by Vernon Loder
‘I understand.’
‘Then, sir, as I knew always, and as Dr Scruttel made clear to me, some poisons that are deadly on injection, or when they are introduced into the circulatory system, are harmless when taken by the mouth.’
‘I am aware of that.’
‘Very well. Then we can have nothing against Mr Tollard, unless we infer a conspiracy between him and this lady, Miss Gurdon—who might possibly have a supply of the stuff, even if she could not give a name to it.’
‘I don’t believe it for a moment. Why should she?’
‘Well, we know the husband and wife were not on the best of terms, sir. We know that Miss Gurdon was backed financially by Mr Tollard, and we know that she disliked Mrs Tollard.’
‘She made no secret of that.’
‘No, sir, and she made no secret of the fact that she climbed up on a ladder and got the darts, in Mr Barley’s presence, instead of leaving it to us to bring them down.’
‘What do you infer from that?’
‘That she is intelligent enough to be aware that fingerprint research enters a good deal into modern crime detection. Hers were on the quiver, and fresh too!’
‘But what about the day she showed them how to use the blow-pipe?’
‘That day she used other darts—harmless ones. She took none out of the quiver.’
‘May I see the quiver?’
Fisher found it, and showed it to him, holding it up by the point of the forceps.
‘That’s it.’
‘Thank you.’
Fisher returned it, and the dart in its box, to the safe, and locked them up again.
‘If she took one out the day before, and happened not to have gloves on, it would be useful to have an explanation.’
‘Very,’ Carton agreed drily. ‘But you are going ahead too fast, superintendent. The motive is insufficient.’
‘There was that case of the woman and the young man in London hanged some years ago. That was jealousy and passion, and nothing else. But a great many people didn’t think they could be guilty, sir. It doesn’t do to think that love for a woman cannot drive a man into crime by itself. Some people lose their heads completely when they get enamoured, and then we hear of ugly murders.’
Carton knew that was very true, but he shook his head. ‘I think it is as well that I am having a shot at this case, too, then, superintendent. I know Miss Gurdon better than that.’
‘This is quite unofficial, of course,’ said the other. ‘I won’t admit anything I said to you. It is all in the air still.’
‘That’s right. You may trust me not to let it go any further. It’s a help to me, for I see that I must put my best foot forward, if I am to do any good.’
Fisher nodded. ‘You’ll have to be quick, sir!’
CHAPTER XIX
THE LOCKED DOOR
WHEN he returned to Stowe House, Carton was inclined to believe that he must be the stormy petrel of the household. The waves of controversy blew up when he came along, and the winds of strife whistled in the ears.
Coming into the drawing-room, he found Mr Barley, Mrs Gailey, and Mrs Minever standing about Tollard, who was reading from a letter he held in his hand, in a voice that did not presage good for someone.
‘It’s disgraceful and intolerable!’ he said, thrusting the letter into his pocket; and then he saw Carton, and his face took on a deeper shade of red.
‘Has this anything to do with you, Carton?’ he demanded loudly, hurriedly fishing for the letter, and flourishing it.
Carton raised his eyebrows, and advanced on the angry man. ‘I can’t say till I see it,’ he said. ‘It occurs to me that you imagine I am ubiquitous, Tollard.’
‘This is a letter from my secretary,’ remarked the other, holding his anger in leash with the utmost difficulty. ‘He writes in haste to say he has found a man hanging about the house—my house in town—questioning the servants, and pretending to be a canvasser only.’
Carton glanced at Elaine, and shrugged. ‘Will you tell me what Tollard means?’ he asked coldly. ‘I have not been up to town; merely to the police at Elterham to tell them about Jorkins.’
‘Perhaps you have paid someone to spy for you,’ said Tollard, with heat. ‘You don’t answer my question.’
‘Oh, come!’ said Mr Barley uncomfortably, while the two women exchanged awkward glances. ‘Mr Carton is incapable of that sort of thing, Tollard.’
