One day after lunch he met Burnaby’s solicitor, Horace Hamilton, at the club. They began to chat, and their talk presently turned on the deceased professor.
“He was an amazingly kind old chap,” Hamilton declared. “I always knew he was liberal, but till I began to go through his papers I had no idea how many people he was helping. He had a good deal of money, of course, and he was using it to boost lame dogs over stiles. There’ll be a lot of pretty genuine sorrow for his death.”
George murmured something non-committal.
“One fellow in particular I have in mind,” Hamilton continued reminiscently. “He’d been a chauffeur and he’d made a break which had lost him his job and a testimonial. Burnaby got in touch with him somehow when he was absolutely down and out, and he was going to set him up with a small van so that he could go round and clean cars and do running repairs at people’s own homes. He thought he could build up a little trade that way and make enough to live on. You should just hear that fellow now when his hopes have gone west. And that’s only one case of many.”
“Perhaps Burnaby’s heir may carry out the professor’s intentions.”
Hamilton shrugged. “He may,” he said drily.
It was when George was lying awake that night that he suddenly got a vision from a new angle of what he had done. This harmless, kindly old man was the man that he, George, had killed! These people whom Burnaby was helping were losing their help and their hope through what he, George, had done. And he had done what he had done, not because he was faced with ruin and despair like them—he had no real material needs at all—but because he wanted to amuse himself with a mistress. That, he now saw in its uncompromising nakedness, was the real reason why Burnaby had lost his life, for Capper could scarcely have carried out his plan without George’s help. It was for this, George knew, that he had become a murderer. It was for this that he had lost his peace of mind and taken on his shoulders a load from which he never could be rid.
George at last realised the nature of the weight which was pressing him down. It was this knowledge of what he had done, and of why he had done it. He wondered whether he had gained or lost over the venture. He had obtained money, but had he lost the power to enjoy it? He could still meet Nancy, but had he forfeited the joy of her presence? He had arranged the cottage, but had he jeopardised his home? In short, he saw that he had exchanged financial worry for a moral burden. He felt that to all he did there would now be this gnawing background of distress.
Then his mood changed. He told himself that these thoughts of conscience were only unreasoning fear: old wives’ tales, nonsense retained in the mind from the false teaching of childhood. In this world, if you wanted anything you had to take it. He needn’t be regretful about what he had done. He had only to banish these morbid imaginings from his mind, and he would be once again sane and happy.
But though George sought to convince himself, all the time he knew that the load was there and would be till the day of his death.…
He was worried, too, about Clarissa. He could not make her out during these last weeks. Her manner towards him had changed. She was colder than before; indeed, she had become icily aloof. She made no pretence of interest in his comings or goings, treating him as a stranger whose unwelcome presence had perforce to be endured. At times he feared that she must somehow have learnt about Nancy; then he felt sure that if she had she would have spoken about it, and he breathed more freely again.
As a matter of fact, Clarissa knew no more than she had gathered from Harriet Corrin’s malicious hints. She had dropped the idea of the detective, deciding that unless some new development took place she would let matters take their course without interference. George, she knew, was only doing what thousands of other husbands did, and so long as there was no public scandal she thought she might as well keep her home and outward position. No doubt he would tire of his infatuation, and though her marriage could now never be more to her than a mere business association, she could probably rub along as well as did so many others in a like unhappy state.
George’s material outlook, however, now began to improve. On the Tuesday morning after his interview with Capper, an envelope marked “Personal” was lying on his desk. From it he transferred fifty one-pound notes to his wallet. This first fruits of his adventure filled him with satisfaction. Fifty pounds wasn’t much; still, it would let him settle one or two of his most pressing accounts, and—splendid thought—there would be more to follow!
The longing to see Nancy had returned, and he wondered whether it would be yet safe to call at “Rose Cottage.” He would not, he decided, hire the car any more; that could be too easily traced. His expedition with Capper had given him an idea. There were railway stations within one, two and three miles, respectively, of the cottage. He would use these in turn, walking the rest of the way. From a call office he rang up Nancy and said he would go out the next afternoon.
But this meeting proved less satisfactory than any previously. In fact, Nancy unwittingly gave him a very unpleasant shock.
He had been explaining that his neglect had been due to the extra work at the Zoo resulting from the loss of the snake and the death of Burnaby. Before the true facts had come out, the police had formed a theory of murder. He had believed they were shadowing all connected with the Zoo, himself included, and till he was sure their suspicions had been dropped, he had feared to lead them to “Rose Cottage.” It was Nancy’s reply which so much upset him.
“The idea!” she said scornfully. “As if anyone would murder that poor old man, and particularly in so horrible a way! Oh, if anyone had done such a thing, I think I’d take pleasure in seeing him hanged.”
George pulled himself together. “Don’t let’s talk about it,” he begged. “It’s a miserable business. Let’s think of something else,” and he turned to the breaking-in of the garden, which had grown entirely out of hand.
