Strong Poison

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  “Crushed again!” said Wimsey.

  “Eiluned disapproves of conventional courtesies between the sexes,” said Marjorie.

  “Very well,” replied Wimsey, amiably. “I will adopt an attitude of passive decoration. Have you any idea, Miss Marriott, why this over-sleek solicitor should wish to make away with his cousin?”

  “Not the faintest. I merely proceed on the old Sherlock Holmes basis, that when you have eliminated the impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be true.”

  “Dupin said that before Sherlock. I grant the conclusion, but in this case I question the premises. No sugar, thank you.”

  “I thought all men liked to make their coffee into syrup.”

  “Yes, but then I’m very unusual. Haven’t you noticed it?”

  “I haven’t had much time to observe you, but I’ll count the coffee as a point in your favour.”

  “Thanks frightfully. I say—can you people tell me just what was Miss Vane’s reaction to the murder?”

  “Well—” Sylvia considered a moment. “When he died—she was upset, of course—”

  “She was startled,” said Miss Price, “but it’s my opinion she was thankful to be rid of him. And no wonder. Selfish beast! He’d made use of her and nagged her to death for a year and insulted her at the end. And he was one of your greedy sort that wouldn’t let go. She was glad, Sylvia—what’s the good of denying it?”

  “Yes, perhaps. It was a relief to know he was finished with. But she didn’t know then that he’d been murdered.”

  “No. The murder spoilt it a bit—if it was a murder, which I don’t believe. Philip Boyes was always determined to be a victim, and it was very irritating of him to succeed in the end. I believe that’s what he did it for.”

  “People do do that kind of thing,” said Wimsey, thoughtfully. “But it’s difficult to prove. I mean, a jury is much more inclined to believe in some tangible sort of reason, like money. But I can’t find any money in this case.”

  Eiluned laughed.

  “No, there never was much money, except what Harriet made. The ridiculous public didn’t appreciate Phil Boyes. He couldn’t forgive her that, you know.”

  “Didn’t it come in useful?”

  “Of course, but he resented it all the same. She ought to have been ministering to his work, not making money for them both with her own independent trash. But that’s men all over.”

  “You haven’t much opinion of us, what?”

  “I’ve known too many borrowers,” said Eiluned Price, “and too many that wanted their hands held. All the same, the women are just as bad, or they wouldn’t put up with it. Thank Heaven, I’ve never borrowed and never lent—except to women, and they pay back.”

  “People who work hard usually do pay back, I fancy,” said Wimsey, “—except geniuses.”

  “Women geniuses don’t get coddled,” said Miss Price, grimly, “so they learn not to expect it.”

  “We’re getting rather off the subject, aren’t we?” said Marjorie.

  “No,” replied Wimsey, “I’m getting a certain amount of light on the central figures in the problem—what journalists like to call the protagonists.” His mouth gave a wry little twist. “One gets a lot of illumination in that fierce light that beats upon a scaffold.”

  “Don’t say that,” pleaded Sylvia.

  A telephone rang somewhere outside, and Eiluned Price went out to answer it.

  “Eiluned’s anti-man,” said Sylvia, “but she’s a very reliable person.”

  Wimsey nodded.

  “But she’s wrong about Phil—she couldn’t stick him, naturally, and she’s apt to think—”

  “It’s for you, Lord Peter,” said Eiluned, returning. “Fly at once—all is known. You’re wanted by Scotland Yard.”

  Wimsey hastened out.

  “That you, Peter? I’ve been scouring London for you. We’ve found the pub.”

  “Never!”

  “Fact. And we’re on the track of a packet of white powder.”

  “Good God!”

  “Can you run down first thing tomorrow? We may have it for you.”

  “I will skip like a ram and hop like a high hill. We’ll beat you yet, Mr. Bleeding Chief-Inspector Parker.”

  “I hope you will,” said Parker, amiably, and rang off.

  Wimsey pranced back into the room.

  “Miss Price’s price has gone to odds on,” he announced. “It’s suicide, fifty to one and no takers. I am going to grin like a dog and run about the city.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t join you,” said Sylvia Marriott, “but I’m glad if I’m wrong.”

  “I’m glad I’m right,” said Eiluned Price, stolidly.

