Читать онлайн книгу «Mystery at Olympia» автора John Rhode

Mystery at Olympia
John Rhode
The next time you visit Olympia, take a good look around and see if you think it would be possible to murder someone in the middle of the crowd there without being seen.The new Comet was fully expected to be the sensation of the annual Motor Show at Olympia. Suddenly, in the middle of the dense crowd of eager spectators, an elderly man lurched forward and collapsed in a dead faint. But Nahum Pershore had not fainted. He was dead, and it was his death that was to provide the real sensation of the show.A post-mortem revealed no visible wound, no serious organic disorder, no evidence of poison. Doctors and detectives were equally baffled, and the more they investigated, the more insoluble the puzzle became. Even Dr Lancelot Priestley’s un-rivalled powers of deduction were struggling to solve this case.







Copyright (#ulink_d1a8f8ea-4a08-5d52-a096-a1afffb7359b)
COLLINS CRIME CLUB
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by Collins Crime Club 1935
Copyright © Estate of John Rhode 1935
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1935, 2018
John Rhode asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008268787
Ebook Edition © April 2018 ISBN: 9780008268794
Version: 2017-12-11
Contents
Cover (#uc6893768-1faf-5c68-b95d-140e0cc1e3ca)
Title Page (#u50b018b9-def0-51b8-8758-603a1b5a72e7)
Copyright (#ufb52e658-7d16-5ada-8198-38916c56a788)
Chapter I (#ube6a79bf-455b-50d2-85a0-449f03ad9a8d)
Chapter II (#u676bd63d-00e3-537c-b7ba-03552aed9c0b)
Chapter III (#uf0f1f6ea-9f8c-5670-a937-f9cec93688c3)
Chapter IV (#u94d67943-bc47-555b-92d9-260b23003f74)
Chapter V (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter VI (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter VII (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter VIII (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter IX (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter X (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter XI (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter XII (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter XIII (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter XIV (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER I (#ulink_577048a1-f3d8-5029-b685-717f661c4df2)
The directors of the Comet Motor Car Company have always been remarkable for their boldness and foresight. By their adoption of new ideas, while their competitors were still mistrustful of the innovation, they have always managed to keep Comet cars just a little more up-to-date than the latest models produced by their rivals. But their acquisition of the patent rights in the Lovell Transmission, and the application of that ingenious invention to all their cars, from the largest to the smallest, provided a sensation which will not readily be forgotten by the motoring public.
To that public the appearance of the Lovell Transmission was of dramatic suddenness. Nobody outside the Comet works at Coventry knew of the months of research and experiment carried on behind locked doors. The young inventor himself, Charles Lovell, had worked night and day almost without intermission. It was said that he had to be forcibly removed from the test-bench before he would consent to take a hurried meal. And it is quite certain that during the final stages he slept in a hammock slung up at one end of the machine-shop.
But the secret was jealously guarded. Not until a week before the Olympia Motor Show was a single word allowed to leak out. And then the advertising agency which dealt with the propaganda of the Comet Motor Car Company was given its head. In every newspaper and periodical the advertisement appeared. It was announced that in future Comet cars would have no gear-box, no clutch, no radiator, and no self-starter, since all these had been rendered unnecessary by the adoption of the Lovell Transmission. No further information was vouchsafed, but the advertisements concluded with the invitation, printed in large type, ‘Come and see them on Stand 1001 at Olympia!’
This was provocative, as it was meant to be. The exhibition cars, swathed in tarpaulins, were brought to Olympia in furniture vans, each guarded by half a dozen of the firm’s employees. Still with the tarpaulins enveloping them, they were wheeled on to the stand, where their devoted guards kept an eagle-eyed watch. Not until five minutes before the show opened were the tarpaulins removed and the mysteries which they had hitherto concealed laid bare.
Stand 1001 was situated almost in the centre of the vast building. And, from the very moment when the public were admitted on the first day of the show, it became the focus of the vast crowds who paid for admittance, and perhaps even more of those that did not. The general public were inquisitive. Their curiosity had been aroused, and, like the Athenians of old, they were eager to hear or to tell of some new thing. But to the journalists, the dealers, the designers of competing makes, all those professionally concerned in the industry, the situation was agonising. To obtain information about this new move on the part of the Comet people was vital to their bread and butter.
The consequence was that during the whole duration of the show it needed the exercise of patience and perseverance to get within sight of Stand 1001. Actually to get on to it, to obtain a close view of one of the new models, might take, under the most favourable conditions, an hour or more. From ten in the morning till ten at night a closely packed throng, men and women, young and old, surged round the stand, upon which half a dozen alert young salesmen were kept busy in explaining to successive batches of visitors the advantages of the new system.
This was, of course, excellent publicity from the Comet people’s point of view. But it had its disadvantages. On the very first day of the show it was found impossible to conduct any business whatever on the overcrowded stand. Every inch of space was invaded by people anxious to see. Dealers wishing to place contracts and individual buyers were extricated from the mob and carried to the London show-rooms by a fleet of cars provided for the purpose. There, in comparative calm, they were enabled to place their orders.
On Monday, October 8th, Doctor Oldland, that prosperous Kensington practitioner, visited the Motor Show. He did so every year, and would not have missed the occasion for the world. He had a mechanical mind, to which the development of the motor car was an unfailing source of interest. But that was by no means the only attraction which the show held for him. He was not at all gregarious, preferring the company of one or two special friends to a larger assembly. But he liked to watch a crowd, to see a vast concourse of human beings obeying the same laws, flowing together in the same slow streams like so many particles of inert matter. Perhaps it satisfied his sardonic ideas upon the general futility of things. However this may be, he usually spent a good part of his time in one of the corners of the gallery, whence he could look down upon the busy scene below.
This year, though, his visit had a more immediate purpose. He had come to the conclusion that it was nearly time he bought a new car. It had taken him a long time to become reconciled to the idea. It was not the expense which had given him pause. He could have afforded a couple or more, had they been necessary. But he hated change, unless it could be proved to him that it brought with it some definite advantage. He had to be convinced, for instance, that a new drug or a new method of treatment were definite improvements upon their predecessors before he could be persuaded to adopt them himself.
Even as he paid for his admission at the turnstile, and mingled with the stream pouring into the great hall, his misgivings returned. There was nothing in the world the matter with his present car. It was only three years old, and still good for years of faithful service. True, his chauffeur had been hinting lately that it was more difficult than it used to be to keep it looking really smart. But what did that matter? Oldland told himself, with one of his queer wry smiles, that it was the same with cars as with men. A man like himself, rising fifty, must necessarily expend more energy on keeping himself smart than a spruce young fellow barely out of his teens. Like his own son Bill, for instance.
Dash it all, why hadn’t he got Bill to come down from Yorkshire to go round the stands with him? Bill was an engineer, and knew as much about the insides of motor cars as his father did of the insides of humans. Bill would be sympathetic, perhaps even enthusiastic, whatever make the old man decided upon. They were far too good friends ever to adopt an attitude of superiority to one another. But would Bill be able to refrain from saying, ‘I wish I’d known you were going to buy a new car, Dad! I could have put you on to something …’
With a short laugh, Oldland put these forebodings aside. He had come to the show to order a new car, and he was not going home until the order had been placed. He could not face his chauffeur, waiting outside with the old car, until this had been done. The man was quite right, confound him! A doctor’s turnout must be above suspicion of age or decay. It must be bright, new, and sparkling, in order to inspire trust in the breasts of misanthropic patients.
Oldland allowed himself to be carried forward by the stream, glancing without any great interest at the stands as he drifted slowly past them. Hawk-faced salesmen, detecting by some sixth sense a potential buyer, endeavoured to catch his eye. But he was too old a bird to be entangled in that snare. He knew the dangers of listening to the voice of the siren. ‘May I show you our new thirty horsepower model, sir? The very last word in luxury and efficiency!’ As though luxury could ever be efficient, or efficiency luxurious! The less wary might listen, lulled to their fate by a flow of smooth and seductive verbiage, until, conquered by the mesmeric powers of salesmanship, they placed an order. Not so the experienced Oldland. He would see for himself, and make his own decision.
The stream swept him unresisting towards Stand 1001. The Comet advertisement had not escaped his attention. His first reaction to it had been one of irritation. Why couldn’t the confounded people give particulars? What would be thought of a doctor who said, ‘I can dispense with drugs and bandages and splints. I’m not going to tell you how. If you want to know, you’ll have to come to my surgery and see.’ Yet that, in effect, was what these people said.
But his mechanical curiosity struggled with his annoyance, and eventually won the day. He would visit Stand 1001, and see what new-fangled stunt the Comet people had got hold of now. But only to satisfy his own inquisitiveness. Most certainly not with any intention to purchase. The Lovell Transmission might be all right for people who could find no better use for their money than to try out other people’s ideas with it. He wanted something that had years of experience on the road behind it.
The stream, of which Oldland was an unconsidered drop, slackened and came to rest as it approached Stand 1001. But it was still early in the afternoon, barely half-past two, and the crowd was not so dense as at other times. Some visitors had gone to lunch, others had not yet arrived from that meal. Oldland patiently edged his way towards the centre of attraction. In less time than he had any right to expect, he found himself standing within a few feet of one of the chassis which had given rise to so much speculation.
