Antidote to Venom

by Freeman Wills Crofts

  There was still another source from which disaster threatened: the most deadly of all. This fear oppressed George more than the others because of its inevitable nature. Discovery might result from some unfortunate accident, but from this enemy there was no escape. If only he were to carry on long enough as he was doing, ruin would come whether there was an accident or not. It was as certain and as unavoidable as death itself.

  The source was finance. Before Nancy had come into his life he was spending rather more than he could afford: now he was spending a good deal more. There were all sorts of small expenses, each unimportant in itself, but the total amounting to a substantial sum. George was getting almost desperate. He was beginning not to pay bills, to forget tips, to decline any outlay he could possibly avoid. But cheeseparing was not going to be sufficient. He knew beyond the possibility of doubt that he could not go on as he was doing for long.

  With growing frequency his thoughts turned towards his aunt, Lucy Pentland. If only he could get that money that was coming to him, not at some time in the distant future, but now! Not only would it remove this ghastly financial worry, but it would mean greater safety in every way. With more money he and Nancy could take better precautions. She could give up that wretched job of hers and go and live in decent surroundings in some place in which he could visit her. A tiny cottage somewhere with a garden and roses on the porch! He grew almost sick with desire as he thought of it. And it might become a possibility—if Lucy Pentland were to die.

  George knew that her death could be brought about. He had heard, for example, about parcels of explosives being sent through the post which, on being opened, blew their recipients to pieces. He had pictured every step which would be necessary to carry out such a scheme, and he saw that it could be done with absolute safety. He had read of the introduction of poisonous pills or medicine into the victim’s bottle of tonic. That would not be so easy, but it would be possible. There were various ways.…

  But only in imagination of course. Obviously there could be nothing serious in these ideas. George didn’t pretend to be a saint, but he drew the line somewhere. He knew that he could never do anything to hurt anyone. Murder? No, no! Hideous thought! He didn’t mean it for a moment.

  Yet Lucy Pentland’s death would solve all his problems. He must ask Marr about her. But again, he dare not.

  If George had been a little more introspective he might well have wondered why he dare not ask Marr. As nephew he naturally ought to show an interest in his aunt’s welfare. What was it that made him shrink from the enquiry?

  Then one day an event took place which seemed at first to be entirely unconnected with George and his affairs. It proved however to be of fundamental importance to his subsequent actions and fate, as well incidentally as providing the information about his aunt’s health he had so greatly desired.

  On that day as he stepped on to the road at the Zoo gates on his way to lunch Dr. Marr drove quickly past in his car. He looked grave and as he passed he made a gesture of concern to George. A little knot of men, evidently discussing something serious, looked at the car and nodded. George went across to them.

  “It’s Miss Burnaby, sir,” one of the group answered. “Knocked down by a car not ten minutes ago. They’ve taken her home.”

  “Is she badly hurt?”

  “They think she’s dead. She could scarcely be anything else. The wheel crushed her chest.”

  In spite of his preoccupation, George was a good deal upset. He had met Joyce Burnaby scores of times and had formed a sincere liking for her, and of course, owing to her father’s work at the Zoo, he knew him very well indeed. A terrible thing for them both! The poor woman just about to be married, with a prospect of happiness she seemed up till then to have missed. If she really were dead, it would be a dreadful shock for the old man. He had come to depend so completely on her, and so far as George knew, he had no other relative except that unpleasant nephew, Capper. And Capper couldn’t take a daughter’s place.

  As George considered these matters he was walking rapidly to Riverview. A few people were standing outside the door and a policeman with a note-book had evidently been taking statements. George went up to him.

  “I’m a friend of the family,” he explained. “Can you tell me what has happened?”

  The policeman noted George’s name and address and then told what he knew. It appeared that Joyce Burnaby had met her fate exactly as had so many hundreds before her. She had stepped too quickly out from behind a bus, failing to see a car which was coming in the opposite direction. The driver had done his best, but he couldn’t save her. She was believed to have been killed instantaneously. The doctor was then with her and they would soon know definitely.

  George murmured a reply and walked into the house through the open door. At first he could find no one, then Lily Cochrane appeared, trembling and with a face like chalk. He beckoned to her.

  “I came to see if I could do anything,” he explained. “Where is the professor?”

  She answered him, he thought, eagerly, as if relieved to divide the responsibility. “He’s very strange, sir: sort of dazed. He just sat down after they brought her in and I can’t get him to speak or move.”

  “I’ll see him,” George told her. “It’ll be a terrible shock, of course, but he’ll be all right presently.”

  The girl nodded. “He’s in the study, sir.”

  George went to the study. Old Burnaby was sitting in his chair, staring vacantly out of the window. He did not move as George came up.

  “I called to see if I could do anything,” George repeated. “I’ve just heard this moment.”

  Professor Burnaby made no reply. He slowly turned his head and for a moment looked dully at George, then faintly shook his head and resumed his fixed stare out of the window.

