The Six Queer Things, page 17
This impersonal ferocity was just what Marjorie found most dreadful. It was impossible to establish any human contact with such a woman. She did not regard Marjorie as a human being, but as some kind of animal under her care.
Marjorie found that the other inmates were treated in exactly the same way—with no “unnecessary” cruelty, but without the slightest regard to their human dignity. Eventually, no doubt, they ceased to regard their dignity themselves, and became the wretched caricatures of human beings she saw.
Now that Lambert had become friendly towards her, it was evident that he had some plot at the back of his mind. He would become absorbed in reflection for hours on end—a time when, he said, he was thinking “secrets.” To humour him, she would remain silent while he chuckled and ruminated with himself. She had no idea the plot concerned herself until one day as they sat side by side on one of the long garden seats, he said to her, with a little cackle of laughter:
“You run away from here! That would spite them all.”
“There’s nothing I should like better,” she answered, “but how can I get out of here?”
He gave a stealthy glance round at the attendant who was watching him. They were near the wall and the attendants made a point of keeping a sharp eye on anyone who was near a wall.
“Well, you see this seat we’re sitting on now? It’s not fixed to the ground, although it looks as if it is. If you were to put it up against the wall, you could use the crossbars at the back to climb up, and then you could reach the top of the wall with your hands. You’d better cover the top with your coat, rolled up, and then jump down the other side. If you hang on first, and then let yourself go, it’s not much of a drop. And the ground is soft anyway. That’s the way I escaped.”
“But they’re bound to see me!”
“Ah, that’s where I come in. I’ll distract their attention.”
It was an ingenious plan, and she wondered at his cunning, although she supposed that insanity only affected a part of the brain. If that was how he had escaped before, it was surprising they continued to leave the long seats about the grounds, not fastened down. Perhaps some inmate had replaced the seat and so concealed Lambert’s means of escape. In their sane moments there was a strange camaraderie among the inmates, and mutual enmity towards the attendants.
Once she had seen a combined attack of half-a-dozen creatures on one attendant who had slipped on a piece of lawn. He had been rescued by the other attendants, and next day all except one of those who were concerned in the attack kept to their rooms. Even the one who came out had a face almost raw with bruises and had to walk with the aid of a stick. The attendants evidently had their own way of enforcing discipline.
“Where am I?” she asked. “In England?”
“Dear me, Miss Easton, yes!” he answered in a surprised tone. He looked at her a little anxiously. “Forgive me if I am rude, but do you sometimes feel mentally confused?”
Even in the unpleasant circumstances, the incongruity of the remark struck her, and she could not help laughing. Then, seeing his hurt look, she went on: “Whereabouts exactly are we then?”
“In Norfolk. That is one of the Norfolk Broads—Langdon Mere. The nearest station is at Thorpe. It is a long way by road, but once you are there you will be all right. The railway people are silly about money, but if you creep on the train quietly without saying anything, they will probably let you go at the barrier at the other end, if you give them an address!”
“I don’t mind once I get to the station. How far is it?”
But by this time Lambert’s mind had drifted to something else, and she could not bring him back to the subject. It was no use expecting help from people like him, she decided hopelessly. She went on chatting to him and then, quite suddenly, his mind must have returned to the subject of her escape, for, after a crafty, sidelong glance at her, he jumped up and began running across the lawn, yelling and waving his arms. An attendant made a rush at him, but he picked up a garden rake which had been thrown down by a gardener and knocked the attendant down with it. Instantly the whole place was in confusion. All the attendants in the grounds began running towards Lambert, and simultaneously there was a surge of inmates after him. Marjorie was left alone.
As it happened, this place was screened by trees from the house. It was her one chance. She lugged the seat towards the wall, and, with a heave, managed to tilt it against the brickwork. Then she climbed to the top, rolled up the thick overcoat she was wearing, and put it on the top of the wall. It seemed a long drop, but she cared for only one thing—to escape. She held on the top for a moment and then let go.
She found herself ankle deep in the earth, safe and sound.
There was no time to be lost. The main thing was to get away from this terrible place, out of sight of it, as quickly as possible. She hurried along the bank, and, instead of following the road, started to set off across the fields. It was a terrible place to escape from—for miles around there was no cover. The flat land stretched out without trees or hedges for miles on end. The fields were cut up at intervals by dykes, which she had either to jump across or wade through. Soon her breath was coming in pants, and she was already tired. Yet something urged her on to hurry, hurry . . . She must not be caught again, whatever happened!
If the worst came to the worst she would double back to the lake and swim into the reeds. She was a good swimmer. . . .
Marjorie bent all her thoughts, all her energy, all her hope, on the word “escape.”
2
The dog died of strychnine, Dr Tremayne reported, and this made Morgan think hard.
Crispin had died of strychnine. A prussic acid bottle had been found in Wainwright’s pocket. It was all getting infernally complex. What on earth did this dog die for, in this unexpected way, without any visible cause? What exactly was the snake doing in Belmont Avenue? Without poison in its glands too?
Morgan paid yet another visit to the house. The cook had left and it had been shut up. The studio, scene of Crispin’s death, was dusty.
