Читать книгу The Wychford Poisoning Case - Anthony Berkeley, Anthony Berkeley - Страница 13

MRS PUREFOY was a pleasant little person with hair just beginning to go grey and a jolly smile. Roger took a liking to her at first sight, while she was at no pains to hide her gratification in welcoming so distinguished a guest.

‘I’ve read all your books, Mr Sheringham,’ she said at once as she shook hands with him. ‘Every single one!’

Roger was never in the least embarrassed by this sort of thing. ‘Well, I hope you enjoyed reading them more than I did the writing of them, Mrs Purefoy,’ he said easily.

‘Does that mean you didn’t enjoy writing them? I thought you novelists were only really happy when you’d got a pen in your hands.’

‘Somebody’s been misinforming you,’ Roger replied with a grave face. ‘If I can speak for the tribe, we’re only really happy when we’ve got a pen out of our hands.’ As far as Roger was concerned, this was perfectly untrue; he had to write, or explode. But he had an intense dislike for the glib talk about self-expression indulged in by so many second-rate writers who take themselves and their work a good deal too seriously, and put it down to posing of the most insufferable description. That his own anxiety not to emulate these gentry had driven him into no less of a pose of his own, in the precisely opposite direction, had curiously enough never occurred to him.

‘But this is most devastating! You’re shattering all my most cherished illusions. Don’t you write for the joy of writing, then?’

‘Alas, Mrs Purefoy, I see I can hide nothing from you. I don’t! I write for a living. There may be people who do the other thing (I have heard rumours about them), but believe me, they’re very rare and delicate birds.’

‘Well, you’re candid at any rate,’ Mrs Purefoy smiled.

‘Roger’s got a hobby all right, Molly,’ Alec put in, ‘and it’s got plenty to do with words; but it isn’t writing.’

‘Oh? What is it, then, Alec?’

‘You’ll have found out before dinner’s over,’ Alec replied cryptically.

‘What he means is that I won’t let him monopolise the conversation all the time, Mrs Purefoy.’

Mrs Purefoy looked from one to the other. ‘I suppose I’m very dense, but this is beyond me.’

‘I think Alec is hinting that I talk too much,’ Roger explained.

‘Oh, is that all? Well, I’m very glad to hear it. I like listening to somebody who can talk.’

‘You hear that, Alec?’ Roger grinned. ‘I’m going to be appreciated at last.’

The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a dark, shingled maiden, in a pale green dinner-frock.

‘My eldest daughter,’ Mrs Purefoy announced with maternal pride. ‘Sheila, dear, this is Mr Sheringham.’

‘How de do?’ said the dark, shingled maiden languidly. ‘You’re the great Roger Sheringham? Read some of your books. Topping. Hallo, Alec, old hoss. Dinner nearly ready, mum?’

‘In a few minutes, dear. We’re waiting for father.’

‘Well, need we wait for him on our feet? What about sitting down to it?’ And she collapsed wearily into the largest chair in the room.

Alec pulled one up beside it, and they embarked immediately on a discussion of the Gentlemen and Players match then in progress at Lord’s. Roger sat down beside his hostess on a chesterfield couch.

‘Alec didn’t mention that you have a daughter, Mrs Purefoy,’ he remarked.

‘Didn’t he? I have two. And a son. The other two are away from home just at present.’

‘I—I suppose you’re not making any mistake, are you?’ Roger asked warily. ‘The lady at present telling Alec things he doesn’t know about cricket really is your daughter?’

‘She is, Mr Sheringham. Why?’

‘Oh, nothing. I was just wondering whether you weren’t getting a little mixed in the relationship. I should have said off-hand that you were the daughter and she the mother.’

Mrs Purefoy laughed. ‘Yes, Sheila is a little overpowering in her sophistication, isn’t she? But it’s only a pose, you know. All her friends are just the same. I’ve never seen her quite like this before though; I think this must be a pose for your special benefit. She’d do anything rather than admit to the slightest respect for any person living, you see. I’m afraid she’s dreadfully typical.’

‘The modern girl, vide Sunday papers passim, eh? Well, scratch her and you’ll find much the same sort of girl there always has been underneath her powder, I suppose.’

