At the station he found that he was too late to get through to Rome by the direct line that evening, so he took a train by the old route, which crawled about the country during the entire night, arriving in the capital about half-past six the following morning. Fortunately it had sleeping coaches and he was able to get a berth.
In the train he had an opportunity of considering the news he had received. Nothing that he could think of could account for his uncle’s journey, and he presently gave up the attempt as hopeless. But there was another matter which, though equally incomprehensible, seemed amazingly good news for himself.
If Peter were taking the body home, did it not follow that no suspicion that the death was otherwise than natural could have arisen? Charles knew nothing about French law, but he felt sure that in cases of doubt some inquiry would be held corresponding to an English coroner’s inquest.
If he were correct, it was infinitely more than he could have hoped for. He had never imagined that the question of poison could be avoided. The most he had hoped was that suicide might be assumed, and of this he had been far from sanguine. Could Andrew really have died from natural causes after all and the deadly pill still be reposing in the bottle? Oh, how utterly splendid that would be! That his own conscience should be clear of murder! That he would be safe, really safe from arrest! For though Charles continued telling himself that he was safe, in his heart of hearts he never fully believed it.
If this amazing piece of good fortune really had befallen him, it must be his first care to get hold of and destroy that deadly bottle. Then nothing could come out and the whole hideous episode would be blotted out for ever.
Charles left Rome by the ‘luxe’ at 11.10. The train followed the coast route, and had he been capable of thinking of anything but his own affairs he would have enjoyed the scenery. After passing Pisa and Spezia they ran along the coast of the Ligurian Riviera, past Rapallo, where he had already been. Charming, the views snatched between the numerous tunnels along that picturesque and rocky shore. By the time they reached Genoa it was dark, and shortly afterwards Charles turned in. When he got up they were down on the plains of France near Amberieu, having passed through the Alps during the night.
At Laroche Charles was able to get the Paris morning papers and at once he received the shock which he had been half expecting since he left Naples. The poison had been discovered! He wasn’t going to get off in the easy way he had hoped. The case had been handed over to the English police for investigation!
There was only a paragraph, giving just this information and no more. Charles rallied himself. It was only what he had expected. There was no reason to imagine that things from his point of view were not all right.
When he reached Paris the last day service to London had already left and he decided to wait where he was till the next day. He reminded himself that he was going home, not to learn the result of his dreadful scheme, but to pay his last respects to his uncle. To travel without a break from Naples to Yorkshire would therefore be not only unnecessary, but actually indiscreet.
He left next morning by the 8.25, and travelling in a sort of dream, duly reached London. He drove across town and caught the 5.30 express from King’s Cross to the north. At York, where he changed into the branch train, he bought a local evening paper. At once he saw that things had been moving.
Under the caption, ‘The Death of Mr. Andrew Crowther’, appeared the following paragraph:
‘This afternoon at Cold Pickerby Dr W. J. Emerson, coroner for the district and sitting with a jury, opened an inquest on the body of Mr Andrew Crowther, The Moat, Cold Pickerby. Mr Crowther will be remembered as one of the founders of the Crowther Electromotor Works of that town. The deceased gentleman died on the 7th inst. in an aeroplane while on a journey from London to Paris, and it was suggested from France that the cause of death might be potassium cyanide poisoning. After a formal identification of the remains by Mr Peter Morley, son-in-law, and the reading of the French depositions, Dr Emerson adjourned the proceedings till the 2nd prox.’
Charles reached home by ten o’clock and drove direct to The Moat. He found Peter there, looking very worried.
‘I’m glad you’re back, Charles,’ Peter greeted him, ‘though it was hard lines having to break up your holiday like that. An unexpected affair this! I should have said Andrew Crowther was the last man in the world to have committed suicide.’
So that was the suspicion! Splendid, if it were generally accepted! Charles shook his head, expressing very genuine bewilderment.
