The web she weaves, p.18
The Web She Weaves, page 18
“Durrie,” said Miriam, “don’t you know that only Rosina could have done it?”
Durrie leaped to his feet. Rosina did not move and neither did Miriam.
And in the silence they all heard the sudden squealing of the brakes of an automobile at the side of the house. Jim, thought Susan. Oh, let it be Jim—
It was. Durrie went to the door and let him in. He gave one look at Susan and said very pleasantly that he’d come to take her home.
There was a bad moment when Miriam Wiggenhorn raised an objection.
“But you have only begun the investigation, Miss Dare. This is most distressing—most inconclusive—”
Jim said crisply: “Miss Dare will put any evidence she has into your hands in due form—”
It puzzled them a little. And in the instant of perplexity Jim thrust Susan out the door and closed it smartly behind them.
The engine of his car was running. Thirty seconds later they had turned into the public road and the Wiggenhorn house was a dark, brooding bulk behind them. “J-Jim,” said Susan shakily.
“Scared?”
“Terrified—”
His profile looked forbidding. He said grimly: “I got your message. Drove like hell. What have you been stirring up?”
“Oh,” said Susan. “A man was murdered, and I know who killed him. Can you remember chemistry?”
The car swerved, recovered, and Jim muttered. Susan went on:
“What was the name of that gas that’s so dangerous? To breathe, I mean. It’s heavier than air and if left open passes into the air. And when you transfer it from one container to another you have to be so careful not to breathe it—it burns the lungs or something.”
“Wait a minute. Let me pull myself together.” He lighted a cigarette and thought for a moment. “I know—you can see the fumes above the test tube. Otherwise you can’t detect its presence except by smell. And if the tube is on its side all the gas escapes into the air. I’ll remember it in a minute—hydrogen—”
“Hydrogen chloride,” said Susan.
“Somebody die of it?”
“I think so,” said Susan. “I’m sure—but somebody else can do the proving. I won’t. They’ll have to start with an autopsy.”
Jim said: “Begin at the beginning.”
Susan did. It took a long time and Jim said nothing till she had finished.
Then he said: “I begin to see the outline. Rich old man subject to heart attacks, likely to die of one, but doesn’t. Somebody wants him to die at once. Hydrogen chloride is introduced into a smelling-salts bottle; bottle is green and thus no one is likely to perceive its apparent emptiness or its actual content. Maid hands man smelling salts, when he is alone. He gets a good big sniff of it before he can stop himself—that’s bad, Susan. Think of the horrible pain—the shock—he dies really of the shock; his heart can’t stand it. Ordinarily I think a person might live for some hours, or even days, and be conscious. But the murderer counted on that bad heart and won. It looks like a natural death. Anyway it is a successful murder. Durrie has a studio where he seems to do chemical experiments. The nurse would know something of chemistry. But the murder would have been perfect if Miriam hadn’t suspected something. Which one did it?”
“It’s funny,” said Susan, “that you used the words ‘per-feet murder.’ That very word is what started me thinking. Perfect. Too perfect!”
“Huh,” said Jim with vehemence.
“Too perfect. No one suspected it was murder. And that was the motive, you see. Murder had to be suspected.” “Murder had to be—sorry, Susie, but I don’t see.”
“All right. Look at this. Durrie is in love with the nurse; wants to marry her. His uncle didn’t object And there was no motive at all, remember, for murder—no money motive. No question of thwarted love. No motive at all except— except that Rosina was a very willful young woman—and Miriam, no less willful, hated her.”
“But Miriam approved the marriage.”
“Oh, did she!” said Susan. “Then why were Rosina and Durrie obliged to steal meetings. In the garden at dusk. At midnight.”
“How do you know Rosina had gone downstairs to see Durrie?”
