Hangman's Holiday: A Collection of Short Mysteries

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  ‘I understand from the doctor,’ replied the inspector, ‘that a few drops of the pure extract, or whatever they call it, would produce death in anything from twenty minutes to seven or eight hours.’

  ‘Dear, dear!’ said Mr Egg. ‘And how much of the port had the poor old gentleman taken? The full two glasses?’

  ‘Yes, sir; to judge by the decanter, he had. Lord Borrodale had the habit of drinking his port straight off. He did not sip it, sir.’

  Mr Egg was distressed.

  ‘Not the right thing at all,’ he said mournfully. ‘No, no. Smell, sip and savour to bring out the flavour – that’s the rule for wine, you know. Is there such a thing as a pond or stream in the garden, Mr Craven?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said the butler, a little surprised.

  ‘Ah! I was just wondering. Somebody must have brought the nicotine along in something or other, you know. What would they do afterwards with the little bottle or whatever it was?’

  ‘Easy enough to throw it in among the bushes or bury it, surely,’ said Craven. ‘There’s six acres of garden, not counting the meadow or the courtyard. Or there are the water butts, of course, and the well.’

  ‘How stupid of me,’ confessed Mr Egg. ‘I never thought of that. Ah! this is the cellar, is it? Splendid – a real slap-up outfit, I call this. Nice, even temperature, too. Same summer and winter, eh? Well away from the house-furnace?’

  ‘Oh, yes, indeed, sir. That’s the other side of the house. Be careful of the last step, gentlemen; it’s a little broken away. Here is where the Dow ’08 stood sir. No. 17 bin – one, two, three and a half dozen remaining, sir.’

  Mr Egg nodded and, holding his electric torch close to the protruding necks of the bottles, made a careful examination of the seals.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘here they are. Three and a half dozen, as you say. Sad to think that the throat they should have gone down lies, as you might say, closed up by Death. I often think, as I make my rounds, what a pity it is we don’t all grow mellower and softer in our old age, same as this wine. A fine old gentleman, Lord Borrodale, or so I’m told, but something of a tough nut, if that’s not disrespectful.’

  ‘He was hard, sir,’ agreed the butler, ‘but just. A very just master.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Mr Egg. ‘And these, I take it, are the empties. Twelve, twenty-four, twenty-nine – and one is thirty – and three and a half dozen is forty-two – seventy-two – six dozen – that’s O.K. by me.’ He lifted the empty bottles one by one. ‘They say dead men tell no tales, but they talk to little Monty Egg all right. This one, for instance. If this ever held Plummet & Rose’s Dow ’08 you can take Monty Egg and scramble him. Wrong smell, wrong crust, and that splash of whitewash was never put on by our cellar-man. Very easy to mix up one empty bottle with another. Twelve, twenty-four, twenty-eight and one is twenty-nine. I wonder what’s become of the thirtieth bottle.’

  ‘I’m sure I never took one away,’ said the butler.

  ‘The pantry keys – on a nail inside the door – very accessible,’ said Monty.

  ‘Just a moment,’ interrupted the inspector. ‘Do you say that that bottle doesn’t belong to the same bunch of port wine?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t – but no doubt Lord Borrodale sometimes went in for a change of vintage.’ Mr Egg inverted the bottle and shook it sharply. ‘Quite dry. Curious. Had a dead spider at the bottom of it. You’d be surprised how long a spider can exist without food. Curious that this empty bottle, which comes in the middle of the row, should be drier than the one at the beginning of the row and should contain a dead spider. We see a deal of curious things in our calling, inspector – we’re encouraged to notice things, as you might say. “The salesman with the open eye sees commissions mount up high”. You might call this bottle, a curious thing. And here’s another. That other bottle, the one you said was opened last night, Craven – how did you come to make a mistake like that? If my nose is to be trusted, not to mention my palate, that bottle’s been open a week at least.’

  ‘Has it indeed, sir? I’m sure it’s the one as I put here at the end of this row. Somebody must have been and changed it.’

  ‘But –’ said the inspector. He stopped in mid-speech, as though struck by a sudden thought. ‘I think you’d better let me have those cellar keys of yours, Craven, and we’ll get this cellar properly examined, That’ll do for the moment. If you’ll just step upstairs with me, Mr Egg, I’d like a word with you.’

  ‘Always happy to oblige,’ said Monty agreeably. They returned to the upper air.

