Mrs. Fielder-Flemming juggled neatly with her bomb. Often though it seemed about to slip through her fingers, it never quite reached the ground or detonated. “Very well, then. I will go on. My triangle now had the second of its members. On the analogy of the Barnet murder, where was the third to be found? Obviously, with Molineux as the prototype, in some person who was anxious to prevent the first member from marrying the second.
“So far, you will see, I am not out of harmony with the conclusions Sir Charles gave us last night, though my method of arriving at them was perhaps somewhat different. He gave us a triangle also, without expressly denning it as such (perhaps even without recognising it as such). And the first two members of his triangle are precisely the same as the first two of mine.”
Here Mrs. Fielder-Flemming made a notable effort to return something of Sir Charles’s glare, in defiant challenge to contradiction. As she had simply stated a plain fact, however, which Sir Charles was quite unable to refute without explaining that he had not meant what he had meant the evening before, the challenge passed unanswered. Also the glare visibly diminished. But for all that (patently remarked Sir Charles’s expression) a triangle by any other name does not smell so unsavoury.
“It is when we come to the third member,” pursued Mrs. Fielder-Flemming, with renewed poise, “that we are at variance. Sir Charles suggested to us Lady Pennefather. I have not the pleasure of Lady Pennefather’s acquaintance, but Miss Dammers who knows her well, tells me that in almost every particular the estimate given us by Sir Charles of her character was wrong. She is neither mean, grasping, greedy, nor in any imaginable way capable of the awful deed with which Sir Charles, perhaps a little rashly, was ready to credit her. Lady Pennefather, I understand, is a particularly sweet and kindly woman; somewhat broad-minded no doubt, but none the worse for that; indeed as some of us would think, a good deal the better.”
Mrs. Fielder-Flemming encouraged the belief that she was not merely tolerant of a little harmless immorality, but actually ready to act as godmother to any particular instance of it. Indeed she went sometimes quite a long detour out of her way in order to propagate this belief among her friends. But unfortunately her friends would persist in remembering that she had refused to have anything more to do with one of her own nieces since the latter, on learning that her middle-aged husband kept, for purposes of convenience, a different mistress in each of the four quarters of England, and just to be on the safe side one in Scotland too, had run away with a young man of her own with whom she happened to be very devotedly in love.
“Just as I differ from Sir Charles over the identity of the third person in the triangle,” went on Mrs. Fielder-Flemming, happily ignorant of her friends’ memories, “so I differ from him in the means by which that identity is to be established. We are at complete variance in our ideas regarding the very heart of the problem, the motive. Sir Charles would have us think that this was a murder committed (or attempted, rather) for gain; I am convinced that the incentive was, at any rate, a less ignoble one than that. Murder, we are taught, can never be really justifiable; but there are occasions when it comes dangerously near it. This, in my opinion, was one of them.
“It is in the character of Sir Eustace himself that I see the clue to the identity of the third person. Let us consider it for a moment. We are not restricted by any considerations of slander, and we can say at once that, from certain points of view, Sir Eustace is a quite undesirable member of the community. From the point of view of a young man, for the sake of example, who is in love with a girl, Sir Eustace must be one of the very last persons with whom the young man would wish that girl to come into contact. He is not merely immoral, he is without excuse for his immorality, a far more serious thing. He is a rake, a spendthrift, without honour or scruples where women are concerned, and a man moreover who has already made a mess of marriage with a very charming woman and one by no means too narrow to overlook even a more than liberal allowance of the usual male peccadilloes and lapses. As a prospective husband for any young girl Sir Eustace Pennefather is a tragedy.
“And as a prospective husband for a young girl whom a man loves with all his heart,” intoned Mrs. Fielder-Flemming very solemnly, “it is easy to conceive that, in that particular man’s regard, Sir Eustace Pennefather becomes nothing short of an impossibility.
“And a man who is a man,” added Mrs. Fielder-Flemming, quite mauve with intensity, “does not admit impossibilities.”
She paused, pregnantly.
