by John Rhode
‘Have you found out anything about Mrs Sulgrave?’
‘Nothing fresh. She had a telephone message on Monday morning, and rushed off at once to look after a friend who had been hurt in an accident in the north of England. Or so she told her maid. Nothing has been heard of her since.’
‘All right. Keep an eye on High Elms, and if Mrs Sulgrave turns up, let me know.’
Jarrold went out, and Hanslet turned to the pile of documents awaiting his attention. He was thus engaged when a messenger brought him an envelope. Within it was a copy of the report of the Home Office pathologist upon the material sent him by Doctor Button.
The main body of the report was couched in technical terms beyond the superintendent’s comprehension. But there was a note at the end, summarising the results in plain langugage.
‘It will be seen that the evidence shows that arsenic, in the form of arsenious oxide, had entered the system of the deceased by way of the mouth. But this evidence does not point to arsenical poisoning as the cause of death. The amount of arsenic present was very small, and suggests that the poison was taken in non-fatal doses, spread over a period of three or four days.
‘Arsenic is a cumulative poison, and these small doses, if continued, would probably have resulted in a condition of chronic arsenical poison, and eventual death. But, at the time of the death of the deceased, the total amount of arsenic was probably no more than a grain at most.
‘The fact that only traces of arsenic were found in the contents of the stomach suggest that the last dose was taken many hours before death. The deceased had had a meal shortly before he died, but it can be stated with certainty that no substance containing arsenic was consumed in the course of this meal.’
Hanslet put the report in his pocket and returned to a perusal of the documents.
CHAPTER VII
‘I promised to keep you in touch with this Pershore business, professor,’ said Hanslet. ‘I’ve been busy on it all day, and I’ve learnt a few things which it may interest you to hear.’
He was sitting in Dr Priestley’s study on Wednesday evening. Dr Oldland was not present, but Dr Priestley and Merefield formed an attentive audience.
‘I shall be very glad to hear anything you may care to tell me,’ Dr Priestley replied.
Hanslet gave a detailed account of his proceedings during the day. ‘Now, let’s see what we can piece together,’ he continued. ‘I got nothing from my journey to Colchester. Mrs Capel was speaking the truth, I’m quite sure of that. She doesn’t know where Miss Rissington is, and she can’t offer any suggestion. And it’s a very odd thing that, although the notice of Pershore’s death appeared in the papers this morning, Miss Rissington has made no sign. I rang up Mrs Markle just before I came here, and she’s heard nothing from her.’
‘I should not say that your time spent in interviewing Mrs Capel was entirely wasted,’ Dr Priestley replied. ‘You at least obtained her views upon Mr Pershore’s character, and on the relationship between him and his niece.’
‘Yes, but I don’t see what good that is. Mrs Capel doesn’t consider that Pershore’s morals were above reproach. Well, I dare say they weren’t, though nobody else seems to have noticed the fact. It can’t have had any bearing on his death, that’s quite certain.’
‘Why is it so certain?’ Dr Priestley asked.
‘Because the three attempts to murder him must have been carried out by some member of his household. Or two of them, at all events. I can’t quite make out that shooting business at present. Just look at the facts. A bottle of poisoned olives was put in his study. The tin of inhalant, kept in his bedroom, was emptied and refilled with this compound of chalk and zinc.
‘That limits our search for the criminal at the outset. He or she must have been very intimate with Pershore to know all the necessary details. That he was in the habit of taking an olive every night with his medicine. The exact brand of olives which he preferred. Where they were kept. That Pershore was in the habit of using this particular inhalant for his cough. Where that was kept. And, in addition to this knowledge, the criminal must have had access to both the study and the bedroom, under the watchful eyes of Mrs Markle and the servants. Who but somebody actually living in the house could fulfil all these conditions?’
But Dr Priestley made no reply, and, after a pause, the superintendent continued.
‘Now, we have to consider the question of motive. Mrs Markle certainly gains an annuity of not less than two hundred a year by Pershore’s death. But I have formed the impression that she was genuinely attached to her employer, in her undemonstrative way. And she was certainly getting two hundred a year, or its equivalent in board and lodging, as things were. The servants had nothing to gain. They may have small legacies, but they have lost very soft and comfortable jobs.
