road and entered the office once more. Dr. Hartman wasn’t there, naturally, as he was engaged in his laboratory. But a man, whom he didn’t recognize at first sight, attracted the detective’s attention in the waiting room. It was only when he turned away from the window, with a deep sigh, that Poiret ascertained that he was face to face with Ian Spencer. It was indeed he, the erstwhile brilliant young man, whose elegance and charm the consulting detective had admired as he saw him at the mansion of the arms manufacturer. How he was changed!

  “It’s you, Mr. Poiret,” said the low, sad voice of Ian. “What has brought you here, then?”

  “Monsieur Ian, Poiret, he did not expect to find you here in the office of Dr. Hartman.”

  “Why not, Mr. Poiret? I have decided to retire from the world. I’m going on a long voyage.”

  “You look desolate, Monsieur.”

  Ian sighed like a child.

  “How could it be otherwise?” he said. “I loved and believed myself beloved. But it proved to be…alas!”

  “Sometimes one only imagines things,” said Poiret, keeping his hand on the door.

  “Oh, yes,” said the other, with more and more melancholy. “So a man suffers. He’s his own tormentor. He himself chooses his instrument of torture and wields it against himself.”

  “It’s not necessary, Monsieur,” counseled the consulting detective.

  “Listen,” implored Ian in a voice that showed tears were not far away. “Do you believe Kimberley loves me, Mr. Poiret?”

  “I’m sure of it, Monsieur Ian. I’m sure of it.”

  “I’m sure of it, too. But I don’t know what to think now. She let me go, without trying to stop me, without a word of hope.”

  “And where are you going?”

  “I’m going to Cornwall.”

  “That is good, Monsieur Ian. At least there you are sure to see her again. She goes there every year with her parents for a few weeks for the relaxation. It is the detail, which you have not overlooked, oui?”

  “Certainly I haven’t.”

  “You need not feel desolate, mon ami. All is not lost. Poiret, he sees the future for you full of hope.”

  “Ah, I’m happy indeed to have met you. I will never forget this rope you have flung me, when all the waters seemed closing over my head.”

  “Please to go to Cornwall, Monsieur and as quickly as possible.”

  “Very well. You must have reasons for saying that. I will follow your advice, Monsieur and go.”

  As Ian walked to the door, Poiret slipped into the laboratory. Dr. Hartman was bent over his instruments. A lamp lit his obscure work. He turned around at the noise the consulting detective made.

  “Ah, Mr. Poiret!”

  “Monsieur, the results?”

  “Oh, nothing so quick. Still, I have already analyzed the two napkins, you know.”

  “Oui?”

  “Well, my dear fellow, it’s arsenic again.”

  Poiret, stricken in the heart, uttered a low cry and everything seemed to dance around him. Dr. Hartman stretched out his arms to hold him up, but in the mist of the laboratory Poiret believed he saw Adam Ashby’s ghost come forward to cry, “The arsenic continues and I’m dead.” Poiret fell against the laboratory door, which swung open and Poiret fell on the floor. The fall brought him out of his intense nightmare and made him instantly himself again. He rose up and ran into the street. There Ian grabbed him by his coat.

  Poiret turned, furious, “Monsieur, what is the meaning of this? Please to let Poiret go!”

  “Mr. Poiret, please forgive me, but I will be very grateful if you will take these things yourself to Kimberley.”

  Ian showed him two lockets and Poiret took them from him, pushed them in his pocket and hurried on, crying, “Oui, oui!”

  On the boulevard, Poiret tried to get hold of himself. He sat down on a bench and lit a cigarette. He made a superhuman effort to ward off the horrific thoughts about the death of innocent Adam Ashby and to think of nothing except for the immediate future. The assassin wasn’t discouraged. And the last time, what a piece of work he had tried! The arms manufacturer, Lady Hassocks, Kimberley and Poiret himself…and Watkins! Watkins, who should have been there for dinner. Poiret understood now why they had not hesitated to poison everybody at once, Watkins was among them. Adam Ashby would have been avenged!

  Poiret decided to return to the Hassocks mansion. Great disorder reigned there. There were now twice as many policemen. The arms manufacturer’s friends, summoned by Hassocks, surrounded the two victims and filled the house with their bustling presence. However, as the policemen could not find the family doctor, they had brought in a doctor they had met outside of the mansion, a tourist from London. The doctor was as talkative as a magpie. He had enough to do looking after Lady Hassocks, who was very sick indeed.