  George felt the old man would rather be alone, but he looked so shaken and frail that he scarcely liked to leave him. He decided to get Marr to see him, and sat down to wait till the doctor should come downstairs. Burnaby took no further notice of him. Once or twice his lips moved, but George could not make out what he was saying.

  A few minutes later he heard Marr on the stairs and went out. “Well?” he asked, in a low voice.

  Marr shook his head. “Instantaneous,” he returned, also speaking softly. “A fractured skull and crushed—” He swept his hand diagonally across his chest. “At least there was no suffering.”

  “I think you should have a look at Burnaby,” went on George. “He seems pretty hard hit.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In there.”

  Marr disappeared into the study and George hung about the hall, discussing the affair in low tones with the policeman. He did not like to go till he had heard Marr’s report. This, he thought, would end the old man’s research. After such a shock he would never have the stamina to continue work. And how much better it would be for all concerned if the work did stop! George had never liked all the handling of the snakes. He had feared an accident: either that someone would be bitten or that a snake would escape. It would certainly be an ease to his mind if Burnaby never again entered the reptile house.

  Presently Marr reappeared. “He’ll be all right,” he pronounced. “I’ve told him to go to bed and I’ll send a nurse to see that he does it.”

  “Who’s going to look after things for him?”

  “There’s a nephew, a solicitor named Capper. I’ve ’phoned for him. He can make the arrangements and the nurse can stay for a day or two.”

  “There’ll be an inquest?”

  “Oh yes. But it’ll be formal. It seems to have been poor Joyce’s fault.” He looked over his shoulder. “That all you want now, sergeant?”

  “That’s all, thank you, sir.”

  “Then I’ll go.” He turned again to George. “I’m going down town. Can I give you a lift?”

  They discussed the
accident and Burnaby’s future for some time, then Marr made a remark which set George’s heart beating quickly.

  “No,” said the doctor, slowly, “I don’t think the old fellow will survive this very long. It’s been a great shock to him and his heart’s not too strong. And there’s another person whom I’m afraid won’t be with us long. I’m sorry to tell you, Surridge, that your aunt, Miss Pentland, is seriously ill.”

  George gripped himself. “I’m sorry to hear that, Marr,” he said, as steadily as he could, “terribly sorry. But I can’t pretend it’s much of a surprise. I’ve noticed how ill she’s been looking and I’ve been going to ask you about her.”

  “Yes,” returned Marr, “I’ve suspected it for some time and now I’m sure. It’s cancer, and we can’t operate, even if she could have stood it.”

  George strove to steady the beating of his heart. He was not wholly callous and he found himself really distressed at the poor old lady’s fate. But he was also human, and little surges of an almost painful joy shot through him. His aunt’s death would be for her a happy release, and to him—it would mean just everything. This terrible lack of money would cease. The problem of Nancy would be solved. All his problems would be solved. His aunt’s legacy was all that was needed to alter his life from the half heaven, half hell it now was, and to make it wholly heaven.

  But one question was still unanswered: not a vital question exactly, but still a terribly important one.

  “There’s nothing immediate to be—er—anticipated, I suppose?” he asked, striving to give his manner only the proper interest.

  Marr hesitated. “Nothing immediate in the sense of days,” he replied. “But I think we may consider it a question of weeks rather than months.”

  A question of weeks! Then there would be legal delays over the granting of probate: it might be three or four months before the money was paid over—perhaps six months in all. Could he keep going for six months?

  Not as things were up to the present. But now they would be different: he could borrow on his prospects. How he wished he knew the exact sum he might expect! He did not see, however, how he could find it out.

  As it turned out he learnt it almost at once, and in a way he had never expected. A day or two later he received a note from Miss Pentland, asking him to call. He did so on the same day, and, to do him justice, he was really kind and sympathetic in his manner. He obtained his reward—if it could be considered a reward.

  “I asked you to come,” his aunt remarked, after he had said his say, “because I wanted to tell you about my affairs. You know that I’m leaving you the bulk of my money—not that it’s very much, I’m afraid. But I thought that as it will be soon now, I should give you an idea of how much I have, so that you shouldn’t count on more than you’ll get, and so be disappointed.”

  George felt horribly ashamed as he heard these words, and tried hard to avoid letting her see the intensity of his interest.

  She had, it appeared, about £12,000 in all. Of this, £1,000 each was to go to three old servants, and the whole of the remainder, less the death duties taxation, would be George’s.

  He sat trying outwardly to take the news calmly, but inwardly he was seething with a thrilled delight. Over eight thousand! Why, it was enormously more than he had expected! Suppose the Government took £600, which he imagined would be about their proportion, that would leave him £8,400, or say, deducting solicitors’ fees and so on, a round figure of £8,000. And the most he had expected was £5,000! Truly his troubles were over.

  He could scarcely refrain from writing the glad tidings to Nancy. However, they had agreed that letters were not safe and he contained himself till the following Wednesday. Then he told her: in general terms only. He had, he said, been a little hard-up and so unable to do all he should have liked for their mutual benefit. Now, he was thankful to say, that bad time was over. He had come in for a legacy and there was money for anything in reason.