‘Who else is there? The nephew, Bryant. He didn’t actually live in the house, but I gather he was there pretty often. He certainly spent Sunday afternoon and evening there. But he wasn’t there during the preceding week, and the poisoned olives were put in the study before Sunday. The Home Office report proves that. It says that the arsenic was taken over a period of three or four days.
‘I thought that Bryant’s manner was a bit strange on Monday evening. He cleared out without giving me a chance to talk to him. But at least he didn’t disappear altogether. He turned up at the inquest, and talked to me quite reasonably afterwards. Besides, he doesn’t stand to make much, if anything, out of his uncle’s death.
‘Remains Miss Rissington. She spent most of her time at Firlands, and was there until the day of her uncle’s death. She had a better opportunity than anybody of monkeying with the olives and the inhalant. With the disappearance of Pershore she is not only freed from irksome restrictions, but she becomes a rich woman. And, finally, she vanishes into space, just when she is most needed.’
‘Then you think that Miss Rissington is guilty of her uncle’s death?’ Dr Priestley remarked.
‘It depends what you mean by that exactly, professor. We don’t know yet how Pershore was actually killed. But I believe that she is guilty of two attempts to murder him. And I think she had accomplices, the Sulgraves, probably.’
‘And how do you account for the events of Saturday evening?’
‘That’s a bit of a puzzle. I thought at first that Sulgrave must have fired the shot. But it’s now established beyond a doubt that he was at Olympia at the time. Now I’m rather inclined to think that it must have been Mrs Sulgrave, or even Miss Rissington herself. The only thing against that is that women don’t usually favour a gun as a weapon.
‘I’m pretty sure, as I said last night, that Pershore knew who did it. Why else should he go to all that trouble to conceal the fact that he had been shot at? I haven’t a doubt that he put his trousers and pants in the incinerator on Sunday morning, and burnt them, to destroy all traces.’
‘You have formed no theory as to what he was doing in the garden at that time of night?’
‘I think he was only passing through the garden, on his way to the house from that door into the lane. He had arranged matters so that he could go to and from the house unobserved. I don’t know why, but there are dozens of possible explanations. For instance, he may have been in the habit of frequenting the local pub, and he didn’t want Mrs Markle and the servants to know it.
‘He certainly can’t have been out long. Mrs Markle tells me that being alone on Saturday evening he finished dinner early, by a quarter-past eight, and then went to his study. She heard the shot fired soon after nine, and saw him a few minutes later. I’ve sent a message to the local police, asking them to inquire if anyone saw him about the town during that interval.’
‘You do not think it possible that he may have made an appointment with somebody in the garden?’
‘I’ve thought of that. But, look here, professor, that involves a whole lot of unlikely things. He isn’t likely to have made a secret appointment like that with any of the people we know. It must have been
with somebody who hasn’t yet appeared on the scene. Since it was a secret appointment, nobody would know of it but the other party. Then that party must have shot him.’
Dr Priestley smiled. ‘It is not easy to pick one’s way through your somewhat involved reasoning, superintendent,’ he said. ‘What is your objection to Mr Pershore having been shot by the other party to the appointment?’
‘Why, just this, that it introduces yet another person with a motive for murdering him. And that seems to me utterly unreasonable.’
‘I still think that you have misunderstood the reason why that shot was fired,’ said Dr Priestley. ‘However, in the absence of further facts, you are entitled to your own views. How do you intend to proceed?’
‘I’m not going to take any definite action until after tomorrow. At half-past two the funeral is to take place. Bryant, who is representing the family, has arranged for the body to be buried at Weybridge, as you may have seen by the notice in the papers this morning. I’m going to attend it, because I’m rather anxious to see who turns up.’
Dr Priestley seemed to think this was a good idea. Hanslet, by discreet questioning, tried to find out whether he had formed any theory to account for Mr Pershore’s death, but without success. Finding his host thus uncommunicative, he said good-night and went home to bed.
