“But can any one?” asked Mrs. Fielder-Flemming.
“Sir Charles knows Mr. and Mrs. Bendix,” Alicia Dammers pointed out impartially. “And Sir Eustace. And I know Sir Eustace too, of course.”
Roger smiled. This statement was a characteristic meiosis on the part of Miss Dammers. Everybody knew that Miss Dammers had been the only woman (so far as rumour recorded) who had ever turned the tables on Sir Eustace Pennefather. Sir Eustace had taken it into his head to add the scalp of an intellectual woman to those other rather unintellectual ones which already dangled at his belt. Alicia Dammers, with her good looks, her tall, slim figure, and her irreproachable sartorial taste, had satisfied his very fastidious requirements so far as feminine appearance was concerned. He had laid himself out to fascinate.
The results had been watched by the large circle of Miss Dammers’s friends with considerable joy. Miss Dammers had apparently been only too ready to be fascinated. It seemed that she was living entirely on the point of succumbing to Sir Eustace’s blandishments. They had dined, visited, lunched, and made excursions together without respite. Sir Eustace, stimulated by the daily prospect of surrender on the following one, had exercised his ardour with every art he knew.
Miss Dammers had then retired serenely, and the next autumn published a book in which Sir Eustace Pennefather, dissected to the last ligament, was given to the world in all the naked unpleasingness of his psychological anatomy.
Miss Dammers never talked about her “art,” because she was a really brilliant writer and not just pretending to be one, but she certainly held that everything had to be sacrificed (including the feelings of the Sir Eustace Pennefathers of this world) to whatever god she worshipped privately in place of it.
“Mr. and Mrs. Bendix are quite incidental to the crime, of course, from the murderer’s point of view,” Mr. Bradley now pointed out to her, in the gentle tones of one instructing a child that the letter A is followed in the alphabet by the letter B. “So far as we know, their only connection with Sir Eustace is that he and Bendix both belonged to the Rainbow.”
“I needn’t give you my opinion of Sir Eustace,” remarked Miss Dammers. “Those of you who have read Flesh and the Devil know how I saw him, and I have no reason to suppose that he has changed since I was studying him. But I claim no infallibility. It would be interesting to hear whether Sir Charles’s opinion coincides with mine or not.”
Sir Charles who had not read Flesh and the Devil, looked a little embarrassed. “Well, I don’t see that I can add much to the impression the Chief Inspector gave of him. I don’t know the man well, and certainly have no wish to do so.”
Everybody looked extremely innocent. It was common gossip that there had been the possibility of an engagement between Sir Eustace and Sir Charles’s only daughter, and that Sir Charles had not viewed the prospect with any perceptible joy. It was further known that the engagement had even been prematurely announced, and promptly denied the next day.
Sir Charles tried to look as innocent as everybody else. “As the Chief Inspector hinted, he is something of a bad lot. Some people might go so far as to call him a blackguard. Women,” explained Sir Charles bluntly. “And he drinks too much,” he added. It was plain that Sir Charles Wildman did not approve of Sir Eustace Pennefather.
“I can add one small point, of purely psychological value,” amplified Alicia Dammers. “But it shows the dullness of his reactions. Even in the short time since the tragedy rumour has joined the name of Sir Eustace to that of a fresh woman. I was somewhat surprised to hear that,” added Miss Dammers drily. “I should have been inclined to give him credit for being a little more upset by the terrible mistake, and its fortunate consequences to himself, even though Mrs. Bendix was a total stranger to him.”
“Yes, by the way, I should have corrected that impression earlier,” observed Sir Charles. “Mrs. Bendix was not a total stranger to Sir Eustace, though he may probably have forgotten ever meeting her. But he did. I was talking to Mrs. Bendix one evening at a first night (I forget the play) and Sir Eustace came up to me. I introduced them, mentioning something about Bendix being a member of the Rainbow. I’d almost forgotten.”
“Then I’m afraid I was completely wrong about him,” said Miss Dammers, chagrined. “I was far too kind.” To be too kind in the dissecting-room was evidently, in Miss Dammers’s opinion, a far greater crime than being too unkind.