Within a few feet of it. By standing on tiptoe, he could manage to catch a glimpse of polished metal. But in between was a serried mass of humanity, so tightly packed together that it was impossible for any single individual to move or turn. Periodically, however, this mass surged and erupted, throwing off perhaps a dozen of its human particles. Others immediately took their places, and the mass coalesced as tightly as before.
Oldland, taking advantage of these periodical eruptions, gradually wormed his way to the front of the mass. Separated from his audience by the width of a stripped chassis, one of the Comet salesmen was explaining the principles of the Lovell Transmission to all who could press within earshot.
‘We claim that the control is the simplest that has yet been devised,’ he was saying. ‘There is, as you can see, no gear lever, since the car has no gears. Nor is there a self-starter button, since the engine is started by a method which I shall hope to explain later. In fact, the only controls are the hand brake lever, and these two pedals which you see, one on either side of the steering column.
‘The principle upon which the transmission works is entirely novel. The car is driven, not directly by the engine, but by a turbine, which gives a smoother motion than any reciprocating engine, however many cylinders it might have. This turbine is bolted to the back axle, immediately in front of the differential, thus doing away with the necessity for a long propeller shaft. The space between the turbine and the engine is taken up by this series of steel cylinders.’
The salesman had evidently learnt his lesson well, Oldland thought. If one were to interrupt him by an ill-timed question, he would probably have to begin all over again at the beginning. But none of his audience seemed inclined to ask such a question. All eyes were concentrated upon the various parts of the chassis, as the demonstrator pointed them out.
‘The engine drives a pump, of a new and highly efficient type. The inlet side of this pump is connected by this copper pipe of large bore to the exhaust end of the turbine. The delivery side of the pump is connected by this smaller steel pipe to the steel cylinders, which are interconnected. When the car is delivered, these cylinders are full or nearly full, of liquid sulphur dioxide.
‘The turbine is driven by this sulphur dioxide. When the connection between the cylinders and the turbine is opened, the liquid vaporises, and produces a rush of gas through the turbine, which revolves, and this drives the car. The gas, after doing its work, goes to the pump, where it is once more liquefied by pressure and returned to the cylinders.
‘You will observe that both pump and turbine are jacketted. The compression of the gas in the pump produces heat, and this is utilised in the following way. The pump jacket contains oil, and in this is immersed a carburettor of special design. The mixture, before reaching the engine, is thus heated to such a degree that the petrol is completely vaporised, thus giving ideal combustion in the engine cylinders.
‘The turbine jacket is similarly filled with oil. But here the effect produced is exactly the reverse of that of the pump. The vaporisation of the liquid sulphur dioxide produces cold, as in the ordinary refrigerator. The cold oil circulates by means of these pipes to the water-jacket, or rather oil-jacket, of the engine, which is thus kept at a suitable temperature.
‘Now I will explain the control, which is simplicity itself. The two pedals are interconnected in such a way that when one is pressed down, the other comes out. A gentle spring is fitted, so that if both feet are removed from the pedals, the right-hand one is fully depressed and, therefore, the left-hand one fully out. This, then, is the normal position of the pedals, as you see them on this chassis. In this position the brakes are fully on. But they can be released by pushing the hand-brake lever forward, should it be necessary to move the car when the driver is not in his seat.
‘The driver places one foot on each pedal, and slowly presses down the left-hand one. The first effect is to admit gas under pressure to the pump, which is caused to revolve, and so start the engine. Further pressure on the pedal releases the brakes. Still further pressure begins to open the connection between the cylinders of sulphur dioxide and the turbine, and the car begins to move. Subsequent pressure continues this opening, until, when the pedal is fully depressed, the car is developing its maximum power.
‘By this time the right-hand pedal has come out to its full extent. Pressure upon it will reverse the process. The gas will gradually be cut off from the turbine. Then the engine will be stopped and finally the brakes applied. In driving, the speed of the car is regulated by alternate pressure of the feet, using the left to accelerate, and the right to slow up.’
Oldland blinked, as his imagination grasped the idea. Ingenious, very. The Comet people, with their reputation at stake, wouldn’t have taken up a thing like this if they hadn’t been pretty sure of it. But, somehow, he didn’t see that elderly chauffeur of his driving by alternate pressure of the feet. He would be lost without his clutch and his gears and all the other gadgets he was accustomed to.
Having thus satisfied his curiosity, and decided that the Lovell Transmission, in spite of its ingenuity, was not for him, Oldland would have liked to extricate himself from the throng which surrounded him. But that was manifestly impossible, until one of the periodical eruptions occurred. And, at the moment, nobody else seemed disposed to move. The demonstrator had turned to a table, upon which were exhibited a number of metal objects of unusual shape.
‘Here we have some of the parts of which the transmission is composed,’ he continued. Oldland noticed now for the first time that similar pieces of metal were arranged at intervals all around the stand. The demonstrator picked up a piece of polished steel, the size and shape of a large mushroom. ‘The speed of the engine is controlled by the amount of gas which is allowed to pass to the turbine. This, which is known as the pressure valve …’
He was interrupted by a commotion, somewhere behind Oldland’s back. There was a sort of grunt, followed by a sudden cry, ‘Look out!’ Then a confused sound of voices. ‘He’s fainted … Nearly knocked me over … Steady there … Hold up his head …’
Oldland’s professional instincts exerted themselves in a flash. ‘I am a doctor!’ he said loudly, struggling to turn round. A way was somehow made for him to the edge of the stand. There, lying on his back with his mouth wide open and a dozen anxious faces bending over him, was an elderly man, plainly dressed. He had grey hair, a distinctly florid complexion, and was rather more than inclined to stoutness.
‘Stand back,’ said Oldland. ‘That is, if you can manage it.’ And, by some miracle, the human mass obeyed him. Compressed to its utmost limit though it had appeared, it contrived to extend that compression a stage farther, until Oldland found room to drop on one knee beside the motionless form.
The salesman, thus interrupted in the full flood of his demonstration, merely shrugged his shoulders. A man had fainted! There was no novelty about that. He was the third, or was it the fourth, since the show had opened. It wasn’t everybody who could stand a crowd like that assembled round Stand 1001. The salesman picked up the telephone which stood beside him, and rang up the first-aid post stationed in the building. ‘Man fainted on Stand 1001,’ he said languidly. ‘Better send along the stretcher.’
Meanwhile Oldland had deftly loosened the unconscious man’s collar. He put his hand over his heart and his face hardened. He straightened himself and faced the salesman. ‘We must get him out of this, quick,’ he said.
‘All right, doctor,’ replied the salesman. ‘I’ve sent for the stretcher. It’ll be along in a minute.’
Oldland dropped down once more by his patient, and began to massage the region of the heart. He was thus engaged when the stretcher-bearers arrived, having driven their way through the compact mass of humanity. The old man was lifted on to the stretcher, and borne away to the first-aid post, Oldland walking beside him.
As the stretcher was placed upon a table, Oldland resumed his ministrations. The first-aid post was well equipped. He called for a hypodermic syringe, and prepared a powerful injection, which he administered. Then he resumed his massage. While he was thus engaged a police sergeant drifted into the room, asked a few questions of the stretcher-bearers in a low voice, then stood watching the doctor.
After a few minutes, Oldland shook his head fiercely. As his hands dropped to his side, he looked up and met the sergeant’s questioning glance. ‘The man’s dead,’ he said curtly. ‘His heart had stopped beating before I got to him. No chance of starting it again now, I’m afraid.’
The sergeant took out his notebook and pencil. ‘What was the cause of death, sir?’ he asked.
‘Can’t tell you that,’ Oldland replied. ‘The mode of dying was syncope, if that means anything to you. The coroner will order a post-mortem, I suppose.’
The sergeant endeavoured to write the word syncope, and failed after one or two attempts. ‘I must ask you for your name and address, sir,’ he said.
Oldland gave the required information. ‘I should have thought that this poor chap’s name and address were rather more important,’ he added slowly.
‘I’m coming to that, sir,’ the sergeant replied. He approached the corpse, and very gingerly inserted his hand into the breast pocket of the coat. From this he extracted a bulging wallet, in which were a roll of notes and a few visiting cards. These were all similar, and were engraved ‘Mr Nahum Pershore, Firlands, Weybridge.’ The sergeant made a note of this, then pocketed the wallet. He glanced at the body irresolutely, then turned once more to Oldland. ‘Is there anything more to be done, sir?’ he asked.
‘Not so far as I’m concerned,’ Oldland replied. ‘I can’t bring back the dead to life. The rest’s your job, I fancy.’
The sergeant still seemed dissatisfied. ‘You couldn’t give me a hint of what he died of, sir?’ he asked.
‘No, I can’t. There are no visible signs of violence, if that’s what you’re getting at. The man just died. You’ll probably find that he was suffering from fatty degeneration of the heart, or something. The best thing you can do is to get him along to the mortuary, and turn him over to the police surgeon.’
Oldland waited until the ambulance arrived, and then left the building. Both the crowd and the internal intricacies of motor cars had temporarily lost interest for him. He went outside and regained his waiting car. Seeing his chauffeur’s inquiring but very respectful glance, he shook his head. ‘Not today,’ he said. ‘I’ll come back another time, perhaps.’
