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‘THE next day,’ Roger continued after a short pause, ‘Friday, the 10th of July, Bentley felt too ill in the morning to go to work. He complained of pains in the leg, and was vomiting. Dr James was called in and prescribed for him. The next day the pains had disappeared, but the vomiting continued, which Dr James attributed to the morphia he had given him on the previous day. On the Sunday he was a little better; on the Monday a little better still. On the next day Dr James expected him to be almost recovered, but instead of this a slight relapse set in and, on Mrs Bentley’s suggestion, another doctor was called in, Dr Peters. Dr Peters also diagnosed acute dyspepsia, and gave the patient a sedative. On the Wednesday he was no better.
‘Now this day, the 15th of July, is a very important one indeed, and we must examine it in some detail. It was in the course of this day that the idea was first mooted that all was not as it should be.
‘All this time Mrs Allen and Mrs Saunderson had been continually in and out of the house, while Mrs Bentley was nursing her husband—doing the household shopping for her, running errands, giving advice and generally fussing round. On this evening Mary Blower (who seems to have a grudge of some sort against her mistress) told Mrs Saunderson of the fly-papers she had seen soaking a fortnight before. Mrs Saunderson, twittering with excitement, tells Mrs Allen, and in three minutes these two excellent ladies have decided that Mrs Bentley is poisoning her husband. And since that time not a single person seems to have had the least doubt of it. Off goes Mrs Saunderson to telephone brother William at the office and tell him to come back to Wychford at once, while Mrs Allen runs round to the post-office to send a mysterious telegram to brother Alfred. Of all this Mrs Bentley, of course, remains in complete ignorance. Late in the morning the brothers arrive, and you can imagine the seething excitement.
‘In the meantime, Mrs Bentley has decided that she can’t go on nursing her husband alone and has telegraphed for a nurse, who arrived just after lunch. Brother Alfred, who already seems to have assumed entire control of the household, takes the nurse aside at once and tells her that nobody but herself is to administer anything to the patient, as they have reason to believe that something mysterious is going on. With the consequence that we now have a twittering nurse as well as twittering friends and twittering brothers. In fact, the only person in the house just at that time who does not seem to have been twittering is Mrs Bentley herself.
‘But there’s more excitement to come. During the afternoon Mrs Bentley handed a letter to Mary Blower and asked her to run out to the post with it. Mary Blower looks at the address and sees that it is to Mr Allen, who was at this time away from Wychford on business in Bristol. Instead of posting it, she hands it over to Mrs Allen, who promptly opens it. And then the fat was in the fire with a vengeance, for Mrs Bentley had not only been idiot enough to make reference to their weekend at the Bischroma, but she had mentioned her husband’s illness in terms that certainly weren’t very sympathetic—though it’s more than possible that she didn’t then realise the serious state he was in.
‘Anyhow, coming after the fly-papers revelation, that was enough for the four. Where there had been any possibility of doubt before, there was none now. Brother Alfred put on his hat at once, went round to the two doctors and told them both the whole story. The three of them held a council of war, and decided that Mrs Bentley must be watched continuously.
‘Well, that was bad enough, but there was still another piece of news waiting for brother Alfred when he got back, and that certainly is the most damning thing of all. The nurse had come down a short time ago with a bottle of Bovril in her hand and explained that she had seen Mrs Bentley pick it up in a surreptitious way and convey it out of the bedroom, hiding it in the folds of her frock; a few minutes later she brought it back and replaced it, when she thought the nurse’s back was turned, in the exact spot from which she had taken it. That bottle was handed over to the doctors next day and was subsequently found to contain arsenic.’
‘Well, that I am dashed if you can get over!’ Alec observed.
‘It isn’t for me to get over it,’ pointed out Roger mildly. ‘I’m not saying the woman is innocent. All I say is that we ought to bear the possibility of her innocence in mind, and not assume her guilt as a matter of course. In any case I am most uncommonly interested to hear what she’s got to say about that particular incident. Well, up to this time, you’ve got to remember, Bentley’s condition, though serious, wasn’t considered to be in any way dangerous (which does go a long way to explain the somewhat flippant tone of Mrs Bentley’s letter to Allen that has helped to create so much prejudice against her); but that same night things took a very rapid turn for the worse. Both doctors were hurriedly summoned, and they were with him all night. By the next morning Mrs Bentley and the others were warned that there could be very little hope for him, at midday he became unconscious and at seven o’clock in the evening he died.