“Curtain, Act I,” confided Mr. Bradley behind his hand to Mr. Ambrose Chitterwick.
Mr. Chitterwick smiled nervously.
CHAPTER VIII
SIR CHARLES took the usual advantage of the first interval to rise from his seat. Like so many of us in these days by the time of the first interval (when it is not a play of Mrs. Fielder-Flemming’s that is in question) he felt almost physically unable to contain himself longer.
“Mr. President,” he boomed, “let us get this clear. Is Mrs. Fielder-Flemming making the preposterous accusation that some friend of my daughter’s is responsible for this crime, or is she not?”
The President looked somewhat helplessly up at the bulk towering wrathfully above him and wished he were anything but the President. “I really don’t know, Sir Charles,” he professed, which was not only feeble but untrue.
Mrs. Fielder-Flemming however was by now quite able to speak up for herself. “I have not yet specifically accused any one of the crime, Sir Charles,” she said, with a cold dignity that was only marred by the fact that her hat, which had apparently been sharing its mistress’s emotions, was now perched rakishly over her left ear. “So far I have been simply developing a thesis.”
To Mr. Bradley Sir Charles would have replied, with Johnsonian scorn of evasion: “Sir, damn your thesis.” Hampered now by the puerilities of civilised convention regarding polite intercourse between the sexes, he could only summon up once more the blue glare.
With the unfairness of her sex Mrs. Fielder-Flemming promptly took advantage of his handicap. “And,” she added pointedly, “I have not yet finished doing so.”
Sir Charles sat down, the perfect allegory. But he grunted very naughtily to himself as he did so.
Mr. Bradley restrained an impulse to clap Mr. Chitterwick on the back and then chuck him under the chin.
Her serenity so natural as to be patently artificial, Mrs. Fielder- Flemming proceeded to call the interval closed and ring up the curtain on her second act.
“Having given you my processes towards arriving at the identity of the third member of the triangle I postulated, in other words towards that of the murderer, I will go on to the actual evidence and show how that supports my conclusions. Did I say ‘supports’. I meant, confirms them beyond all doubt.”
“But what are your conclusions, Mrs. Fielder-Flemming?” Bradley asked, with an air of bland interest. “You haven’t defined them yet. You only hinted that the murderer was a rival of Sir Eustace’s for the hand of Miss Wildman.”
“Exactly,” agreed Alicia Dammers. “Even if you don’t want to tell us the man’s name yet, Mabel, can’t you narrow it down a little more for us?” Miss Dammers disliked vagueness. It savoured to her of the slipshod, which above all things in this world she detested. Moreover she really was extremely interested to know upon whom Mrs. Fielder-Flemming’s choice had alighted. Mabel, she knew, might look like one sort of fool, talk like another sort, and behave like a third; and yet really she was not a fool at all.
But Mabel was determined to be coy. “Not yet, I’m afraid. For certain reasons I want to prove my case first. You’ll understand later, I think.”
“Very well,” sighed Miss Dammers. “But do let’s keep away from the detective-story atmosphere. All we want to do is to solve this difficult case, not mystify each other.”
“I have my reasons, Alicia,” frowned Mrs. Fielder-Flemming, and rather obviously proceeded to collect her thoughts. “Where was I? Oh yes, the evidence. Now t
his is very interesting. I have succeeded in obtaining two pieces of quite vital evidence which I have never heard brought forward before.
“The first is that Sir Eustace was not in love with—” Mrs. Fielder-Flemming hesitated; then, as the plunge had already been taken for her, followed the intrepid Mr. Bradley into the deeps of complete candour “—with Miss Wildman at all. He intended to marry her simply for her money—or rather, for what he hoped to get of her father’s money. I hope, Sir Charles,” added Mrs. Fielder-Flemming frostily, “that you will not consider me slanderous if I allude to the fact that you are an exceedingly rich man. It has a most important bearing on my case.”
Sir Charles inclined his massive, handsome head. “It is hardly a matter of slander, madam. Simply one of taste, which is outside my professional orbit. I fear it would be a waste of time for me to attempt to advise you on it.”