  The consulting detective was astonished at not finding Kimberley either in Lady Hassocks’s apartment or in her father’s room. He asked Lady Hassocks where her stepdaughter was. Lady Hassocks turned a frightened face toward him.

  When they were alone, she said, “We don’t know where she is. Almost as soon as you left she disappeared and no one has seen her since. My husband has asked for her several times. I had to tell him Watkins took her with him to learn the details from her of what happened.”

  “But Mademoiselle Kimberley, she is not with Inspector Watkins,” said Poiret.

  “This disappearance is more than strange at the moment we were dying, when her father…oh God! Leave me. I’m hurting. I’m hurting.”

  Poiret called the temporary doctor and withdrew from the room. He had come with the intention of inspecting the house room by room, corner by corner, to make sure no entrance existed that an assassin could use. But now a new fact confronted him and overshadowed everything, the disappearance of Kimberley.

  Carswell told him that he had seen Kimberley just outside the gate for a moment, looking up and down the road. Then he had been called to his master’s side and so he knew nothing further.

  An additional difficulty now was the twilight and it was impossible for the consulting detective to see Kimberley’s footprints. Why had the young woman fled at such a moment, immediately after the poisoning, before she knew whether her father and mother were out of danger? If Kimberley was innocent, as Poiret still wished to believe, such an attitude was simply incomprehensible. She had to know that she would increase Watkins’s suspicions.

  “Oh, Kimberley! Please to let Poiret help you.”

  He shook his head violently.

  “Vous etes un fou!” he admonished himself, slowly beginning to understand his feelings for the young woman.

  Where was Kimberley? He thought maybe she was trying to rejoin Roxy and there were reasons for that, both if she were innocent and if she were guilty. But where was Roxy? Who would know? Inspector Watkins? Secretary Bromley perhaps. Poiret walked quickly to the boulevard, took a cab and gave Bromley’s address. He then remembered that he had been invited that day to dine with the Bromleys. They would no longer be expecting him, though.

  They received him, but they had long since finished dinner. Mr. and Mrs. Bromley were playing a game of cards under a lamp. He was presented to Mrs. Bromley, who was besprinkled with jewels over her black silk gown. She had magnificent eyes. She talked effusively.

  “We waited for you, sir,” she said, with the careful charm of a woman a little along in years, who still relied on a young woman’s grac
es. As Poiret offered his apologies, she continued, “Oh, we know you are much occupied, Mr. Poiret. My husband said that to me only a moment ago. But he knew you would come. In the end one always accepts my husband’s invitations.” She said this with a big smile full of importance.

  Poiret turned cold at this last phrase. He felt actual fear in the presence of these two figures, so atrociously commonplace, in their horrible, decent little living room.

  Mrs. Bromley continued, “But you have had rather a bad dinner already at the Hassocks mansion. Pray come into the dining room and I will fix you something.”

  “Ah, someone, he has told to you?” said Poiret. “Non, non, merci. Poiret, he has not the interest in food tonight.”

  “If you had come to dinner with us, perhaps nothing would have happened at all, you know,” said Bromley calmly, seating himself again on the cushions and looking at his cards through his glasses. “Anyway, congratulations to Watkins. His fear saved him.”

  For Bromley there was only Inspector Watkins. The life or death of Hassocks didn’t seem to occupy his mind, though it was to save him that the Prime Minister had commissioned Poiret. He ordered a maid, who came into the apartment without making more noise than a shadow to bring some cucumber sandwiches and a bottle of wine.

  He played his cards, saying, “You will permit me, sir? This move is mine. I don’t wish to lose it.”

  Poiret had now regained his composure. He ventured to ask. “What is this you tell to Poiret, Monsieur? How could you have foreseen it?”

  “It was easy to foresee everything,” replied Bromley, offering him a cigar, “to foresee everything from the moment I saw the list with the names of the police officers guarding the mansion.”

  “Well?” questioned Poiret further.

  “Well, the list is full of questionable characters. I told this to Watkins, but you know the police nowadays, they see themselves as independent from elected officials. I couldn’t do more. Watkins would have been able to say to me, “Mind your own business.” That’s why I invited you to dinner. When one dines, one speaks.”