The Measure of Malice

by Martin Edwards

  Underwood became restive, and interrupted with a brusque question: did she happen to see Mills the night he died?

  Miss Pearse was affronted. She made an odd movement of neck and head, like a duck swallowing, and informed him that it was not her habit to go walking after nightfall.

  Underwood told her that she didn’t take the point. What they wanted was some information about Mills’ condition—state of health and so on—as he went round his beat the night he died. For instance, there was the chance he might have come to her house.

  Miss Pearse, biting the words, remarked that it was an improper suggestion. The inspector should be aware that she would not tolerate her servants entertaining a man.

  “Sorry to distress you,” Reggie murmured. “It’s a very distressin’ case. But we have to do the poor fellow justice, and I did hope you might help us. West-country man, wasn’t he? Devon man?”

  “Indeed?” For the first time Miss Pearse betrayed surprise. “I had no idea of that. I shouldn’t have thought it.”

  “Really?” Reggie put up his eyebrows. “But you ought to be a judge. You’re Devonshire.”

  Miss Pearse flushed. “I am of a Devonshire family.”

  “Oh, yes. Yes. That would be another reason for him coming to your house if he wanted help.”

  “If he was a Devon man.” She spoke slowly; she stared. “But I tell you I have no reason to think so.”

  “Well, well,” Reggie murmured. “Bafflin’ case. Speakin’ medically, you see, it’s important to find somebody who met him the night he died.” Under his grave eyes Miss Pearse admitted that she could understand that. “Two possible lines of enquiry,” Reggie mumbled. “Do you know any other Devon people living hereabouts?”

  “I cannot imagine why you insist on Devonshire people,” she said.

  “No? Other line of enquiry. Do you know any house where a constable would be welcome in the kitchen?”

  Miss Pearse gave him a look of reproof. “That is an unpleasant question,” she said acidly. “I should not be likely to observe such conduct.” But it appeared to Reggie that she was considering whether she should say she had observed some. He proceeded to tempt her.

  “Domestic conduct not what it was,” he mourned. “People don’t look after their homes.” Miss Pearse was quick to agree. “Yes. You find that even in Langdon, what? I was wondering”—he gazed at her solemnly—“garden next door looked rather wild—I was wondering—is that a go-as-you-please place where a policeman might be in and out of the kitchen?”

  Miss Pearse drew herself up. She really could not say. And she went on saying. Mrs. Colson had been at Bellagio for many years. It was built by her father-in-law. He had designed the garden; it was the delight of his life—such a sweet fanciful place it used to be. But now—!

  “Rather neglected, what?” Reggie murmured.

  Miss Pearse would not say that Mrs. Colson neglected things. But after the children grew up she had had nothing but trouble. Her father-in-law died; her husband died. She had been such a sweet happy creature before. But afterwards—No wonder. They were fine men. She was a devoted mother, absolutely devoted. She had only lived for her children. And they—! Really Miss Pearse could not endure the modern notion that parents must give up everything to their children—it made for nothing but misery.

  “Nobody should give up everything to anybody, no,” Reggie purred. “Quite immoral. Has Mrs. Colson many children?”

  With a certain vehemence, as if she felt the number offensive, Miss Pearse told him there were two. Alfred Colson was a harmless creature enough, but absolutely dependent on his mother. It was a wonder he ever married. He and his wife were always at his mother’s knee.

  “Still lives in the maternal house?” Reggie murmured.

  “Oh, they have a home of their own,” said Miss Pearse. “One of the flats in that disgusting block where the Old Hall was; they can hardly know what it’s like.”

  “United family,” Reggie smiled. “Charming. And the daughter. Equally devoted?”

  “I suppose Minnie has never been away from her mother a day,” said Miss Pearse, with disdain. “The most affectionate creature. But Minnie is at anybody’s service. She bustles in all the good works we have. Really, it is as if she hadn’t time to have a self of her own.”

  “I see. Yes. Very interesting.” Reggie encouraged more opinions of the Colson family.

  But Miss Pearse decided that she had said all she wanted, or more. She smoothed down her dress, and met his look of enquiry with mild, innocent eyes in which there was something hard and assured. She was the grandmother who knew everything and had told the small boy all that was good for him.