‘But that wasn’t all. Mrs Bentley had been removed at once, by brother Alfred’s orders, to her own bedroom, where she was kept practically a prisoner, and the other four immediately began a systematic search of the whole place. Their efforts were not unrewarded. In Bentley’s dressing-room there stood a trunk belonging to his wife. In the tray of this was a medicine bottle containing, as shown later, a very strong solution of arsenic in lemonade, together with a handkerchief belonging to Mrs Bentley which was also impregnated with arsenic. In a medicine-chest were the remains of the bottles of medicine prescribed by Dr James (two) and Dr Peters (one). None of these prescriptions contained arsenic, but arsenic was subsequently discovered in each bottle in appreciable quantities. And lastly, in a locked drawer in Mrs Bentley’s own bedroom there was found a small packet containing no less than two whole ounces of pure arsenic—actually enough to kill more than a couple of hundred people! And that was that.’
‘I should say it was!’ Alec agreed.
‘Of course the doctors refused a death-certificate. The police were called in, and Mrs Bentley was promptly arrested. Two days later a post-mortem was held. There was no doubt about the cause of death. The stomach and the rest of it were badly inflamed. Death due to inflammation of the stomach and intestines set up by an irritant poison—which in this case was the medical way of saying death from arsenical poisoning. The usual parts of the body were removed and placed in sealed jars for examination by the Government analyst. You read the result this morning in his evidence before the magistrates—at least three grains of arsenic in the body at the time of death, or half a grain more than the ordinary fatal dose, meaning that shortly before death there must have been a good deal more still; arsenic in the stomach, intestines, liver, kidneys, everywhere! And also, significant in another way, arsenic in the skin, nails and hair; and that means that arsenic must have been administered some considerable time ago—a fortnight, for instance, or about the time of that picnic. Is it any wonder that the coroner’s jury brought in a verdict tantamount to wilful murder against Mrs Bentley, or that the magistrates have committed her for trial?’
‘It is not!’ said Alec with decision. ‘They’d have been imbeciles if they hadn’t.’
‘Quite so,’ said Roger. ‘Exactly.’ And he began to smoke very thoughtfully indeed.
There was a little pause.
‘Come on,’ said Alec. ‘You know you’ve got something up your sleeve.’
‘Oh, no. I’ve got nothing up my sleeve.’
‘Well, there’s something in your mind, then. Let’s have it!’
Roger took his pipe out of his mouth and pointed the short stem at his companion as if to drive his next remark home with it. ‘There is a question that I can’t find an answer to,’ he said slowly, ‘and it’s this—why the devil so much arsenic?’
‘So much?’
‘Yes. Why enough to kill a couple of hundred people when there’s only one to be killed? Why? It isn’t natural.’
Alec pondered. ‘Well, surely there might be two or three explanations of that. She wanted to make sure of the job. She didn’t know what the fatal dose was. She—’
‘Oh, yes; there are two or three explanations. But not one of them is the least bit convincing. You don’t think people go in for poisoning without finding out what the fatal dose is, do you? Poisoning is a deliberate, cold-blooded job. Such a simple measure as looking up the fatal dose in any encyclopædia or medical reference book would be the very first step.’
‘Um?’ said Alec, not particularly impressed.
‘And then there’s another thing. Why in the name of all that’s holy buy fly-papers when there’s all that amount of arsenic in the house already?’
‘But perhaps there wasn’t,’ Alec retorted quickly. ‘Perhaps she got the other arsenic after the fly-papers.’
‘Well, suppose she did. The same objection applies just as well. Why buy all that amount of arsenic when she’d already got half a dozen fatal doses out of the fly-papers? And once more, I haven’t seen any police evidence offered to prove that Mrs Bentley did buy that arsenic. It’s proved to have been in her possession, but it hasn’t been shown how it came there. The police seem to be taking it completely for granted that as she had it, it must have been she who bought it.’
‘Is that very important?’
‘I should have said, vitally! No, look at it how you like, the question of this superabundance of arsenic does not simplify the case, as everybody seems to have assumed; in my opinion it infernally complicates it.’
‘It is interesting,’ Alec admitted. ‘I’d never looked on it like that before. What do you make of it, then?’
‘Well, there seem to me only two possible deductions. Either Mrs Bentley is the most imbecile criminal who ever existed and simply went out of her way to manufacture the most damning evidence against herself—which, having formed my own opinion of her character, I am most unwilling to believe. Or else—!’ He paused and rammed down a few straggling ends of tobacco into the bowl of his pipe.
‘Yes?’ Alec asked with interest. ‘Or else what?’
Roger looked up suddenly. ‘Why, or else that she didn’t murder her husband at all!’ he said equably.
‘But my dear chap!’ Alec was compelled to protest. ‘How on earth do you make that out?’
Roger folded his arms and fixed an unseeing gaze on the meadow on the other side of the little stream.