“As for Bendix,” said Sir Charles rather vaguely, “I don’t know that I can add anything to your knowledge of him. Quite a decent, steady fellow. Head not turned by his money in the least, rich as he is. His wife too, charming woman. A little serious perhaps. Sort of woman who likes sitting on committees. Not that that’s anything against her though.”
“Rather the reverse, I should have said,” observed Miss Dammers, who liked sitting on committees herself.
“Quite, quite,” said Sir Charles hastily, remembering Miss Dammers’s curious predilections. “And she wasn’t too serious to make a bet, evidently, although it was a trifling one.”
“She had another bet, that she knew nothing about,” chanted in solemn tones Mrs. Fielder-Flemming, who was already pondering the dramatic possibilities of the situation. “Not a trifling one: a grim one. It was with Death, and she lost it.” Mrs. Fielder-Flemming was regrettably inclined to carry her dramatic sense into her ordinary life. It did not go at all well with her culinary aspect.
She eyed Alicia Dammers covertly, wondering whether she could get in with a play before that lady cut the ground away from under her with a book.
Roger, as chairman, took steps to bring the discussion back to relevancies. “Yes, poor woman. But after all, we mustn’t let ourselves confuse the issue. It’s rather difficult to remember that the murdered person has no connection with the crime at all, so to speak, but there it is. Just by accident the wrong person died; it’s on Sir Eustace that we have to concentrate. Now, does anybody else here know Sir Eustace, or anything about him, or any other fact bearing on the crime?”
Nobody responded.
“Then we’re all on the same footing. And now, about our next meeting. I suggest that we have a clear week for formulating our theories and carrying out any investigations we think necessary, that we then meet on consecutive evenings, beginning with next Monday, and that we now draw lots as to the order in which we are to read our several papers or give our conclusions. Or does any one think we should have more than one speaker each evening?”
After a little talk it was decided to meet again on Monday, that day week, and for purposes of fuller discussion allot one evening to each member. Lots were then drawn, with the result that members were to speak in the following order: (1) Sir Charles Wildman, (2) Mrs. Fielder-Flemming, (3) Mr. Morton Harrogate Bradley, (4) Roger Sheringham, (5) Alicia Dammers, and (6) Mr. Ambrose Chitterwick.
Mr. Chitterwick brightened considerably when his name was announced as last on the list. “By that time,” he confided to Morton Harrogate, “somebody is quite sure to have discovered the right solution, and I shall therefore not have to give my own conclusions. If indeed,” he added dubiously, “I ever reach any. Tell me, how does a detective really set to work?”
Mr. Bradley smiled kindly and promised to lend Mr. Chitterwick one of his own books. Mr. Chitterwick, who had read them all and possessed most of them, thanked him very gratefully.
Before the meeting finally broke up, Mrs. Fielder-Flemming could not resist one more opportunity of being mildly dramatic. “How strange life is,” she sighed across the table to Sir Charles. “I actually saw Mrs. Bendix and her husband in their box at the Imperial the night before she died. (Oh, yes; I knew them by sight. They often came to my first nights.) I was in a stall almost directly under their box. Indeed life is certainly stranger than fiction. If I could have guessed for one minute at the dreadful fate hanging over her, I——”
“You’d have had the sense to warn her to steer clear of chocolates, I hope,” observed Sir Charles, who did not hold ve
ry much with Mrs. Fielder-Flemming.
The meeting then broke up.
Roger returned to his rooms in the Albany feeling exceedingly pleased with himself. He had a suspicion that the various attempts at a solution were going to be almost as interesting to him as the problem itself.
Nevertheless he was on his mettle. He had not been very lucky in the draw and would have preferred the place of Mr. Chitterwick, which would have meant that he would have the advantage of already knowing the results achieved by his rivals before having to disclose his own. Not that he intended to rely on others’ brains in the least; like Mr. Morton Harrogate Bradley he already had a theory of his own; but it would have been pleasant to be able to weigh up and criticise the efforts of Sir Charles, Mr. Bradley and particularly Alicia Dammers (to these three he gave credit for possessing the best minds in the Circle) before irrevocably committing himself. And more than any other crime in which he had been interested, it seemed to him, he wanted to find the right solution of this one.
To his surprise when he got back to his rooms he found Moresby waiting in his sitting-room.
“Ah, Mr. Sheringham,” said that cautious official. “Thought you wouldn’t mind me waiting here for a word with you. Not in a great hurry to go to bed, are you?”