  “Thanks very much,” he smiled. “And if anything should occur to you, you’ll tell the police station, won’t you?”

  “I cannot conceive that anything else will occur to me,” said Miss Pearse. “Good day.”

  When they were outside. “She’s a hard case, sir,” Underwood grinned. Reggie did not answer. He gazed pensively at the purple bulk of Bellagio and its dingy lace curtains, and his pace was slow. “Well, I don’t know what you make of her, sir,” Underwood went on. “I can’t make up my mind whether we’ve drawn blank or got on to something.”

  “Not blank, no,” Reggie mumbled.

  “You shook her up all right,” Underwood admitted. “She didn’t like being told there was something Devonshire about Mills’ death, did she? That bothered her quite a lot. Might mean you were right, sir, and he got his arsenic in her house.”

  “Yes. It could be.”

  “And then, that didn’t look too good her telling the tale about the people next door. Very keen to run them down, wasn’t she? Fishy, that was, there’s no denying.”

  “You think so? Yes. Reaction to suggestion of the house next door very marked. Vivid description of the Colson family. I should say she’s had them on her mind some time. Thoughtful person, our Miss Pearse.”

  “She’s deep,” Underwood nodded. “She knows something. She gave me the creeps now and then. I kept getting the idea she wasn’t human—didn’t feel things the natural way.”

  “Rather superhuman, yes. Old ladies are—when clever and lonely.”

  “I can imagine her doing anything,” said Underwood. “But then, what’s the sense of supposing she or her old servants poisoned a policeman?”

  “Not likely. No. However. The provisional hypothesis is that the saffron cake wasn’t meant for the policeman.”

  “You mean she might have sent a cake in next door?” Underwood cried. “She meant to poison some of the Colsons, and Mills got it? That’s all right.”

  “Yes. It could be. I wonder. Some way to go yet. And the sooner it’s over the sooner to sleep. Next step in the investigation quite obvious. Find out all about the Colson family and servants, if any. Miss Pearse’s history of the Colsons has interest. A heart-to-heart talk with a Colson cook would be illuminatin’. Don’t be official, Underwood. Use your charms. You should fascinate any cook.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Underwood bitterly.

  “And, in the intervals of fascination, look up the deaths of the Colson father and grandfather. Miss Pearse was rather affectionate about them. Did you notice that?”

  “Good Lord!” Underwood exclaimed. “You mean to say, maybe this wasn’t the first time a saffron cake went from her house to the Colsons?”

  “I wonder,” Reggie murmured. “Some animosity towards the Colson family very marked. Yes. We’d better know what we can about the deaths of the past. Before the future brings more deaths. Well, well. Here’s the police station. Futile institution, so far. Justify your existence, Underwood. If possible. Good-bye.”

  Some days afterwards he was called away from the composition of a monograph on influenza in rabbits to Scotland Yard.

  Again he found Underwood with Bell and Lomas. He gazed a
t them with plaintive dislike. “Oh, my hat!” he moaned. “What’s the matter now?”

  “The reference is your infernal saffron cake, Reginald,” Lomas said. “You don’t mean to say you’ve forgotten it?”

  “Oh, yes. Yes. I had. Absolutely. I’d done my job. The rest is simple police work. I was on something important.”

  “Simple!” said Lomas. “Good Gad! You’ve brought us up against a blank wall. Go on, Underwood. Tell him.”

  Underwood went off with a rush. “Well, sir, I got on to the Colsons’ cook all right. I reckon I’ve pretty well turned her inside out—”

  “My dear fellow!” Reggie purred admiration. “Your fatal charm.”

  “Nothing like that, sir,” said Underwood severely. “She’s old enough to be my mother. I took her round for a cup o’ tea with the Langdon inspector—”

  “Very proper, I’m sure,” Bell grunted.

  Underwood glowered at him. “Talking over poor Mills’ death, that was the idea. She’s desperate cut up about him. He did go into the Colsons’ house that night, Mr. Fortune. She gave him a bun and a cup of cocoa, and he went off as right as rain.”