‘There’s too much evidence!’ he began in an argumentative voice. ‘A jolly sight too much. It’s all too cut and dried. Now somebody manufactured that evidence, didn’t they? Do you mean to tell me that Mrs Bentley deliberately manufactured it herself?’
‘Well,’ said Alec doubtfully. ‘that’s all very well, but who else could have done.’
‘The real criminal.’
‘But Mrs Bentley being the real criminal—!’
‘Now, look here, Alec, do try and clear your mind of prejudice for the moment. Let’s take it that we’re not sure whether Mrs Bentley is guilty or innocent. No, let’s go a step further and assume for the moment her complete innocence, and argue on that basis. What do we get? That somebody else poisoned Bentley; that this somebody else wished Mrs Bentley not only to be accused of the crime but also, apparently, to suffer for it; and that this somebody therefore laid a careful train of the most convincing and damning evidence to lead to the speedy and complete undoing of Mrs Bentley. Now that gives us something to think about, doesn’t it? And take into consideration at the same time the fact that not only was Mrs Bentley to be disposed of in this way, but Bentley himself as well. In other words, this mysterious unknown had a motive for getting rid of Mr just as much as Mrs Bentley; whether one more than the other we can’t yet say, but certainly both. And the plot was an ingenious one; the very fact of getting rid of the second clears the perpetrator of all suspicion of getting rid of the first, you see. Oh, yes, there’s a lot to think about here.’
‘You’re going too fast,’ Alec complained. ‘What about the evidence?’
‘Yes, the evidence. Well, assuming still that Mrs Bentley is innocent, she’ll have an explanation of some sort for the evidence. But unless I’m very much mistaken, it’s going to be a not particularly convincing one and quite incapable of proof—the mysterious unknown, we know, has quite enough cunning to have made sure of that. In fact we now arrive at a positively delightful anomaly—if Mrs Bentley’s explanations by any chance do carry conviction, I should say she is probably guilty; if they’re feeble and childish, I shall be morally sure of her innocence!’
‘Good Lord, what an extraordinary chap you are!’ Alec groaned. ‘How in the world do you get that?’
‘I should have thought it was quite clear. If they’re feeble and childish, it’ll probably be because they’re true (you’ve no idea how frightfully unconvincing the truth can very often be, my dear Alexander); whereas, if they’re glib and pat, it’ll certainly point to their having been prepared beforehand. Once more I repeat—poisoning is a deliberate and cold-blooded business. The criminal doesn’t leave his explanations to the spur of the moment when the police tap him on the shoulder and ask him what about it; he has it all very carefully worked out in advance, with chapter and verse to support it too. That’s why poisoning trials are always twice as long as those for murder by violence; because there’s so much more difficulty in bringing his guilt home to the criminal. And that, in turn, is not because poison in itself is a more subtle means of murder, but because the kind of person who has recourse to it is, in seven cases out of ten, a careful, painstaking and clever individual. Of course you do get plenty of mentally unbalanced people using it too, like Pritchard or Lamson, but they’re rather the exceptions than the rule. The cold, hard, calculating type, Seddon, Armstrong, that kind of man, is the real natural poisoner. Crippen, by the way, was a poisoner by force of circumstances; but then he’s an exception to every rule that you could possibly formulate. I’m always very sorry for Crippen. If ever a woman deserved murdering, Cora Crippen did, and it’s my opinion that Crippen killed her because he was a coward; she had established a complete tyranny over him, and he simply hadn’t got the moral courage to run away from her. That, and the fact that she had got control of all his savings, of course, as Mr Filson Young has very interestingly pointed out. An extraordinarily absorbing case from the psychological standpoint, Alexander. One day I must go into it with you at the length it deserves.’
‘Lord!’ was Alec’s comment on this first lesson in criminology. ‘How you do gas!’
‘That’s as may be,’ said Roger, and betook himself to his pipe again.
‘Well, what about it all?’ Alec asked a minute or two later. ‘What do you want to do about it?’
Roger paused for a moment. ‘It’s a nice little puzzle, isn’t it?’ he said, more as if speaking his thoughts aloud than answering the other question. ‘It’d be nice to unearth the truth and prove everybody else in the whole blessed country wrong—always providing that there is any more truth to unearth. In any case, it’s a pretty little whetstone to sharpen one’s wits on. Yes.’
‘What do you want to do?’ Alec repeated patiently.
‘Take it up, Alexander!’ Roger replied this time, with an air of briskness. ‘Take it up and pull it about and scrabble into it and generally turn it upside down and shake it till something drops out; that’s what I’ve a jolly good mind to do.’