“Not in the least,” said Roger, doing things with a decanter and syphon. “It’s early yet. Say when.”
Moresby looked discreetly the other way.
When they were settled in two huge leather armchairs before the fire Moresby explained himself. “As a matter of fact, Mr. Sheringham, the Chief’s deputed me to keep a sort of unofficial eye on you and your friends over this business. Not that we don’t trust you, or think you won’t be discreet, or anything like that, but it’s better for us to know just what’s going on with a massed-detective attack like this.”
“So that if any of us finds out something really important, you can nip in first and make use of it,” Roger smiled. “Yes, I quite see the official point.”
“So that we can take measures to prevent the bird from being scared,” Moresby corrected reproachfully. “That’s all, Mr. Sheringham.”
“Is it?” said Roger, with unconcealed scepticism. “But you don’t think it very likely that your protecting hand will be required, eh, Moresby?”
“Frankly, sir, I don’t. We’re not in the habit of giving up a case so long as we think there’s the least chance of finding the criminal; and Detective-Inspector Farrar, who’s been in charge of this one, is a capable man.”
“And that’s his theory, that it’s the work of some criminal lunatic, quite untraceable?”
“That’s the opinion he’s been led to form, Mr. Sheringham, sir. But there’s no harm in your Circle amusing themselves,” added Moresby magnanimously, “if they want to and they’ve got the time to waste.”
“Well, well,” said Roger, refusing to be drawn.
They smoked their pipes in silence for a few minutes.
“Come along, Moresby,” Roger said gently.
The chief inspector looked at him with an expression that indicated nothing but bland surprise. “Sir?”
Roger shook his head. “It won’t wash, Moresby; it won’t wash. Come along, now; out with it.”
“Out with what, Mr. Sheringham?” queried Moresby, the picture of innocent bewilderment.
“Your real reason for coming round here,” Roger said nastily. “Wanted to pump me, for the benefit of that effete institution you represent, I suppose? Well, I warn you, there’s nothing doing this time. I know you better than I did eighteen months ago at Ludmouth, remember.”
“Well, what can have put such an idea as that into your head, Mr. Sheringham, sir?” positively gasped that much misunderstood man, Chief Inspector Moresby of Scotland Yard. “I came round because I thought you might like to ask me a few questions, to give you a leg up in finding the murderer before any of your friends could. That’s all.”
Roger laughed. “Moresby, I like you. You’re a bright spot in a dull world. I expect you try to persuade the very criminals you arrest that it hurts you more than it does them. And I shouldn’t be at all surprised if you don’t somehow make them believe it. Very well, if that’s all you came round for I’ll ask you some questions, and thank you very much. Tell me this, then. Who do you think was trying to murder Sir Eustace Pennefather?”
Moresby sipped delicately at his whisky-and-soda. “You know what I think, Mr. Sheringham, sir.”
“Indeed I don’t,” Roger retorted. “I only know what you’ve told me you think.”
“I haven’t been in charge of the case at all, Mr. Sheringham,” Moresby hedged.
“Who do you really think was trying to murder Sir Eustace Pennefather?” Roger repeated patiently. “Is it your own opinion that the official police theory is right or wrong?”
Driven into a corner, Moresby allowed himself the novelty of speaking his unofficial mind. He smiled covertly, as if at a secret thought. “Well, Mr. Sheringham, sir,” he said with deliberation, “our theory is a useful one, isn’t it? I mean, it gives us every excuse for not finding the murderer. We can hardly be expected to be in touch with every half-baked creature in the country who may have homicidal impulses.
“Our theory will be put forward at the conclusion of the adjourned inquest, in about a fortnight’s time, with reason and evidence to support it, and any evidence to the contrary not mentioned, and you’ll see that the coroner will agree with it, and the jury will agree with it, and the papers will agree with it, and every one will say that really, the police can’t be blamed for not catching the murderer this time, and everybody will be happy.”
“Except Mr. Bendix, who doesn’t get his wife’s murder avenged,” added Roger. “Moresby, you’re being positively sarcastic. And from all this I deduce that you personally will stand aside from this general and amicable agreement. Do you think the case has been badly handled by your people?”
