Читать книгу Sleeping Dogs - Carolyn Wells - Страница 5

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The police were at Graysands.

Their advent seemed like a general uprising, but when they were sorted out it seemed that three were reporters, one was Percy Van Antwerp, come to see Maisie, one was an emissary from the doctor’s office, with a note, and there were but three men from headquarters.

As they mounted the steps to the great front verandah, Sergeant Downing in the lead, they were met by Loring, who received them with a quiet dignity.

“You are in charge here?” Downing asked, looking inquiringly at him.

Though a trifle below average height, Loring had an air of importance that commanded deference. He was a compact man, about thirty, with a round bullet head, black hair and moustache, and sharp black eyes.

His manner betokened a complete comprehension and his countenance and way of speaking always implied that but few words were necessary when giving him information.

“Yes,” he said, “in general, that is, I am Murgatroyd Loring, and I am the personal lawyer of the late Mrs. Abercrombie.”

“The family lawyer, I suppose?” said the sergeant.

“I said personal lawyer,” Loring corrected. “I am in charge of Mrs. Abercrombie’s estate. Shall I give you the details of the situation?”

“All in good time,” said Downing suavely. “Where is Mr. Abercrombie?”

“I hope he needn’t be disturbed with the beginnings of your inquiry. Let me give you the main facts.”

“What are the main facts?”

“That Mrs. Abercrombie is dead, and that she died from poisoning.”

“We know that already; the doctor told us. Who killed her?”

“There is no reason, as yet, to assume that anybody killed her. That is why I don’t want you to talk to Mr. Abercrombie. Your methods are so brutal, and he is a sensitive man.”

“Well, I think I’ll go inside, but I must use my own judgment as to my methods. And I must insist upon seeing both Mr. Abercrombie and his daughter, and later, all the rest of the household.”

And so thoroughly did Sergeant Downing understand his business and how to conduct it that in a short time he had all the principal members of the household before him and the servants hovering in the hall.

He had chosen a small reception room for his use, and he set to work systematically.

“Your wife has been ill?” he asked of Hugh Abercrombie, a note of sympathy in his gruff voice, perhaps because of what Loring had told him.

“Yes,” was the reply, spoken hesitantly and in a low tone. “That is, she wasn’t very well for the past week or so.”

“What was the nature of her trouble?”

“Why—I don’t know exactly—nothing serious, I understand.”

“You understand? Don’t you know of your own knowledge what ailed your wife?”

“No,” and Abercrombie met his questioner’s eyes squarely, but his whole frame seemed to shrink as the small inquisitive eyes of the sergeant bored into his own.

“Does anybody know?” Downing said, casting a glance round the room.

“I do,” Maisie said. “My mother had chronic indigestion; she had it a long time. It bothered her a lot of late.”

“Did Dr. Garth attend her for it?” snapped the questioner.

“Sometimes,” Maisie replied. “Sometimes she just took the medicine he prescribed. She always had it on hand.”

“We will leave those matters until Dr. Garth returns,” Downing said. “He will be here soon. Who discovered that the lady was dead?”

“Her maid,” said Maisie, “when she went to her room this morning.”

Seemingly impressed by the seriousness of the situation, Maisie had laid aside her pert gayety of manner with her bright-coloured sports suit; wearing a plain little black frock, she was polite though a trifle haughty in her manner toward the detective.

She sat between Hugh Abercrombie and Percy Van Antwerp, the man who had come quickly over to see her as soon as he heard of the tragedy.

For the news had already spread through the small town of Crescent Cove, and Van Antwerp was a privileged friend of the family and especially of Maisie.

A man of about forty, tall and very slim, with thick light hair and light blue eyes, he was so elegant of manner and speech that Maisie took delight in calling him the perfect Percy.

Nor was the term inapt, for his fastidious tastes, his dislike for anything sordid or commonplace, and his carefully correct manners were quite in line with the traits custom has ascribed to the Percys and Clarences of all time.

He was one of Maisie’s suitors, but as their name was legion and he had no especial claim to supremacy, he was looked upon as a harmless, necessary visitor, and came and went as he chose, having his present quarters at the Abercrombie Arms.

He watched Maisie closely, a little afraid of what she might say, for her chatter was an uncertain quantity and not always along the lines of strictest veracity.

But he was glad to note her subdued air and her quiet reserve as she bore the brunt of the inquiry.

Corinne was summoned, and her manner was in decided contrast to Maisie’s.

The volubility of the French maid was evident from the outset, and Downing willingly gave her free rein, hoping to get some grains of wheat from her chaff of talk.

The gist of her story was that she had left Mrs. Abercrombie at midnight or a bit later, not feeling well, but assuredly not ill. Often had she been in far more discomfort than that, and a night’s rest had set all right.