  “And you are right and I am right and everything is quite all right,” said Wimsey.

  Marjorie Phelps looked at him and said nothing. She suddenly felt as though something inside her had been put through a wringer.

  Chapter IX

  BY what ingratiating means Mr. Bunter had contrived to turn the delivery of a note into the acceptance of an invitation to tea was best known to himself. At half-past four on the day which ended so cheerfully for Lord Peter, he was seated in the kitchen of Mr. Urquhart’s house, toasting crumpets. He had been trained to a great pitch of dexterity in the preparation of crumpets, and if he was somewhat lavish in the matter of butter, that hurt nobody except Mr. Urquhart. It was natural that the conversation should turn to the subject of murder. Nothing goes so well with a hot fire and buttered crumpets as a wet day without and a good dose of comfortable horrors within. The heavier the lashing of the rain and the ghastlier the details, the better the flavour seems to be. On the present occasion, all the ingredients of an enjoyable party were present in full force.

  “’Orrible white, he looked, when he came in,” said Mrs. Pettican the cook. “I see him when they sent for me to bring up the ’ot bottles. Three of them, they ’ad, one to his feet and one to his back and the big rubber one to ’is stummick. White and shiverin’, he was, and that dreadful sick, you never would believe. And he groaned pitiful.”

  “Green, he looked to me, Cook,” said Hannah Westlock, “or you might perhaps call it a greenish-yellow. I thought it was jaundice a-coming on—more like them attacks he had in the Spring.”

  “He was a bad colour then,” agreed Mrs. Pettican, “but nothink like to what he was that last time. And the pains and cramps in his legs was agonising. That struck Nurse Williams very forcible—a nice young woman she was, and not stuck-up like some as I could name. ‘Mrs. Pettican,’ she said to me, which I call it better manners than callin’ you Cook as they mostly do, as though they paid your wages for the right of callin’ you out of your name—‘Mrs. Pettican,’ said she, ‘never did I see anythink to equal them cramps except in one other case that was the dead spit of this one,’ she said, ‘and you mark my words, Mrs. Pettican, them cramps ain’t there for nothin’.’ Ah! little did I understand her meanin’ at the time.”

  “That’s a regular feature of these arsenical cases, or so his lordship tells me,” replied Bunter. “A very distressing symptom. Had he ever had anything of the sort before?”

  “Not what you could call cramps,” said Hannah, “though I remember when he was ill in the spring he complained of getting the fidgets in the hands and feet. Something like pins-and-needles, by what I understood him to say. It was a worrit to him, because he was finishing one of his articles in a hurry, and what with that and his eyes being so bad, the writing was a trial to him, poor thing.”

  “From what the gentleman for the prosecution said, talking it out with Sir James Lubbock,” said Mr. Bunter, “I gathered that those pins-and-needles, and bad eyes and so on, were a sign he’d been given arsenic regularly, if I may so phrase it.”

  “A dreadful wicked woman she must ’a been,” said Mrs. Pettican, “—’ev another crumpet, do, Mr. Bunter—a torturin’ of the poor soul that longwinded way. Bashin’ on the ’ed or the ’asty use of a carvin’ knife w
hen roused I can understand, but the ’orrors of slow poisonin’ is the work of a fiend in ’uman form, in my opinion.”

  “Fiend is the only word, Mrs. Pettican,” agreed the visitor.

  “And the wickedness of it,” said Hannah, “quite apart from the causing of painful death to a fellow-being. Why, it’s only the mercy of Providence we weren’t all brought under suspicion.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Pettican. “Why, when master told us about them diggin’ poor Mr. Boyes up and findin’ him full of that there nasty arsenic, it give me sech a turn I felt as if the room was a-goin’ round like the gallopin’ ’orses at the roundabouts. ‘Oh, sir!’ I ses, ‘what, in our ’ouse!’ That’s what I ses, and he ses, ‘Mrs. Pettican,’ he ses, ‘I sincerely hope not.’”

  Mrs. Pettican, having imparted this Macbeth-like flavour to the story, was pleased with it, and added:

  “Yes, that’s what I said to ’im. ‘In our ’ouse,’ I said, and I’m sure I never slep’ a wink for three nights afterwards, what with the police and the fright and one thing and another.”