Roger’s last question followed so closely on the heels of his previous remarks that Moresby had answered it almost before he had time to reflect on the possible indiscretion of doing so. “No, Mr. Sheringham, I don’t think that. Farrar’s a capable man, and he’d leave no stone unturned—no stone, I mean, that he could turn.” Moresby paused significantly.
“Ah!” said Roger.
Having committed himself to this lamb, Moresby seemed disposed to look about for a sheep. He re-settled himself in his chair and recklessly drank a gill from his tumbler. Roger, scarcely daring to breathe too audibly for fear of scaring the sheep, studiously examined the fire.
“You see, this is a very difficult case, Mr. Sheringham,” Moresby pronounced. “Farrar had an open mind, of course, when he took it up, and he kept an open mind even after he’d found out that Sir Eustace was even a bit more of a daisy than he’d imagined at first. That is to say, he never lost sight of the fact that it might have been some outside lunatic who sent those chocolates to Sir Eustace, just out of a general socialistic or religious feeling that he’d be doing a favour to society, or Heaven by putting him out of the world. A fanatic, you might say.”
“Murder from conviction,” Roger murmured. “Yes?”
“But naturally what Farrar was concentrating on was Sir Eustace’s private life. And that’s where we police-officers are handicapped. It’s not easy for us to make enquiries into the private life of a baronet. Nobody wants to be helpful; everybody seems anxious to put a spoke in our wheel. Every line that looked hopeful to Farrar led to a dead end. Sir Eustace himself told him to go to the devil, and made no bones about it.”
“Naturally, from his point of view,” Roger said thoughtfully. “The last thing he’d want would be a sheaf of his peccadilloes laid out for a harvest festival in court.”
“Yes, and Mrs. Bendix lying in her grave on account of them,” retorted Moresby with asperity. “No, he was responsible for her death, though indirectly enough I’ll admit, and it was up to him to be as helpful as he could to the police-officer investigatin
g the case. But there Farrar was; couldn’t get any further. He unearthed a scandal or two, it’s true, but they led to nothing. So—well, he hasn’t admitted this, Mr. Sheringham, and you’ll realise I ought not to be telling you; it’s to go no further than this room, mind.”
“Good heavens, no,” Roger said eagerly.
“Well, then, it’s my private opinion that Farrar was driven to the other conclusion in self-defence. And the chief had to agree with it in self-defence too. But if you want to get to the bottom of the business, Mr. Sheringham (and nobody would be more pleased if you did than Farrar himself) my advice to you is to concentrate en Sir Eustace’s private life. You’ve a better chance than any of us there: you’re on his level, you’ll know members of his club, you’ll know his friends personally, and the friends of his friends. And that,” concluded Moresby, “is the tip I really came round to give you.”
“That’s very decent of you, Moresby,” Roger said with warmth. “Very decent indeed. Have another spot.”
“Well, thank you, Mr. Sheringham, sir,” said Chief Inspector Moresby. “I don’t mind if I do.”
Roger was meditating as he mixed the drinks. “I believe you’re right, Moresby,” he said slowly. “In fact, I’ve been thinking along those lines ever since I read the first full account. The truth lies in Sir Eustace’s private life, I feel sure. And if I were superstitious, which I’m not, do you know what I should believe? That the murderer’s aim misfired and Sir Eustace escaped death for an express purpose of Providence: so that he, the destined victim, should be the ironical instrument of bringing his own intended murderer to justice.”
“Well, Mr. Sheringham, would you really?” said the sarcastic Chief Inspector, who was not superstitious either.
Roger seemed rather taken with the idea. “Chance, the Avenger. Make a good film title, wouldn’t it? But there’s a terrible lot of truth in it.
“How often don’t you people at the Yard stumble on some vital piece of evidence out of pure chance? How often isn’t it that you’re led to the right solution by what seems a series of mere coincidences? I’m not belittling your detective work; but just think how often a piece of brilliant detective-work which has led you most of the way but not the last vital few inches, meets with some remarkable stroke of sheer luck (thoroughly well-deserved luck, no doubt, but luck), which just makes the case complete for you. I can think of scores of instances. The Milsom and Fowler murder, for example. Don’t you see what I mean? Is it chance every time, or is it Providence avenging the victim?”
The Poisoned Chocolates Case Page 4