They dropped the subject, but that evening as George sat in his study Nancy’s words returned to him. Nancy, the one person in the world whom he really loved, or thought he did: that one person, if she knew the truth, would take pleasure in seeing him hanged! He had done all this for her—or again, so he thought. He had lost his wife, his self-respect, his peace of mind, for her—and if she were to find out what he actually was like, she would wish to see him hanged!
George felt more alone than ever before in his life. If the truth came out, not only Nancy but everyone, everyone, would be glad to see him dead. Clarissa, whom he had once loved and who had once loved him, would be an exception. She would be sorry. But it wouldn’t be sorrow for him. It would be for herself, because of the shame and ruin he had brought on her. Him she would curse.
As George sat alone, the thought which had worried him some nights earlier returned. He seemed to see as in a vision, Burnaby, old and feeble, struggling vainly with the snake. There was fear and horror in the old man’s eyes; fear and horror that he, George, had put there. Those eyes followed him. Wherever he looked, they were gazing at him—reproachfully. They peered down from the pictures on the walls, they were in the red coals of the fire, they gazed up from the pages of his book. What reproach they held as they stared at their false friend. What sorrowful surprise as they realised what he was.
With an oath George got up suddenly, poured himself out a couple of fingers of whisky, and with only a drop or two of soda, tossed it off. It quickly produced its effect. His mind cleared. The vision of Burnaby and his reproachful eyes faded and his outlook on life grew more normal. He needn’t worry, he now saw, over what was past. This old world wasn’t such a bad place, after all. Let him enjoy it while he could. And now that he had money coming to him, he could enjoy it as never before.
Absently he poured out a second couple of fingers, added soda, and returned to his chair before the fire. Good stuff, whisky, he thought, as he began to sip it. If you got a bit morbid, it pulled you together. Yes, as long as one ha
d whisky, there was always a way of producing a satisfied body and a contented mind. Wonderful stuff!
Then another thought flashed into his mind and he set the glass down on the table beside his chair. Fool! Fool that he was to think such thoughts! There was no salvation for him in whisky. Fearfully he recalled another effect of alcohol. It loosened men’s tongues. God! if he took too much, what might he not say? Better all the morbid and desperate thought that could flood his mind than the risk of babbling out his secret. A word too much and—He grew cold as what would follow presented itself to his excited imagination in a series of too vivid pictures. The arrest (he had heard they were extremely polite and kindly about arrests, though somehow that would only add to the horror); the waiting; the trial; the waiting again, this time with two warders always there; and then…
George shivered once again and picked up his glass. Then with an oath he flung it into the fire. The glass shivered and the flame fizzed and spluttered. Hell! he couldn’t stand this. He would go down to the club and find someone to speak to.
He glanced at the clock. It was too late to go to the club. It was, indeed, past his normal bedtime. But in his present mood he couldn’t face bed. He shouldn’t sleep and he was better up.
Gradually his mind quieted down. He must, he thought, get off drink altogether. It would be a pretty tough job, but he would have to face it. The first few days would be the trouble, then it would be easy enough.
Then a further thought darted into his mind. Capper! Suppose Capper were feeling as he was: would Capper avoid drink? Would Capper one day take too much and say something he ought not?
All George’s fears swept back as he realised that from henceforth his safety, his avoidance of that, depended on Capper’s abstemiousness. Was Capper abstemious? He didn’t know.
Something not far from panic gripped George as he realised that his safety was not in his own hands. He must see Capper. At all costs he must see him and get his promise to give up liquor. But what would such a promise be worth?
George once more grew cold as he thought of it. Was this another hideously-contrived trap? If Capper’s existence was dangerous to him, only one thing would make him safe.
God, how ghastly! George looked longingly at the decanter, and swore again. He hadn’t realised things were going to be like this. If it were to go on, he couldn’t stand it. Better to be dead himself.…
Once again he sharply rallied himself. All this was just nerves. He was physically upset from the strain. He wanted a holiday. He would soon have this money and then he would take one. He would go off somewhere: to South America or the Cape or—somewhere. And he would take Nancy with him. He would send Clarissa to California, where she had always wanted to visit relatives, and he himself would go with Nancy. He would have a good time and forget all these nightmares.
But though he thought these brave thoughts, in his heart of hearts George knew that never as long as life lasted would he forget—what had happened.
Chapter XV
Venom: In the Press
While George was struggling with his difficulties in Birmington, events were taking place in London which were destined to have a decisive effect on his life and the lives of a great many others associated with him.
It happened that on the second week-end after the inquest, that on which George had his financial interview with Capper, Chief Inspector Joseph French, of New Scotland Yard, was busily engaged in entertaining a guest. This does not, perhaps, give an entirely accurate picture of the situation, for two reasons. First, it was the guest who was really entertaining French, for Arthur Milliken was an intelligent and well-informed man, with interesting views on people and things and an interesting way of putting them; and, secondly, he was not French’s guest at all, but his wife’s.