  ‘I don’t know if you realise, Mr Egg,’ observed the inspector, ‘the bearing, or, as I might say, the inference of what you said just now. Supposing you’re right about this bottle not being the right one, somebody’s changed it on purpose, and the right one’s missing. And, what’s more, the person that changed the bottle left no fingerprints behind him – or her.’

  ‘I see what you mean,’ said Mr Egg, who had indeed, drawn this inference some time ago, ‘and what’s more, it looks as if the poison had been in the bottle after all, doesn’t it? And that – you’re going to say – is a serious look-out for Plummet & Rose, seeing there’s no doubt our seal was on the bottle when it was brought into Lord Borrodale’s room. I don’t deny it, inspector. It’s useless to bluster and say “No, no”, when it’s perfectly clear that the facts are so. That’s a very useful motto for a man that wants to get on in our line of business.’

  ‘Well, Mr Egg,’ said the inspector, laughing, ‘what will you say to the next inference? Since nobody but you had any interest in changing that bottle over, it looks as though I ought to clap the handcuffs on you.’

  ‘Now, that’s a disagreeable sort of an inference,’ protested Mr Egg, ‘and I hope you won’t follow it up. I shouldn’t like anything of that sort to happen, and my employers wouldn’t fancy it either. Don’t you think that, before we do anything we might have cause to regret, it would be a good idea to have a look in the furnace-room?’

  ‘Why the furnace-room?’

  ‘Because,’ said Mr Egg, ‘it’s the place that Craven particularly didn’t mention when we were asking him where anybody might have put a thing he wanted to get rid of.’

  The inspector appeared to be struck by this line of reasoning. He enlisted the aid of a couple of constables, and very soon the ashes of the furnace that supplied the central heating were being assiduously raked over. The first find was a thick mass of semi-molten glass, which looked as though it might once have been part of a wine bottle.

  ‘Looks as though you might be right,’ said the inspector, ‘but I don’t see how we’re to prove anything. We’re not likely to get any nicotine out of this.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ agreed Mr Egg sadly. ‘But’ – his face brightened – ‘how about this?’

  From the sieve in which the constable was sifting the ashes he picked out a thin piece of warped and twisted metal, to which a lump of charred bone still clung.

  ‘What on earth’s that?’

  ‘It doesn’t look like much, but I think it might once have been a corkscrew,’ suggested Mr Egg mildly. ‘There’s something homely and familiar about it. And, if you’ll look here, I think you’ll see that the metal part of it is hollow. And I shouldn’t be surprised if the thick bone handle was hollow, too. It’s very badly charred, of course, but if you were to split it open, and if you were to find a hollow inside it, and possibly a little melted rubber – well, that might explain a lot.’

  The inspector smacked his thigh.

  ‘By Jove, Mr Egg!’ he exclaimed, ‘I believe I see what you’re getting at. You mean that if this corkscrew had been made hollow, and contained a rubber reservoir, inside, like a fountain-pen, filled with poison, the poison might be made to flow down the hollow shaft by pressure on some sort of plunger arrangement.’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Mr Egg. ‘It would have to be screwed into the cork very carefully, of course, so as not to damage the tube, and it would have to be made long enough to p
roject beyond the bottom of the cork, but still, it might be done. What’s more, it has been done, or why should there be this little hole in the metal, about a quarter of an inch from the tip? Ordinary corkscrews never have holes in them – not in my experience, and I’ve been, as you might say, brought up on corkscrews.’

  ‘But who, in that case—?’

  ‘Well, the man who drew the cork, don’t you think? The man whose fingerprints were on the bottle.’

  ‘Craven? But where’s his motive?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Mr Egg, ‘but Lord Borrodale was a judge, and a hard judge too. If you were to have Craven’s fingerprints sent up to Scotland Yard, they might recognise them. I don’t know. It’s possible, isn’t it? Or maybe Miss Waynfleet might know something about him. Or he might just possibly be mentioned in Lord Borrodale’s memoirs that he was writing.’

  The inspector lost no time in following up this suggestion. Neither Scotland Yard nor Miss Waynfleet had anything to say against the butler, who had been two years in his situation and had always been quite satisfactory, but a reference to the records of Lord Borrodale’s judicial career showed that, a good many years before, he had inflicted a savage sentence of penal servitude on a young man named Craven, who was by trade a skilled metal-worker and had apparently been involved in a fraud upon his employer. A little further investigation showed that this young man had been released from prison six months previously.