He drove homewards, frowning over the sudden death of Mr Nahum Pershore. Professionally the incident was without significance for him. No doubt the post-mortem would reveal some morbid condition which would account for it. But it was an infernal nuisance, just the same. He would have to attend the inquest, and that would mean a loss of valuable time. Oh, well, it couldn’t be helped!
His thoughts turned from Mr Pershore to the behaviour of the car. She certainly did run wonderfully smoothly. It would be a shame to get rid of her. If she were repainted and touched up here and there, she could be made to last another year at least. Yes, that was what he would do.
So the incident of Mr Pershore’s death was not without its economic consequences. It reduced by one the ranks of the Potential Buyers. By two, possibly, since Mr Nahum Pershore might have intended to buy a car. But, upon the activities of the show itself, it had no effect whatever. Mr Pershore’s body having been decently removed from Stand 1001, the salesman resumed his interrupted explanation. ‘This, which is known as the pressure valve, is contained in a housing on the right side of the pump. Its function is …’
His voice droned on, inaudible, except to the intent group facing him, above the subdued roar with which the voices of the crowd filled the building. And up and down the alleys between the stands flowed the human stream, now pursuing a slow and steady course, now eddying about some exhibit of special interest. The incident of Mr Pershore’s collapse had been witnessed by perhaps a couple of dozen people, none of whom knew that it had been fatal. So trivial a matter was scarcely a subject for comment. It may be that two acquaintances met by chance at one of the refreshment bars. ‘Hallo, Jimmy, what’s yours?’ ‘Mine’s a double whisky and a splash. Seen that new contraption of the Comet people’s yet?’ ‘Yes, I’ve just been having a look at it. Terrible crush on their stand. An old boy fainted just as I got there.’ ‘I don’t wonder. Felt like fainting myself when I was there this morning. Well, here’s luck!’ And the subject of Mr Pershore would be forgotten.
That evening, soon after ten, when the last of the public had been shepherded from the hall, and the exhausted staffs were clearing up for the night, the sales manager of the Solent Motor Car Company was fussing about his stand. He was not in the best of tempers. Solent and Comet cars were in much the same class, and an intense rivalry had always existed between them.
As it happened, the Solent people had made very few alterations to their models for this particular year, with the result that there was nothing startlingly novel exhibited on their stand. Since novelty is what attracts a very large percentage of visitors to the show, this had resulted in comparatively few inquiries. And yet the Solent stand, number 1276, was very favourably placed to attract notice. It was close to the entrance, almost the first thing to catch the visitor’s eyes as he entered the building.
The sales manager had a definite sense of grievance against his directors. If they hadn’t been such a sleepy lot of fatheads, they would have seen to it that the works got out something new, and not left it to the Comet people to steal a march on them like this. How the devil could a fellow be expected to sell cars to people if he had nothing out-of-the-way to show them?
He happened to glance through the window of a resplendent Solent saloon, and something lying on the floor at the back caught his eye. He opened the door, and picked up a mushroom-shaped piece of steel. ‘What the devil’s this?’ he exclaimed, frowning at the unfamiliar object.
One of his assistants, standing near by, answered him. ‘It looks like one of the exhibits from the Comet stand,’ he said.
‘What? One of those people’s ridiculous gadgets? How do you know that?’
The assistant, realising that he had given himself away, looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, I just took a stroll round their stand in my lunch hour,’ he replied sheepishly.
‘Oh, you did, did you? And I suppose you’ve been recommending people who come here to look at our stuff to follow your example. And how did this damn thing get on our stand? Perhaps you brought it back with you as a souvenir?’
The assistant attempted the mild answer which turneth away wrath. ‘I didn’t do that. But I’ll take it back to the Comet stand, if you like.’
‘Take it back? Let them come and fetch it if they want to. I’d have you know that employees of our firm aren’t paid to run errands for the Comet people. And see that you’re here sharp at nine tomorrow morning. I want some alterations made on this stand before the show opens.’ And, without vouchsafing a good-night, the sales manager departed.
His assistant watched him leave the hall. Then, since he had a friend in the Comet firm, he picked up the pressure valve, for such it was, and carried it to stand 1001. There he encountered the demonstrator who had been holding forth when Mr Pershore collapsed. ‘Hallo, George, this is a bit of your property, isn’t it?’ he said.
George Sulgrave recognised the pressure valve at once. ‘Where did you get that from, Henry?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘My Great White Chief found it inside one of the cars on our stand. Somebody must have picked it up, and then, finding it a bit heavy to carry about, put it down in the most convenient place.’
Sulgrave glanced round the stand. There was certainly a gap in the row of gadgets which bordered it. ‘Yes, that’s right,’ he said. ‘Some of these blokes would pinch the cars from under our very noses, if they thought they could get away with them. Thanks very much, Harry. We shall have to have these things chained to the floor, or something like that. How’s business on your stand?’
‘Simply can’t compete with the orders we’re getting,’ Harry lied readily. Loyalty to one’s firm is a greater virtue than truthfulness to one’s friend, as Sulgrave would have been the first to agree. ‘We’ve sold all our output for next year already.’
‘Same here,’ replied Sulgrave, no more truthfully than Harry. ‘You must come down and look us up when this confounded show is over. Irene will be glad to see you.’
‘Thanks very much. I’d like to run down one evening. Good-night, George.’
‘Good-night, Harry. Much obliged to you for your trouble.’
The attendants on the various stands completed their labours and went home. An almost uncanny hush settled upon the vast and now dimly lighted expanse of Olympia. Wrapped in a similar hush, and an even dimmer light, the body of Mr Nahum Pershore lay on a slab in the mortuary, rigid and motionless.

CHAPTER II (#ulink_c5752f73-4a76-5144-a794-c9f93a14eac8)
Mr Nahum Pershore had purchased all that messuage and tenement known as Firlands, Weybridge, some five years before his death. He had got it cheap, since, as the agent who had sold him the place had observed, it wasn’t everybody’s house.
This was quite true. Firlands was an outstanding example of the worst type of Victorian domestic architecture. One felt that the designer’s aim had been to achieve the maximum of pretentiousness without, and discomfort within. Still, nobody could deny that the house was ostentatious, and Mr Pershore liked ostentation. Besides, as Mr Pershore, who had amassed a considerable fortune by speculative building, could see at a glance, the house was solidly built and in excellent repair.
Mr Pershore was a bachelor, and he brought with him to Firlands his housekeeper, Mrs Markle. Long ago, fifty years at least, Nahum Pershore and Nancy Beard had played together in the builder’s yard belonging to Nahum’s father. They had grown up together, and perhaps, but for a series of events which had long ago lost their importance, they might have married. But, somehow, Nancy had drifted into matrimony with the son of Mr Markle, who kept the tobacconist’s shop over the way.
Nahum had risen in the world, thanks to a certain pertinacity and acumen. Nancy had not. After twenty years of married life, during which she had encountered many vicissitudes, she found herself a childless widow with nothing but her wits to support her. For a time she eked out an existence by obliging one or two families in the neighbourhood. In fact, she had achieved the status of a charwoman. And then one day, casting about for something more lucrative and less exacting, she thought of her old companion Nahum Pershore. She sat down and wrote him a letter. It was indicative of the gulf which had opened between them that in this she addressed him as ‘Dear Sir.’
Had she been inspired with some form of second sight, she could not have posted the letter at a more favourable moment. Mr Pershore was suffering from a profound weariness of housekeepers. They had come and gone, each more unsatisfactory than the last. Some had been young, and these had displayed tendencies which seriously alarmed the bachelor instincts of their employer. Others had been old, and these had been incompetent, and allowed the servants to do what they liked with them. He had just terminated the unpleasant business of giving notice to the last of them, when Mrs Markle’s letter arrived.
Nancy Beard, or Nancy Markle, as she was now! He hadn’t given her a thought for years. But he remembered her perfectly, both as a child, when they had been such good friends, and later, as a tall, lanky girl of nineteen. Tall she had been, certainly. Taller than he was himself. It may have been, though the thought did not occur to Mr Pershore, that that was why he had never married her. Or it might have been her ungainliness, or the lack of her pretensions to any sort of beauty. Mr Pershore, looking back, wondered what that thin-faced chap Markle could have seen in her.
Could he put Nancy Markle in the way of finding a job? That was the gist of her letter. Well, perhaps he might. She was within a year of his own age, neither too young nor too old. She had always been a dutiful daughter before her marriage, helping her mother in the house, instead of gadding about as so many of them did. It seemed quite likely that she would make him an excellent housekeeper. But …
It was this doubt that caused Mr Pershore to hesitate. He had only to shut his eyes to recall vivid pictures of himself and Nancy walking home from school together, or sitting with their arms round one another on a pile of timber in his father’s yard. Had Nancy retained the same vivid recollections, and, if so, how would this affect their future relations? He looked at the letter once more, and the inscription ‘Dear Sir’ reassured him. He wrote to her, asking her to come and see him.
His misgivings evaporated at the interview which ensued. Whatever memories Nancy Markle may have had, she kept them strictly to herself. Her experiences and her present condition were in such striking contrast to those of her former playmate that, in her eyes, they now moved in wholly different spheres. From the moment of their meeting again, their relative positions were established. Mr Pershore was the master, Mrs Markle was willing and obedient servant. It was as though the very knowledge of one another’s Christian names had been erased from their minds. Before the interview terminated, Mrs Markle had been definitely engaged as Mr Pershore’s housekeeper.
