Death of My Aunt, page 4
"Do you want me to stay?" my uncle asked.
"As you like."
My uncle went out, and the doctor signed to me to sit down.
"When did you first see your aunt this morning?" he asked.
"A little after half past ten."
"Did you see her last night?"
"No. I arrived late."
"How was she when you first saw her? Did she seem herself? In good spirits?"
"In remarkably good spirits."
"What was the nature of your conversation with her? Was it exciting, or distressing?"
"Not at all distressing. A little exciting, perhaps, though I think I was the one to be excited. It was about finance, mostly."
"H'm. You are in business?"
"I am in a stockbroker's office."
"There was nothing you said which could have agitated Mrs. Cartwright?"
"Nothing," I answered, and I described the subsequent events with greater fullness than I had to my uncle. He listened to me without comment, and said "Thank you" when I had finished.
"I suppose," I said, "it was a heart attack?"
"Mrs. Cartwright certainly died of heart-failure."
"Could it have been brought on by the drink, do you think?"
"At present I am not prepared to say."
At that he gave me a severe look and went into my aunt's bedroom. I was a little annoyed at his mystery-making. "No doubt," I thought on my way downstairs, "he is upset because she didn't die according to the rules. Probably he never realised how seriously ill she was."
I said something of the sort to my uncle, who was sitting by the drawing-room writing-table. He made no comment, and I began to wonder how far he was affected merely by shock, and how far by real grief. Of myself I had now no doubt. My own nervous agitation in no way resembled the hopeless misery which I had once felt on the death of a friend to whom I was devoted. My uncle seemed to be concerned as to whom he ought to tell of what had happened, and how. Here I felt I could be of use to him, and offered to draft some telegrams.
"Terence must be told," he said, "and, I suppose, your mother and Fanny."
"Do you know Terence's address?"
"No."
"Then I'd better tell Bob, and let him send word to his father."
"Thanks awfully, old man."
"He'll be at the office still, will he? It's not twelve yet."
"I should think so."
I went to the telephone, rang up the firm of Dennis and Carvel and asked for Mr. Robert Carvel. A voice, which I thought belonged to one of the brothers Dennis—I had not seen either of them for years—told me that Mr. Robert Carvel had left a few minutes earlier for the station, and that he was spending the week-end in Hertfordshire. I was then asked who I was, but pretended not to hear, and rang off. I had no wish just then to begin a conversation with my marriage-connections, and did not care even to give them my news, without instructions from my uncle.
There was nothing for it but to telephone to my Aunt Anne, ill though she might be; for I judged Muriel and Henrietta too irresponsible. It was Aunt Anne herself who answered me.
"Good morning, Malcolm," she said. "Uncle Hannibal told me you had come."
I delivered my message in awkward phrases. She gave a little gasp, and said, "Oh, I am sorry—I am so very sorry. Is there anything I can do?"
"Only to telegraph to Uncle Terence. He ought to know as soon as possible."
"I will, at once. But if he's out for the day, fishing. . . . Still we shall have done what we can. How was it, Malcolm, that it happened?"
"It was heart-failure."
"Was the doctor there?"
"No. He came too late to do anything. He's in the house now."
"I'll come and see you, if I can, this afternoon. After tea. Unless—perhaps you'd come here?" "I will, if I can."
"I am so sorry—and for you. What a terrible shock it must have been."
There was a pause, and she said good-bye and rang off.
I went into the drawing-room again and wrote out telegrams to my mother and Aunt Fanny. While I was doing so, I heard the doctor come downstairs and go to the telephone. When he had finished, my uncle joined him in the hall, and I heard their voices through the open door.
"I've telephoned for a nurse," the doctor said, "and she ought to be here in half an hour."
"Thank you. Meanwhile I'd better get the room put to rights?"
"No. I wish nothing to be touched or rearranged in any way. In fact, I have taken the liberty of locking the doors."
"How about the nurse getting in, then?" "I shall call at the infirmary and give her the key. I shall be coming back myself as soon as I can. I have to make a further examination, and shall require some—er—extra apparatus."
"Oh, then perhaps you'll have lunch with us?"
"Thank you, but I think I shall be able to get home by two. In any case, I don't want to trouble you."
The front door shut, and I heard the sound of the doctor's motor. When my uncle came into the drawing-room again he looked both embarrassed and puzzled.
VI
The Police
(Saturday, luncheon)
ALREADY the morning had seemed inordinately long, and the remaining hour before luncheon passed even more slowly. My uncle apparently did not need me, and I went out into the garden, where I strolled aimlessly. It is extraordinary how quickly one's moods—even moods of great intensity—can change. I now found myself slightly resentful of what had happened, impatient of the strain which I saw was going to be imposed upon me, and eager for a resumption of normal life, in which one could be openly amused. I had never before been in a house in which a death occurred, and did not realise the demands which it was bound to make upon social intercourse. I even felt it a piece of humbug that my uncle and I should be deprived of our golf that afternoon.