  “Oh, yes. Who made the bun?” Reggie murmured.

  “That’s where the catch comes. It was a saffron bun, like you said. That day the Colsons had the married son and his wife coming to tea, and Miss Minnie Colson made some special stuff herself—buns made with cream and currants and saffron—”

  “Yes. I told you so. Revel buns, as in Devonshire.”

  “I dare say. The cook says Minnie Colson had the recipe from Miss Pearse next door. The Colsons have ’em now and again, and Miss Minnie always makes ’em. The son’s wife is supposed to like ’em.”

  “Sound taste. They’re very good,” Reggie murmured. “Not quite right though. I’ve been thinkin’ about that. Want a better fruit flavour. I—”

  “Damme, let the man get on,” Lomas cried.

  “Oh, yes. Yes. Duty first. You were sayin’—they were made for the son’s wife. By daughter Minnie.”

  “That’s right. Cook wasn’t in the kitchen when she made ’em. The buns went up to tea, and came down again untouched.”

  “The son’s wife wouldn’t have any. Well, well. Taste not reliable. Appetite not reliable. Very disconcertin’ in a guest. Makes a lot of trouble. Look at this case.”

  “Made some trouble for poor Mills,” Underwood said severely. “The buns came back to the kitchen. The cook don’t like saffron herself. So she didn’t eat any. She fed Mills on ’em when he looked in for his bit of supper. When she went to the cake tin next day, to send things up for tea again, the rest of the buns were gone. That’s all she knows—so she says, and I believe her. So there’s a nice old snag. We’ll never be able to prove there was anything in the dam’ buns at all.”

  “No. As you say. We shan’t,” Reggie murmured. “Nothing more from that line of investigation. We weren’t quick enough.”

  “I don’t know what more I could have done, sir,” Underwood protested.

  “Nothing. No. Not blamin’ you. We don’t have much luck. If Mills had been found sooner, I might have saved him. If we could have learnt his habits quicker, we might have got some effective evidence. However. Other means of usin’ pressure. By the way, what about the deaths of Colson father and grandfather?”

  “Colson grandfather died, aged seventy-five, in 1914, of a stroke. Colson father died, aged sixty-two, in 1925, of gastric influenza.”

  “Well, well.” Reggie sank deep in his chair, and gazed at Lomas with closing eyes. “That’s very interestin’.”

  “You’re suspicious?” Lomas frowned.

  “Yes. Both stated causes of death possibly veilin’ arsenic. Complex case, this case, Lomas.”

  “Damme, it always was,” said Lomas bitterly. “Now you want to make it into one of the devilish chains of murder. And we haven’t one clear piece of evidence. I couldn’t get an order to exhume these two men on your suspicions. And, if I did, if you found arsenic in the bodies, we should be no nearer proof.”

  “Oh, no. That’s hopeless. At the best, we should only have association of arsenic with the Colson household, since the Colson children grew up. As Miss Pearse put it. No use.”

  “Thank you. I see that,” Lomas snapped. “It’s very gratifying, isn’t it? A succession of murders, and we can do nothing.”

  “Not the first time,” Bell growled. “These clever poisoners are the devil.”

  “Yes. One of the devil’s best efforts,” Reggie nodded. “But not invincible, when observed. Are we down-hearted? No. Action has been taken, Lomas. Pressure is bein’ applied. The poisoner of Belair Avenue is now aware that the police are sittin’ up and takin’ notice. I made that clear to Miss Pearse. Underwood’s been makin’ it clear to servants. I should say there’ll be consequences. Swift and fruitful consequences. Good-bye.”

  It is held by Superintendent Bell that the handling of this case was one of his most uncanny pieces of work. But this judgment may be biased by the speed with which results developed: a speed which, Mr. Fortune points out, was the natural consequence of the menace of frustration on the poisoner.

  He had just got into his car, when a detective ran out and asked him to come back and speak to Mr. Lomas. Lomas and Underwood and Bell were still together when he returned.

  “Here’s your fruitful consequences, Reginald,” Lomas said. “Young Colson’s wife has been found dead. Drowned in a pool in old Mrs. Colson’s garden.”