Next day he called at Firlands for Mrs Markle, and took her to the cemetery. They stood just inside the gate, where they could see the mourners as they arrived. Shortly before half-past two, a car drove up. A tall, heavy-featured man of about forty, and a woman some years younger, with a doll-like face got out of it. They were both dressed in black, and had obviously come to attend the ceremony.
At the sight of them, Mrs Markle drew back behind a projecting wall. ‘Well, I never!’ she exclaimed. ‘That’s Mr and Mrs Chantley.’
Hanslet remembered the name, and Mrs Markle’s apparent reluctance on a previous occasion to discuss these people. ‘Didn’t you expect them to come?’ he asked. ‘You told me that they were friends of Mr Pershore, didn’t you?’
Again he fancied that there was a curious hesitancy in her manner. ‘Oh, yes, friends, of course. That is, they used to be. But Mr Chantley and Mr Pershore haven’t seen much of one another recently. I didn’t somehow expect they would be here today.’
Any further questions that Hanslet might have put were interrupted by fresh arrivals. Mrs Markle identified them by name. Two of Mr Pershore’s colleagues from the office. Doctor Formby. The domestic staff from Firlands. A dozen or so neighbours. And finally the hearse, which had driven down straight from the mortuary, and a single car following it.
From the car descended an elderly gentleman, whom Mrs Markle identified as Mr Judson, the lawyer who had drawn up Mr Pershore’s will. He was followed by Philip Bryant, and a rather ill-tempered looking woman, his wife. The procession began to move towards the grave, Mrs Markle and the superintendent keeping well in the rear.
They had nearly reached their destination, when a sound of hurried footsteps behind them made them look round. An elderly man, short, stout, and very red in the face, had entered the cemetery, and was doing his best to catch up with the mourners. Mrs Markle gave a sudden start. ‘Why, it’s Mr Hardisen!’ she exclaimed.
The newcomer was close enough to hear her. ‘So it is, Nancy,’ he replied. ‘Startled you, eh? Didn’t expect to see me, did you? Well, had to see the last of old Nahum. Silly old blighter.’ He stared at the superintendent. ‘Who’s your boy friend?’
‘This is Superintendent Hanslet, of Scotland Yard,’ she replied.
Hardisen nodded, with an air of complete understanding. ‘I thought as much. Something fishy about it, eh? Could tell that, by the inquest. Queer things do happen, we all know. Where’s Betty? Don’t see her.’
Mrs Markle seemed at a loss for an answer. By this time the rest of the mourners had reached the grave, and Hanslet saw his opportunity. ‘We’d better reserve our conversation until the funeral is over,’ he said.
They moved on to the graveside, and listened reverently as Mr Pershore’s body was committed to the earth. The superintendent remained beside Hardisen, and at the conclusion of the ceremony the two walked to Firlands together.
Hanslet had no intention of wasting his opportunity. ‘You were a friend of Mr Pershore’s,’ he asked tentatively.
Hardisen grunted. ‘Was a friend?’ he replied. ‘You’re right there. I dare say I’m his oldest friend still living. Except perhaps Nancy. Mrs Markle, you know. Can’t think why he never married her. Long ago. I remember them both as children. And their parents. Knew them all. Never thought I’d outlive Nahum. He was fifteen years younger than I am. Wouldn’t take me for seventy, eh, Mr Hanslet?’
The superintendent glanced at his companion striding along easily at his side. ‘You are very well-preserved for your years, if I may say so, Mr Hardisen,’ he said.
‘Vintage port. That’s the secret. Keep any man fit, if he drinks enough of it. Yes, knew them all. Nahum and his two sisters. Aye, further back than that. Old Pershore’s first wife, and their son Micah. Must write and tell Micah about this, when I get home.’
‘Mr Pershore’s half-brother is still alive, then?’ asked Hanslet. Somehow it had never occurred to him that this might be the case. He had regarded Micah Pershore as a shadowy figure, long passed into oblivion.
‘Still alive? Why shouldn’t he be? Same age as I am, almost to a day. Hadn’t my constitution, though. Alive when I last heard of him, for all that. Six months ago, that was. He’s in the Argentine. Something to do with chilled beef. Made a pot of money, too. Always kept in touch with me. Only person in England he wrote to. Queer chap, Micah. Wouldn’t have anything to do with his family. Cleared out soon after Nahum was born. Couldn’t abide his step-mother. Don’t blame him. Never liked her myself.’