I saw the nurse arriving in a motor while I was sitting under some trees near the drive. As far as I could gather from my glimpse of her, she was a purposeful woman of thirty-five—the type, I reflected unjustly, to clamour for steak and onions three times a night in a house of sickness. The motor stopped at the front door, where she got out. I presume she was shown upstairs by my uncle; for I did not see her when I went back to the house.
It was chilly where I was sitting, and I walked briskly to the kitchen garden, which lay on the west side of the house, beyond the garage. I picked and ate a fair number of peas. They were small and not quite ripe. I remember once asking myself to whom they, and the rest of Otho House, now belonged. While I was still devouring the substance of the unknown heir, I heard another motor in the drive, which I concluded must be the doctor's, though the engine sounded very powerful for his little two-seater. I was in no hurry to meet him again, and stayed where I was till he should have gone upstairs. When I passed the front door on my way back to the French window, I saw that, if it was the doctor who had come, he must have changed his car, for this was a big and shabby Daimler, with room for seven or eight persons.
My uncle was still in the drawing-room, sitting in an armchair and fingering his moustache nervously; when I came in, he stood up and made a noise in his throat.
"The doctor's come back," he said, "and brought the police."
"The police?" I repeated stupidly.
"The police-surgeon. Dr. Mathews, Inspector Glaize, and a constable."
"But—why?"
"How the hell should I know? Bradford came in and said something about not being at all satisfied, and feeling unable to dispense with an inquest. He introduced me to his friends, and they all went upstairs together. They'll be wanting to see us both in a few minutes. In fact they asked me to find you in the garden."
"Really," I said, "this is too—" and stopped, while my mind, like a flower suddenly subjected to some intense electrical ray, broke into strange bloom. New thoughts and conjectures shot up within me, incoherent and alarming.
At that moment Dr. Bradford came in without knocking.
"I am exceedingly sorry to tell you," he said, "that neither Dr. Mathews nor I have any doubt but that Mrs. Cartwright met her death through an unnatural cause. Inspector Glaize would like to see Mr. Warren at once—in the boudoir."
Without speaking or looking at the two men, I went upstairs.
The Inspector introduced himself to me at once. I found him even less prepossessing than Dr. Bradford. He was a fat man, with a large damp face, watery blue eyes, and a red nose. His hair was thin and grey. A policeman in uniform stood by him, handsomely sunburnt.
"Will you please sit down, Mr. Warren?"
He pointed to a chair facing the window. The old trick, I thought.
"This is a shocking business, sir," he began, when I had taken up my position. "No doubt Dr. Bradford has informed you that he felt bound to order a post-mortem of the deceased, owing to certain suspicions which he formed at an early stage. These suspicions, I may say, are fully shared by Dr. Mathews, our police-surgeon. There is no harm in my telling you—in fact, it is my duty to tell you—that Mrs. Cartwright met her death through poison. The poison has still to be tested, but the medical gentlemen are agreed in suspecting it of being oxalic acid, and of having been concealed in a preparation known as 'Le Secret de Venus'."
He pronounced "secret" in the English way.
"This preparation," he went on, "is a quack mixture, quite innocent in itself, and could not by any possibility produce harmful consequences. You see"—and here his manner became less formal and more confidential, "I'm putting all my cards on the table, sir, because I want your help. There is no doubt that the poor lady met her death by foul means, and I am sure you are as eager as we are to get at the truth. I understand that you were the only person present in the room when she took the mixture and when the poison began to show its effects. I shall of course question everyone in the house, but I should first like to have an account, in your own words, of all that happened after you went into Mrs. Cartwright's room this morning."
I told my story for the third time, still more fully than before.
"The investment book, now? Would that be the leather-bound book we found on the settee at the foot of the bed?"
"Yes. I must have put it there when my aunt took the mixture."
For a moment I felt quite guilty of my carelessness. But what, after all, did it matter if the nurse, Dr. Bradford, and the police doctor had all read it?
"Go on, please."
I continued my account to the time when I went downstairs, leaving Buxey in the room.
"What do you say were Mrs. Cartwright's last words?"
"Her last words, unless she uttered some during the attack, which I did not catch, were: 'Toujours, toujours, il faut souffrir etre belle'."
"H'm. French, I suppose. And what did you take those words to mean?"
"I took them to mean, "Always, always, it is necessary to suffer in order to be beautiful'."
"What did you understand by the reference to suffering?"
"I thought it was a reference to the bitter taste of the drink."
"You are sure that Mrs. Cartwright didn't mean that she was suffering because she was beautiful?"
"Quite sure."
"Wasn't it a rather peculiar thing to say?"
His way of snapping the question at me irritated me. How can these people hope to succeed, I thought, if they will judge everything from the "plain man's" standpoint?
"I thought the remark quite in keeping with my aunt's mood."
"You say that when you mentioned Mrs. Carvel, your aunt referred to troubles of her own. Have you any idea what they were?"
"None."
"Nothing to do with money?"
"Certainly not. My aunt was a very wealthy woman."
"But she said she had many calls upon her?"
"Yes."
"What did you take that to mean, Mr. Warren?"
"I thought she was alluding to her poor relations."
"Did Mrs. Cartwright make you an allowance?"
"No."