“I didn’t. But it’s a good reason. Name a better one.” “Suppose she did,” conceded Jim. “What then?” “Miriam had ruled that house and Durrie in the smallest detail for years. She loved her rule—a previous engagement of Durrie’s had been mysteriously broken off. The uncle was about to die anyway; here was a perfect plan to get rid of Rosina.”
“Do you mean Miriam murdered the old man? But that doesn’t make sense. She didn’t gain by it.”
“She did, Jim, if she could make Durrie think, in his heart, that it was murder. And that the newcomer, the nurse, was the only one who could have done it.”
“You can’t prove this, Susan, it’s mere theory. How do you know it was Miriam?”
“You’ve said it yourself, Jim—there’s a French term, postiche. It means a counterfeit, an inartistic addition to an otherwise perfect work of art. Well, the murder was perfect. It was too perfect. No one suspected it was murder. So Miriam had failed. Had failed unless she could get someone— someone without official standing—like me—to look into it; perhaps to discover some little thing, not too much (she was very sure of herself), but enough to make Durrie think it might have been murder. And that if it was murder, only Rosina could have done it. She didn’t know exactly how much she could trust me to see or not to see. I think she meant to watch—to—to gauge—me. If necessary to introduce a little evidence against the nurse, as she did. It’s queer; her very words of praise for Rosina made me suspect the nurse. At first. She’s very clever—Miriam Wiggenhorn.” “Then the housemaid was in danger from her—” “The housemaid is a very valuable witness. And Miriam might have discovered that I had something of the true story from her. The real story. It wasn’t just accident that Miriam was pickling peaches that afternoon, filling the house with a smell of vinegar that would mask any other smell. This isn’t the season for putting up fruit. She had to pickle canned fruit. Besides there was the inartistic addition—”
“You mean her calling you and talking of murder when nobody had suspected it was murder shows that she thought of murder when, if she were innocent, she would have had no reason to suspect it. And that for some reason she was determined to suggest that it was murder.”
“To suggest it anyway. The perfect murder, except for the inartistic addition. Postiche. And I,” said Susan, “am it.” “But”—Jim paused and said in a helpless way: “All this is very nice. But angel, it’s only theory. It isn’t a bad idea, you know, to have proof.”
“Oh, yes—proof. It’s in my bag. Wrapped in a handkerchief and mixed with bath salts. But identifiable.”
“What!”
“Smelling salts. When she emptied the bottle she kept the salts in case her investigation should need a little steering. Rosina, you see, has a fine temper. When I hinted there was something preventing their marriage, as if I were suspicious about it, she flounced down to tell Durrie and Miriam that she wanted it to take place at once. Durrie agreed, of course. Rosina had much the stronger will. Miriam agreed, too—and came straight upstairs to plant the clue. Nobody in the house ever used smelling salts but Keller Wiggenhorn.” “Framing her.”
“Exactly. I suppose she would have tried something more open, given time.”
“How did you know it was Miriam?”
“Saw her.”
“From where?” demanded Jim.
“N-never mind,” said Susan in a small voice.
Jim stopped the car and looked at her intently. But when he spoke it was with an air of preoccupation. “There’s guilt in your voice,” he said absently. “But we’ll skip it. Do you know, I have a queer sort of impulse. I’d like to—” “To what?”
“To kiss you,” said Jim unexpectedly, and did so.
SUSPICION
Dorothy L. Sayers
Dorothy L. Sayers (1893-1957) is one of the most important figures in the annals of mystery fiction, not only because of her invention of Lord Peter Wimsey but because of her scholarly commentary on the genre in, among other places, her introduction to her three-volume Great Short Stories of Detection, Mystery and Horror. From 1923 —when the first case for Lord Peter, Whose Body?, appeared—until 1939, she published sixteen detective novels (three in collaboration with others) and six collections of detective short stories. Although she lived another two decades, she wrote nothing more in the field after 1939; instead, she devoted her literary activities to the writing of religious books, verse, and plays. One wonders what memorable stories she might have given us during those last twenty years of her life had she not decided to forgo her fictionally criminous endeavors.