‘A very good idea,’ Mrs Purefoy smiled. ‘Scratch Sheila by all means, Mr Sheringham, if you want to pursue any investigations into the modern girl; it would do her all the good in the world. Aren’t I an inhuman mother? But really, I simply ache at times to turn Sheila over my knee and give her a good old-fashioned spanking! And most of her silly precocious friends as well!’

‘You’re quite right,’ Roger laughed. ‘That’s the only cure. There ought to be a new set of sumptuary laws passed and a public spanker appointed in every town, with a thumping salary out of the rates, to deal with the breaches of them (no joke intended). Ration ’em down to one lipstick a month, one ounce of powder ditto, twenty cigarettes a week, and four damns a day, and we might—Ah, here’s your husband.’

Dr Purefoy, in contrast to his wife, was long and cadaverous. His face was lean, but from time to time a twinkling of almost unexpected humour lit his eyes. He looked tired, but shook hands with Roger warmly enough.

‘So sorry to have kept you waiting like this,’ he said, ‘but there was a tremendously big surgery tonight. There always is when I particularly want to finish early.’

‘Very busy just now?’ Roger asked.

‘Very. Autumn just setting in, you see; that always means a busy time for us. Well, shall we go in at once? Molly, you don’t want us to form a procession and link arms, do you?’

‘Of course not, dear. This isn’t a dinner-party. Sheila, dear, will you show Mr Sheringham the way?’

The little party made their way informally to the dining-room and took their seats. For a few minutes, while the maid was in the room, the conversation turned upon the usual topics; but it was a very short time before the subject cropped up which was uppermost in all their minds.

It was Sheila Purefoy who introduced it. ‘Well, Mr Sheringham,’ she said, ‘what do you think of our local thrill?’

‘Meaning, of course, the Bentley case?’ said Roger, who was sitting next to her. ‘I think it’s rather a remarkable business.’

‘Is that all? I was hoping that you’d think something rather more original than that about it.’

‘I’m most stereotyped about murders,’ Roger assured her. ‘Always have been, from a child. What do you think about it?’

‘Oh, I d’no. I think the Bentley woman’s innocent.’

‘You do?’ cried Roger, genuinely startled.

‘Sheila, dear!’ exclaimed Mrs Purefoy. ‘Whatever makes you think that?’

‘Don’t get alarmed, mum. I was only trying to be original.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Roger, not a little disappointed. ‘A hint for me, eh?’

‘For all that, I shouldn’t be so ghastly surprised if she was,’ observed Sheila languidly. ‘Everyone’s quite made up their minds that she’s guilty, you see.’

‘Mass suggestion, you mean. Well, somebody’s being very cunning indeed if that is the case.’

‘I don’t know anything about mass suggestion, but it’s a fact that most people spend their lives being wrong about everything. Most people think she’s guilty. Therefore, she isn’t. Shove the gravy over, please, Alec. Ta.’

‘It’s an ingenious defence,’ Roger said gravely. ‘Do you agree, Dr Purefoy?’

‘That she’s innocent? No, I’m afraid not. I wish I could say that I did, but I can’t see the faintest possibility of it.’

‘Now, I’m quite sure she’s innocent,’ Sheila murmured.

‘Sheila, Sheila!’ said her mother.

‘Sorry, mum; but you know perfectly well that father’s never been known in all his life to grasp any stick except by the wrong end. To my mind, that proves it. I’d better write to the woman’s solicitor.’

‘You see the respect with which we parents are treated nowadays,’ smiled Dr Purefoy.

‘Sheila,’ said Alec suddenly, ‘I think I’ll scrag you after dinner. Like I used to when we were kids.’

‘Why this harshness?’ inquired Miss Purefoy.

‘Because you jolly well deserve it,’ said Alec, and relapsed into silence again.

‘Thank you, Alec,’ Dr Purefoy said pathetically. ‘You’re a brave man. I wish I had your courage.’

‘I like that, father,’ said his daughter indignantly. ‘When you absolutely ruined my best evening frock only last week.’

But Roger had no intention of allowing the conversation to wander off into the paths of family badinage. ‘Do you know the Bentleys or any of the people mixed up in the case personally?’ he asked the girl at his side.

‘Not the Bentleys. I know the Saundersons more or less, and I believe I’ve met Allen. Of course I know Dr James and Dr Peters.’

‘You know Mrs Saunderson, do you?’ Roger said with interest. ‘What sort of woman is she?’