  “But of course you had no difficulty in proving that it hadn’t happened in this house?” suggested Bunter. “Miss Westlock gave her evidence so beautifully at trial, I’m sure she made it clear as clear could be to judge and jury. The judge congratulated you, Miss Westlock, I’m sure he didn’t say nearly enough—so plainly and well as you spoke up before the whole court.”

  “Well, I never was one to be shy,” confessed Hannah, “and then, what with going through it all so careful with the master and then with the police, I knew what the questions would be and was prepared, as you might say.”

  “I wonder you could speak so exactly to every little detail, all that time ago,” said Bunter, with admiration.

  “Well, you see, Mr. Bunter, the very morning after Mr. Boyes was took ill, master comes down to us and he says, sitting in that chair ever so friendly, just as you might be yourself, ‘I’m afraid Mr. Boyes is very ill,’ he says. ‘He thinks he might have ate something as disagreed with him,’ he says, ‘and perhaps as it might be the chicken. So I want you and Cook,’ he says, ‘to run through with me everything we had for dinner last night to see if we can think what it could have been.’ ‘Well, sir,’ I said, ‘I don’t see that Mr. Boyes could have ate anything unwholesome here, for Cook and me had just the same, put aside yourself, sir, and it was all as sweet as it could be,’ I said.”

  “And I said the same,” said the Cook, “Sech a plain simple dinner as it was, too—no oysters nor mussels not anythink of that sort, as it’s well known shell-fish is poison to some people’s stummicks, but a good stren’thenin’ drop o’ soup, and a bit of nice fish and a casseroled chicken with turnips and carrots done in the gravy, and a omelette, wot could be lighter and better? Not but there’s people as can’t relish eggs in any form, my own mother was just the same, give her so much as a cake what had bin made with a egg in it and she’d be that sick and come out all over spots like nettle-rash, you’d be surprised. But Mr. Boyes was a great gentleman for eggs, and omelettes was his particular favourite.”

  “Yes, he made the omelette himself that very night, didn’t he?”

  “He did,” said Hannah, “and well I remember it, for Mr. Urquhart asked particular after the eggs, was they new-laid, and I reminded him they was some he had brought in himself that afternoon from that shop on the corner of Lamb’s Conduit Street where they always have them fresh from the farm, and I reminded him that one of them was a little cracked and he’d said, ‘We’ll use that in the omelette tonight, Hannah,’ and I brought out a clean bowl from the kitchen and put them straight in—the cracked one and three more besides, and never touched them again till I brought them to table. ‘And what’s more, sir,’ I said, ‘there’s the other eight still here out of the dozen, and you can see for yourself they’re as good and fresh as they can be.’ Didn’t I, Cook?”

  “Yes, Hannah. And as for the chicken, that was a little beauty. It was that young, I says to Hannah at the time as it seemed a shame to casserole it, for it would ’ave roasted beautiful. But Mr. Urquhart is very partial to a casseroled chicken, he says as there’s more flavour to ’em that way, and I dunno but what he’s right.”

  “If done with a good beef stock,” pronounced Mr. Bunter, judicially, “the vegetables well packed in layers, on a foundation of bacon, not too fat, and the whole well seasoned with salt, pepper and paprika, there are few dishes to beat a casseroled chicken. For my own part, I would recommend a soupçon of garlic, but I am aware that such is not agreeable to all tastes.”

  “I can’t a-bear the smell or sight of the stuff,” said Mrs. Pettican, frankly, “but as for the rest I’m with you, always allowing that the giblets is added to the stock, and I would personally favour mushrooms when in season, but not them tinned or bottled sorts as looks pretty but has no more taste to ’em than boot buttons if so much. But the secret is in the cooking, as you know well, Mr. Bunter, the lid being kep’ well sealed down to ’old the flavour and the cookin’ being’ slow to make the juices perambulate through and through each other as you might say. I’m not denyin’ as sech is very ’ighly enjoyable, and so Hannah and me found it, though fond of a good roast fowl also, when well-basted with a good rich stuffing to rejuice the dryness. But as to roasting it, Mr. Urquhart wouldn’t hear of it, and being ’as it’s him that pays the bills, he has the right to give his orders.”

  “Well,” said Bunter, “it’s certain if there had been anything unwholesome about the casserole, you and Miss Westlock could scarcely have escaped it.”