That had been ten years earlier. Mrs Markle was now a tall, gaunt, loose-limbed woman with wisps of iron-grey hair. But she had turned out a perfect housekeeper. Mr Pershore very rarely so much as saw her. The smoothness of the running of his household, however, was ample proof of her efficiency behind the scenes. Mr Pershore allowed her a perfectly free hand in everything which concerned his domestic arrangements. Such matters as the engagement of servants were her province alone. Of these a staff of four was employed at Firlands. Cook, parlourmaid, housemaid and kitchenmaid. The garden was the care of a jobbing gardener, who came three times a week.
Under Mrs Markle’s rule the domestic routine was regular, but not too exacting. Breakfast was served in the servants’ hall at eight o’clock, and in the dining-room and housekeeper’s room simultaneously at a quarter to nine. Lunch, if Mr Pershore happened to be at home during the day, or if visitors were staying in the house, was at a quarter past one. Mrs Markle, who was a very small eater, did not lunch. She preferred to make herself a cup of tea, with a slice or two of bread and butter, in the housekeeper’s room, at any time she happened to fancy it. Dinner was served at eight, and supper, in the servants’ hall and housekeeper’s room, at nine.
On the day of his death Mr Pershore had left home, as was his custom three or four days a week, about ten o’clock. Mrs Markle spent the morning supervising the work of the household—she was by no means above taking a hand herself, if any of the servants had more than their usual share of work—and telephoning orders to the tradesmen. There were no visitors staying in the house, and Mr Pershore had announced his intention of not being home until the evening. By one o’clock Mrs Markle had finished her morning’s work, and was sitting in her own most comfortable room. She contemplated spending a nice quiet afternoon with her sewing.
But her peaceful occupation was rudely disturbed by the sound of running footsteps, and an imperious knocking at the door. Before she had time to say ‘Come in!’ the door burst open, and the cook projected herself into the room, and subsided into a chair, too breathless for speech.
Mrs Rugg had been cook at Firlands for the past three years. She was stout, and rather deaf, and Mrs Markle secretly suspected her of over-indulgence in gin on the occasions of her evenings out. But she was an excellent cook and thoroughly reliable. Never before had she been known to behave with such a lack of decorum.
For the moment Mrs Markle imagined that she had had recourse to some secret store of spirits. But, before she could make any remark, Mrs Rugg had recovered sufficient breath to gasp out her news. ‘Oh, Mrs Markle! It’s Jessie! She’s come over terrible bad! In the kitchen. Gave me such a turn!’
Mrs Markle rose, with a swift movement characteristic of her. Leaving Mrs Rugg gasping in her chair she hurried along the passage towards the kitchen. Jessie Twyford was the parlourmaid, a pretty girl, the daughter of the postman, on whose recommendation she had been engaged. Mrs Markle, in spite of her haste, found time to wonder what could be the matter with Jessie. She had been all right, barely an hour before, when Mrs Markle had helped her to give the dining-room an extra turn out. Certainly Mrs Markle had noticed nothing amiss then. Besides, the Twyfords were a highly respectable family. Could it be?
She reached the kitchen, with these dark suspicions still unresolved. And, at first glance, she could see that Jessie was in a very bad way. She had collapsed into a chair, out of which she seemed to be in danger of slipping every moment. She had been very sick, and a hoarse moaning sound escaped from her parched throat.
A cursory inspection satisfied Mrs Markle that her suspicions were unfounded. ‘Why, Jessie, whatever’s the matter?’ she asked, as she bent over the girl.
‘Oh, Mrs Markle, I’m going to die!’ Jessie replied despairingly, between her moans.
‘A strong girl like you doesn’t die as easily as all that,’ said Mrs Markle cheerfully. She beckoned to the kitchenmaid, a strapping wench, who was standing by helplessly, with eyes wide open in horror. ‘Take hold of her under the knees, Kate,’ she continued. ‘That’s right. We’ll carry her on to the sofa in the servants’ hall.’
Jessie wailed piteously as they lifted her, but she seemed a little more comfortable when she had been deposited on the sofa. ‘Now then, Kate, look sharp!’ said Mrs Markle. ‘Fill a couple of hot-water bottles, and put them on her stomach. Then see if she can drink a drop of water, while I go and telephone for Doctor Formby.’
She hurried away to the telephone. Doctor Formby, who lived a short distance away, and upon whose panel were all the members of the domestic staff at Firlands, was at lunch. On hearing Mrs Markle’s account of Jessie’s symptoms, he promised to come round at once.
Mrs Markle returned to her patient. Jessie was suffering from a parching thirst, but every mouthful of water she managed to take caused a return of her sickness. She complained of cramp in the limbs, and continually tossed about to obtain relief. Mrs Markle was doing her best to make her comfortable when Doctor Formby arrived.
He felt the girl’s pulse and looked at her tongue. Then he issued hurried instructions to Mrs Markle. Between them, they managed to wash out the remaining contents of the girl’s stomach. Then Doctor Formby gave her an injection, and watched her until it had taken effect. He turned to Mrs Markle. ‘She’s been sick, you say?’ he asked.
‘Terrible sick, doctor,’ the housekeeper replied. ‘All over the kitchen floor.’
‘Well, don’t let them clear it up just yet. I shall want a specimen. Have you got any weed-killer in the house?’
‘Weed-killer! No, there’s none in the house. Bulstrode, that does the garden, may have some in the potting-shed. But I could easily send one of the girls into the town to buy some, if you’re wanting it.’
‘No, I don’t want it,’ replied Doctor Formby slowly. He wondered if it were safe to confide in Mrs Markle, and decided that it was. He knew her as a sensible woman, who could hold her tongue, and was not in the habit of becoming panic-stricken. ‘I asked if you had any weed-killer in the house because I wondered whether Jessie could have taken any,’ he continued. ‘I don’t want you to say anything to anybody else, Mrs Markle. But, between ourselves, this looks to me very like a case of acute arsenical poisoning.’
Mrs Markle gave him a horrified glance. ‘Arsenic!’ she exclaimed. ‘There’s never been anything like that in the house, to my knowledge.’
‘I can’t be certain, until I’ve had time to make a test,’ replied Doctor Formby. ‘But it’s only fair to warn you that I’m pretty sure of it. The point is, where did the stuff come from? She hasn’t seemed depressed or anything lately, has she?’
‘Jessie? Why, she’s the most cheerful girl I’ve ever had to do with. Always laughing and singing about the place.’
‘None of the other girls got a grudge against her, by any chance?’
Mrs Markle shook her head decidedly. ‘Everybody who knows Jessie likes her,’ she replied.
‘Well, she must have taken it accidentally. Don’t let any of the others have any dinner. It won’t do them any harm to starve for a few hours. And try to find out what she’s had to eat today. I shall stay with her for the present, till I see how things go.’
Mrs Markle went off to find the cook, whom she questioned closely. Jessie had had the same breakfast as the rest, none of whom had felt any ill effects. She had had a cup of tea at eleven, from a teapot which Mrs Rugg herself had shared with her. ‘And apart from that, she’s had nothing from my larder,’ concluded the cook with conviction.
The housekeeper went up to Jessie’s room and searched it diligently. She found nothing whatever to eat or drink, not even a biscuit or a packet of sweets. Then she returned to the servants’ hall, and made her report to Doctor Formby.
‘Well, it’s very queer,’ said the doctor. ‘Stay with her for a minute or two, will you, Mrs Markle? I’ll go and collect my specimen, and then the mess can be cleared up.’
He returned with a sealed jar, which he put in his bag. Then he resumed his vigil by the sofa, holding the unconscious girl’s wrist. Not until half-past three did he pronounce his verdict. ‘She’ll pull through now, I think,’ he said. ‘She’d better not be moved for the present, but keep her as warm as you can. I’ll send a nurse round, and come round myself in a few hours’ time.’ He paused, and looked fixedly at Mrs Markle. ‘I’m going back home now to test this specimen. You realise that if the test confirms the presence of arsenic, I shall have to inform the police?’
Mrs Markle bowed her grey head silently. The idea of the police had been in her mind ever since the ominous word arsenic had first been mentioned. But, whatever would Mr Pershore say?
A rather awkward pause ensued, broken by a timid knocking on the door. ‘Who’s there?’ Mrs Markle called out sharply.
‘It’s me, Kate, Mrs Markle. Sergeant Draper’s here, and he’s asking to see you.’
Doctor Formby and Mrs Markle exchanged startled glances. Sergeant Draper was a genial officer from the local police station. This was talking of the devil, with a vengeance. Had news of Jessie’s attack and its cause got abroad already?’
‘We’ll see him together,’ said the doctor, with sudden determination. ‘I don’t want this girl left alone. It had better be in here.’
Mrs Markle nodded. ‘Bring the sergeant down here, will you, Kate?’ she called.
Again that awkward pause, till the door opened and Sergeant Draper appeared. He was a massive, imposing-looking person, and usually wore an expression of the utmost cheerfulness. But now his countenance was one of portentous solemnity.
His eyebrows went up in astonishment as he recognised Doctor Formby and the unconscious girl on the sofa. ‘I beg pardon for intruding, I’m sure,’ he exclaimed. ‘I didn’t know that there was anybody taken bad in the house. Why, ’tis Jessie Twyford, surely!’ He took a step forward towards the sofa, then hurriedly checked himself, but his eyes remained fixed upon Jessie’s ashen face.