‘A damned little cat,’ said Miss Purefoy frankly.

‘Sheila!’ This from her mother.

‘Well, she is, mum, as jolly well you know; so why on earth not say so? Isn’t she, father?’

‘If my information is correct, your remark was a laudable understatement, my dear,’ Dr Purefoy said with a perfectly grave face.

‘I’d rather gathered that, from the newspaper reports,’ Roger murmured. ‘In what way, Miss Purefoy?’

‘Well, look at what she did! That’s enough, isn’t it? Of course she hasn’t got a husband to teach her decent behaviour (she’s a widow, you know), but there are some things that simply aren’t done. After all, she was supposed to be the Bentley’s friend, wasn’t she? But that’s just like her; double-faced little beast. She’d give her soul to be talked about. Of course she’s in the seventh heaven now. I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if it turned out that she’d poisoned the man herself just to get her name in the papers. That’s the sort of daisy she is.’

‘Is she, though?’ Roger said softly. ‘That’s very interesting. And what about Mrs Allen?’

‘Oh, she’s a good bit older. Older than her husband, too. Always happens, doesn’t it?’ went on this sophisticated damsel. ‘Any woman who marries a man younger than herself deserves all that’s coming to her, in my opinion. But of course Mr Allen is a bit of a lad, you know. I heard about him before I was out of my teens. You know, whispers in dark corners and breath well bated. Well, it’s a matter of common knowledge that he—’

‘That will do, Sheila!’ said Mrs Purefoy, whose expression had during the last minute been growing more and more apprehensive.

‘Mother always shuts me up before I can get on to the really spicy bits,’ confided Miss Purefoy to the world at large.

The entry of the parlourmaid cut short any further attempts on the part of her daughter to add to the grey in Mrs Purefoy’s lustrous dark hair. The conversation which ensued would have satisfied a Sunday school teacher.

It was not until the three men were left alone together after dinner that Roger re-introduced the subject. He did not wish, for the present at any rate, to advertise the reason for his visit to Wychford, even to the Purefoys; and too great an interest in the murder, unless its cause were to be more fully explained, would only appear to spring from a curiosity unbridled to the point of indecency. When the two women had retired, however, and the doctor’s excellent port was circulating for the second time, he did feel at liberty to raise the matter.

‘About this Bentley case, doctor,’ he remarked. ‘Of course you know the two doctors concerned. Is there any point of particular interest, do you think, in the medical evidence?’

Dr Purefoy stroked his lean jaw with the palm of his hand. ‘No, I don’t think so, Sheringham. It all seems perfectly straightforward. Do you mean about the cause of death?’

‘Well, yes. That or anything else.’

‘Because that, of course, isn’t in doubt for a minute. As clear a case of arsenical poisoning as there could possibly be. Actually more than a fatal dose found in the man’s body after death, and that’s very rare indeed; a great deal is always eliminated between the time of swallowing the dose and death.’

‘How much would you say he had been given, then?’

‘Well, it’s impossible to say. Might have been as little as five grains; might have been as much as twenty. Making a pure guess at it, I should say about eight to ten grains. He didn’t vomit nearly as much as one might expect, James told me, which points to a comparatively small dose.’

‘A fatal dose being about three grains?’

‘Yes, two and a half to three. Two and a half is reckoned an average small fatal dose, but it would have been ample for Bentley, I imagine.’

‘Why for him particularly?’

‘Well, he was rather a poor creature. Undersized, delicate, poor physique; a bit of a little rat, to our way of thinking.’

‘And very fussy about his health, I gather?’

‘Exactly. One of those maddening patients (we all have ’em) who think they know a sight more about their ailments and the right drugs to cure them than their doctor does. Oh, quite impossible people; and I understand from James that Bentley was as bad a specimen of the tribe as you’d hope to see.’

‘Oh? In what way?’

‘Well, you prescribe for ’em and all that, and then find that the prescription can’t be used because the fellow’s already been prescribing for himself before he came to you at all, and the two prescriptions clash; and then you prescribe something else, and the fellow goes and takes something perfectly different that he thinks is going to suit his case better. Oh, hopeless! That’s just the lunatic Bentley was. Always dosing himself from morning to night: never happy unless he was stuffing some drug or other inside his skin.’