  ‘Craven’s son, of course,’ said the inspector. ‘And he had the manual skill to make the corkscrew in exact imitation of the one ordinarily used in the household. Wonder where they got the nicotine from? Well, we shall soon be able to check that up. I believe it’s not difficult to obtain it for use in the garden. I’m very much obliged to you for your expert assistance, Mr Egg. It would have taken us a long time to get to the rights and wrongs of those bottles. I suppose, when you found that Craven had given you the wrong one, you began to suspect him?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Mr Egg, with modest pride, ‘I knew it was Craven the minute he came into the room.’

  ‘No, did you? You’re a regular Sherlock, aren’t you? But why?’

  ‘He called me “sir”,’ explained Mr Egg, coughing delicately. ‘Last time I called he addressed me as “young fellow” and told me that tradesmen must go round to the back door. A bad error of policy. “Whether you’re wrong or whether you’re right, it’s always better to be polite,” as it says in the Salesman’s Handbook.’

  SLEUTHS ON THE SCENT

  A Montague Egg Story

  ...........

  The commercial room at the Pig and Pewter presented to Mr Montague Egg the aspect of a dim cavern in which some primeval inhabitant had been cooking his mammoth-meat over a fire of damp seaweed. In other words, it was ill lit, cold, smoky and permeated with an odour of stale food.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear!’ muttered Mr Egg. He poked at the sullen coals, releasing a volume of pea-coloured smoke which made him cough.

  Mr Egg rang the bell.

  ‘Oh, if you please, sir,’ said the maid who answered the summons, ‘I’m sure I’m very sorry, but it’s always this way when the wind’s in the east, sir, and we’ve tried ever so many sorts of cowls and chimney-pots, you’d be surprised. The man was here today a-working in it, which is why the fire wasn’t lit till just now, sir, but they don’t seem able to do nothink with it. But there’s a beautiful fire in the bar-parlour, sir, if you cared to step along. There’s a very pleasant party in there, sir. I’m sure you would be comfortable. There’s another commercial gentleman like yourself, sir, and old Mr Faggott and Sergeant Jukes over from Drabblesford. Oh, and there’s two parties of motorists, but they’re all quite nice and quiet, sir.’

  ‘That’ll suit me all right,’ said Mr Egg amiably. But he made a mental note, nevertheless, that he would warn his fellow-commercials against the Pig and Pewter at Mugbury, for an inn is judged by its commercial room. Moreover, the dinner had been bad, with a badness not to be explained by his own rather late arrival.

  In the bar-parlour, however, things were better. At one side of the cheerful hearth sat old Mr Faggott, an aged countryman, beneath whose scanty white beard dangled a long, scarlet comforter. In his hand was a tankard of ale. Opposite to him, also with a tankard, was a large man, obviously a policeman in mufti. At a table in front of the fireplace sat an alert-looking, darkish, youngish man whom Mr Egg instantly identified as the commercial gentleman by the stout leather bag at his side. He was drinking sherry. A young man and a girl in motor-cycling kit were whispering together at another table, over a whisky-and-polly and a glass of port. Another man, with his hat and burberry on, was ordering Guinness at the little serving-hatch which communicated with the bar, while, in a far corner, an indeterminate male figure sat silent and half concealed by a slouch hat and a newspaper. Mr Egg saluted the company with respect and observed that it was a nasty night.

  The commercial gentleman uttered an emphatic agreement.

  ‘I ought to have got on to Drabblesford tonight,’ he added, ‘but with this frost and drizzle and frost again the roads are in such a state, I think I’d better stay where I am.’

  ‘Same here,’ said Mr Egg, approaching the hatch. ‘Half of mild-and-bitter, please. Cold, too, isn’t it?’

  ‘Very cold,’ said the policeman.

  ‘Ar,’ said old Mr Faggott.

  ‘Foul,’ said the man in the burberry, returning from the hatch and seating himself near the commercial gentleman. ‘I’ve reason to know it. Skidded into a telegraph-pole two miles out. You should see my bumpers. Well! I suppose it’s only to be expected this time of year.’

  ‘Ar!’ said old Mr Faggott. There was a pause.