‘You didn’t know?’ said Doctor Formby slowly. ‘Then what brings you here, sergeant?’
Sergeant Draper averted his gaze from the girl, and fixed it on Mrs Markle. ‘It’s sorrowful news I bring,’ he replied. ‘Do you know where Mr Pershore went today, Mrs Markle?’
‘No, I don’t,’ said the housekeeper. ‘Mr Pershore doesn’t consult me on his comings and goings. To his office, likely enough. He usually goes there on Monday mornings.’
‘You didn’t know that he’d gone to the Motor Show, then?’
‘No, I didn’t. But why shouldn’t he, if he wanted to? It’s more than once that he’s spoken of buying a car.’
‘Well, however it may be, he did go to Olympia. They’ve just rung up the station from there.’
‘Rung up? What should they ring up for?’ And then a sudden comprehension of the sergeant’s meaning dawned upon Mrs Markle. ‘There’s—there’s nothing happened to Mr Pershore, is there?’ she whispered urgently.
The sergeant lowered his head. ‘He’s dead, ma’am,’ he replied gently. ‘Fainted away suddenly, and passed off without a bit of pain.’
Mrs Markle’s face contracted, but apart from that she gave no sign. Her experiences before she became Mr Pershore’s housekeeper had taught her to bear the hardest blows of Fate without complaint. The two men, watching her, had no indication of what was passing through her mind. Memories of childhood, perhaps. Nahum’s arm about her waist in that almost forgotten builder’s yard. Or of the future, stretching interminably into lonely old age, pervaded with the smell of soap-suds and dishwater.
Doctor Formby was the first to make any move. He took Mrs Markle’s arm and led her to a chair. Then he opened his bag, uncorked a bottle, and poured some of its contents into a glass. ‘Drink this!’ he said.
Mrs Markle obeyed him without protest. He watched her for a moment, then turned to the sergeant. ‘Do you know the cause of Mr Pershore’s death?’ he asked quietly.
‘No, sir, that I don’t. All they said on the telephone was that a gentleman had had a fit at the show and died. They’d found a card in his pocket with Mr Pershore’s name and address on it. When they described what the gentleman looked like I knew it must be Mr Pershore, and I told them so. Then they said I’d better come round here and break the news to his family. I thought the best thing I could do was to see Mrs Markle.’
Dr Formby seemed to give only half his attention to what the sergeant was saying. ‘What have they done with the body?’ he asked abruptly.
‘It’s been taken to the mortuary, sir. There’ll be an inquest, and after that the relatives …’
‘Oh, yes,’ exclaimed Doctor Formby impatiently. ‘I’ve never attended Mr Pershore, nor so far as I know has any other doctor in this town. But he’s always struck me as a man of at least average health. Yet you say he has died suddenly from some unascertained cause. Two or three hours ago that girl on the sofa, who’s at least as healthy as Mr Pershore, was taken suddenly ill. Queer, isn’t it?’
‘What you would call a remarkable coincidence, sir,’ replied the sergeant. ‘Is it anything serious that’s the matter with Jessie Twyford?’
‘That I’ll tell you later,’ said Doctor Formby. He went up to the housekeeper, who was sitting motionless in her chair. ‘You’ll be all right if we leave you, Mrs Markle? I’ll have a nurse round here in less than an hour.’
His voice seemed to galvanise her into life. ‘I shall be all right, doctor,’ she replied. ‘You can trust me to see that Jessie is properly looked after.’
The doctor and the policeman left the house. Mrs Markle, after seeing that her patient was properly wrapped up, went into the kitchen and asked Mrs Rugg to make her a cup of tea. Then she returned to the servants’ hall, and drew up a chair to the sofa.
But her thoughts were not of Jessie, who now appeared to be sleeping peacefully. Her brain was wrestling with the sergeant’s words, which refused to crystallise themselves into any credible fact. The idea of death and the idea of Mr Pershore were like drops of oil and vinegar, refusing to mingle. In her efforts to make herself realise that her employer was dead, everything else became of secondary importance. Even Jessie’s illness, Doctor Formby’s extraordinary suggestion that she had swallowed arsenic, seemed the merest trifles.
As she sipped the hot, strong tea, the central fact, though remaining incomprehensible, became fixed in her brain. Mr Pershore was dead. It was her obvious duty to inform his relatives without delay.
Nahum Pershore had been the youngest of three. Nancy Markle hardly remembered his two sisters. They had been much older than Nahum, had been out in the world when he was still a child playing in his father’s yard. But she knew all about them. Rebecca, the eldest, had married young Bryant, who worked in the office of the local solicitor. A pushing young fellow, was Bryant. He had passed all his examinations, and become a solicitor himself. Then he had gone into partnership in London. The Bryants had an only child, Philip, who had adopted his father’s profession, and was now a partner in the firm of Capes, Bryant and Capes, of Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Rebecca Bryant and her husband had both died many years ago. But Philip was very much alive. It was only the day before that he had spent the afternoon and evening at Firlands.
Then there was Prudence, or as she was more generally known, Betty Rissington, Mr Pershore’s niece. She was the daughter of his other sister, Naomi. Miss Betty must be told, of course. But, unfortunately, Mrs Markle did not know where to find her. She had been staying at Firlands for the past fortnight, and had only left that very morning. But where she had gone Mrs Markle didn’t know. She was a very independent young lady, was Miss Betty. Liked going about on her own. But perhaps Mr Philip would know where to find her. Or Mr Philip’s wife, though it was Mrs Markle’s private opinion that the two ladies didn’t take to one another much.
The housekeeper finished her tea, then, after calling in Mrs Rugg to keep an eye on Jessie, went upstairs to the telephone. She called up the office of Messrs Capes, Bryant and Capes, and asked to speak to Mr Philip Bryant upon a personal matter. She was put through and heard Philip’s voice, ‘Well, Mrs Markle, what is it?’
It seemed to her that there was a tinge of anticipation in his tone, almost as though he expected to hear bad news of his uncle. But she dismissed the idea, as having its sole origin in her fancy. Clearly and concisely she told Philip of Sergeant Draper’s visit to Firlands, and of the news which he had brought.
So long a pause ensued after she had finished speaking, that she thought she had been cut off. But at last came Philip’s voice again, high-pitched and irresolute. ‘I can’t understand it. My uncle died suddenly? And at the Motor Show? It’s most extraordinary. I must have further details. I’ll go round to Olympia now, at once. I think that will be best. Then I’ll come down to Firlands as soon as I can.’
‘Very well, Mr Philip. Excuse me, but do you know where I can find Miss Betty?’
‘Betty? Isn’t she staying with you? She was when I was there yesterday.’
‘Yes, Mr Philip. But she left this morning. I thought you might know where she was.’
‘I’ve no idea. It doesn’t matter. We’ll talk about that when I see you. Good-bye, Mrs Markle.’ And he rang off.
Meanwhile Doctor Formby and Sergeant Draper had left the house together. ‘You’d better come along to my surgery,’ the doctor had said. ‘I’ll give you a lift in my car. Jump in. You’ll find you’ve got another job in front of you this afternoon, unless I’m greatly mistaken.’
They drove to the surgery together, where the doctor told Draper to sit down and watch. He produced some chemical apparatus from a cupboard, and into it put some of the contents of the sealed jar, and then some fragments of zinc and acid. The mixture frothed and bubbled, evolving a gas which escaped through a narrow tube. Doctor Formby put his nose to the end of the tube and sniffed. ‘Ah, I thought so!’ he exclaimed. ‘Come here, Draper. Do you smell anything?’
The sergeant inhaled deeply. ‘Yes, that I do, sir. Smells to me like garlic, same as them Eyetalian chaps do use.’
Doctor Formby nodded. ‘Smells like it, but it isn’t,’ he said. ‘It’s arsenic.’
‘Arsenic, sir,’ exclaimed Draper, hurriedly withdrawing from the vicinity of the apparatus.
‘Yes, arsenic. That’s what we call Marsh’s Test. And that smell of garlic that you noticed means that Jessie Twyford has been swallowing arsenic. Fortunately for her, she was very sick, or she would have been a dead woman by now.’
‘Why, wherever did she get the stuff from, sir?’
‘That nobody seems to know. Perhaps she’ll be able to tell us when she’s feeling a bit better. Now, look here, Draper, it seems to me that there’s something devilish queer going on. Mr Pershore dies suddenly from some unexplained cause, and on the same afternoon his parlourmaid is found suffering from acute arsenical poisoning.’
A malignant look came into the sergeant’s face. ‘You don’t think, do you, sir …’ he began. But he seemed unable to finish the sentence.
‘Think what?’ the doctor asked.
‘Why, that there was anything—anything between Mr Pershore and Jessie?’
‘That’s a question you can’t possibly expect me to answer. If I were you, I’d get along to the police station and report the facts at once. You can say that I was called to Firlands by Mrs Markle, and found Jessie suffering from arsenical poisoning. That test you have just seen me do was rough, but conclusive. If further tests are required, I’ve plenty more material in this jar, which I’ll seal up in your presence, I consider it most important that these facts should be made known to the coroner who conducts the inquest upon Mr Pershore.’