‘He hasn’t answered my question,’ repeated Tollard obstinately.
‘And never shall,’ said Carton angrily. ‘It answers itself, I think.’
Elaine took Mrs Gailey by the arm, and they went out together. Mr Barley glanced at the two men in turn, hardly knowing what sort of oil to pour on these troubled waters. Carton suddenly turned to him.
‘You are in possession of your senses, Mr Barley,’ he said. ‘I have just seen the police, and I have reason to believe that they have sent a detective to town. I expect he has a roving commission.’
‘There!’ cried Mr Barley, much relieved. ‘I knew there must be some other explanation of the thing. One of their fellows has been making enquiries, not too tactfully, at your house, Tollard.’
Tollard bit his lip, made an apology for his mistake, and left the room. Carton had accepted his amende coldly. He was getting tired of Tollard and his moods.
‘Mr Tollard is going tomorrow,’ he said to his host.
‘First train tomorrow,’ the older man agreed. ‘I am very sorry for him, but really he is rather trying too. I can forgive and excuse it after this tragedy, but it does not make things smooth for my other guests.’
‘I should say not,’ remarked Carton drily.
‘By the way,’ said Mr Barley, apology in his voice. ‘At a time like this, one has to make excuses, and promises too, I am afraid, one would not make at any other time. I cannot agree that your experiment this morning was inadvised, or without value, but Tollard has taken it rather to heart.’
‘It seems a stronger organ than his head.’
‘Quite. I had no idea he was so emotional. It proves how much he loved his wife after all.’
Carton shrugged. ‘You spoke of making promises?’
‘Yes—it was this way. He was angry that you sent someone into his late wife’s room for the purpose of testing Jorkins. He said he had spoken to you about it.’
‘He did. He rated me as if I were a servant of his. I am beginning to forget that we were ever friends.’
Mr Barley coughed. ‘I gathered that you were not prepared to listen to him, and, when he said you would be at it again when he had gone, I told him that I was sure you would do nothing of the sort.’
‘What did he reply?’
‘He persisted. I was rather in a quandary. He asked me as a favour if I would see that no one entered that room, except the police or someone delegated by them.’
‘Did he expect you to keep guard outside the door!’
‘No, of course not. But I promised him I would lock the room up. I am sure you don’t mind.’
‘How can I?’ asked Carton, conscious of disappointment all the same. ‘I remember—what Tollard seems to forget—that this is your house, and you have the right to do what you please in it.’
‘At all events, Carton,’ remarked Barley, who wished everyone to be at his ease, ‘it can’t hamper you much. The police made a very thorough examination of it. The detective-inspector and the superintendent both went through it.’
‘They examined Jorkins, sir, and failed to find out the most important thing about him! But let that drop. What puzzles me is—’
He stopped, and stared at Mrs Minever, who had settled herself on a couch to listen, under pretence of reading.
‘If you would leave us for a few moments, Jane,’ said Mr Barley. ‘Mr Carton has something private to say to me.’
‘Oh, certainly,’ cried the old lady, flouncing up. ‘I am sure I don’t want to listen to any private talk!’
And she went out with an air
of great annoyance.
‘I was going to say,’ said Carton, when the door closed, ‘I can’t understand why Tollard is so anxious to close me down. I should have thought he would be keen to get any information he could about the ruffian who killed his wife.’
‘It is rather strange,’ said the other thoughtfully. ‘But the whole thing is strange. Who could have killed her? If there was no one outside to do it, I can think of no one inside who would do such a brutal and savage thing. Have the police no idea?’
Carton looked at him sharply. ‘They have, of sorts.’
‘What is it?’
‘I am sorry I am not at liberty to divulge it. The superintendent let it slip, and I promised it should go no farther.’
‘Quite right, if you promised. But did it seem to you at all a likely theory?’
‘It was an exceedingly plausible one. It might seem likely to a stranger, but it was most improbable to my mind.’