“That is very interesting, Mrs. Fielder-Flemming,” Roger hastily interposed on this exchange of pleasantries. “How did you discover it?”
“From Sir Eustace’s man, Mr. Sheringham,” replied Mrs. Fielder-Flemming not without pride. “I interrogated him. Sir Eustace had made no secret of it. He seems to confide most freely in his man. He expected, apparently, to be able to pay off his debts, buy a racehorse or two, provide for the present Lady Pennefather, and generally make a fresh and no doubt discreditable start. He had actually promised Barker (that is his man’s name) a present of a hundred pounds on the day he ‘led the little filly to the altar,’ as he phrased it. I am sorry to hurt your feelings, Sir Charles, but I have to deal with facts, and feelings must go down before them. A present of ten pounds bought me all the information I wanted. Quite remarkable information, as it turned out.” She looked round triumphantly.
“You don’t think, perhaps,” ventured Mr. Chitterwick with an apologetic smile, “that information from such a tainted source might not be entirely reliable? The source seems so very tainted. Why, I don’t think my own man would sell me for a ten-pound note.”
“Like master like man,” returned Mrs. Fielder-Flemming shortly. “His information was perfectly reliable. I was able to check nearly everything he told me, so that I think I am entitled to accept the small residue as correct too.
“I should like to quote another of Sir Eustace’s confidences. It is not pretty, but it is very, very illuminating. He had made an attempt to seduce Miss Wildman in a private room at the Pug-Dog Restaurant (that, for instance, I checked later), apparently with the object of ensuring the certainty of the marriage he desired. (I am sorry again, Sir Charles, but these facts must be brought out.) I had better say at once that the attempt was unsuccessful. That night Sir Eustace remarked (and to his valet of all people, remember); ‘You can take a filly to the altar, but you can’t make her drunk.’ That, I think, will show you better than any words of mine just what manner of man Sir Eustace Pennefather is. And it will also show you how overwhelmingly strong was the incentive of the man who really loved her to put her for ever out of the reach of such a brute.
“And that brings me to the second piece of my evidence. This is really the foundation stone of the whole structure, the basis on which the necessity for murder (as the murderer saw it) rested, and the basis at the same time of my own reconstruction of the crime. Miss Wildman was hopelessly, unreasonably, irrevocably infatuated with Sir Eustace Pennefather.”
As an artist in dramatic effect, Mrs. Fielder-Flemming was silent for a moment to allow the significance of this information to sink into the minds of her audience. But Sir Charles was far too personally preoccupied to be interested in significances.
“And may one ask how you found that out, madam?” he demanded, swelling with sarcasm. “From my daughter’s maid?”
“From your daughter’s maid,” responded Mrs. Fielder-Flemming sweetly. “Detecting, I discover, is an expensive hobby, but one mustn’t regret money spent in a good cause.”
Roger sighed. It was plain that, once this ill-fortuned child of his invention had died a painful death, the Circle (if it had not been completely squared by then) would be found to be without either Mrs. Fielder-Flemming or Sir Charles Wildman; and he knew which of the two it would be. It was a pity. Sir Charles, besides being such an asset from the professional point of view, was the only leavening apart from Mr. Ambrose Chitterwick of the literary element; and Roger, who had attended a few literary parties in his earlier days, was quite sure he would not be able to face a gathering that consisted of nothing but people who made their livings by their typewriters.
Besides, Mrs. Fielder-Flemming really was being a little hard on the old man. After all, it was his daughter who was in question.
“I have now,” said Mrs. Fielder-Flemming, “established an overwhelming motive for the man who is in my mind to eliminate Sir Eustace. In fact it must have seemed to him the only possible way out of an intolerable situation. Let me now go on to connect him with the few facts allowed us by the anonymous murderer.
“When the Chief Inspector the other evening permitted us to examine the forged letter from Mason and Sons I examined it closely, because I know something about typewriters. That letter was typed on a Hamilton machine. The man I have in mind has a Hamilton typewriter at his place of business. You may say that might be only a coincidence, the Hamilton being so generally used. So it might; but if you get enough coincidences lumped together, they cease to become coincidences at all and become certainties.
