Antidote to Venom

by Freeman Wills Crofts

  Antidote to Venom

  Freeman Wills Crofts

  With an Introduction by Martin Edwards

  Poisoned Pen Press

  Copyright

  Copyright © 1938

  © 2015 Estate of Freeman Wills Crofts

  Introduction copyright © 2015 Martin Edwards

  Published by Poisoned Pen Press in association with the British Library

  First E-book Edition 2015

  ISBN: 9781464203800 ebook

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.

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  Contents

  Antidote to Venom

  Copyright

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Introduction

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  More from this Author

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  Author’s Note

  This book is a two-fold experiment: first, it is an attempt to combine the direct and inverted types of detective story and second, an effort to tell a story of crime positively.

  I should like to express my gratitude to Mr. E. G. Boulenger (Director of the Aquarium and Curator of Reptiles in the Zoological Society’s Gardens, London) for his kindness in reading my script and advising on matters connected with the Zoo.

  F. W. C.

  Introduction

  Antidote to Venom is an ambitious and unusual detective novel, first published in 1938, during ‘the Golden Age of Murder.’ The author, Freeman Wills Crofts, was widely regarded as one of the leading crime writers of the day. T.S. Eliot was among his many admirers, while Raymond Chandler, who could be grumpy about traditional detective stories, called Crofts ‘the soundest builder of them all’, although he added the caveat: ‘when he doesn’t get too fancy.’

  In the years before he wrote this book, Crofts had been experimenting with his detective fiction, trying to escape from the predictable. He was well known for his meticulous story construction, and his murderers regularly fashioned for themselves seemingly unbreakable alibis, only for those alibis to be dismantled by Crofts’ painstaking police officers. But starting with The 12.30 from Croydon, which appeared in 1934, Crofts began to vary his approach, producing an ‘inverted story,’ in which events are seen at first from the perspective of the culprit.

  Antidote to Venom, which Crofts described as ‘a two-fold experiment,’ takes this method a stage further. The story benefits from an unusual setting—a zoo in the Midlands—and the central character is George Surridge, eminently respectable director of the Birmington Zoo. George’s marriage to Clarissa is far from happy, and due to a combination of her demands and his own gambling habit, he is short of money. He has an affluent, elderly aunt in poor health, and finds himself wishing that she will hurry up and die, so that he can inherit. When he starts a relationship with an attractive widow, his need for funds becomes acute, and seasoned mystery readers presume that Surridge will murder his aunt. However, Crofts cleverly confounds expectations with a series of cunning plot twists.

  Readers of Golden Age whodunits expect ingenuity, and Crofts delivers, not only with the murder method, but also with story structure. The first aspect of his experiment was the combination of the ‘inverted’ narrative with an account of ‘direct’ investigative work conducted by Crofts’ usual detective, Chief Inspector Joseph French of New Scotland Yard. Although Birmington is far from his home ground, a stroke of bad luck for the guilty sees French becoming involved. He encounters a modus operandi so complicated and original—the zoo background is highly relevant—that Crofts supplied explanatory diagrams for the reader’s benefit.

  Before this book appeared, Anthony Berkeley and other leading writers had begun shifting the focus of crime fiction away from the cerebral puzzle and towards the psychological study of character. Although Crofts was an instinctive traditionalist, he responded to the mood of the times, and adjusted French’s approach accordingly: ‘The psychological argument could never be ignored. In fact, the older French grew and the more varied his experience became, the more weighty he found it.’ And Crofts went further, and attempted something quite daring, and (so far as I know) unique in the work of leading detective novelists. As the story develops, it becomes clear that questions of morality and religious faith are at its heart. In Crofts’ terms, this was ‘an effort to tell a story of crime positively’.

  Freeman Wills Crofts (1879–1957) was born in Dublin, and at the age of seventeen, he joined the Belfast and Northern Counties Railway. He worked his way up to the position of Chief Assistant Engineer, but by then he had already embarked on a new career as a detective novelist, and his books sold so well that at the age of fifty he was able to retire to Surrey, and concentrate on writing full time.

  The Cask, Crofts’ first detective novel, appeared in 1920, the same year as Agatha Christie’s The Mysterious Affair at Styles, and made rather more of a splash than Hercule Poirot’s debut. Four years later, Inspector French was introduced in Inspector French’s Greatest Case. The title suggests that Crofts did not intend him to be a series character, but French’s doggedness suited him perfectly for complex investigations, and he was described by one commentator on the genre as ‘the first great policeman in the business.’ Crofts said that French is ‘decent and he’s straight and he’s as kindly as his job will allow.’ His key characteristics are ‘thoroughness and perseverance as well as a reasonable amount of intelligence…’ He was, Crofts added, ‘a home bird, and nothing pleases him more than to get into his slippers before the fire and bury himself in some novel of sea adventure.’