‘I should say so!’ he exclaimed. ‘The whole thing is absolutely incomprehensible to me. First that journey to Paris, and by air of all ways! Then his death, and now the suspicion of suicide! I declare, Peter, I can’t imagine a bigger puzzle.’
‘Of course Charles hasn’t heard anything,’ Mrs Pollifex remarked. ‘Tell him, Peter.’
‘It’s all very simple,’ Peter returned, ‘except the last extraordinary item. Elsie went over to Paris to stay with some American friends, whom she hadn’t seen for years. Then late one evening we got a wire to say she had been knocked down in the street and was unconscious. I, of course, wanted to go at once, and then the old man said he would come with me. I tried to dissuade him: that sort of hurried travelling is no joke for a man of his health and years. But he would come. He was always pretty fond of Elsie, you know.’
‘I know,’ said Charles. ‘It’s not surprising. His only child and she’s always been pretty decent to him.’
‘Well, he insisted on coming. But your aunt and I were determined he should be examined first, so we asked Dr Gregory to come in and look him over. Gregory was satisfied he would stand the journey. There’s some question about the height in a plane affecting the heart, you know. Well, that was all right. We decided that Weatherup should come to look after him. I also went over and brought Rose; she was staying with some friends near Thirsk. You see, we didn’t know how badly Elsie might be hurt. She might have wanted to see Rose. Hugh we couldn’t get. He was staying with a school friend at Northallerton.’
‘Hard lines on you, Peter. It must have been a bad time.’
‘It was a bad time till we got to the air station at Victoria. I had arranged for a message to be sent there, and it said Elsie was not badly hurt. However, when we had gone so far, we went on. And then it happened.’
‘How?’ Charles asked in a low voice.
‘We don’t know. We had lunch over the Channel, and the old man took a good lunch – as good as usual, Weatherup says. Weatherup was sitting beside him and Rose and I were behind. Then after lunch he seemed to go to sleep. He was leaning back in the corner of his seat with his head up against the wall of the car. I thought he was asleep and so did Weatherup, but when we landed at Beauvais we saw he was dead. I got Rose out of the plane and we sent for a doctor. He took a longer time to make his examination than seemed reasonable, and then we learned the reason. He suspected poison. It was horrible, Charles. The police were called in and there were endless formalities. However, the matter was finally handed over to the English police. An officer was sent for and Inspector Appleby of the local force here came across. I had been allowed to have a coffin made, and everything was ready when Appleby arrived. There was a day to spare while he was getting over – Beauvais is the devil of a place to get to from England; and I took Rose up to Paris and we saw Elsie. Thank God, she was little the worse, and I’m going over shortly to bring her home.’
‘I’m glad of that, Peter.’
‘I’m sure you are. Well, Appleby arrived in the evening and next day we brought the remains to London; we couldn’t get on the same day. But the next day, that was to-day, we arrived here by an early train, and this afternoon the inquest was opened. You saw that it had been adjourned?’
‘Yes, I saw that.’
‘Well, that’s all. The poison, I understand, was potassium cyanide. We don’t know how he got it or why he took it. He seemed all right all that morning and was interested in the f
lying: he’d never been in a plane before.’
‘Could the height have had anything to do with it?’ Charles asked. ‘Upset him or anything?’
‘I don’t know; it’s a complete puzzle to me.’
‘Had he been depressed before starting?’
Peter looked at Mrs Pollifex and she answered, ‘Well, latterly he had been a little depressed and he certainly was so before leaving. But I don’t think more than recently.’
‘If he had the poison with him, it looks as if he had had the idea of suicide in his mind for some time.’
Peter nodded. ‘I thought of that, Charles, it does. But what an extraordinary time to take it, just when he was looking forward to seeing Elsie! That seems to me the most puzzling point of all.’
Charles nodded in his turn. ‘It’s inexplicable, the entire affair,’ he declared. ‘How on earth could he have got the poison, to take one point only?’
‘No one can make out,’ Peter returned. ‘It was the first question I asked myself, but I couldn’t answer it.’