‘But there’ll be people doing that for her in any case,’ Alec objected. ‘Solicitors and so on. They’ll be looking after her defence, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Yes, that is so, of course. But supposing her solicitors and so on are just as convinced of her guilt as everybody else is. It’s going to be a pretty half-hearted sort of defence in that case, isn’t it? And supposing none of them has the gumption to realise that it’s no good basing their defence just on explanations of the existing evidence—that their client is going to be hanged on that as sure as God made little apples—that if they want to save her they’ve got to dig and ferret out new evidence! Supposing all that, friend Alec.’
‘Well? Supposing it?’
‘Then in that case it seems to me that somebody like us is pretty badly needed. Dash it all, they have detectives to ferret out things for the prosecution, don’t they? Well, why not for the defence? Of course, her solicitors may be clever men; they may be going to do all this and employ detectives off their own bat. But I doubt it, Alexander; I can’t help doubting it very much indeed. Anyhow, that’s what I’m going to be—honorary detective for the defence. I appoint myself on probation, pending confirmation in writing. Now then, Alec—what about coming in with me?’
‘I’m game enough,’ Alec replied without hesitation. ‘When do we start?’
‘Well, let’s see; the assizes come on in about six weeks’ time, I think the paper said. We shall want to get finished at least a fortnight before that. That gives us a month. I don’t think we ought to waste any time. What about pushing off tomorrow morning?’
‘Right-ho! But what I want to know is, what exactly are we going to do?’
‘My dear chap, I haven’t the least idea! Whatever happens to occur to us. We shall have to make a bee-line for Wychford, of course, and the first thing we shall want to know is what the defence is to be. That’s going to take a bit of finding out too, by the way; but I don’t see that we can take up any definite line until we’ve heard Mrs Bentley’s story. I’ll try and hammer out a plan of some kind in the meantime. And Alec!’
‘Yes?’
‘For heaven’s sake do try and give me a little more encouragement over this affair than you did at Layton Court!’
CHAPTER IV (#ulink_91b3b3de-fd64-52e9-b35a-d1e03fd09343)
ARRIVAL AT WYCHFORD (#ulink_91b3b3de-fd64-52e9-b35a-d1e03fd09343)
‘I’VE had one brain-wave at any rate, Alec,’ Roger remarked, settling himself comfortably in the corner of the first-class smoker and hoisting his feet on to the seat opposite.
Alec had just brought the upper part of his body into the carriage after bidding goodbye to a frankly derisive Barbara, and was now lifting their suitcases on to the rack as the train gathered speed—that same half-past ten train, by the way, to which Roger’s attention had been called on the previous morning.
‘Oh?’ he said. ‘What’s that?’
‘Why, the editor of the Daily Courier is by way of being rather a pal of mine. I’m going to call round there on our way through London to ask him if he’ll take me on as unofficial special correspondent.’
‘Are you?’ Alec asked, dropping into his seat. ‘What’s the idea of that?’
‘Well, it occurred to me that we shall be in rather a more favourable position for ramming our way into the heart of things if we’ve got the weight of the Courier behind us than if we just show up as two independent and vulgarly curious gentlemen on their own. The Courier’s name ought to help loosen a hesitating tongue quite a lot. Oh, and by the way, here’s something for you, a list of the important dates in the case that I typed out last night. I’ve got a copy for myself; you can keep that.’
Alec took the paper which Roger was holding out to him and examined it. It was inscribed as follows:
DATES IN THE CASE
‘Thanks,’ said Alec, tucking the paper away in his pocket. ‘Yes, that’ll be useful. Now then, what are you going to do about finding out the lines of Mrs Bentley’s defence, as you said?’
‘Well, I shall take the bull by the horns; go straight to her solicitor, tell him who I am and simply ask him.’
‘Humph!’ said Alec doubtfully. ‘Not likely to get much change there, are you? Not a solicitor who knows his job.’
‘No, none at all. I don’t expect him to tell me for a minute. But I do expect to be able to catch a glimpse of a word or two between the lines. Anyhow, my name ought to be enough to stop them kicking me point-blank out of the door; they will do it politely at any rate. If they ever have heard of me, that is—which I hope and pray!’
‘Yes, there are advantages in being a best-seller, no doubt. How many editions has the latest run through now?’
‘Pamela Alive? Seven, in five weeks. Thanking you kindly. Bought your copy yet?’
The conversation became personal. Very personal.
Arrived at Waterloo a couple of hours later, Roger gave brisk directions. ‘You take the cases along to Charing Cross and put them in the cloakroom, look up a train for Wychford sometime about three o’clock, and then come along and pick me up at the Courier office in Fleet Street. I’m going to get through on the ’phone right away and stop Burgoyne going out to lunch till I’ve seen him, and I’ll wait for you there. Then we can have a spot of lunch at Simpson’s or the Cock, and go on to Charing Cross afterwards. So long!’