‘I think they ought to have called in Scotland Yard. I suppose they won’t now, if they have a theory?’
‘I am afraid not. They believe in their notion, and feel they have scored.’
‘You intend to carry on, Mr Carton?’
‘I do, though my efforts will be limited by Tollard’s new regulations.’
‘I am sorry, but I gave my promise to him, as you gave yours on the other matter to Fisher.’
Carton nodded. ‘Well, I am going to my room. I have letters to write.’
As he went upstairs he was pondering this new move of Tollard’s. Before he heard of the promise extracted from Mr Barley, he had intended to ask the latter if he might examine the scene of the tragedy when Tollard had left for London.
Now Mr Barley had locked up the room, and would see that no one entered except the officers from Elterham. It was too bad; it was also rather inexplicable.
At the risk of catching at mere straws, Carton sat down in his room by the window to think of all the possibilities. Tollard had quarrelled with his wife, and gone off to the Isle of Wight in a huff. He had pleaded urgent business, which suggested that he was very anxious to get away.
But, whatever his reasons for that, he had actually been away. It would be foolish to deny the validity of his alibi. Had he done anything, made any arrangements, that would mature during his absence?
Assuming, to take the worst side of it, that he had had a hand in his wife’s death, there might be two motives to explain his hurried exit on the day prior to the murder: He would have an alibi. He might dread being near when his plans came to their ugly fruition.
But what plans could he have made? There was only one poison in the body—that which corresponded to the poison on the tip of the dart.
Carton was troubled. It was one thing to feel fiercely certain that Elaine Gurdon had no hand in the murder of Mrs Tollard. But it would have been more reasonable and logical if an alternative criminal had presented himself to his mind. Haine, Mrs Gailey, Mr Barley, Miss Sayers, Elaine, Mrs Minever? It was unthinkable that any of them had done it.
As for the man outside, that was a dead theory. The only man they could prove to have been afoot on the morning of the tragedy at that early hour was Jorkins.
Jorkins? But Jorkins had no motive, and it was most unlikely that he could have used a blow-pipe, in any case. Jorkins had not been altogether disingenuous in the first place. He had suspected that he might be colour-blind, but had made no mention of this when first examined.
Granting that there was someone to whom Mrs Tollard’s death was profitable or convenient, the suborning of Jorkins might be considered. Tollard was a rich man. He would not be anxious to kill his wife for her money. But convenience was another matter. If he were actually in love with Elaine, even if she did not return his passion, there was a motive.
This new hypothesis did not cheer Carton very much. He felt that there was a serious flaw in it. At the same time, in fault of better, he determined to work it out.
If Jorkins was a man capable of the deed; if he had learned, in some way, to use that odd weapon the blowpipe, he undoubtedly had facilities for killing Mrs Tollard with a chance of safety. He was afoot at that early hour outside the house, he came forward with a story of seeing a woman in red at that window, a story which would switch attention to some unknown criminal. Had he been bribed by someone to kill the woman? Tollard was a man who had money in abundance, and could make it worth his while.
The flaw was this; Mrs Tollard had gone to bed with a bad headache. How could Jorkins know that she would rise from her bed so soon after dawn, and show herself at the window?
That puzzled him. There seemed to be no getting round it at first. He lit a second cigarette, and gave the matter prolonged thought. Then he imagined he saw a light.
The theory was possible on one condition. Most of us have habits that are not easily broken. Some people look out at the night sky before they go to bed; some get up with the dawn, and look out at the newly illumined world. Did Jorkins know that Mrs Tollard looked out early each morning from her bedroom window? Had he possibly seen her there on other occasions when he crossed the park?
Slight as the possibilities seemed, Carton could not overlook them. A more troublesome snag, after all, was the projection of the dart from a blow-pipe. It argued knowledge and practice on Jorkins’s part that he was unlikely to possess. How could he get the blow-pipe from the hall, and return it afterwards, when the house was locked up?
He reflected again. The dart could have been used in the fingers, or blown from the native pipe. Was there any other way in which it could be projected?