Morgan went up to the washbowl from which the water had been taken for Crispin’s fatal drink. Below the washbasin was a rubber mat, and Morgan rolled this up carefully and put it in his invaluable attaché case, together with the Six Queer Things. Then he got out a bottle and filled it with water from the cold tap.
This was the main object of his visit, but while he was there he made a careful inspection of the carpet. The only things which he thought worth bringing away were a number of pieces of coloured wool clinging to it, which he picked up here and there. Evidently they had survived Anne’s broom.
When he returned, there was a certain amount of routine work to be done. The glass of water and the rubber mat had to be sent to Tremayne. The wool had to go to the textile expert.
“Any news of Wainwright yet?” he asked his assistant.
“Not yet. But there’s some quite interesting stuff come through on the poison enquiries.”
He handed Morgan a sheaf of papers, and the detective took them hopefully.
“They’re certainly interesting,” he said, after studying them carefully. “I think I’ll go round to this address!”
He went round to a chemist’s who seemed surprised at the sudden appearance of the law. When Morgan told him it was a murder case, he became alarmed.
“I hope I’m not going to be dragged into this,” he said immediately.
“It’s impossible to say,” answered Morgan. “Naturally if we can get the information any other way, we’ll keep your name out of it.”
“I wish you would. It doesn’t do business any good in this sort of neighbourhood. Although it’s not one’s fault, something always sticks, and people go elsewhere for their medicines.”
“Look here, do me a favour and I’ll do you a favour,” said the policeman winningly. “Wrap up any bottle of medicine—sunburn lotion, horse liniment, what you like—and send it round by messenger to this address. Get your messenger to ask at the door if it was what was ordered, and wait till he gets the bottle back. See that the bottle is wrapped up—a box will be best.”
“How very strange,” murmured the chemist, with a disapproving air. “What do you want me to do that for?”
“Do this, and don’t ask any questions. In return I’ll see you’re kept out of it.”
The chemist agreed, and by the afternoon Morgan had the bottle back in his hands. It gave him a fine set of fingerprints, which he sent along to records.
He was pleased to find, next morning, on his desk, a fairly full dossier attached to the photographs. The prints were of a known criminal.
He rummaged in his drawer and turned up the list of people who had been present in the fatal séance.
“There seem to have been some nice specimens there,” he remarked. The question was, how best to make an approach. He came to a decision.
He would call on Mrs Threpfall.
“I’ve come round to see you again in connection with the Crispin case,” he said, when he had been shown into her elegant drawing room. Mrs Threpfall had evidently been dozing in the armchair—her kindly old eyes blinked at the light as he came in.
Mrs Threpfall nodded.
“Yes, I’ve been following it in the papers—as much as they print. Have you discovered anything new?”
“Not very much, but one or two new facts have come into my possession, and that is why I came round to see you. I hope I am not taking up any of your valuable time?”
“I’m not a very busy woman, Inspector. When you reach my age and your husband is dead and you have no children, time hangs heavily on one’s hands. I’m thinking of moving into the country.”
“No amusements or hobbies, eh?”
“None at all. Except music.”
“Not even a bit of needlework?”
Mrs Threpfall smiled.
“I suppose you’ve heard of my passion for knitting and embroidery. Yes, there’s always that, although I haven’t been doing much lately.”
“Well, that’s one of the reasons why I came to see you. I came across an odd thing at the Crispins’ house, and seeing that you are a needlewoman, I thought you might be able to help me.”
The inspector opened his bag and pulled out one of the Six Queer Things—the card with the coloured threads arranged on it.
“Now what would this be?”
Mrs Threpfall took it and examined it closely.
“How queer! I’ve never seen anything like it. It seems to be instructions for a pattern, but I must say I don’t quite follow it. If you would like to leave it with me, I’ll see if I can work out a design from it.”
Morgan refused her offer.
“No, there’s no need. I don’t expect it is of importance. I mentioned it in passing; it wasn’t the main purpose of my visit. That was to make a few enquiries about Crispin’s death. As you know, Crispin was poisoned. An empty poison bottle was found in Robinson’s pocket—a bottle which had contained a more than fatal dose of prussic acid. Robinson’s real name, as you doubtless saw from the papers, is Wainwright, and he is under suspicion. But at the moment he has vanished, so I have come round to you.”
Mrs Threpfall looked at him thoughtfully over her spectacles.
“I don’t see what I can do for you, except assure you that this youngster cannot possibly be guilty of murder, or I am no judge of character.”
“I believe you are a very keen judge of character,” said Morgan winningly, “for all your apparently simple exterior.” Mrs Threpfall smiled good humouredly. “Would you be ready to swear that you did not see Wainwright put any poison into Crispin’s glass, or make any other suspicious move?”
“Most certainly. As I was seated next to him I should certainly have seen anything of that kind.”
“Good.”
Morgan got up and stared down for a moment at Mrs Threpfall.
“Then perhaps you can answer another question with equal truth. Why did you buy some prussic acid four days before Crispin’s death?”
Mrs Threpfall’s hands, which were clasped on her lap, whitened at the knuckles. She remained silent for a moment.