‘Very good, sir,’ replied Sergeant Draper. ‘I’ll see to it at once.’

CHAPTER III (#ulink_6242cf02-8be8-53c2-a216-ef54d1bd4dda)
It was due to Sergeant Draper’s report, and to the action taken upon it by his superiors, that Philip Bryant found a stranger installed at Firlands upon his arrival there that evening. This stranger, a heavily built man with searching eyes, introduced himself as Superintendent Hanslet, of the Criminal Investigation Department.
Philip did not seem overjoyed at the presence of the intruder. ‘I assume that your presence here has some connection with my uncle’s death, superintendent?’ he said stiffly.
‘Hardly that, Mr Bryant,’ Hanslet replied. ‘I am here to investigate a case of poisoning which has occurred in this house.’
Mr Pershore’s death seemed already to have had a disturbing effect upon his nephew’s nerves. And the abruptness of this second catastrophe threw him completely off his balance. He took a step backwards, holding out his hands in front of him as though to ward off some unseen danger. ‘Poison!’ he exclaimed, in a queer shrill voice. ‘What do you mean? Who’s been poisoned, and by what? Has there been an escape of gas?’
‘Shall we sit down, Mr Bryant?’ replied Hanslet quietly. They were still in the hall, where the superintendent had met Philip upon his arrival. ‘That’s better. I thought perhaps you might have heard. The parlourmaid, Jessie Twyford, has been poisoned by arsenic, and I am endeavouring to trace the source of the poison.’
Philip’s face became a study in profound bewilderment. ‘By arsenic,’ he exclaimed. ‘What an extraordinary thing. And you don’t know where she got it from?’
‘Not yet. But I hope to find out very soon. Doctor Formby is here, and has gone to see whether the girl is in a fit state to be questioned. I expect him back any moment. Ah, here he is.’
Doctor Formby appeared, with Mrs Markle in attendance. He nodded to Philip, and then addressed Hanslet. ‘We’ve got Jessie up to her own room, where she’ll be more comfortable,’ he said. ‘She’s conscious now, and there won’t be any harm in asking her a few questions. But you’d better leave it to Mrs Markle to do the talking. It may upset her to be questioned by a stranger. Shall we go up?’
He made a gesture towards the staircase. Mrs Markle led the way; followed by Hanslet and Doctor Formby. Philip was left standing alone in the hall.
Jessie Twyford was lying in bed, looking rather flustered at being the centre of so much attention. The room was in semi-darkness, and as the three entered it, the two men stayed by the door, where they were invisible to Jessie. Mrs Markle advanced, and sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘Well, Jessie, how are you feeling now?’ she asked.
‘I wouldn’t be feeling too bad if it wasn’t for my insides, Mrs Markle,’ Jessie replied. ‘And they do burn something terrible, just as if I’d swallowed the coals from the kitchen fire.’
‘Well, you didn’t do that, Jessie, but you certainly swallowed something that didn’t agree with you. What did you have to eat this morning that the others didn’t? Do you remember?’
A slight flush came over Jessie’s pallid face, and her eyes filled with tears. ‘It’s a judgment on me, Mrs Markle, that’s what it is,’ she replied. ‘But it’ll be a lesson to me. I’ll never touch anything that doesn’t belong to me again.’
‘Never mind, Jessie, nobody’s going to scold you for that,’ said Mrs Markle kindly. ‘But you must tell me what it was you took. Just in case it should disagree with anyone else, you know.’
Jessie sobbed penitently. ‘I’ll never do it again, Mrs Markle. It was after you’d been helping me with the dining-room. I went into the study to look in the cupboard and see that there were enough olives in the bottle. And when I saw them I wondered what they tasted like, as I’ve often done before. And then the wicked thought came to me that if I took just one nobody would ever notice. So I opened the bottle, took one out with the fork, and ate it.’
‘You shouldn’t have done that, Jessie,’ said Mrs Markle gravely. ‘Did you only eat one?’
‘No, Mrs Markle, I—I didn’t. You see, it was such a funny taste, and I didn’t know whether I liked it or not. So I took another, just to see. And then I thought I did, and I took two more. But that was all. I didn’t have more than four, really I didn’t.’
Philip Bryant didn’t remain in the hall to await the return of the others. As soon as they had entered Jessie’s room, he followed them softly upstairs. On reaching the landing he walked to the door of his uncle’s bedroom and turned the handle. It was locked. So, he found, was the door of the dressing-room. He stood for a moment on the landing, overwhelmed by this discovery. Then he descended the stairs once more, and listened. Everything was quiet in the house. He picked up his hat and coat, and let himself out by the front door.
Mrs Markle, after telling Jessie that she mustn’t worry over her theft of the olives, led the way out of the room. Without a word she went downstairs, followed by Hanslet and Doctor Formby. They walked across the hall till they came to the study. ‘You have the key, superintendent,’ said Mrs Markle.
Hanslet took from his pocket three keys, tied together with string, and tried them till he found the one that fitted. He opened the door and stood aside for Mrs Markle to enter. She switched on the light, and they found themselves in the room which Mr Pershore had called his study.
Not that Mr Pershore had been in the habit of studying. The room was really his own private fortress. When he retired into it, it was fully understood that he was busy, and was on no account to be disturbed. This rule applied not only to the domestic staff, but to visitors as well, who were tactfully informed that their host’s business was of a nature that imperatively demanded solitude.
The truth was that Mr Pershore dearly loved half an hour’s sleep after his extensive meals. The room contained a few pieces of heavy Victorian furniture, upon which lay a few newspapers and periodicals, most of which had not been opened. But the most conspicuous object was a huge leather-covered arm-chair, drawn up in front of the fireplace. Beside it was a small table, on which stood a tobacco jar, a box of cigars, and a heavy match-stand.
Hanslet closed the door and walked towards the fireplace. ‘You did that very tactfully, Mrs Markle,’ he said. ‘I’m naturally very interested in these olives. Can you tell me anything about them?’
‘I’ll tell you what I can,’ Mrs Markle replied. ‘Some time ago, I think it was last year, Mr Pershore got it into his head that he was suffering from indigestion. Mr and Mrs Chantley were staying here for the weekend, and Mrs Chantley told him about Dobson’s Dyspepsia Drops.’
‘I know the stuff,’ remarked Formby. ‘Lots of my patients swear by it. Mainly, I fancy, because it has a particularly revolting taste. Some people judge the efficacy of a medicine entirely by its unpleasantness.’
‘Mr Pershore believed in it,’ Mrs Markle replied. ‘He got a bottle at once, and has taken it ever since. A dose just before he went to bed. But he was always grumbling about the taste. Said he couldn’t get it out of his mouth. And then one day Miss Betty brought him a bottle of stuffed olives, and told him to eat one after he’d taken the medicine. He found that took the taste away, and he told me always to see that there were some olives ready for him. They are kept with the medicine in this cupboard.’
She crossed the room to an oak corner cupboard, fixed to the wall. This she opened. On a shelf within it was a bottle, bearing a label, ‘Dobson’s Dyspepsia Drops. One teaspoonful to be taken as required,’ a graduated medicine glass, a bottle of Crescent and Whitewater’s stuffed olives, and a silver dessert fork.
‘It was Jessie’s business to look after this cupboard,’ Mrs Markle continued. ‘Mr Pershore used to pour out his medicine, drink it, and then take one of the olives from the bottle with the fork. Jessie used to come in in the morning, and take the glass and the fork to be washed. When she put them back in the cupboard, she used to look at the medicine and the olives. If either of them were getting low, she would tell me. The drops I got from the chemist, and the olives from the grocer. But I never waited until the bottles were actually empty. I always have one of each in my store-cupboard.’
‘That’s quite clear, Mrs Markle,’ said Hanslet. He took the bottle of olives from the cupboard and examined it closely. It was about two-thirds full of olives immersed in liquid. The stones of the olives had been removed, and the cavity filled with a pink stuffing of pimento.
‘Did this bottle come from your store-cupboard, Mrs Markle?’ the superintendent asked.
‘It must be the one I gave Jessie last Wednesday. She came to me that day, bringing an empty bottle, and asked me for a fresh one. I gave her one, and saw her take off the patent fastening and loosen the stopper. This must be the bottle.’
Hanslet thought for a moment. ‘Have you any unopened bottles of olives in your store-cupboard now?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes. I ordered one from the grocer as soon as I had given Jessie this one.’
‘I wonder if you would mind fetching it? And I’d be very much obliged if you would bring a big deep saucer at the same time.’
Mrs Markle left the room, and Hanslet turned to Doctor Formby. ‘These olives will have to be analysed, of course,’ he said. ‘If they are found to contain arsenic, Jessie’s troubles are accounted for. But what I don’t understand is this. She said she took four. But, by the look of it, more than four are missing. Mr Pershore must have eaten the rest. How is it that he did not feel any ill effects?’
‘There’s more than one possible explanation of that. They may not all have been poisoned, and Jessie may have been unlucky. Or they may all contain a small quantity of arsenic. In that case, one would expect the effects on Jessie and Mr Pershore to be different. Jessie ate four at once on an empty stomach, hence her symptoms. Mr Pershore ate one at a time, at intervals of twenty-four hours, after a big dinner. In his case, therefore, the effects would be more gradual.’