“She told you to leave her?”

“But of course. She had her medicine, her hot-water bottle, her book to read, her reading glasses, all was in order. She bade me good-night and said she would be all right in the morning.”

“And in the morning?”

Corinne’s voice lowered its key. Her sense of the dramatic came to the front and she whispered:

“Hélas! In the morning the dear lady was no more. I entered the room as always. Quiet she lay, fair, sweet, like an angel. But not breathing. I gazed, distracted—tempest-tossed—I knew not what to do.”

“Well, what did you do?”

Corinne looked at the stolid sergeant reproachfully, as at one who had placed a material finger on a bubble of imagination.

“I went and told Miss Mercer,” she said, a little sulkily, as if aware her bit of the limelight was over.

“And who is Miss Mercer?”

“I am Miss Mercer,” said the social secretary, speaking as if unwillingly.

Downing was suddenly impressed by the fact that all except Corinne were quite evidently unwilling to talk.

“You were Mrs. Abercrombie’s secretary?”

“Yes.”

“What were your duties?”

“To take care of her correspondence—answering letters, sending invitations, and such matters. Sometimes I read to her or went on errands for her. I did whatever she asked of me.”

“You were in no sense a nurse to her?”

A strange look crossed Miss Mercer’s face, and she dropped her eyes.

“No,” she said decidedly, “she never asked any services of me outside the usual duties of a secretary.”

“When did you last see her alive?”

“Yesterday afternoon, about five o’clock.”

“You were with her then?”

“Only for a short time. A house party had been planned for next week, but Mrs. Abercrombie told me she had decided to postpone it until she felt better.”

“What did she tell you ailed her?”

“Nothing definite. Only in a general way she complained of indigestion and said she knew she ought to give up certain rich foods which brought it on.”

“She had medicine for this complaint?”

“Yes, which she took at stated intervals.”

“Here is Dr. Garth now,” the sergeant said in a tone of relief. “Now we can get our evidence in some sort of order.”

The doctor came into the room, his fine face looking grave and perturbed.

He sat down near Hugh Abercrombie and Maisie, gave a nod to Percy Van Antwerp, and turned his attention to the sergeant.

“Please state the physical condition in general of your late patient, Mrs. Abercrombie.”

“She was, so far as I know or have any reason to believe, in fairly good health. She was subject to attacks of indigestion, but they were not serious and came invariably from overeating, not from any organic disturbance.”

“Yet she died from poisoning?”

“That I cannot attest, as there has been no autopsy as yet. But the visible symptoms pointed unmistakably, in my opinion, to the administration of bichloride of mercury, a deadly poison.”

“That makes it a case for the coroner, and he has been summoned. My business is to learn details of circumstances and conditions connected with the lady’s death. You are certain, Doctor, that it could not have been caused by a sudden attack of acute indigestion?”

“I am certain of that. The positive effects of the poison are quite plain aside from what the post mortem may disclose.”

“To your knowledge, had Mrs. Abercrombie any of that poison in her possession?”

There was a pause before the doctor said, “No, she had not, to my knowledge.”

“Why did you hesitate to answer?”

“Only to feel sure I was stating the truth.”

“Had she ever had any that you know of?”

“She had not. It is not a drug that is easy to come by, nor is it one that anybody is likely to have.”

“Will you tell us of the nature and properties of the poison in question?”

“It is difficult to do so, but I will try. Bichloride of mercury or corrosive sublimate is oftenest seen in the form of granules or powder. It has a decided coppery or metallic taste, so strong that it would be a hard matter to administer it without the victim’s knowledge.”

“Dr. Garth, you are assuming that it was administered. Could not Mrs. Abercrombie have procured and taken the dose of her own volition?”

Garth threw back his head and squared his shoulders in obvious indignation.

Then after an instant’s glare at the detective he reassumed his previous official manner.

“Of course,” he agreed, “that is quite possible. But knowing Mrs. Abercrombie as I do—as I did, I cannot reconcile such a proceeding with her nature and habits.”

“Leaving the question for the moment, please state how much of the poison constitutes a fatal dose.”

“That is an unanswerable question. Three grains has been known to be fatal, and from three to five grains may perhaps be stated as the average dose necessary to destroy life. But records prove recovery has taken place after fifty grains were swallowed. Also, death has sometimes occurred within half an hour, while in other instances life has been maintained for several days—recorded instances showing ten or even twelve days. The average duration of fatal cases is from two to six days.”

“Then the poison may have been swallowed by Mrs. Abercrombie at any time within the past six or more days?”

“That is so.”

“Must it necessarily have been all in one dose?”

“By no means. It may have been in several doses, or possibly all at once.”

“That makes very difficult the task of learning how or by whom the poison was given.”