“I buy poison!” she exclaimed at last. “What nonsense!”
“There is no use denying it. I have your signature in the poison book, and a copy of the order for it, which came from Dr Wood. Why did you buy that poison?”
“I refuse to answer. It is my own business.”
“Crispin died of poison,” said Morgan sternly. “We have positive proof that you bought some, that you were seated next to Wainwright, and that therefore you were in a position to put it in his glass. I warn you that if you do not give a satisfactory explanation of why you bought it, I shall arrest you for the wilful murder of Crispin.”
Mrs Threpfall stared back at him defiantly, a spot of colour blazing in each cheek.
“And I absolutely refuse to give you any information. As for arresting me, that is preposterous. You know you haven’t the faintest chance of succeeding in a verdict! Not the faintest! I am not the woman to be either bluffed or intimidated!”
Morgan sat down again. When he spoke it was in his normal tone.
“Quite right. I haven’t a chance of conviction,” he said smoothly. “But how do you know I haven’t a chance? Only if you knew a good deal more than has appeared in the papers.”
“What do you mean?”
“The precise poison which killed Crispin has not been published. It is only known inside my office. It was not prussic acid, and therefore you are right. In spite of the damning circumstances, it would not be possible to get a conviction against you. All the same, how did you know?”
Mrs Threpfall maintained a stony silence. Her eyes snapped fire and defiance behind her glasses.
Morgan shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, we must find out, that’s all.”
He got up, put his hands casually in his pockets and strolled up to a large painting on the wall.
“Who’s this fellow? Looks a bit under the weather.”
“That is my late husband!” said Mrs Threpfall icily.
Morgan contemplated it with a laugh.
“It’s a bit different to the photograph of him we’ve got in our files,” he said. “His hair’s a bit shorter in our picture.”
“What do you mean by that remark? It sounds to me to be in rather dubious taste.”
“Cut the polite stuff!” said the policeman roughly. “The only husband you ever had, Lucy, is still in Dartmoor. And you ought to be behind prison gates too.”
Mrs Threpfall’s whole expression changed. The kindliness vanished, and the mouth seemed to coarsen visibly. Her expression changed to one of insolent vulgarity.
“You haven’t got anything on me! And please do not call me by my Christian name!”
“Well, you change the other so often.”
“The usual flat-footed humour! Think you’re clever, don’t you? Don’t be so damned familiar. This is a respectable house. I want to keep it so.”
“Respectable. With a jailbird’s wife in charge? That’s good,” replied Morgan, in a tone as bantering and vulgar as hers.
“I’m not responsible for the sins of my husband!” replied Mrs Threpfall, her expression changing back to that of a kindly and even pathetic old lady. “Here am I trying to keep my end up and forget the past, and you come round here and drag me in the dust again. Have you no heart, no compunction, no pity for a lonely woman who is trying to struggle along in the straight and narrow path—after all the sorrow my poor erring husband brought on my head?
“Besides,” she added, with another change of manner, “as crooks go, he was an aristocrat. He sat on the same board of directors as a viscount.”
“Sure. And now he’s got a cell next to a knight’s son. But that doesn’t make me any the less interested about your connection with Crispin.”
“Pure scientific interest!”
“Don’t talk nonsense. Do you think I don’t understand the meaning of that chart? How you get friendly with Crispin’s victims, and get them talking in the anteroom, and then when Crispin comes in, you signal everything with a bit of embroidery and coloured wools? That’s an old stool-pigeon’s trick!”
Mrs Threpfall pursed her lips in a grimace of disgust.
“Stool pigeon! I don’t know what you’re talking about. I wish you would not keep on referring to your criminal experiences, Inspector. Isn’t there anything else you can talk about when you pay a visit? The weather, for instance?”
“Confound you!” exclaimed the inspector, rattled at last. He got up to go.
“You think I haven’t got anything on you yet. You wait, Lucy! You’ll smile on the other side of your face before I’ve finished.”
“I could wait for you forever, Inspector Morgan!” she answered with mock friendliness. “I do so hope you will call again. Why not come round to my next At Home on Wednesday? You are so vigorous and refreshing!”
Morgan’s answer as he closed the door with a bang was unprintable.
CHAPTER XII: Death of a Doctor
Marjorie came to London on a train that seemed to stagger never-endingly along the bumpy East Coast railway. She had been able to get on at Thorpe without being challenged by the ticket collector, and was able to evade any ticket inspection until she got to London.
Here she gave a story which she had made up on the way. She explained to the ticket collector that she had been on a trip to the Broads and that she had had her purse stolen. She would be prepared to give them her name and address or wait with them until they had sent for her uncle. The story sounded plausible.
Now she was in London, Marjorie felt safe. She did not mind if the station authorities did detain her or have her arrested. Anything would be preferable to that vile place. Once she was in touch with the police, she could explain the whole thing.
The ticket collector was suspicious and kept her waiting while he consulted the stationmaster. Then he came back to her.
“We’ve got a message about you,” he said, when he came back, with a friendly smile. His whole demeanour had changed. She thought, all the same, that there was something a little strange in his manner.
