"Just clearing up a few matters, sir," said Masters, in a voice loud with warning to the cook. "You don't happen to remember carrying — what was it? — a grape fruit, yes! You don't happen to remember carrying half a grapefruit up to Mrs. Fane on Thursday afternoon, do you?"
Sharpless smiled.
"I'll say I do! I remember everything about that afternoon. What about it?"
"Oh, ah. You did carry it up, then?"
"Yes, of course. What about it?"
"And you didn't put it down anywhere? Or stop to talk to anybody? You just took it up, and handed it to the lady? Eh?"
If Frank's astonishment were assumed, Courtney thought, he must be among the first actors of the world. It was as though you could read every thought in the man's head.
"That's right. And you can add, if you like, that I stopped there and watched her while she ate it." Enlightenment came to him. "Oh! I get it! You're wondering whether the grapefruit might have had a bad effect, or a good effect, in bringing on the poison?"
"Something like that."
"Well," said Sharpless, drawing in his breath, "if it had a good effect, I'm glad. And if it had a bad effect-well, that doesn't matter now, thanks to Sir Henry. I haven't thanked you properly, sir, for whatever it was you did the other night. But, by gad, if there's ever anything you want done for you: a little matter of a murder or anything like that: you just come to me. I'm your man."
"Eee!" cried Mrs. Propper, and flounced up out of her chair like a pouncing owl.
H.M. saved the situation then by deliberately reaching behind Masters, unobserved, and pushing the kitchen clock off the shelf.
It was the sacrifice of a good clock, but it worked.
"She's upset, poor old girl," observed Sharpless sympathetically, watching Mrs. Propper as she tried to conceal her emotion by a distracted examination of broken wheels and springs. "I'm going up to see Vicky. Cheer-ho. See you later." The swing-door closed.
"My poor little clock!" cried Mrs. «Propper. "My nice little clock!"
Ann Browning spoke in a low, clear, firm voice.
"Sir Henry," she said, "that boy isn't guilty. You know it as well as I do."
"Why is that man wearing his hat in my house?" demanded Mrs. Propper, gathering up the clock and pointing at Masters. "I won't have him wearing his hat in our house."
Holding himself under strong restraint, Masters walked — he almost tiptoed — to the door leading out into the back garden. He opened this, stood aside, and nodded to the others. H.M., Ann, and Courtney filed out. Masters followed them, and firmly closed the door.
Even the thick, close air outside was welcome after the air of die kitchen.
"Chief Inspector," said Courtney, "I didn't know I was speaking in prophecy. No offense is meant. But, as Ann said, you know as sure as you're born that Frank Sharpless never poisoned a grapefruit to give to Vicky Fane. And if Frank didn't do it, nobody else could have done it. So it follows that nobody could have poisoned the grapefruit."
This was the wrong approach.
"No," said Masters. "And nobody could have exchanged the daggers either. But somebody smacking well did."
He extended the palm of his left hand, and with dangerous quietness tapped the forefinger of his right-hand in it.
"Don't you see it's the same mess all over again? By our evidence, the only person who could have exchanged the daggers was Mrs. Fane. But she didn't do it, because she had the strongest motive not to. The only person who could have poisoned the grapefruit was Captain Sharpless. But he didn't do it, because he had the strongest motive not to. Oh, lummy, lead me to a lunatic asylum."
Black clouds, edged with tarnished silver, shielded a sun which was still brilliant.
H.M. shook his head in slow and sour disbelief. He went over to inspect the dustbin, taking off the lid and replacing it with a clang. Then he pushed open the door of the garden shed, and thrust his big bald head inside. He disclosed nothing more than a lawn-mower, various rakes and shears, a short ladder, a wheelbarrow, and some beach-chairs.
"No!" he said.
"What do you mean, no?" Masters persisted.
"I mean it's not just the blinkin' awful cussedness of things in general. Not this time. It's design."
A step stirred in the gravel path through the rose-garden. Hubert Fane, wearing a gray double-breasted suit, a decorous black tie, and a white rose in his buttonhole, emerged from the garden. The sunlight made his thin hair look like spun glass, and accentuated the slight hollows of his temples. Even his big nose had an air of serenity and benevolence. He carried a pair of shears.