  “No, indeed,” said Hannah, “for I won’t conceal that, being blessed with hearty appetites, we finished it every bit, except a little piece I gave to the cat. Mr. Urquhart asked to see the remains of it next day, and seemed quite put out to find it was all gone and the dish washed up—as though any washing-up was ever left over-night in this kitchen.”

  “I couldn’t a-bear myself if I had to begin the day with dirty dishes,” said Mrs. Pettican. “There was a drop of the soup left—not much, jest a wee drain, and Mr. Urquhart took that up to show to the doctor, and he tasted it and said it was very good, so Nurse Williams told us, though she didn’t have none of it herself.”

  “And as for the Burgundy,” said Hannah Westlock, “which was the only thing Mr. Boyes had to himself, like, Mr. Urquhart told me to cork it up tight and keep it. And just as well we did, because, of course, the police asked to see it when the time came.”

  “It was very far-seeing of Mr. Urquhart to take such precautions,” said Bunter, “when there wasn’t any thought at the time but that the poor man died naturally.”

  “That’s what Nurse Williams said,” replied Hannah, “but we put it down to him being a solicitor and knowing what ought to be done in a case of sudden death. Very particular he was, too—got me to put a bit of sticking-plaster over the mouth of the bottle and write my initials on it, so that it shouldn’t be opened accidental. Nurse Williams always said he expected an inquest, but Dr. Weare being there to speak to Mr. Boyes having had these kind of bilious attacks all his life, of course there was no question raised about giving the certificate.”

  “Of course not,” said Bunter, “but it’s very fortunate as it turns out that Mr. Urquhart should have understood his duty so well. Many’s the case his lordship has seen in which an innocent man has been brought near to the gallows for lack of a simple little precaution like that.”

  “And when I think how near Mr. Urquhart was to being away from ’ome at the time,” said Mrs. Pettican, “the thought fair gives me palpitations. Called away, he was, to that tiresome old woman what’s always a-dying and never dies. Why, he’s there now—Mrs. Wrayburn, up in Windle. Rich as Sneezes, she is, by all accounts, and no good to nobody, for she’s gone quite childish, so they say. A wicked old woman she was, too, in ’er day, and ’er other relations wouldn’t ’ave nothink to do with ’er, only Mr. Urquhart, and I don’t suppose ’e wouldn’t, neither, only ’
e’s her solicitor and it’s his duty so to do.”

  “Duty does not always lie in pleasant places,” commented Mr. Bunter, “as you and I well know, Mrs. Pettican.”

  “Them that are rich,” said Hannah Westlock, “find no difficulty about getting their duties performed for them. Which I will make bold to say, Mrs. Wrayburn would not have done if she had been poor, great-aunt or no great-aunt, knowing Mr. Urquhart.”

  “Ah!” said Bunter.

  “I pass no comments,” said Miss Westlock, “but you and me, Mr. Bunter, know how the world goes.”

  “I suppose Mr. Urquhart stands to gain something when the old woman does peg out,” suggested Bunter.

  “That’s as may be; he’s not a talker,” said Hannah, “but it stands to reason he wouldn’t be always giving up his time and tearing off to Westmorland for nothing. Though I wouldn’t care myself to put my hand to money that’s wickedly come by. It would not bring a blessing with it, Mr. Bunter.”

  “It’s easy talking, my girl, when you ain’t likely to be put in the way of temptation,” said Mrs. Pettican. “There’s many great families in the Kingdom what never would a bin ’eard of if somebody ’adn’t bin a little easier in their ways than what we’ve bin brought up to. There’s skelintons in a many cupboards if the truth was known.”

  “Ah!” said Bunter, “I believe you. I’ve seen diamond necklaces and fur coats that should have been labelled Wages of Sin if deeds done in the dark were to be proclaimed upon the house-tops, Mrs. Pettican. And there are families that hold their heads high that wouldn’t ever have existed but for some king or other taking his amusements on the wrong side of the blanket as the old saying goes.”

  “They say as some that was high up wasn’t too high to take notice of old Mrs. Wrayburn in her young days,” said Hannah, darkly. “Queen Victoria wouldn’t never allow her to act before the Royal Family—she knew too much about her goings-on.”