The Measure of Malice

by Martin Edwards

  The day dragged on without further incident, and then about dusk a constable arrived with a photographers’ flash lamp and camera, which he handed to French.

  “Good,” was the response. “Even if he gets away we’ll have a photo of him in the act. Now come along to the studio and I’ll explain what I want. See those two bottles? Put a private mark on them, so that you can swear to them again. But handle them carefully, for the acid’s strong. I’ll do the same. Right.” He replaced the doubly marked bottles and turned to the door. “I want this outer door to be locked, with the key left in the inside and the windows hasped. Good. Then let’s go out: we can do it through the house.”

  The studio window gave on a small plot of grass, with a crazy pavement path crossing it to the door. At the opposite end of the house, and standing out from it at right angles, was the porch, with its door at the side. From this porch door the studio door and window were clearly visible. French walked up and down memorising the lay-out, after which he gave the constable detailed orders for the night. He was to watch at the back door, ready on a signal to run out round the house and take a visitor to the studio in the rear. “We’re all right for a hour or two,” French went on to Rudd, “then we must take up our positions.”

  “Time for a drink,” said the old man hospitably, leading the way to the lounge.

  They chatted for some time, then French made a move. Having posted the constable, he sat down himself in the porch, leaving the door slightly ajar.

  Rudd insisted on sharing the vigil, but regarded the door with disapproval. “Must you have it open?” he protested. “It’s going to be cold, you know.”

  “No help for it, I’m afraid. I want to see the approach to the study, and it’s the only way.”

  They settled down to watch. French would allow neither light nor smoking nor speech above a whisper. The night dragged. Time indeed seemed to stand still. It certainly was cold and the breeze moaned eerily among the pines. Except for this and the occasional hoot of an owl, it was very still.

  Twelve came and one, then two. French was chilled and cramped and growing increasingly uneasy. Had he made a mistake? Was this nephew either innocent or sharper than he had allowed for?

  Slowly the night crept on. Three came and after another aeon, four. When five struck and faint signs of light began to show in the east, French’s chagrin was painful. He apologised grumpily to his friend and sent the constable home. But till the normal life of the bungalow had been resumed he kept watch himself.

  Before going for a bath and shave he had a look round the studio. Everything there was as it had been the night before: the outer door locked, the windows hasped, the bottles bearing his private mark, the basin and the sand. But the acid bottle seemed somehow lighter in colour. He picked it up. It was lighter.

  Puzzled, he shook it. No, the colouring matter had not settled. Slowly he withdrew the stopper and cautiously sniffed the contents. Then his jaw dropped and he stood staring helplessly. This was not vitriol, it was vinegar!

  In a way, he had expected something of the kind: it was the basis of his trap. Rudd’s message would have convinced Nephew Jim that the explosive possibilities of the “cement” were unknown, and if he were guilty, substitution of some harmless chemical for the contents of one or both bottles was the only way in which he could save himself. True, his murder plan would have failed, but he could not be convicted of crime.

  But Nephew Jim had not made the substitution. No one had entered the studio. No one could have opened door or window without leaving traces—or being seen.

  As French found himself driven relentlessly to the only conclusion possible, he felt sick with aversion and loathing for what must follow. Rudd himself had been sitting with him all night: he could not have approached the studio. The woman who helped during the day had gone home in the evening. Only from one room could a secret visit have been paid.

  Screwing up his courage, French went to the room and knocked. There was no reply, and he opened the door. Entering, he stood in the middle of the floor and let his eyes pass slowly over the contents. How within the bungalow could a powerful acid like vitriol be got rid of silently and without leaving traces? French did not believe it could be done. But if the acid were poured into another bottle…

  For a couple of minutes he stood, looking and pondering. On one wall was a small white enamelled cabinet of the kind in which medicines are kept. He stepped over and opened it. Among the bottles was a tall glass-stoppered one containing a clear brownish liquid. Cautiously he lifted it down.

  As he did so there was a scream from behind him. Jean Rudd was running across the room. She paused for a moment at the fireplace to pick up the poker, then advanced on him like a fury. But that pause gave French his chance. He was able to replace the bottle before she reached him. Then in the nick of time he seized her arms. To control her he had to use his full strength. She screamed and struggled and called down horrible curses on him, but at last he got her arms in a lock and she was helpless. Then all the fight seemed to go out of her and she collapsed limply. As French laid her on her bed, Rudd’s appalled face appeared at the door.

  “I’m afraid it’s her mind,” French said with profound sympathy in his tones. “Better ring up the doctor.”

  French followed him to the telephone, but he did not make a call. Rudd, thinking later over this action, could never make up his mind as to his friend’s motive. French seemed in no hurry to make a move, then at last he returned to the bedroom. Immediately there came an urgent call. Rudd hurried after him.

  “Bad news,” French warned. “Prepare yourself for a shock. She’s taken prussic acid.”

  Rudd gasped. “Can’t we do anything?”

  French shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s a matter of a very few minutes. She’s unconscious already.”

  The doctor turned up quickly, but before he arrived the unhappy lady had ceased to breathe.

  Later French propounded his theory, for the benefit principally of Rudd. “It was no doubt the common case of a mentally unstable person turning against the one most loved. When she sent those chemicals one cannot suppose she was responsible. Then from her point of view things went wrong: I turned up and there was no explosion. She must have suspected me of interference and doubtless watched us both. She heard someone telephoning, came to learn what she could, and certainly hid and listened to the message. Not knowing that we had learnt what was in the bottles, she obviously understood what your nephew was intended to understand. To destroy the evidence was her only hope, and she removed the acid during the night, substituting vinegar. No doubt she intended to get rid of it on the first opportunity. But when she saw me with the bottle in my hand she realised I knew all.”

  Though this view was officially accepted by the police and coroner, it did not convince French himself. He had heard rumours about Jean and a neighbour and he had a certain suspicion that freedom and money were what the lady sought. He therefore made some unofficial inquiries. He traced her purchase of the vitriol from a London shop “to clean a sink with damaged glaze,” and of chlorate of potash “as a weed-killer.” A sufficient quantity of potassium cyanide was missing from her father’s surgery. Having once acted as his dispenser, she knew where it was. She no doubt believed that even if he suspected, he would not give his own daughter away. The typewriter she had borrowed from a friend. The plan, French imagined, had been suggested by the nature of the nephew’s profession. She probably calculated that he would be suspected, but that nothing could be proved against him. Finally French learnt that the neighbour had been at his home when the parcel was posted. From these facts he concluded that only Jean was implicated. No use therefore in stirring up mud which would hurt his friend without serving the ends of justice. French’s conscience was clear. Through his efforts his friend was safe and the guilty party was dead: what more could be desired of him?

  sp;

  Martin Edwards, The Measure of Malice