Arthur Milliken was Mrs. French’s brother-in-law; he had married her younger and favourite sister. Some years later the sister had died, causing one of Mrs. French’s greatest griefs. But by that time both she and French had become fond of Arthur, and when he came to town, as he did every few months, he usually spent a week-end with them.
He was a clerk, was Arthur Milliken, but of a superior type. He was, in fact, chief clerk in the head office of the Winslow and Waterton Insurance Company, of Birmington. He had two brothers, both also living in the city: Peter, our old friend the head keeper at the Zoo, and Charles, who ran a small garage.
They had been chatting for a little time, and Arthur, who had done most of the talking, decided it was time to hear French’s news.
“Been busy lately?” he asked, as they reached a pause in the conversation.
“I’ve just got back from Cornwall,” French answered, as he refilled his pipe with the mixture he preferred to all other forms of tobacco. “Been down there for a fortnight. Glad to be back, too.”
“A State secret?”
“Not at all. A man was found lying dead on his drive, without a scratch on his body. A post mortem revealed arsenic in his stomach. Problem: how did he come to take it?”
“And did you find out?”
“Suicide, I think. He was elderly and had a pretty young wife, and there was another man, so some of the local boneheads plumped for murder. But I don’t think it was. Certainly there was no evidence to convict anyone.”
Milliken, in his turn, knocked out his pipe and French pushed over his tin of tobacco.
“A bit of a coincidence your man should have been found dead on a drive,” the former remarked, as he helped himself. “It reminds me of a curious case we’ve just had in Birmington. Rather excited us all really, because my brother Peter was in it up to the neck. I expect you’ve read about it: the death of an old professor who was working with a snake?”
“I didn’t see about it. What was the case?”
French spoke with a polite appearance of interest, though he was feeling a little bored. He wished people would talk to him about anything rather than crime. It was not an extraordinarily cheerful subject at the best, and he got all of it he wanted during working hours. But people seemed to think it was the proper subject to discuss with him, though he was sure that if they only knew how much ignorance they were exhibiting, they wouldn’t do it. However, guests, at least, must be humoured.
“He was found on a drive, too,” Milliken answered, warming to his task. “That’s what put me in mind of the thing. Only it wasn’t on his own drive, but on his doctor’s. The old boy was experimenting with snake poison,” and he went on to give an adequate and slightly humorous summary of the affair.
“An interesting case,” French admitted, still conscious of his duties as host.
“Isn’t it?” Milliken was gratified at the reception of his tale. “And you know it’s a bit of a mystery, too, in spite of the coroner’s verdict and all that. A case after your own heart, I should call it.”
“Oh?” said French. “How’s that?”
“Well, it’s only what Peter said, you know. He says he doesn’t believe the old josser ever stole the snake. He wouldn’t have had the nerve; not recently.”
“Then how does he account for it?”
“He doesn’t account for it; that’s just it. He says the facts that have come out don’t explain it and that there must be more to it than we’ve heard.”
“The coroner’s jury apparently don’t think so.”
“That’s what I told Peter. But he said the coroner’s jury didn’t know the old man as he did. He said to steal a dangerous snake would take quite a lot of nerve and old Burnaby just hadn’t it. And Peter’s a pretty sound man, though I say it as oughtn’t.”
In spite of himself, French’s thoughts slipped back to more than one occasion in the past when he had heard this argument put up by people as a reason for rejecting otherwise obvious deductions. Not so long before he had sat in the police station at Henley and listened to Major Marsh, the local Chief Constable, declaring that
he did not believe the millionaire, Andrew Harrison, had committed suicide, because he knew him personally and he just wasn’t that kind of man. That was the case in which the millionaire was found dead in the cabin of his houseboat after suggestive jugglings on the Stock Exchange. On that occasion the Chief Constable’s hunch—or knowledge of psychology—had been justified and had led to the discovery of a particularly ingenious murder. It was paralleled, moreover, by several similar instances. The psychological argument could never be disregarded. In fact, the older French grew and the more varied his experience became, the more weighty he found it.
In this case, of course, it was unlikely to have any significance. The opinion of a chief constable, a man used all his life to weighing character and its resultant action, was one thing; that of a head keeper in a zoo was quite another. Peter Milliken might be all his brother claimed—French had met him and thought highly of him—but he couldn’t have the judgment of a trained man. Besides, neither the coroner nor police of a great city like Birmington were fools. If there had been anything in this argument of Peter’s they would have recognised it and acted accordingly.
“I expect the police went into that side of it,” he said easily. “And they had a doctor, I presume? He would have gone into it, too.”
Arthur agreed. “I don’t myself suppose there’s anything in it,” he went on. “It’s just that Peter was so sure.”
“How on earth would you steal a snake?” French queried. “It’s not a job I should care to tackle myself.”
“It seems there’s a sort of tongs for catching them: a leather loop on the end of a stick. You open the cage and slip the loop over the head of the one you want. Then you lift it out by the neck.”
“Not easy, I imagine.”
“No, specially if the snake is threshing about, as it would if it didn’t want to be caught. I’d rather Peter did it than me.”
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