‘He certainly couldn’t have got it recently,’ Mrs Pollifex added positively. ‘He rarely went into town, and never by himself. Besides, no one would have sold it to him. He must have had it hidden away somewhere for a long time. At least, that’s the only way I can account for it.’
‘I suppose he must,’ Charles agreed, ‘though it certainly was not at all like him. And yet I’m not so sure. He was secretive: I suppose most men of his age are.’
Peter agreed. For some moments there was silence, which Charles at last broke. ‘And there’s no theory as to motive?’ he said, more for something to say than in the hope of gaining information.
Peter shook his head, but Mrs Pollifex answered. ‘The only possible thing I can think of,’ she said hesitatingly, ‘though I’ve never put it forward – is that Andrew might have been excited on the previous evening and that it brought on a reaction next day. That Wednesday evening Peter and Mr Crosby dined here; that is, the evening the wire came from Paris. You and Mr Crosby had some business with Andrew, hadn’t you, Peter?’
‘Yes,’ Peter admitted uneasily. ‘It was that question of the mortgage on the farm. We discussed it quite amicably, though nothing was settled about it. But as I told you before, Mrs Pollifex, Mr Crowther was not in the least upset or excited.’
Mrs Pollifex nodded. ‘I know. I really only made the suggestion because I couldn’t think of anything else. Besides, the dinner was a small excitement compared with the journey.’
Mrs Pollifex had spoken calmly, but her manner showed the strain the affair was causing her. Peter also seemed ill at ease. The tragedy had obviously shaken them both.
‘Well, we may get some light at the adjourned inquest,’ said Charles. ‘When is the funeral?’
‘To-morrow at two-thirty.’
‘Then I’m just in time. Whom are you going with, Aunt Penelope? Can I take you and Margot?’
‘Thanks, but we’re going with Peter.’
On the whole Charles was relieved by what he had heard. Though he deplored the publicity due to the tragedy having occurred in the plane, on another point he was delighted. From the first he had recognized that he had to run one serious risk. Andrew might have called attention to the pills or mentioned that spilled wineglass. Though nothing could have been proved, the suggestion would have been very disquieting. But nothing of that kind could now arise. Andrew had died without making a statement. He, Charles, was safe.
And not only was he safe: he was now rich. Not rich, perhaps, as some men count wealth, but rich enough to carry on his works and get his machinery and marry Una – if she would have him. Charles’s fears evaporated. Everything was going to be all right. It had been a dreadful, a loathsome job, but it was now over. All was well.
Chapter XII
Charles Becomes a Spectator
The news which greeted Charles on his return to the works was also good. It seemed that while he was away they had booked no less than four orders. Admittedly none was large. But they represented a fortnight’s work for all hands, and though Macpherson had cut the price so that the profit could only be seen through a microscope, there was at least no loss. Charles congratulated him heartily.
‘What about the new machines?’ he went on. ‘Got all that information in from Reading?’
‘Aye, it’s a’ there, and from Sheffield forby.’ The engineer pushed forward a little pile of papers. ‘I slippit down to Sheffield to see yon,’ he went on, marking the illustration of a lathe with a huge thumb. ‘Man, it’s a bonny tool. It’d do fine for our wor-rk.’
‘Better than the Reading people’s, you think?’ said Charles, turning the papers over.
Macpherson thought so and lapsed into technicalities. His points were sound, as they always were, and Charles agreed with him. ‘Well, get the orders out and we’ll send them to-day,’ he directed, and went on to discuss the new jobs. When he had finished Macpherson hesitated.
‘We’re a’ very sorry aboot your trouble, Mr Charles,’ he said awkwardly, ‘though I’m thinking we’re maybe going to benefit here in the wor-rks. All the same it’ll be an upset to you.’
‘I would like to say the same,’ added Gairns, who had entered while they were talking. ‘We’re glad of anything that does you good, but sorry for the cause of it.’