“In the same way we have the further coincidence of Mason’s notepaper. This man has a definite connection with Mason’s. Three years ago, as you may remember, Mason’s were involved in a big lawsuit. I forget the details, but I think they brought an action against one of their rivals. You may remember, Sir Charles?”
Sir Charles nodded reluctantly, as if unwilling to help his antagonist even with this unimportant information. “I ought to,” he said shortly. “It was against the Fearnley Chocolate Company for infringement of copyright in an advertisement figure. I led for Mason’s.”
“Thank you. Yes, I thought it was something like that. Very well, then. This man was connected with that very case. He was helping Mason’s, on the legal side. He must have been in and out of their office. His opportunities for possessing himself of a piece of their notepaper would have been legion. The chances by which he might have found himself three years later in possession of a piece would be innumerable. The paper had yellowed edges; it must have been quite three years old. It had an erasure. That erasure, I suggest, is the remains of a brief note on the case jotted down one day in Mason’s office. The thing is obvious. Everything fits.
“Then there is the matter of the post-mark. I agree with Sir Charles that we may take it for granted that the murderer, cunning though he is, and anxious though he might be to establish an alibi, would not entrust the posting of the fatal parcel to any one else. Apart from a confederate, which I am sure we may rule out of the question, it would be far too dangerous; the name of Sir Eustace Pennefather could hardly escape being seen, and the connection later established. The murderer, secure in his conviction that suspicion will never fall on himself of all people (just like all murderers that have ever been), gambles a possible alibi against a certain risk and posts the thing himself. It is therefore advisable, just to clinch the case against him, to connect the man with the neighbourhood of the Strand between the hours of eight-thirty and nine-thirty on that particular evening.
“Surprisingly enough I found this task, which I had expected to be the most difficult, the easiest of all. The man of whom I am thinking actually attended a public dinner that night at the Hotel Cecil, a re-union dinner to be exact of his old school. The Hotel Cecil, I need not remind you, is almost opposite Southampton Street. The Southampton Street post-office is the nearest one to the Hotel. What could be easier for him than to slip out of his seat for the five minutes which is all that would be required, and be back again almost before his neighbours had noticed his action?”
“What indeed?” murmured the
rapt Mr. Bradley.
“I have two final points to make. You remember that in pointing out the resemblance of this case to the Molineux affair, I remarked that this similarity was more than surprising, it was significant. I will explain what I meant by that. What I meant was that the parallel was far too close for it to be just a coincidence. This case is a deliberate copy of that one. And if it is, there is only one inference. This murder is the work of a man steeped in criminal history—of a criminologist. And the man I have in mind is a criminologist.
“My last point concerns the denial in the newspaper of the rumoured engagement between Sir Eustace Pennefather and Miss Wildman. I learnt from his valet that Sir Eustace did not send that denial himself. Nor did Miss Wildman. Sir Eustace was furiously angry about it. It was sent, on his own initiative without consulting either of them, by the man whom I am accusing of having committed this crime.”
Mr. Bradley stopped hugging himself for a moment. “And the nitrobenzene? Were you able to connect him with that too?”
“That is one of the very few points on which I agree with Sir Charles. I don’t think it in the least necessary, or possible, to connect him with such a common commodity, which can be bought anywhere without the slightest difficulty or remark.”
Mrs. Fielder-Flemming was holding herself in with a visible effort. Her words, so calm and judicial to read, had hitherto been spoken too with a strenuous attempt towards calm and judicial delivery. But with each sentence the attempt was obviously becoming more difficult. Mrs. Fielder-Flemming was clearly getting so excited that a few more such sentences seemed likely to choke her, though to the others such intensity of feeling seemed a little unnecessary. She was approaching her climax, of course, but even that seemed hardly an excuse for such a very purple face and a hat that had now managed somehow to ride to the very back of her head where it trembled agitatedly in sympathy with its mistress.
The Poisoned Chocolates Case Page 8