  “Well, well,” Reggie murmured. “Who found her?”

  “The daughter, Minnie Colson. Found her this morning. Body’s been removed to the mortuary.”

  “Oh, Peter!” Reggie moaned. “Why?”

  “Sorry. Minnie Colson pulled her out of the pool before she sent for a doctor. So we’re told. You’ll go and have a look at her, what?”

  “Go and have a look at the pool,” Reggie murmured. “Come on, Underwood.”

  A policeman admitted them to the murky hall of Bellagio. In a shabby morning-room the local detective-inspector received them.

  He considered it a very queer business. They all told the same tale. “Miss Minnie Colson—she said she was going out to the girls’ club at the church last night—”

  “Cook’s night out, wasn’t it?” said Reggie, with a glance at Underwood.

  “That’s right, sir. That seems to be one of the points,” the inspector agreed. “They only keep a cook and a daily girl. So the house was going to be left, except for old Mrs. Colson. That’s why Miss Minnie telephoned to young Mrs. Colson to come and sit with the old lady. So she says. And young Mrs. Colson came, and Miss Minnie went out. That would be about seven to half past—as she says. Then there’s old Mrs. Colson. She says the young woman didn’t stay long, but went off about dusk. She can’t put a time to it. The old lady was up in her own room—that’s overhead in the front—and the young woman’s short way home was to go through the garden at the back and out by the gate at the end. Then there’s her husband’s statement. He says he was dining at his club last night: says he often does. When he came home, about midnight, his wife wasn’t there. They live in a flat. After a bit he got their servant out o’ bed, but she couldn’t tell him anything, except that there’d been a phone message and her mistress had gone out after. He says he sat up all night. I don’t know. If you ask me, he don’t think too much of his wife. And then this morning, about ten o’clock, so she says, Miss Minnie goes out to do a bit o’ gardening, and sees young Mrs. Colson lying in a pool they have out in the garden, pulled her out, found her dead, and sent for the doctor. The doctor says the woman was drowned some time last night. He rang us up. I didn’t get here till eleven fifteen—and by that time, you see, the body had been moved and mucked about, and the whole place was walked over.”

  “Yes. I see. Yes,” Reggie murmured. “Tiresome. However. You’ve done ve
ry well. Nice, clear story. Now we’ll look at what’s left.”

  They went out on to the terrace above the garden, and the inspector demonstrated: big drop from the terrace to the lily pool in the rectangle of tiles and shrubs; the flight of steps which led down was steep; quite possible anybody in the dusk or dark might take a bad toss; the pool had a concrete bottom; it was two or three feet deep; the young woman might have tumbled into it head first, and, if she did, she might have been stunned and lay till she drowned.

  “Yes. It could be,” Reggie nodded. “Quite good. All possibilities of the place considered and allowed for.”

  “I wouldn’t call it likely myself,” said Underwood. “Too much ‘might have been’.”

  “I’m not saying it’s likely,” the inspector agreed. “It means a lot of chances came off. But you can’t be sure the thing didn’t happen that way.”

  “That’s the devil of it,” Underwood grunted. “It’s so ruddy plausible.”

  “You think so?” Reggie murmured. “One difficulty. How was the toad broken?” He pointed a little finger at it. It lay on the tiles in jagged fragments of crockery.

  “That—well, I don’t know where it stood,” the inspector answered. “I asked Minnie Colson; she didn’t seem to know—very vague about it. If it was on the terrace here, or on the steps, the young woman might have tripped over it—and there you are.”

  “You think so?” Reggie murmured. He went slowly down the steps. “The other day, the toad was on the tiles about where it is now. I saw it from the next-door window.” He picked up one of the larger fragments. “Yes. This is its regular place. You see, there’s no moss on the tiles underneath. They’re dry and clean. Yes. So the provisional hypothesis is, it was broken by the fall of young Mrs. Colson last night. And, if she fell on the toad, she didn’t fall into the pool. She was put there by hand.” He gazed solemnly at Underwood. “Broken toad indicates crime of determination.” He bent over the toad’s wreck. “Yes. Several signs of human contact with the broken toad. What was young Mrs. Colson wearing?”