"Good afternoon, my dear," he said, smiling paternally on Ann. "And to you, gentlemen. Chief Inspector Masters I know, but I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting, at least formally, Sir Henry Merrivale."
"How-de-do," said H.M. vaguely. "Been gardening"
"If I have an amiable weakness," replied Hubert, dropping the shears on the ground and dusting his hands with a silk handkerchief, "it is for roses. Like Sergeant Cuff and Geek and other worthies of detective instincts, I—"
"Know anything about grapefruit?" Hubert stopped short.
"Not as a gardener. My only knowledge of grapefruit consists of the fact that I cordially dislike it, though my niece is fond of it and my nephew also favored it."
"So? Arthur Fane liked grapefruit too?"
"Yes. Why do you ask?"
"Mrs. Fane took poison in grapefruit," said H.M.
It was seldom possible to surprise Hubert. This almost did it. He remained motionless, a half-smile still on his face.
"Let me be quite clear about this," he requested, after a pause. "Are you attempting to tell me that my courageous but long-suffering niece was poisoned twice?"
"No. Only once. There was about three grains of strychnine in the grapefruit that Captain Sharpless carried up to her on Thursday afternoon."
Hubert passed a hand over his smooth hair.
"Now there, my dear sir, permit me to point out that you are talking nonsense."
"No nonsense about it. It's true. Witnesses: one stomach-pump, Dr. Nithsdale, one hospital orderly, me. Were you in the house when Sharpless took the grapefruit up to Mrs. Fane?"
"I was. I remember passing him in the hall. But—"
"Oh? Did you have any conversation with him?"
"Yes. The conversation was as follows. As I passed him I said, 'Grapefruit, eh?' To which he replied, 'Grapefruit,' and went on. Our conversation was distinguished neither for length nor for brilliance of repartee."
"O temporal" said H.M. "O mores! O hell!"
"Cicero," observed Hubert, "would seem, in this instance, less to the point than the Roman Sybil. Sir, you worry me. What is all this?"
H.M. was paying no attention. He was blinking owlishly at the rose-garden. The trellises supporting many of the roses were narrow, of very light wood, in diamond-shaped sections set one above the other, and painted white. Passing from his dour mood, H.M. regarded them with fascination.
"I suppose," volunteered Hubert, "you have come to have some conversations with Victoria?"
"That's the general idea, yes."
"I feel a great interest, very naturally, in her welfare. The dear girl has kindly offered to let me stay on here until I can find a little place of my own. May I earnestly beg you not to worry or distress her with too many questions? She should not, in my opinion, be allowed to see anyone yet."
"I agree with that, Sir Henry," said Ann quickly. "She's trying to do too much at once, and we don't want her to have a relapse. Please! You won't upset her, will you?"
"Oh, we'll be careful. It's only routine stuff, d'ye see, until she gets better." He inflated his chest. "Come along, Masters. We better get this over with." He peered at Courtney and Ann. "You want to come?"
"No, thanks," the former replied with some fervency.
H.M. and Masters had just stumped into the house, with Hubert following them, and Ann had turned to Courtney with a face fierce in desperation,
when they had another interruption.
Courtney was shocked at the change in Dr. Richard Rich's appearance. Dr. Rich hurried round the side of the house, round the concrete path past the back drawing-room windows.
His face was haggard. The roll of hair, sprawling out from under the back of his soft black hat, had not been brushed in several days. But the expression on his face was one of relief so great that it might be difficult to express.
"I beg your pardon," said Rich, stopping short and kiting his hat. "Is Sir Henry Merrivale here? The maid said he was 'out back.' "
"He's here, but I don't think you can see him now. They've gone up to speak to Mrs. Fane. Was it anything in particular?"
"I just want to thank him," Rich said simply.
He mopped his forehead.
"He did me the courtesy," Rich went on, "of sending a note round to my lodging house. We don't boast a telephone there. He said that Mrs. Fane's illness was not caused by tetanus, but by strychnine poisoning. He added-"
Rich paused. Fumbling in the breast pocket of his jacket, he drew out a folded sheet of notepaper.