As the atmosphere of the railway carriage thickened with tobacco smoke, Mr. Mummery became increasingly aware that his breakfast had not agreed with him.
There could have been nothing wrong with the breakfast itself. Brown bread, rich in vitamin content, as advised by the Morning Star’s health expert; bacon fried to a delicious crispness; eggs just nicely set; coffee made as only Mrs. Sutton knew how to make it. Mrs. Sutton had been a real find, and that was something to be thankful for. For Ethel, since her nervous breakdown in the summer, had really not been fit to wrestle with the untrained girls who had come and gone in tempestuous succession. It took very little to upset Ethel nowadays, poor child. Mr. Mummery, trying hard to ignore his growing internal discomfort, hoped he was not in for an illness. Apart from the trouble it would cause at the office, it would worry Ethel terribly, and Mr. Mummery would cheerfully have laid down his rather uninteresting little life to spare Ethel a moment’s uneasiness.
He slipped a digestive tablet into his mouth—he had taken lately to carrying a few tablets about with him—and opened his paper. There did not seem to be very much news. A question had been asked in the House about Government typewriters. The Prince of Wales had smilingly opened an all-British exhibition of footwear. A further split had occurred in the Liberal party. The police were still looking for the woman who was supposed to have poisoned a family in Lincoln. Two girls had been trapped in a burning factory. A film star had obtained her fourth decree nisi.
At Paragon Station, Mr. Mummery descended and took a tram. The internal discomfort was taking the form of a definite nausea. Happily he contrived to reach his office before the worst occurred. He was seated at his desk, pale but in control of himself, when his partner came breezing in.
“ ’Morning, Mummery,” said Mr. Brookes in his loud tones, adding inevitably, “Cold enough for you?”
“Quite,” replied Mr. Mummery. “Unpleasantly raw, in fact.”
“Beastly, beastly,” said Mr. Brookes. “Your bulbs all in?” “Not quite all,” confessed Mr. Mummery. “As a matter of fact I haven’t been feeling—”
“Pity,” interrupted his partner. “Great pity. Ought to get ’em in early. Mine were in last week. My little place will be a picture in the spring. For a town garden, that is. You’re lucky, living in the country. Find it better than Hull, I expect, eh? Though we get plenty of fresh air up in the Avenues. How’s the missus?”
“Thank you, she’s very much better.”
“Glad to hear that, very glad. Hope we shall have her about again this winter as usual. Can’t do without her in the Drama Society, you know. By Jove, I shan’t forget her acting last year in ‘Romance.’ She and young Welbeck positively brought the house down, didn’t they? The Welbecks were asking after her only yesterday.”
“Thank you, yes. I hope she will soon be able to take up her social activities again. But the doctor says she mustn’t overdo it. No worry, he says—that’s the important thing. She is to go easy and not rush about or undertake too much.” “Quite right, quite right. Worry’s the devil and all. I cut out worrying years ago and look at me! Fit as a fiddle, for all I shan’t see fifty again. You’re not looking altogether the thing, by the way.”
“A touch of dyspepsia,” said Mr. Mummery. “Nothing much. Chill on the liver, that’s what I put it down to.” “That’s what it is,” said Mr. Brookes, seizing his opportunity. “Is life worth living? It depends upon the liver. Ha, ha! Well now, well now—we must do a spot of work, I suppose. Where’s that lease of Ferraby’s?”
Mr. Mummery, who did not feel at his conversational best that morning, rather welcomed this suggestion, and for half an hour was allowed to proceed in peace with the duties of an estate agent. Presently, however, Mr. Brookes burst into speech again.
“By the way,” he said abruptly, “I suppose your wife doesn’t know of a good cook, does she?”