Charles thanked them. Though it was true that they also stood to gain by Andrew Crowther’s death, he knew that they would have been pleased had he alone benefited.
After an early lunch Charles drove out to The Moat. The funeral was private and only special friends of the deceased, like Crosby, were present. The weather fortunately was fine, and with this mitigation the function dragged out its melancholy course. After it was over Crosby and the members of the family returned to The Moat for the reading of the will.
For Charles there was still an element of anxiety left. Andrew had told him on many occasions that he and Elsie were to be his joint heirs, and Charles had little fear that the old man would have changed his mind. All the same he had seen nothing in writing on the subject, and he could not help being worried by dark thoughts of slips between cups and lips.
Crosby, however, had gone only a little way with his reading before Charles saw that his fears were groundless. The will began with a number of small legacies. Mrs Pollifex was to get £10,000 and Margot £2,500. Weatherup, ‘in memory of kindly service’, was left £500, and there were five or six other small bequests. Then came the real issue. After the forementioned legacies were paid, free of death duty, the residue was to be divided equally between Charles and Elsie. The Moat was left to Elsie and for purposes of calculation was to be valued at £10,000. Crosby estimated that when all taxes and duties were paid, Charles would get about £62,000 and Elsie £52,000 and The Moat.
Sixty-two thousand pounds! It was a little fortune. Charles could scarcely restrain his excitement. Here was the financial safety he had so terribly wanted! Now he could afford to marry Una. Moreover, all his difficulties about the works were over. Now the bank would lend him whatever he required. Well, here was justification and reward for all he had done! He had had some bad minutes, but it had been worth it. It was like everything else: nothing venture, nothing win.
Charles, glancing across the room, was a little surprised by Peter’s manner. Peter did not seem at all impressed with his good fortune – for Elsie being the heiress really meant that he would have the handling of the money – and this was the more remarkable because of the straits he had been in. On the contrary he was looking extraordinarily anxious. Charles now remembered that he had been looking anxious on the previous evening. Ah well, Peter was a queer fish. You never knew how he would take anything.
Charles was excited for a reason other than the money. After dinner he was going to see Una. Now, as he put it to himself, would come the tug-of-war. Now the barrier which had been separating them had been swept away. How would she react? Would she accept him and agree to name the date, or
would she find some other excuse for postponing the decision? Or would she turn him down?
Anyone who had seen Charles as he left Dehra Dun, the Mellors’ luxurious bungalow, could have guessed the answer to these questions. His face was shining, lit up with an overwhelming delight. Una had not agreed to name the day, but she had given Charles to understand that she would soon do so. For the moment everything seemed to Charles just right. Once again, here was the reward for his courage! Once again, nothing venture, nothing win!
Next day Charles found that he had regained more than all his former popularity in his native town. At the club everyone was commiserating and congratulating him in a breath: formal commiserations given conventionally; real congratulations both from genuine well-wishers and from those who wished to be friends with an influential man. At all events, whatever the motive, it was all very pleasant. In the congenial atmosphere Charles’s spirits rose still further.
‘We must celebrate,’ he declared, sending the waitress for some bottles of champagne.
After lunch he had a telephone call from the local police station. ‘Could I see you, sir, if I called at your house to-night?’ Inspector Appleby asked. ‘I’m trying to get some details about the late Mr Crowther.’
In spite of himself some of Charles’s exhilaration evaporated. However, he told himself, he had nothing to fear. As Andrew Crowther’s nephew it was obvious that the police would interrogate him. All he had to do was to keep his head, to answer as immediately and as truthfully as he could everything they asked him and to volunteer nothing. Moreover, he must show no nervousness. Well, he could do all these things. There was no reason why he should be nervous.
Nevertheless he could not help some quickening of the pulse when that evening there was a ring and heavy steps sounded in the hall. The door opened. Rollins announced, ‘Inspector Appleby.’
The 12.30 from Croydon Page 14