" "There's something else,' " he read aloud, bunking against the sunlight. " 'I've got a bit of influence here and there, son. I'd like to reopen your other case — you — know what I mean — before the Medical Council. I think we might get you reinstated yet. Chirrup, son. You're not dead yet.' "
Abruptly Rich folded up the letter and put it back in his pocket.
'I never thought I should live to say 'thank God' again," he added, "but I do now."
Ann was standing uncomfortably, her eyes on the ground.
"I'm afraid I said some rather unpleasant things to you the other night, Dr. Rich," she told him. "But I was upset at the time. I'm sorry."
Rich smiled.
"Miss Browning! Lord! That doesn't matter at all. Please forget it. We were all upset, if it comes to that." He smiled again. "You're looking at my hand? It's nothing. I've been very disturbed since Thursday night, and I cut it shaving. A bit of sticking-plaster covers the damage." He brushed this aside. "No. What does matter is this new aspect of the case."
"The strychnine?" said Courtney.
"Yes! The strychnine! Is there some place where we can sit down?"
Courtney led the way along the gravel path through the garden, to the tree-shaded lawn at the back. Ann sat down on the stone bench under the apple tree. Rich, out of condition, panted a little as he perched himself on the opposite end.
"If I'm not top inquisitive," said Ann, "what did that note mean when it said, 'your ether case'? What other case?"
Rich's eyes narrowed.
"But you… gad, no!" He stared at the past. "You weren't in the room when I told about it. You didn't come in until afterwards. I forgot." Color made his face more red. "It is nothing. Shall we change the subject?"
"What other case? Please!"
Rich contemplated her for a moment.
"Very well," he agreed grimly. "You ought to know with whom you've been breaking bread. I'm a miserable sinner, Miss Browning. I was struck off the medical-"
"Easy, now!" Courtney interposed soothingly. "Is there any necessity for this?" Rich gestured him to silence.
"— register. I was accused of having… if you want to use a polite word, you can say 'seduced'.. one of my patients while she was under hypnosis."
"Oh."
"I was not guilty. I swear it. One day, perhaps soon, I may be able to prove it. And then! My name will still be mud, of course, so far as general practice is concerned. But some official post: a snip's doctor, say!"
Ann was looking at the branches of the tree overhead. She nodded as though she followed this.
"But to have been accused of this affair, of being mad enough to drive a contaminated pin into a person's arm, would have finished me past all hope. Relieved? Gad, I could dance the fandango!"
"Doctor," said Courtney quietly, "would you mind if I asked you one question?"
"Not at all. Ask away."
He filled his pipe, lighted it, and watched the gray smoke hang heavily in die thick thundery air.
Birds bickered among the vines. The stone wall giving on the lane was gray and blotched. These trees, with the green and yellow apples and the dark blue sheen of plums, seemed to shed heat down like the inside of a tent. You could hear the dim hum of wasps.
''Doctor," pursued Courtney, taking the pipe out of his mouth, "on the night you gave that demonstration with the pin, I was outside on the balcony."
Silence.
"You were.. what?”
"I was eavesdropping. Not of my own free will; but there you are. I saw and heard everything you did. In particular, I overheard the questions you asked Mrs. Fane when she was still under hypnosis."
"Indeed," said Rich. His throat seemed dry. His fingers closed round the edges of the bench under him.
"And I heard her answers. What I want to know is why you didn't tell the police about it. H.M. gave you an opportunity to, at that same interview you were speaking of a minute ago. But you said you had nothing to add."
Again silence.
"Do the police," asked Rich, after reflection, "know about this?" "Yes."
"So it's only a question of time before they—?"
"Ask you? Yes. I wonder they haven't asked you already."
Ann too, he noticed, was watching Rich. But he saw her only out of the tail of his eye. The hum of the quiet, shut-in garden lay drowsy on the senses.
Rich cleared his throat.
"Young man," he said, "this whole affair has consisted in putting me, and me alone, in a series of false positions. You're quite right. I don't deny it. I did ask Mrs. Fane those questions."