But Hanslet’s momentary interest in Micah Pershore evaporated as soon as he learnt that he was in the Argentine. Hardisen himself was a more immediate problem. How was it that the man whom Pershore had stigmatised as a ‘damned scoundrel’ had come to his funeral? And described himself as his oldest friend, into the bargain?
‘Have you seen much of Mr Pershore lately?’ he asked.
‘No, that I haven’t!’ replied Hardisen emphatically. ‘You never knew Nahum? No? Hot-tempered blighter. Quarrelsome, like his mother. He took after her. The girls didn’t. And now all three of them are dead!’
‘There was some difference of opinion between you and Mr Pershore, I believe?’ said Hanslet. ‘Over a loan, was it not?’
Hardisen looked up at him, with a disconcerting grin. ‘Smart, you chaps, aren’t you?’ he replied. ‘You’ve been asking questions. Let’s see, now. It wouldn’t be Nancy. She’s no gossip. Nor yet Betty. Nahum wouldn’t have told her. I know! Philip! Don’t like Philip. Too smug, by half.’
‘There was a misunderstanding between you, was there not?’ Hanslet persisted.
‘Quite right. Damn silly business. Dare say I was partly to blame. Didn’t take Nahum the right way. Ought to have kowtowed to him. But why the devil should I? He chose to be offensive. Oh, well, he’s gone, poor old chap. I’m confoundedly sorry it ever happened, now.’
‘And, in consequence of this misunderstanding, you and Mr Pershore did not meet?’
‘Not for months. We’d only have been rude to one another if we had. But I can’t understand his death. So infernally sudden. And he looked fit enough when I saw him.’
‘When did you last see him, Mr Hardisen?’
Again Mr Hardisen looked up sharply. ‘You don’t know that, then?’ he replied. ‘Why, at the Motor Show, last Monday.’
So unexpected was this statement, that it almost took Hanslet’s breath away. He was about to ask for further particulars, when he found that Mrs Markle had joined them. They had reached the gate of Firlands. ‘You would like to come in and hear the will read, Mr Hardisen?’ she asked.
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ he replied. ‘Mr Hanslet coming too? I thought
so. Lead on, Nancy.’
They entered the house and made their way to the drawing-room where a small company gradually assembled. Philip Bryant and his wife, Mr Judson, Mrs Rugg and Kate, Mrs Markle, Hardisen, and the superintendent. The remainder of the mourners had gone their respective ways immediately after the funeral.
After a few minutes of rather strained conversation, Mr Judson opened an attache case he had brought with him, and produced the will. He whispered to Philip, who nodded. Then he stood up, cleared his throat, and proceeded to read the document.
Its provisions were those which Philip had already outlined to Hanslet. The principal beneficiary was Betty Rissington, who was left the sum of fifty thousand pounds, free of estate duty. The mortgage on High Elms was cancelled. Mrs Markle was assured of an annuity of two hundred a year. The servants all came in for small legacies. The remainder of the estate fell to Philip Bryant absolutely.
Having finished the reading of the will, Mr Judson once more cleared his throat. He felt it his duty to explain the situation clearly to his hearers. It was doubtful, very doubtful, he might say, whether, after payment of estate duty, the estate would realise sufficient to meet the provisions of the will in full. He had had the opportunity of discussing this matter with the residuary legatee, Mr Philip Bryant. Mr Bryant had adopted a very generous attitude, very generous indeed. He was particularly anxious that his uncle’s wishes should be carried out in their entirety. He had therefore undertaken that, in the event of the estate not realising sufficient to meet all the legacies in full, he would provide the additional sum necessary to do so out of his own pocket.
Hanslet caught a venomous glance directed by Mrs Bryant at her husband. Obviously Philip’s generous offer had been made without consultation with her. But from the rest of the audience came a murmur of approving gratitude. Hanslet caught Hardisen’s eye and the two slipped from the room.