  In his unfussy, unglamorous diligence, French mirrored his creator. Crofts was a quiet, serious and well-liked man who was entirely unaffected by his popular success. He became a founder member of the Detection Club, formed by Berkeley in 1930, and contributed to some of the Club’s ‘round robin’ mystery stories, including the collaborative novel The Floating Admiral.

  Religious faith meant a great deal to Crofts. He wrote The Four Gospels in One Story as ‘a modern biography’ for the benefit of lay people, and introduced a moral dimension into novels such as Fatal Venture, where he trains his fire on greed in business. He became enthusiastic about the work of the Oxford Group, which insisted that military armament alone would not solve the rapidly worsening international crisis of the late 1930s; the group became known as Moral Re-Armament in the year of Antidote to Venom’s first publication.

  The central image of this novel is venom, both literal a
nd metaphorical, and the final chapter delivers an explicit message about the ‘antidote’ to sin. In using the form of a detective novel for evangelical purposes, Crofts was pushing the boundaries of the genre. Most readers will, I suspect, conclude that his experiment with structure is more successful than his portrayal of a criminal’s redemption. Even so, his bold inventiveness deserves respect. Antidote to Venom is an intriguing and original mystery, and its republication after many years of neglect is most welcome.

  Martin Edwards

  www.martinedwardsbooks.com

  Chapter I

  Venom: In the Family

  George Surridge entered his study shortly before seven on a cold night in mid October. He was in an irritable frame of mind, the result of an unusual crescendo of small worries. It had been one of those days on which everything had gone wrong, the last straw being provided by an aching tooth which had gnawed itself into his consciousness through all that he did. He had meant to go down town and have it seen to, but one thing after another had cropped up to prevent him. With more than usual pleasure he had been looking forward to this half-hour of relaxation before dinner.

  But even now the tendency persisted. As he glanced at the fire his brow darkened. It had been allowed to go down and the room was cold. How many times, he asked himself savagely, did that confounded girl need to be told to have it burning up brightly when he came in? Why couldn’t she do what she was asked? His hand strayed towards the bell, then desisted. What was the good? If he said enough to make any impression on her she would leave and then there would be hell to pay with Clarissa. He glanced at the wood bucket. For a wonder there was something in it. Irritably he raked the coals together and threw on a couple of blocks. Then crossing the room he poured himself out a stiff whisky and soda.

  He carried the glass to his arm-chair, and picking up the evening paper which he had brought in with him but laid aside, he sat down with a grunt of relief.

  He turned to the financial pages. Stocks were dropping, and considering the state of the country, he didn’t see why they should. There was talk of another slump and the idea frightened him. For money meant a good deal to George Surridge. As it was he was hard up, and if things grew worse his position might become really serious.

  He was a man of rather undistinguished appearance, of the type which would inevitably pass unnoticed in a crowd. Of medium height and build, he was neither markedly well or ill favoured in face. His hair, of a medium shade of brown, was greying at the temples. His forehead was perhaps his best feature, fairly high though not broad, but his mouth was weak and his eyes a trifle shifty. He looked tired and worried and old for his age, which was forty-six.

  But though he seemed to be bearing his share of trouble, a casual acquaintance would have said he had little reason to grumble. He held a good job. George Surridge was Director of the Birmington Corporation Zoo; and the Birmington Zoo was claimed by Birmington people as the second zoo in the country: smaller perhaps than London—though not a whit inferior—but larger and better than any other. This post gave him a good social position in the city, an adequate salary and free occupation of the comfortable house in which he was now seated, not to speak of coal and these logs—which had now burst into a blaze and begun to give out heat—as well as the electric current which was lighting his reading lamp.

  It was certainly a snug enough post, and unless he made some serious break, secure. The work also was congenial. He loved animals and they seemed to recognise in him a friend. So far none of them had ever turned on him or shown temper when he was with them. On the whole, too, he got on reasonably well with his staff. If his relations with his wife had been equally satisfactory he might have been more content, but unhappily these left a good deal to be desired.

  He settled down comfortably with his whisky and newspaper. This little rest should help him, and by dinner time he should be feeling normal.

  He was not, however, to be allowed to enjoy his relaxation. He had read for a few moments only when the door opened and his wife entered. She was dressed for the street and had evidently just reached home.

  Clarissa Surridge was a woman striking enough looking to attract the eye of the casual passer-by. Tall, and with a presence, her well cut clothes accentuated the lines of her fine figure. Her pale oval face had good features, though a discontented and rather unhappy expression. In spite of her make-up—usually much too lavish for her husband’s taste—little lines appeared on her forehead and at the corners of her eyes, while streaks of grey marked her dark hair. Now she looked upset and annoyed and George saw that he was in for trouble.