"Thanks."
"No sarcasm, sir. I asked the questions because I was curious. Nothing more. I naturally guessed, when I was putting Mrs. Fane through the 'routine' downstairs beforehand, that she had some intense emotional associations with the sofa, that song, and the rest of it. My curiosity was — scientific. I wanted to know who and what and why."
"That's understandable."
"Yes. But wait." Again Rich hesitated. "Well, here's trouble again! But it's got to be told sooner or later. When I asked Mrs. Fane those questions in the bedroom, I heard a certain name."
"Yes. I remember the expression on your face, and how you clenched your fists when you heard it."
Rich closed his eyes, and opened them again.
"Mr. Courtney, a year or two ago, when I was on the stage with my hypnotic turn, I had a girl-assistant. When I talked with Sir Henry Merrivale (again at that same interview), I was off guard: I made a slip of speech; and I almost mentioned that young lady's name."
Courtney nodded.
"Yes," he said. "The girl's name was Polly Allen, wasn't it?"
Sixteen
Rich's face was hot and bitter.
"And I daresay the police know that too?"
"No. At least, not yet. Though they're bound to find it out if they inquire at the theatrical agencies. I only guessed it because I kept thinking of your expression; and that Polly Allen was on the stage, but wouldn't say in what. I'd been thinking a good deal about that girl, because of her resemblance to…"
He stopped.
Ann, her chin lifted, had fastened troubled and puzzled eyes on him.
"Yes, you're quite right," admitted Rich, turning out his wrist. "Polly was the girl. You see my position, don't you?"
"I think so. You were afraid that if you told the police they might suspect you had…"
"Executed vengeance on Mr. Fane. Exactly."
"You hadn't, had you?".
Rich laughed shortly, a snap of a laugh.
"I had not. I wasn't fond enough of Polly for that. Again, don't misunderstand the position." He made the face of a man always caught by the same misunderstanding. "I wasn't — interested in Polly. In her private life, that is. Polly liked her friends young, I believe. She would have laughed at anybody over forty.
"I could not even
be sure it was the same girl. But I knew Polly had disappeared in the middle of July, leaving all her things behind. It was a shock. It was a damned shock. So I decided to keep my mouth shut."
"Again, easily understandable." "
"Thank you. I hope the police think so. But I hope they don't think that, even if I had known Arthur Fane killed Polly (which I didn't), I should have got back at him by getting him stabbed. I should simply have gone to the police."
Rich shook his head. He stared at the grass ahead of him. Despite himself, a vein of cynical amusement seemed to well up inside him as he reflected, and his eye twinkled. He was a misunderstood John Bull.
"Lord," he added, "the number of women I haven't seduced!"
Courtney laughed. It was the breaking of a tension. He felt again his old liking and respect of Dr. Rich.
"Well," said Rich, slapping his knees and getting up, "I suppose I'd better go in and confess. The longer I keep this thing on my conscience, the worse I shall sleep at night."
"But for your private ear, Doctor: between ourselves, I don't think you've got much to worry about."
Rich stopped.
"No? What makes you think that?"
"You might look at the facts, for one thing. You weren't anywhere near this house on Thursday, were you? That is, until late Thursday night?"
"No, I certainly wasn't. Oh, ah! I see. The strychnine!" Enlightened, Rich rubbed his chin. "In the midst of my own troubles, I almost forgot it. Sir Henry's note said they thought it had been put into a grapefruit."
"That's right. So, unless you can think of a way of administering strychnine at long range, you can't be counted in. Any more than Miss Browning here can." Ann was amused.
"Don't be too sure," she mocked him. "I was here, you know."
"You were not. You were sitting at Major Adams's with H.M. and Masters and me."
"Oh, not at any of the critical times, I admit. And I certainly never went near that kitchen, even if I did have any earthly reason for wanting to hurt poor Vicky. But I did drop in here to see her about two o'clock, on my way to the major's." The amused shining of her eyes hid a deeper worry she tried to conceal. "So you can put on that as much sinister emphasis as you like."
Seeing is Believing shm-12 Page 13