‘Would they account for his collapsing suddenly at the Motor Show this afternoon?’
Doctor Formby shrugged his shoulders. ‘I shouldn’t have thought so,’ he replied. ‘I never heard of arsenical poisoning taking that form. But it will be easier to answer that question when we know the results of the post-mortem and of the analysis of these olives.’
Mrs Markle returned, bearing an unopened bottle of olives and a saucer. In outward appearance the bottle was exactly similar to the one in the cupboard. Hanslet took it, opened it, and with the help of the fork, poured the contents into the saucer. Then he counted the olives. There were twenty-four.
‘The two bottles are the same size, so one may take it that there were appoximately the same number in the other,’ he said. ‘Now, we’ll put these back again. That’s right.’
Having returned the twenty-four olives to their bottle, he marked the label with a large ‘A’ in pencil. Then he poured the contents of the bottle from the cupboard into the saucer, and again counted the olives. There were fifteen.
‘Fifteen from twenty-four is nine,’ he said. ‘Allowing for the four eaten by Jessie, we have five to account for.’
‘That’s right,’ Mrs Markle replied. ‘Today is Monday, and Mr Pershore started this bottle on Wednesday last, five days ago.’
Hanslet nodded. ‘It all seems to fit in,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Mrs Markle. We needn’t trouble you any longer. The doctor and I will stay here and have a quiet chat. I wonder if you would mind asking Mr Bryant if he would be good enough to join us?’
Mrs Markle went out, closing the door behind her. ‘I’m glad I thought of locking up this room as soon as I got here,’ the superintendent continued. ‘I took the precaution of locking up Mr Pershore’s bedroom and dressing-room, too, till I had time to go through them. I thought I might find something fishy, as soon as I heard there was a case of poisoning in the house. And, from what I can see, somebody has deliberately attempted to murder Mr Pershore.’
As he spoke, he returned the suspected olives to their bottle, and marked this ‘B.’ ‘I’ll have both bottles analysed at once,’ he continued. ‘Now, if the olives from this cupboard are found to contain arsenic, how did the poison get into them? It’s very unlikely that it did so before they left the grocer’s. Mrs Markle opened the bottle and gave it to Jessie. Now, you know more about this household than I do, doctor. Can you think of any reason why either of them should want to poison their employer?’
Doctor Formby shook his head. ‘Quite frankly, I can’t,’ he replied. ‘And, what’s more, it would take a lot to persuade me that either of them had anything to do with it. You haven’t lost sight of the fact that this bottle has been left open in an unlocked cupboard since Wednesday?’
‘I haven’t. The point is, who had access to it? The members of the household, in the first place. Then anyone who came to the house. But whoever poisoned the olives must have had a pretty intimate knowledge of Mr Pershore’s habits. Do you happen to know anything about these Chantley people that Mrs Markle mentioned?’
‘I believe I met them once when I was dining here. I remember her. She was a rather pretty, foreign looking woman. But I’m afraid I can’t tell you much more than that.’
‘Bryant will know all these people, I suppose. That’s why I asked Mrs Markle to send him along. Ah, here he is, I think.’
But, when the door opened, it was only the housekeeper who appeared. ‘I’m very sorry, superintendent, but I can’t find Mr Bryant,’ she said. ‘His coat and hat aren’t in the hall. I think he must have gone back to London.’
Hanslet frowned. ‘I’d like to have seen him before he went,’ he replied. ‘Never mind. Come and sit down, Mrs Markle. I daresay you will be able to tell me what I want to know.’
Doctor Formby looked at his watch. ‘Have you anything else you want to ask me, Mr Hanslet?’ he asked.
‘Not just now, thank you, doctor.’
‘Very well, I’ll just run up and have one more look at Jessie, and then I’ll get home.’
Hanslet, left alone with Mrs Markle, adopted a disarming tone. ‘You will understand that I want as much information about Mr Pershore as possible,’ he said. ‘And not only about him, but about his friends and relations as well. We’ll begin with his relations. You have already told me about Mr Bryant and Miss Rissington. Are there any others?’
‘No, for Mr Pershore’s sisters are both dead, and so are their husbands. Oh, but I was forgetting. There was Micah Pershore, of course. But I don’t think that he has been heard of for years.’
‘The family seem to have indulged in Biblical names,’ Hanslet remarked. ‘Who was Micah Pershore?’
‘Mr Pershore’s half-brother. Mr Pershore’s father was married twice. Micah was his son by his first wife, and Mr Pershore and his two sisters his family by his second wife. Micah was quite a boy when his father married again. He never got on very well with his stepmother, and he went abroad as soon as he was old enough. I don’t think that he ever came home, and I never heard of him writing to any of the family after his father’s death. I don’t even know that he is still alive.’
‘Well, now we come to Mr Pershore’s friends. You mentioned some people of the name of Chantley, just now. Were they particular friends of his?’
Mrs Markle’s eyes narrowed for an instant. ‘Mr Pershore and Mr Chantley were very friendly at one time,’ she replied. ‘Mr and Mrs Chantley were often here for the weekend, but they haven’t been down lately. Not since the beginning of the year.’
‘Has there been a quarrel, or a disagreement of any kind?’
It seemed to Hanslet that Mrs Markle hesitated for an instant. ‘Not that I am aware of,’ she replied.
The superintendent did not press her. ‘What visitors did you have in the house last week?’ he asked.
‘Let me see now. There was Miss Betty, of course. She was staying here all the week. But you can hardly count her as a visitor, since she is here as much as she is away. Then Mr Bryant came to lunch on Sunday, yesterday, that is, and stayed till after dinner. Mrs Bryant was to have come too, but she had a cold and stayed at home. The only other visitor we had last week was Mrs Sulgrave. She drove over on Friday and lunched with Miss Betty.’
‘Who is Mrs Sulgrave?’
‘She’s the wife of Mr George Sulgrave, who is the son of old Mr Sulgrave, who was a great friend of Mr Pershore’s. Mr and Mrs Sulgrave live in a house called High Elms, in Byfleet, quite close. They often drive over. Mr Sulgrave has something to do with the motor business, but I don’t know exactly what it is.’
‘Had Mr Pershore any other intimate friends?’
‘Only Mr Odin Hardisen, who lives at Wells in Somersetshire. They used to see a lot of one another. Mr Hardisen used to come and stay here, and Mr Pershore would go and spend a few days with him at Wells. But I have an idea that they had fallen out about something.’
‘What gives you that idea, Mrs Markle? Did Mr Pershore say anything to you about it?’
‘No. It was Miss Betty who asked me if I knew anything. She likes Mr Hardisen, and she told me that she asked her uncle one day why he never came here now. He told her not to talk to him about the damned scoundrel Hardisen. Those were the very words Mr Pershore used, so Miss Betty told me.’
‘And you’ve no idea why he called Mr Hardisen a damned scoundrel?’
‘None at all. Mr Pershore has never so much as mentioned him to me.’
Hanslet made mental notes of all that Mrs Markle told him. Although they seemed to be straying a long way from the suspected olives, this information might come in useful later. And now he ventured to put a question which had been all the while at the back of his mind. ‘It’s rather a delicate subject, Mrs Markle,’ he said, ‘but do you know anything about the contents of Mr Pershore’s will? Who he has left his money to, I mean?’
‘Only what Miss Betty has told me. Mr Pershore never mentioned the matter to me himself.’
‘And what did Miss Rissington tell you?’
‘That her uncle had left her most of his money. Anything that might be over was to go to Mr Bryant.’
‘Has Miss Rissington been informed of her uncle’s death?’
‘Not yet. You see, I don’t know where she is, and Mr Bryant doesn’t either. She left here this morning with Mr Pershore, and went up to London with him. She told me she wouldn’t be back for a few days, but she didn’t tell me where she was going.’
Having secured from Mrs Markle Bryant’s address. Hanslet brought his conversation with her to an end. There was nothing more for him to do at Firlands for the present. He returned to London, taking the two bottles of olives with him. On his arrival at Scotland Yard he handed these over for analysis, asking for a report as soon as possible. Then he set to work to make notes of the information he had gathered.
Assuming the olives to have been poisoned, as everything seemed to indicate, there was no doubt that the attempt had been aimed against Mr Pershore. It could not have been foreseen that Jessie’s curiosity would suddenly induce her to experiment upon them. But the attempt had apparently failed, since Doctor Formby was of the opinion that a sudden collapse, such as had been experienced by Mr Pershore, was not likely to have been caused by arsenical poisoning. On the other hand, it seemed probable that Mr Pershore had eaten five olives out of the same bottle.
The search for the poisoner was limited to the domestic staff at Firlands, and recent visitors to the house. Hanslet shared Doctor Formby’s conviction that Mrs Markle was innocent. If Jessie had been the culprit, she would have hardly have gone to the length of eating so many herself, even in the attempt to avert suspicion.
It seemed far more likely that one of Mr Pershore’s friends or relations was the guilty party. Hanslet proceeded to make a list of these, with appropriate comments. Philip Bryant, first. As Mr Pershore’s nephew he was frequently a visitor to the house. His movements in it would be unquestioned. He had spent Sunday afternoon there. His behaviour had been curious. On being told of a case of poisoning, he had evinced an emotion which, while it might have been due to natural horror, might also have been due to a guilty conscience. And yet, on being told that the poisoning was due to arsenic, his emotion had changed to one of bewilderment. Finally, why had he left the house so unaccountably? His behaviour distinctly suggested that he knew more about his uncle’s death than he had chosen to reveal. Yet, if Mrs Markle’s information about Mr Pershore’s will was correct, it would seem that Bryant had very little to gain by his uncle’s death.