This, not being a question, received no response from Dr. Garth.

“What are the ante-mortem symptoms of this poison?”

“An acrid, coppery taste in the mouth and a sense of constriction and burning heat in the throat and stomach. There is nausea and dyspnea.”

“What is the meaning of that last word you used?”

“Dyspnea? Shortness of breath. Then, the countenance may become flushed and swollen, or it may be pallid and drawn. There may or may not be pain. Death is at last brought about by collapse, coma, or convulsions.”

“Which of these best fits the present case?”

“I should say coma, for there is no sign of convulsions, nor of severe collapse. A more detailed statement could be given to a professional man, but that describes the matter to a layman.”

“And very clearly. After the arrival of the coroner, and the autopsy, there will doubtless be an inquest, when the subject will be again taken up.”

Nearly everyone present gave a slight sigh of relief, thinking the present session was practically over.

But any such hopes were dashed when the sergeant resumed speech.

“We cannot judge,” he began, “whether the poison that Mrs. Abercrombie received into her system was taken of her own will or was administered by another. In either case, it may have been by accident or mistake or it may have been on purpose. However that may be, it is my immediate duty to learn all I can of the circumstances of the past few days.”

“Nonsense, man,” came in a clear, ringing voice from Maisie. “You make a noise like somebody investigating a murder mystery, if I know what you mean! My mother wasn’t murdered! Put that in a pasteboard container and take it home! My mother took that stuff by accident. There’s no law against that, and we’ve trouble enough here without your trying to turn things into a cobweb party. Get your facts if you want to—I’ll tell you how old we all are—but don’t try to put on a Great Sleuth act, you old Cottage Pudding!”

The lightning changes that crossed Downing’s face were comical, or would have seemed so had the occasion been less grave.

He looked amazed then stunned, angry then amused, and as she reached her peroration his really intelligent face showed only a deep and absorbing interest.

“Very well, Miss Abercrombie,” he said as calmly as if she had said nothing unusual. “I’ll be glad of some facts from you. When did you first hear of your mother having an attack of illness?”

Maisie looked disappointed, as if her firing had missed its mark, but it was not her way to acknowledge defeat and she answered promptly and straightforwardly.

“Last Thursday night. We had had a sort of tea party in a mild way. I wanted a water gymkhana, but Mother stood out for a plain tea in the new Japanese tea house. So we had it, and lots of people came to it. Well, she didn’t come to dinner that night—sent word she’d have a tray in her room. I didn’t think much about it—she often cuts up that trick—but when I dropped into her room a minute in the evening she looked mighty peaked.”

“Ill?”

“Sorta. More washed out and done up. That’s not like Mother, you know. She’s usually fit as a fiddle, even when she’s just had an indigestion attack.”

“A different sort of illness, was it?”

“That’s what I’m telling you, man. She seemed down and out, and never before in my whole life have I ever seen my mother down and out.”

“Did she repeat that experience?”

“Well, no.” Maisie looked thoughtful. “But she was ailing a little Friday and Saturday, and on Sunday she cut out a party that I know she wanted awfully to go to.”

“She felt too ill to go?”

But Maisie’s mercurial temperament had whirled in a new direction.

With no apparent reason, she ceased to be communicative, ceased to be willing to detail the doings of her mother or the particulars of her illness. She shut up like a stubborn clam, and merely shook or nodded her head in answer to the sergeant’s inquiries.

Like a wise man Downing forbore to question her further, and with a sigh at the contrariness of womankind he turned to Hugh Abercrombie for further information.

Abercrombie sat somewhat stiffly in a straight-backed chair. His chestnut-brown hair, which he wore brushed straight back, was soft and fine, the hair of culture and delicacy. His blue-gray eyes were steady and alertly attentive. But his face was pale, and a close observer could have noticed that the nostrils of his straight, well-shaped nose quivered slightly.

With no suggestion of embarrassment or even self-consciousness he gave an impression of being at bay and showed clearly his disinclination to being questioned.

Noticing this, Sergeant Downing decided to grill him.

“Mr. Abercrombie,” he began, “have you any reason to believe that your wife would have taken poison of her own volition?”

“Most assuredly not,” was the reply, spoken decidedly but in a halting tone, as if the speaker found the situation intolerable.

“Have you any reason to think anyone would have given it to her with a wrong motive?”

“No, indeed! Who could wish her harm? And, moreover, how could such a deed be accomplished?”

“I will do the questioning, if you please. What, then, is your theory of the means that brought about Mrs. Abercrombie’s death?”

“That it was a horrible accident or mistake of some sort. The details I am not able even to guess at, but it is a certainty that the administration of the poison was unintentional.”

“You can think of no one who could for any reason desire the lady’s death?”