As he had told Fisher, Carton was acquainted with some native weapons. He thought of some arrows he had once seen, the head of which fitted loosely in a socket in the shaft, so that the shaft fell from it when the object was struck.
This arrow was shot from a bow, but, in the present case, there were difficulties only too obvious. Mrs Tollard was upstairs. If an arrow tipped with the dart had struck her the shaft ought to have been found in the room.
Carton wrinkled his brows over this. The shaft would certainly carry as far as the object aimed at, unless by chance it hit the window-sill, and bounced back, to be picked up afterwards by Jorkins. But Jorkins would not rely on that slight chance. What then?
Carton resumed his memory-dragging for a more suitable weapon, and one came to his mind almost at once. It was simply the native, socketed arrow again, but, this time, the kind used for shooting fish on the surface, or close to the surface, of the African rivers.
In this kind, the shaft was made of a light kind of reed, so that its loss was of no moment, and a very thin, but strong, line was attached to the arrowhead. When a fish was struck, the reed shaft became detached and carried away, but the fish was in connection with the arrow-head, and that in turn (by the line) with the man on the bank. Attach the cord to the shaft instead, and Jorkins would have a means to recover the shaft after he had fired. There are a thousand men in England who can use a bow and arrow for every one even remotely in possession of knowledge about the South American blow-pipe.
And yet Carton was not satisfied. He wanted to be very sure. The dart of thorn could be inserted in a shaft, but would Jorkins take the risk of missing Mrs Tollard by using an unfamiliar weapon?
Keepers are only familiar with guns nowadays, though, at one time, their forerunners, the verderers and foresters, were experts with the bow. But the dart could not be shot from a gun.
Carton suddenly slapped his knee. Not a gun, where the explosion would smash the woody dart, but an air-gun! What of that?
The thorn dart was very slender, it was used with a little fluff of silk-cotton, which, in an air-gun, would serve to make its butt fit the bore. An air-gun such as boys use might be too small, but the larger air-rifles are not uncommonly used by keepers whose duty it is to shoot rats, stoats, and feathered vermin.
‘I wonder if Jorkins has got one?’ he asked himself.
CHAPTER XX
SPECULATIO
NS OF A KIND
MRS MINEVER had left the drawing-room with a growing sense of grievance which was part of her life. Grievances were like tides in her mind. A new one was always running up, reaching its high-water mark, and ebbing away to nothing.
She now definitely disliked Mr Carton. He was always, it seemed to her, trying to get her out of the way when anything interesting was on the tapis. What was he, after all? A friend of Elaine’s, it is true, but he had been away for years, in one of those desperate places where it was well known that men degenerated, and had even been known to have native wives, in addition to taking to drink, drugs, and brutality.
Where had he come from so suddenly? That was the question. He had appeared from the blue the morning following the tragedy. Elaine had not known he was coming. No one had known. Who was to say that he might not be the man who had waited in the shrubbery, and killed poor Margery Tollard? It was easy to see that he hated Mr Tollard, and Mr Tollard had spoken very sharply about him!
She wondered where Elaine and Mrs Gailey were. They were not in the library, or in the morning-room, but the click of balls from the billiard-room as she went down a passage suggested that they were there. She entered fussily.
But only Mrs Gailey was in the room, bending over the table, practising shots, with a mechanical and absent air. She looked up, and rested her cue against a pocket, as the old lady entered.
‘Where’s Miss Gurdon?’ asked Mrs Minever.
‘Gone out,’ said Netta. ‘Why?’
Mrs Minever closed the door, and sat down on the bank. ‘My dear,’ she announced cautiously, ‘I have had an idea. It has just come to me.’
Netta crossed over to her. ‘How did the row end? I could see they were both getting hot. But it does seem a pity they let off steam just now.’
‘It hasn’t anything to do with that,’ said Mrs Minever. ‘It is about Mr Carton himself. How do we know that he is what he says he is?’