"But you had presents from her—money presents?"
"Yes."
"Fairly regularly?"
"At Christmas and on my birthday."
"Excuse me if I ask for what amount?"
"Usually for £50."
"Will you also excuse me asking if £50 means a good deal to you, sir?"
"It does."
"Do you know any other members of the family to whom Mrs. Cartwright gave allowances—or handsome presents?"
"My mother, and my sisters, on a smaller scale. And I think my unmarried aunt Fanny Carvel. I dare say others, too."
"Supposing these troubles were not money troubles, what could they be?"
"I have no idea."
"You hadn't the curiosity to ask?"
"No."
"Did it surprise you that Mrs. Cartwright mentioned having troubles?"
"Not very much."
"Why not?"
I was again irritated.
"Most women, especially elderly women, have their grievances," I said, "and rather enjoy having them."
"I see. You are a student of human nature. How old are you?"
"Twenty-six."
"I want you now to tell me what opinion you formed of the relations between your aunt and Mr. Cartwright."
"I'm not sure that I formed any opinion."
"Come, come, Mr. Warren. You want to help us, don't you? Did they get on well together?"
"I have only seen them together a very few times."
"How often?"
"When I spent a week-end here in November of last year, another week-end in the early spring of that year, and another in October 1926."
"How did they get on in October 1926?"
"Very well."
"And in the spring of 1927?"
"Very well."
"And last November?"
"Very well."
"Quite as well as during the two earlier week-ends?"
"If you press me, I suppose I must say 'Not quite'. But I don't wish to imply that there was any kind of breach or ill-feeling."
"What made you think that they were not getting on quite so well?"
"Only that they weren't so much in one another's company—and perhaps some very trivial incidents which may have combined to give me an impression, though I can't remember any of them."
"On the whole, you would say that the marriage was very successful?"
"Yes, considering the difference of age and tastes, I should say it was as successful as most marriages."
"You take a cynical view of marriage, perhaps?"
"I don't imagine husbands and wives live in a state of perpetual bliss."
"You are unmarried?" .
"Yes."
There was a pause, during which the Inspector looked at some notes. I lit a cigarette, without asking permission to smoke. Glaize had by now succeeded in making me antagonistic to him. I was particularly annoyed by the way in which he seemed to set himself up as a standard of conduct and to assume that any act which surprised him must also surprise others. He set no store, as I was to realise more fully later, by the waywardness of human nature, made no allowances for the innumerable irrational acts habitually performed by rational people, had no conception of the mass of habits and inhibitions which continually regulate, unawares, the behaviour of the most normal. He would, I was sure, be suspicious of any plea of absent-mindedness, momentary indecision, sudden revulsion. In short, I felt he might learn much from me.
"I now wish to ask you," he said, "a few questions about the bottle containing this preparation. When did you first see it?"
"When I went to the bureau to get the blotting-paper."
"It was lying, you said, on its side, on the top of the blotter in the bureau. Had you previously looked into the bureau?"
"Yes, last night." I then told him about my aunt's letter, and my finding of the investment book. "The book was on the blotter?"
"Yes."
"Beside the bottle, or on the bottle?"
"I saw no bottle last night."
"Are you quite sure? This may be important. I want you to think carefully."
"I don't remember seeing it or feeling it."
"Feeling it?"
"I didn't turn on the light in this room. I wasn't quite sure where the switch was."
"You groped about in the dark?"
"Quite a lot of light came through that door, which I left open. It didn't fall directly on to the bureau, but I was able to see the outline of the book."
"Wouldn't it have been simpler to strike a match and look for the switch?"
"Much simpler, probably. But I didn't do it."
"How did you know you'd get the right book?"
"It was the only book there. When I took it to the light, of course, I knew at once."
"Then the bottle might have been there without your seeing it?"
"Perhaps—though I don't think so. At any rate, not on the top of the blotter."
"You are not very observant?"
"I don't try to record all the stray impressions received by my eyes and ears. I should regard that as a waste of time, bad for the imagination and stultifying to the intelli—"
"Possibly. But you would think you would have remembered the bottle if it had been where you found it this morning?"
"Yes. I do."
"When you looked at the bottle, was it full?"
"I don't know. There is a band of coloured paper round the neck."
"But when it was lying on its side, you might have been able to tell."
"I didn't notice. I have somehow the impression that it was full, or very nearly."
"Was there anything over the stopper, to keep it on?"
"I don't think so."
"Did you take out the stopper?"
"No, my aunt did."
"Had she any difficulty in doing so?"
"None that I saw."
"Very well. Now I want you to tell me this. Have there been any events since your arrival which you regard as unusual or suspicious, or which you now so regard?"
"The position of the bottle on the blotter, perhaps."
"Yes, yes. We have gone through that. Anything else?"
"No. Nothing."
"You are quite sure?"
"Yes."
There was another pause. Then he said, suddenly, "Thank you, Mr. Warren. That will be all for the present, though, I may, of course, have to ask you some further questions later. Meanwhile, I'm afraid I must ask you not to leave the house or grounds without getting permission from Constable Hare, who will be about or near the premises."