Next came Miss Rissington. She had been staying at Firlands, and her opportunity for tampering with the olives had been even better than her cousin’s. She appeared to be the principal beneficiary under her uncle’s will. It was she who had originally suggested olives to him.
Micah Pershore, that shadowy half-brother, might be ruled out, at least for the present.
Then Mr Pershore’s various friends and acquaintances. The Chantleys, to begin with. Hanslet felt pretty certain that Mrs Markle knew more about the relations between them and Mr Pershore than she had cared to say. But, since it appeared that they had neither been to the house for some considerable time, their opportunity was obscure. Even more obscure was any motive on their part for an attempt to murder Mr Pershore.
Odin Hardisen, the ‘damned scoundrel’ who lived at Wells. He had at one time been a friend of Mr Pershore’s, but, quite obviously, they had quarrelled. But quarrels between old friends did not usually lead to attempted murder. Besides, in this case, opportunity appeared to be entirely lacking.
The Sulgraves. Mrs Sulgrave had been at Firlands as recently as the previous Friday. She might therefore have had an opportunity of tampering with the olives. George Sulgrave was connected with the motor business. This might account for Mr Pershore’s visit to the Motor Show. He might have gone there on Sulgrave’s suggestion, for instance. But here, again, any possible motive seemed entirely lacking.
The superintendent, having completed his notes, read them through very carefully. As he folded them up and put them in his pocket, he shook his head. ‘It looks to me as though that girl, Miss Rissington, had had a hand in this,’ he muttered. ‘I shall have to get on her tracks, I’m afraid. But, before I do that, I’ll see what evidence crops up at the inquest.’

CHAPTER IV (#ulink_0364c6c0-d35c-5255-87b2-9ea9c788c6f0)
Hanslet had not been long in his office next morning when he received a telephone call. He picked up the instrument. ‘Who is it? Mr Merefield? Yes, I know him. Put him through.’
The connection was established, and he heard the well-known voice of Harold Merefield, Dr Priestley’s secretary. ‘Hallo, is that you, Mr Hanslet? Good-morning. I say, do you know anything about an inquest on a chap named Nahum Pershore, who died at the Motor Show yesterday?’
‘As it happens, I know quite a lot about it,’ Hanslet replied. ‘Why?’
‘I’ll tell you. Oldland was here last night. It seems that he picked the fellow up, or something. He was telling Dr Priestley all about it. There doesn’t seem to me to be anything very special in his yarn, but you know what my old man is. He jumped at it at once. And he wants to know when and where the inquest is to be held, and whether you can get him a seat at it.’
‘You can tell him that I’ll keep a seat for him, all right. Two-thirty this afternoon, at the Kensington Coroner’s Court. Is that all?’
‘That’s all. Thanks very much. I’ll tell him. So long.’
Merefield rang off, and the superintendent leant back in his chair with a puzzled frown. What instinct had led Dr Priestley to evince any interest in the death of Mr Pershore? On the surface, there was nothing mysterious about it. An elderly man had collapsed in a crowd, that was all. Dr Priestley could know nothing about the curious incident of the olives. Yet that belligerent scientist, with his irritating passion for logical deduction, and his secret interest in criminology, seemed already to have detected an intriguing crime behind his friend Oldland’s necessarily bald account of the episode.
Well, so much the better. Hanslet had already thought of paying a visit to the house in Westbourne Terrace and putting the facts before the professor. He had a way of sorting out facts which was very helpful. They would meet at the inquest, and Hanslet would ascertain the professor’s impression later. Meanwhile he had plenty to do.
In the first place there was the analyst’s report, which had just come in. ‘Report on specimens submitted for analysis by Superintendent Hanslet, C.I.D. These consist of two bottles, marked “A” and “B” respectively, and bearing the label “Crescent and Whitewater’s Stuffed Olives.” Both bottles do in fact contain such olives, preserved in liquid. The bottle marked “A” contains twenty-four, the bottle marked “B” fifteen.
‘The analysis was for the purpose of ascertaining whether arsenic was present in the olives, and if so, in what quantity. The method adopted was to test first the liquid contained in the bottles, then each individual olive, then the pinkish mixture used as stuffing.
‘The first test was made upon the contents of bottle “A.” In this case, the results were entirely negative. No perceptible trace of arsenic was found in the liquor, nor in any of the olives or their stuffing.
‘The second test was made upon the contents of the bottle marked “B.” On testing the liquor, it was found to contain arsenious oxide in solution. The flesh of each olive was then tested separately, and yielded positive results, though the amount of arsenious oxide present was inconsiderable. On testing the stuffings, however, each of these was found to be contaminated with a small but varying quantity of arsenious oxide. In some cases, the crystalline particles of the salt were visible with a low-powered microscope. The amount of the salt present in each stuffing varied, but the average was half a grain. ‘This distribution of arsenious oxide suggests that the contamination had been deliberately carried out after the preparation and bottling of the olives. The method employed was probably as follows. The olives were removed from the bottle and treated separately. In each case the stuffing was removed, a quantity of arsenious oxide poured into the cavity, and the stuffing replaced. The presence of arsenious oxide in the flesh of the fruit could be accounted for by the absorption, and in the liquor by solution.
‘It may be of interest to Superintendent Hanslet to know that the smallest recorded fatal dose of arsenic is two grains.
‘The specimens are being retained in this department pending further instructions.’
So the olives had been poisoned, and Jessie’s symptoms were accounted for. If she had eaten four olives, she had taken two grains of arsenic, and might consider herself lucky to be alive. But what about Mr Pershore? If he had eaten five, by the same calculation he had taken two and a half grains. And he was dead. This seemed so logical to Hanslet, that he felt sure the inquest would be a very simple matter. The medical evidence would reveal that the cause of death had been arsenical poisoning.
He made a point of lunching early, and arrived at the Coroner’s Court in plenty of time. Dr Priestley was already waiting, and accepted the superintendent’s offer to find him a seat with a curt word of thanks. Shortly afterwards other witnesses began to arrive. Doctor Oldland, who greeted Hanslet with a nod of recognition and a slight lifting of the eyebrows. The police surgeon who had conducted the post-mortem. And finally Philip Bryant, at the sight of whom Hanslet frowned ominously.
The Coroner reached the court punctually on time, and the proceedings began without delay. He was sitting with a jury of seven, and when these had been sworn, the witnesses were called.
The first was Philip Bryant, who described himself as a solicitor, and gave his address as 500 Lincoln’s Inn Fields. He had seen the body of the deceased, and identified it as that of his uncle, Nahum Pershore. Mr Pershore was fifty-five, and lived at Firlands, Weybridge. He was a retired builder.
In reply to the coroner’s questions, Philip stated that he had last seen his uncle on the previous Sunday evening. He had seemed in very good spirits, but not quite in his usual robust health. Asked what reason he had for saying this, Philip replied that he had noticed at dinner that his uncle did not eat as much as usual. ‘I asked him tactfully after dinner if anything was the matter with him, and he told me that for the last couple of days he had been suffering from loss of appetite, with headaches and slight pains in the stomach.
‘I suggested to him that he had better see his doctor, but he told me that it was nothing. He attributed his symptoms to indigestion, from which he had already suffered some time previously. I knew that he was in the habit of taking some patent medicine for this, the name of which escapes me. I asked him if he derived any benefit from it, and he told me that he did, and that he would take an extra dose that evening.’
‘Did he appear in any way mentally depressed at his condition?’
‘Not at all. He was as cheerful as I have ever known him, and spoke of going for a Mediterranean cruise in a few weeks’ time.’
Philip stood down and the police surgeon was called. He gave his name as Cecil Button. He had been instructed to perform a post-mortem examination of the body of the deceased, and had done so that morning.
External examination had revealed no bruises or contusion of any kind. But, upon removing the clothing, a strip of linen, which appeared to have been torn from a shirt, was found tied round the right thigh. Upon removing the strip, it was found to be spotted with dried blood, not in any considerable quantity. Examination of the place from which the strip had been removed revealed three punctures, and on probing them, a corresponding number of pellets were found embedded in the flesh. These pellets had been removed. Doctor Button passed a small cardboard box up to the coroner for his inspection.
The Coroner opened the box and looked at its contents. ‘These appear to be shot from a twelve-bore cartridge,’ he remarked. ‘Is it your opinion, Doctor Button, that these injuries contributed to the death of the deceased?’
‘I hardly think that is possible,’ the doctor replied. ‘By the appearance of the very slight wounds, I formed the opinion that they had been sustained at least forty-eight hours before I examined the body, and possibly longer. They showed no signs whatever of being septic, and their position was such as to cause no danger, but only slight inconvenience. I noticed also that the skin in their vicinity was stained with iodine.’
‘Did you form any opinion as to how these wounds had been inflicted?’
‘They appeared to me to have been caused by a shot-gun, fired at considerable range. The pellets were widely scattered, the punctures being rather more than two inches apart. And the penetration of the pellets into the tissues was not more than an inch.’
‘You found no other sign of external injury?’

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