  “Oh, you’re home?” she began ungraciously, then continued in a hard unsympathetic voice. “The car’s broken down again. I thought I’d never get back. Either the car’s done or Pratt doesn’t know how to manage it.”

  George’s heart sank. The car undoubtedly was old. It had been a good Mortin in its day, but of course five years was five years. It was certainly shabby, though the engine was sound. Recently he had had a re-bore and he had also got a new battery, tyres and other fittings. It really wasn’t too bad.

  “What’s the matter now?” he asked, with an unpleasant accent on the last word.

  Clarissa closed the door, not too gently, and advanced into the room. “I’ve just told you. What are you going to do about it?”

  “Nothing. The car’s all right.” He glanced down at his paper as if he had closed the subject, then looked up again. “What went wrong?”

  “How do I know? I’m not a mechanic.” Her voice indicated with uncompromising clarity that the subject was anything but closed.

  “Well, what happened?” went on George impatiently.

  “It stopped.” His wife warmed to her subject as she proceeded to develop it. “I had just set down Margaret Marr at a shop when it stopped: there in King Street in the middle of the traffic. The police came over and a crowd gathered while it was being pushed into the kerb. I don’t know when I felt such a fool.”

  “What has Pratt done about it?”

  “I don’t know what he’s done about it and I care less. What I know is that it’s the third time it has happened in a couple of months.”

  George Surridge jerked himself about in his chair. Really women’s notions were the limit. “Rubbish,” he said shortly. “Every car goes wrong occasionally.”

  “Well, as I tell you, it’s gone wrong once too often. I give you warning I’m not going on with it any longer. Why, it’s six years old if it’s a day.”

  “Five.”

  “It’s the same thing. When are you going to get a new one? I’ve spoken about it often enough.”

  “Speaking about it won’t provide the money. I’ve told you I can’t afford it at present.”

  “What nonsense! You have plenty of money. If not, where has it all gone to?”

  George lifted his paper again as if to read, then once again dropped it. “You would have all that painting done. Only for that I might have managed it.”

  If this was meant as an olive branch, it failed in its purpose. Clarissa’s eyes flashed angrily and her voice took on a more bitter tone. “Oh, my fault, of course. That painting! Why, it’s years since anything was done. And your committee friends wouldn’t move, though it was their liability. I suppose they have no money either.”

  “They thought they had done enough for one year with the new electric wiring.”

  “Yes, tear the place to bits and then leave it like that! I’d like to know how I was to have my friends in if the house was like a pigsty?”

  This touched a sore spot and George reacted accordingly. “I could do without them all right,” he declared grimly, and as the thought of his grievances grew, he went on with a rising inflexion. “Here I come home after sweating all day for you and your house and I want a little peace, and there’s never a minute I can call my own.”

  “And what about me?”
Clarissa retorted. “Do you think I do nothing all day? Haven’t I got this house to run—on half nothing? And you grudge me a little relaxation.”

  George Surridge all but laughed as he compared this picture of his wife’s existence with the reality. Actually she lived her own life among her own friends, keeping her own council, and using the house as a sort of inferior hotel, of which, owing to its unfashionable situation, she was slightly ashamed. “A little relaxation?” he retorted. “Hang it all, don’t be an utter fool. Look here,” he felt he had spoken improperly and was sorry, but could not bring himself to apologise, “forget what I said. Let’s have a quiet evening for once in away and I’ll see what I can do about the car.”

  Clarissa smiled maliciously. “If you had wanted a quiet evening you shouldn’t have invited your aunt to dinner.”

  “Oh hell! I forgot about her.”

  “Not my friends this time.”

  George waved his paper irritably. “We have to do it, as you know very well. If she thought she didn’t get proper attention, she’s quite capable of altering her will.”

  “She’ll perhaps see through your affection and do it in any case.” Swinging on her heel, Clarissa left the room, while George sat on before the now dying fire, gazing gloomily into the cooling embers.

  The scene with his wife had not unduly upset him. Unhappily he had grown accustomed to such an atmosphere, as for many years it had been the normal one existing between them. There were indeed few subjects they could discuss without heat, and not infrequently recriminations were much more bitter than on this evening.

  His thoughts travelled back over the path his steps had so far followed. He had been lucky as a youth. He had had good parents, a comfortable home, an excellent education and enough money to enable him to choose his career. He had always loved animals, but at first the idea of becoming connected with a zoo had not occurred to him. He had taken his degree in veterinary surgery, intending to set up in one of the hunting counties. Then a small mischance had given a new twist to his ideas.