Читать книгу The Case for the Crown - Fred M. White - Страница 6

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There was no disorder or confusion in that perfectly appointed household. To Cecil, standing dumb and frozen there, in the hideous amazement of the moment, came the strange feeling that this was all part and parcel of a well-ordered scheme, and that she had expected it in the ordinary course of things. And even in that trying moment behind the horror of it was a certain sense of freedom and knowledge that her chains were broken that amounted almost to exultation. She was strangely calm, so calm and collected as to be absolutely amazed at her own self-possession. She had never cared for this man, she had gone to him, hating and loathing him, and perfectly comprehending what manner of man he was. So there need be no self-deception, no mockery of grief or even a passing regret. Robert Molyneux had died practically by his own hand. He had drunk, and drugged himself into his grave, he had piled up the horrors on his own head knowing perfectly well what the result of the self-constituted tragedy would be. No doubt that last dose of the drug had been too much for a heart enfeebled and strained to breaking point by a long course of dissipation.

And though the master of the house lay there dead and cold, the establishment was going on smoothly and regularly as if nothing out of the common had happened. All the servants, with the exception of Barton, had gone to bed, and, for the moment, at any rate, there was no occasion to disturb them. On the hearthrug in front of the fireplace Molyneux's favourite spaniel lay at full length fast asleep; in the window a parrot in a gilded cage climbed restlessly up the bars and clicked his iron beak in imitation of a pair of nut-crackers. Robert Molyneux was dead, but the world was going on just the same.

Barton moved on tiptoe across the room into the hall, and a moment or two later the silence was broken by the whirr of the telephone handle as the well-trained servant quietly called up the doctor, and got in contact with him. Then there was a matter of conversation, and Barton came back again.

"Dr. Barclay will be here in ten minutes, madam," he said. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

He expressed no regret, he ventured on no condolences. It seemed to Cecil that he perfectly understood, and that, if he had spoken his mind, his words would have taken the form of congratulation more than condolence.

"Nothing, thank you, Barton," Cecil said. "You will of course wait up till the doctor comes and bring him to me in the drawing-room. You need not wake the other servants—at any rate, not for the present."

There was nothing for it now but to sit down and quietly wait for Dr. Barclay. He came presently bland and suave and quiet as usual. From his lips there came the usual polite professional condolences, the inevitable phrases due to such an occasion, but it seemed to Cecil that even Dr. Barclay looked at her with a certain expression in his eyes that spoke of something of congratulation. Molyneux had not been a popular man, and there was no one in the neighbourhood who would have gone out of their way to say a good word for him.

"It must have been a great shock, of course," Barclay said. "But, knowing what we do, Mrs. Molyneux, not—er—altogether unexpected. I told my late patient several times what to expect if he persisted in his irregular mode of life."

"Quite so, doctor; I don't think there need be any delusions as far as you and I are concerned, Robert has been drinking heavily for a week. In that time he has hardly touched any food at all. I suppose you want to know exactly what happened. All day to-day he has been dreadful, such a state of nervous irritation that the brandy he has been drinking has had practically no effect on him. He had one of his attacks this evening after dinner, so that I had to give him a dose of that medicine. He seemed to grow better after that."

Dr. Barclay nodded gravely.

"You were duly careful, I hope? I never cared about that drug myself, and, if you remember, I protested against it when Mr. Molyneux consulted the Harley-street specialist. It is a very powerful drug, and ought not to be administered to any man who is in the habit of drinking heavily. I always said that any one should not touch that drug who was not practically a teetotaler. Still, the responsibility wasn't mine. I want you to remember that I particularly cautioned you not to give Mr. Molyneux a single spot out of that bottle beyond the proper dose. Of course, there will be an inquest to-morrow, and for your sake I want to clear the ground as much as possible. Do you follow me?"

Cecil started slightly. She had not thought of this.

"I have been most particular," she declared. "As you know, that prescription was given into my hands with special instructions that no one was to have it made up but myself. Even the chemist was warned that no one was to handle that prescription except me. And since I have had it it had been under careful lock and key in my own room. I keep the key of the drawer where it is locked up in a secret hiding-place. I dare say you will think all these unnecessary precautions, but I can assure you they were not unnecessary in my husband's case. When he was on the verge of an attack of his horrors, he used to go on his knees to me and implore me to give him a dose. He has even gone further than that. It is not a nice confession to have to make, but I have suffered from his violence when he has found persuasion use-less."

"I have suspected as much," Barclay murmured.

"But I was always firm," Cecil went on. "And never once have I given him a spot except at intervals of twenty-four hours, which are the directions on the bottle. Of course, I quite understand the most searching inquiries will be made, but it is fortunate for me that this evening I gave him the very last dose in the bottle. Of course, if necessary, I can give you the dates and times on which I have administered every dose. But surely you don't think—"

"Oh, quite so, quite so," Barclay said hastily. "But at a coroner's inquest there is always some fool of a juryman who asks questions. As an old family doctor, of course I can speak freely. And everybody knows the history of, shall I say, your unfortunate married life."

The hot blood flamed into Cecil's face.

"Yes, in a small place like this people will talk," she said. "You see, I never anticipated anything like this. But I shall be able to meet all inquiries. I shall be even able to produce the empty bottle. But I don't mind telling you that my husband to-night implored me to give him an extra dose. Would you like to have that empty bottle?"

"It would be just as well, perhaps," Barclay said.

Cecil led the way into her own sitting room where she turned on the lights and proceeded to take the key of her writing table from the big china vase where she usually kept it concealed. She put the key in the lock and pulled open the drawer. With an unsteady smile on her lips she handed Barclay the envelope containing the Harley street prescription, and together with this a little green bottle graduated as to its doses by lines on the back of the label.

"There," she said. "Here is the empty bottle which you had better take care of. I want you to see that I have made no mistake in what I am saying."

"But what's this?" Barclay asked. "This is a phial of the drug right enough, but it appears to be full all except one dose. Where is the empty bottle?"

Cecil stood there with parted lips and a face from which every drop of the blood had been drained. For the empty phial had vanished and only the new one remained.