They separated on the platform and Roger hurried off to telephone. Burgoyne was in and he made an appointment with him for ten minutes’ time. Jumping into a taxi, he was carried swiftly over Waterloo Bridge and down Fleet Street, arriving in the Great Man’s office with exactly fifteen seconds to spare. Roger rather liked that sort of thing.
It was not Roger’s intention to give any hint, either to Burgoyne himself or to anyone else, of his theory that Mrs Bentley might possibly be the victim of somebody else’s plot rather than the contriver of one of her own making. For one thing it was more of a suspicion than a theory, and his arguments to Alec, interesting though he had made them sound, had been delivered more with the idea of clarifying his own mind on the matter than of stating an actual case. For another thing he preferred, should anything eventually come of this surprising notion, to keep himself the only one in the field. His words to Burgoyne were therefore chosen with some care.
‘This Wychford case,’ he said, when they had shaken hands. ‘Interesting, isn’t it?’
‘It’s been a God-send to us, I can tell you,’ Burgoyne smiled. ‘Carried us all through August, thank heaven. Interesting, is it? Well, I suppose it is in a way. Going to write a book about it, eh?’
‘Well, I might,’ Roger said seriously. ‘At any rate, I want to have a look at it at close quarters. That’s what I’ve come to see you about. You know I’m a keen criminologist, and on top of that the case is simply packed with human interest. Those Allens! There are half a dozen characters down there I’d like to study. Well, what I want to ask you is this. Can I use the Courier’s name as an inducement for them to open their mouths to me? Can you appoint me honorary special correspondent, or something like that? You know I won’t abuse it, and I’d really be awfully grateful.’
But Burgoyne was not editor of the Courier for nothing. He was a wise man.
‘You’ve got something up your sleeve, Sheringham,’ he grinned. ‘I can see that with half an eye. No—don’t trouble to perjure yourself! I see you don’t want to talk about it, so I’m not asking. Yes, you can use the Courier’s name all right. On one condition.’
‘Yes?’ Roger asked, not without apprehension.
‘That if you find out anything (and that’s what I take it you’re really going down for: good lord, man, haven’t I heard you expounding theories on detective-work and the rest of it by the half-mile at a time?)—if you do find out anything, you give us the first option on printing it. At your usual rates, needless to say.’
‘Great Scott, yes—rather! Only too pleased. But don’t expect anything, Burgoyne. I don’t mind admitting that I am going to nose around a bit when I get there, but I’m really only going down out of sheer interest in the case. The psychology—’
‘Write it to me, old man,’ advised Burgoyne. ‘Sorry, but I’m up to the eyes as usual, and you’ve had your two minutes. Don’t mind, do you? That’s all right, then. You chuck our name about as much as you like, and in return you give us first chance on any stuff you write about the case and so on. Good enough. So long, old man; so long.’ And Roger found himself being warmly hand-shaken into the passage outside. There were few people who could deal with Roger, but the editor of the Courier was certainly one of them.
Alec was waiting in the vestibule downstairs, and together they left the building, Roger recounting the success of his mission with considerable jubilation.
‘Yes, that’s going to help us a lot,’ he said, as they marched down Fleet Street. ‘There’s nothing like the hope of seeing your name in a paper like the Courier to make a certain type of person talk. And I have a pretty shrewd idea that both brother William and Mrs Saunderson are just that type, to say nothing of the unpleasant domestic, Mary Blower.’
‘But won’t the Courier have had their own man down there all this time?’
‘Oh, yes; but that doesn’t matter in the least. He won’t have asked the questions that I want to ask. Besides,’ Roger added modestly, ‘there’s another factor in our favour for worming our way into people’s good graces. I hate to keep on reminding you of it, Alexander, but you really are rather inclined to overlook it, you know.’
‘Oh? What’s that?’
‘The fact that I’m Roger Sheringham,’ said that unblushing novelist simply.
Alec’s reply verged regrettably upon crudity. One gathered that Alec was lamentably lacking in a proper respect for his distinguished companion.
‘That’s the worst of making oneself so cheap,’ sighed Roger, as they turned into their destination. ‘If a man is never a hero to his valet, what is he to his fat-headed friends?’
After a thick slab of red steak and a pint of old beer apiece they hailed a taxi and were driven to Charing Cross.
‘Do you know Wychford at all?’ Alec asked when they were seated in the train once again, with a carriage to themselves.
‘Just vaguely. I’ve motored through it, you know.’