“Positively not. She was a universal favourite. She had not an enemy in the world. All who knew her loved and admired her. Foul play is absolutely out of the question.”

Downing looked at him, not quizzically, but with a judicial air, as if weighing these statements.

“She was then a paragon among women?”

“She was, indeed, as can be testified by anyone who had the honour of her acquaintance. May I ask you to confine your queries to the subject in hand, and which need not include a discussion of the lady’s character?”

One of Downing’s chief merits was his inviolable rule never to let himself show annoyance at any aspersion of his methods.

Without so much as raising an eyebrow he went on equably:

“I am told Mrs. Abercrombie first showed symptoms of illness on Thursday afternoon. Did you know of that?”

“I knew she was not at dinner that night. But I assumed she was wearied with the entertainment of the afternoon and preferred to dine in her room.”

“Did you not see her that evening?”

“No.”

“Nor the next day?”

“The next day, Friday, she joined us in the afternoon as usual, and said she was feeling better.”

“Did she look or seem ill at that time?”

“No, I think not.”

“Indeed, she didn’t!” Maisie broke in irrepressibly. “She looked beautiful! I never saw her more stunning! She was tired out by the tea, but the next day she was rested and was all whoopee!”

“At this tea entertainment, what did Mrs. Abercrombie eat? Is it known?”

Downing looked inquiringly at the maid and the secretary, but it was Maisie who answered.

“Oh, Eileen never ate anything at a party.”

“You are speaking of your mother?”

“Sure. But I didn’t call her Mother ’cause it made her seem so old. You see, she was older than I am, but she seemed younger, or just about the same. She was a dead-game sport and an all-round brick. All the B. V. D. sex fell for her. In fact, she had us all under her thumb. Or all except me.”

Downing refused to be shocked by this ebullition.

“And she ate nothing at the tea party that could make her ill?”

“Nixy. I asked her to have a sandwich but she only shook her head. Last I saw of her she was putting away a highball.”

“Ah, and who gave it to her?”

Maisie stared.

“I dunno. Guess she helped herself. But there was no poison around to put in it, if that’s what you’re getting at!”

“Was Mrs. Abercrombie in the habit of drinking spirits?”

“About like the rest of us,” said Maisie pertly.

“She was not,” intervened Dr. Garth with a glance of reproof at the girl. “As her physician, I can state that alcoholic drinks were forbidden her, and I daresay the highball in question was a mere glass of carbonated water.”

“Maybe,” Maisie said; “she was showing off those new silver highball glasses she just bought, so I couldn’t say.”

“Where was this entertainment held?”

“In the Japanese tea house, but of course the guests were all over the place.”

“You were present at the festivities, Mr. Abercrombie?”

“I was about the grounds most of the time, yes.”

“Did you notice Mrs. Abercrombie eating or drinking anything?”

“I did not, but I was not in the tea house, where the tea was served.”

“Why not? Had you no duties as host?”

“Oh, no, it was an informal affair. My wife and a bevy of other ladies did the honours.”

“Your wife was what may be called a strong character, was she not?”

Hugh Abercrombie looked at his questioner.

“She was,” he answered slowly. “A fine, strong, and altogether admirable character. I have never known a more magnificent specimen of womanhood.”

The statement was made in a calm, gentle voice, and had no effect of blatant flattery. Rather, it seemed the voluntary tribute of one who thoroughly meant just what he said.

“Not one, then, who for any reason would take her own life?”

“I have already answered that, but I will repeat that in my opinion it would be an act entirely incompatible with her whole nature.”

“Was the lady entirely well of her indisposition the next day, Friday?”

“So far as I know,” Hugh replied.

“Did she dine with the family that evening?”

“I don’t recall,” he began, but Maisie interrupted.

“‘Course you don’t, Dad, you weren’t there yourself. No, Eileen didn’t come to the table Friday night. I had a few of my boy friends to dinner, and a couple of girls. You remember, Miss Mercer?”

“Yes,” said Miss Mercer without a smile.

Clairvoyance was not required to perceive that the secretary did not entirely approve of the daughter of the house.

“Well, that’s the way it was. I was an orphan child at dinner Friday night.”

“And Saturday? And Sunday?”

“Lemme see. Saturday night I was out to dinner myself. Sunday night, we had some guests in. Oh, yes, I remember. Eileen came to the table, but she left before we had finished. Had one of her attacks. Then, Monday night, she had her dinner in bed, and—and it was Monday night she died.”

Maisie broke down and, turning to Abercrombie, laid her head on his shoulder and gave way to half-suppressed sobs of grief.

Gently he put an arm round her and stroked her temple with a slow, soothing gesture.

Percy Van Antwerp rose and came to them saying, “Come, Maisie, for a little stroll in the fresh air.” And the two went away together.