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Egg, politely raising his tankard, ‘here’s luck!’ The company acknowledged the courtesy in a suitable manner, and another pause followed. It was broken by the traveller.

  ‘Acquainted with this part of the country, sir?’

  ‘Why, no,’ said Monty Egg. ‘It’s not my usual beat. Bastable covers it as a rule – Henry Bastable – perhaps you know him? He and I travel for Plummet & Rose, wines and spirits.’

  ‘Tall, red-haired fellow?’

  ‘That’s him. Laid up with rheumatic fever, poor chap, so I’m taking over temporarily. My name’s Egg – Montague Egg.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I think I’ve heard of you from Taylor of Harrogate Bros. Redwood is my name. Fragonard & Co., perfumes and toilet accessories.’

  Mr Egg bowed and inquired, in a discreet and general way, how Mr Redwood was finding things.

  ‘Not too bad. Of course, money’s a bit tight; that’s only to be expected. But, considering everything, not too bad. I’ve got a line here, by the way, which is doing pretty well and may give you something to think about.’ He bent over, unstrapped his bag and produced a tall flask, its glass stopper neatly secured with a twist of fine string. ‘Tell me what you think of that.’ He removed the string and handed the sample to Monty.

  ‘Parma violet?’ said that gentleman, with a glance at the label. ‘The young lady should be the best judge of this. Allow me, miss. Sweets to the sweet,’ he added gallantly. ‘You’ll excuse me, I’m sure.’

  The girl giggled.

  ‘Go on, Gert,’ said her companion. ‘Never refuse a good offer.’ He removed the stopper and sniffed heartily at the perfume. ‘This is high-class stuff, this is. Put a drop on your handkerchief. Here – I’ll do it for you!’

  ‘Oh! it’s lovely!’ said the girl. ‘Refined, I call it. Get along, Arthur, do! Leave my handkerchief alone – what they’ll all think of you! I’m sure this gentleman won’t mind you having a drop for yourself if you want it.’

  Arthur favoured the company with a large wink, and sprinkled his handkerchief liberally. Monty rescued the flask and passed it to the man in the burberry.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Mr Redwood, ‘but if I might point it out, it’s not everybody knows the right way to test perfume. Just dab a little on the hand, wait while
the liquid evaporates, and then raise the hand to the nostrils.’

  ‘Like this?’ said the man in the Burberry, dexterously hitching the stopper out with his little finger, pouring a drop of perfume into his left palm and re-stoppering the bottle, all in one movement. ‘Yes, I see what you mean.’

  ‘That’s very interesting,’ said Monty, much impressed and following the example set him. ‘Same as when you put old brandy in a thin glass and cradle it in the hollow of the palm to bring out the aroma. The warmth of the hand makes the ethers expand. I’m very glad to know from you, Mr Redwood, what is the correct method with perfumes. Ready to learn means ready to earn – that’s Monty Egg, every time. A very fine perfume indeed. Would you like to try it, sir?’

  He offered the bottle first to the aged countryman (who shook his head, remarking acidly that he ‘couldn’t abide smells and sich nastiness’) and then to the policeman, who, disdaining refinements, took a strong sniff at the bottle and pronounced the scent ‘good, but a bit powerful for his liking.’

  ‘Well, well, tastes differ,’ said Monty. He glanced round, and, observing the silent man in the far corner, approached him confidently with a request for his opinion.

  ‘What the devil’s the matter with you?’ growled this person, emerging reluctantly from behind his barricade of newspaper, and displaying a bristling and bellicose fair moustache and a pair of sulky blue eyes. ‘There seems to be no peace in this bar. Scent? Can’t abide the stuff.’ He snatched the perfume impatiently from Mr Egg’s hand, sniffed and thrust the stopper back with such blind and fumbling haste that it missed the neck of the flask altogether and rolled away under the table. ‘Well, it’s scent. What else do you want me to say about it? I’m not going to buy it, if that’s what you’re after.’

  ‘Certainly not, sir,’ said Mr Redwood, hurt, and hastening to retrieve his scattered property. ‘Wonder what’s bitten him,’ he continued, in a confidential undertone. ‘Nasty glitter in his eye. Hands all of a tremble. Better look out for him, sergeant. We don’t want murder done. Well, anyhow, madam and gentlemen, what should you say if I was to tell you that we’re able to retail that large bottle, as it stands – retail it, mind you – at three shillings and sixpence?’