  He longed desperately to mention the little cottage of his dreams, with the garden and the roses over the porch, but something in her manner warned him not to risk it. Well, there was no hurry. They were getting on very well as it was. Later perhaps that would come.

  Just one thing remained to be settled to put him in a really satisfactory position. He must get hold of some ready money. He didn’t want to borrow from the bank. Even if he could, he didn’t want any local people to know he was in difficulties. From whom, then, could he borrow?

  Frequently he had seen advertisements in the papers from persons who, it appeared, were anxious to lend money to all and sundry on their “mere note of hand alone.” Now he looked up some of these advertisements. Three with London addresses seemed suitable and he determined to try his luck.

  On the next occasion, therefore, on which he had business in London, he adventured himself down into the narrower streets of the City and made some tentative inquiries. The result was disappointing in the extreme. “Mere note of hand alone” seemed to be an elastic term: indeed, he didn’t see what connection it had with the business in hand. At all events, Messrs. Solomon & Goldstein required a great deal more before they would make an advance. He found, in fact, that he would be unable to get one unless he supplied them with proven details about the legacy. This he could not do, having only his aunt’s word on the subject. The affair accordingly deadlocked.

  So much for Solomon & Goldstein: perhaps Abraham & Co. or Velinski Bros. would be more accommodating? George called on both: with the same result.

  He returned to Birmington realising that the matter was not going to be as easy as he had hoped. In fact, he did not see just what else he could do. These moneylenders had been in the nature of a last hope.

  Then, through some caprice of fate, he had a run of luck at cards. He not only paid off the more pressing of his smaller debts, but actually finished up with money in hand.

  For the time being his situation was eased.

  Chapter VI

  Venom: In Society

  After his successes at cards, life for the time being grew easier for George Surridge. With ready money available and assured as to his ultimate security, he now drew more freely from his tiny balance, with the result that he and Nancy were able to go on longer excursions and to carry them out more comfortably. For a time indeed, there was little outwardly to mar his happiness.

  Inwardly, however, he remained dissatisfied. Except when actually in Nancy’s presence, the knowledge of the double life he was leading was a persistent, though subconscious, load on his mind. There was also the continuous fear of discovery. Both he and Nancy were extremely careful, but he could not hide from himself that up to the present they had had wonderful luck. No one other than themselves, so far as either knew, had the slightest inkling of what was going on.

  But had George been aware of some other events which were taking place simultaneously, he would have received a very rude awakening.

  Not far from the Zoo lived a tall and angular maiden lady of uncertain age, Harriet Corrin by name. She was clever, entertaining and well-to-do, and was in demand by hostesses who wished to brighten what promised to be dull parties. Her popularity on these occasions came neither from brilliant repartee nor kindliness of heart, but from a malicious wit which gave piquancy to her conversation. People asked her to their houses in the hope that her scandalous remarks would thrill their guests and bring their social efforts into the news, though always with a lurking if rather delicious fear that they themselves should prove the victims. As something of a public character, Miss Corrin knew and was well known to the Surridges.

  It happened one soaking Wednesday in late February that Miss Corrin had business in a small village named Bramford, some forty miles to the east of Birmington. It was a mildly picturesque little place. It boasted a sizeable river, a humped three-arched bridge, an inn which gave teas in a surrounding garden, and a church with a squat Norman tower. In fine we
ather it was not unattractive, but to-day in the streaming down-pour it looked frankly forbidding. Miss Corrin had come to interview a prospective maid, and she wished she had stayed at home.

  But these aesthetic drawbacks made Bramford just the kind of retreat which appealed to men who were taking out for the afternoon women other than their wives. On this same afternoon George and Nancy had become so tired of sitting in the car that they determined for once to break their rule and have tea, not from the tea-box, but in some inn. So much granted, where more suitable than the Magpie’s Claw in Bramford? Thus it happened that as Miss Corrin sat in the window of her prospective maid’s father’s house in the main street, which provided an admirable view of the inn, the lovers were approaching the same hostelry as fast as the hired car would bring them.

  The fact that the prospective maid had gone to get copies of her testimonials enabled Harriet Corrin to give her undivided attention to the street and its traffic of two consequential ducks and a harassed looking hen. Even this sight palled, however, when a magnificent N.J. Gnat entered her field of vision, drew in regally to the inn, and disgorged its passengers.

  With eyes becoming rounder, Miss Corrin witnessed the debarkation. First George Surridge emerged from the driving seat, and, hurrying round, opened with solicitude the opposite door. Miss Corrin was pleased to see his attention to his wife: she had sometimes feared there was less love lost in that ménage than was meet. But when, instead of Clarissa’s somewhat considerable bulk and dull colouring, there appeared a petite and elegant stranger, whose dark hair was surmounted by a coquettish little hat of vivid red, Miss Corrin fairly goggled with amazement and a fierce ecstasy.

  She sat staring fixedly across the road even after the unconscious objects of her regard had disappeared into the inn. So full indeed was she of the spectacle, that she engaged the prospective maid at a pound a month more than she need have paid, a thing which in all her experience had never before happened.