“Well, no,” replied Mr. Mummery. “They aren’t so easy to find nowadays. In fact, we’ve only just got suited ourselves. But why? Surely your old Cookie isn’t leaving you?” “Good lord, no!” Mr. Brookes laughed heartily. “It would take an earthquake to shake off old Cookie. No. It’s for the Philipsons. Their girl’s getting married. That’s the worst of girls. I said to Philipson, ‘You mind what you’re doing,’ I said. ‘Get somebody you know something about, or you may find yourself landed with this poisoning woman— what’s her name—Andrews. Don’t want to be sending wreaths to your funeral yet awhile,’ I said. He laughed, but it’s no laughing matter and so I told him. What we pay the police for I simply don’t know. Nearly a month now, and they can’t seem to lay hands on the woman. All they say is, they think she’s hanging about the neighbourhood and ‘may seek a situation as cook.’ As cook! Now I ask you!”
“You don’t think she committed suicide, then?” suggested Mr. Mummery.
“Suicide my foot!” retorted Mr. Brookes coarsely. “Don’t you believe it, my boy. That coat found in the river was all eyewash. They don’t commit suicide, that sort don’t.” “What sort?”
“Those arsenic maniacs. They’re too damned careful of their own skins. Cunning as weasels, that’s what they are. It’s only to be hoped they’ll manage to catch her before she tries her hand on anybody else. As I told Philipson—”
“You think Mrs. Andrews did it, then?”
“Did it? Of course she did it. It’s plain as the nose on your face. Looked after her old father, and he died suddenly—left her a bit of money, too. Then she keeps house for an elderly gentleman, and he dies suddenly. Now there’s this husband and wife—man dies and woman taken very ill, of arsenic poisoning. Cook runs away, and you ask, did she do it? I don’t mind betting that when they dig up the father and the other old bird they’ll find them bung full of arsenic, too. Once that sort gets started, they don’t stop. Grows on ’em, as you might say.”
“I suppose it does,” said Mr. Mummery. He picked up his paper again and studied the photograph of the missing woman. “She looks harmless enough,” he remarked. “Rather a nice, motherly-looking kind of woman.”
“She’s got a bad mouth,” pronounced Mr. Brookes. He had a theory that character showed in the mouth. “I wouldn’t trust that woman an inch.”
As the day went on, Mr. Mummery felt better. He was rather nervous about his lunch, choosing carefully a little boiled fish and custard pudding and being particular not to rush about immediately after the meal. To his great relief, the fish and custard remained where they were put, and he was not visited by that tiresome pain which had become almost habitual in the last fortnight. By the end of the day he became quite light-hearted. The bogey of illness and doctor’s bills ceased to haunt him. He bought a bunch of bronze chrysanthemums to carry home to Ethel, and it was with a feeling of pleasant anticipation that he left the train and walked up the garden path of Mon Abri.
He was a little dashed by not finding his wife in the sitting-room. Still clutching the bunch of chrysanthemums he pattered down the passage and pushed open the kitchen door.
Nobody was there but the cook. She was sitting at the table with her back to him, and started up almost guiltily as he approached.
“Lor’, sir,” she said, “you give me quite a start. I didn’t hear the front door go.”
“Where is Mrs. Mummery? Not feeling bad again, is she?”
“Well, sir, she’s got a bit of a headache, poor lamb. I made her lay down and took her up a nice cup o’ tea at half past four. I think she’s dozing nicely now.”
“Dear, dear,” said Mr. Mummery.
“It was turning out the dining-room done it, if you ask me,” said Mrs. Sutton. “ ‘Now, don’t you overdo yourself, ma’am,’ I says to her, but you know how she is, sir. She gets that restless, she can’t abear to be doing nothing.”
“I know,” said Mr. Mummery. “It’s not your fault, Mrs. Sutton. I’m sure you look after us both admirably. I’ll just run up and have a peep at her. I won’t disturb her if she’s asleep. By the way, what are we having for dinner?”
“Well, I had made a nice steak-and-kidney pie,” said Mrs. Sutton, in accents suggesting that she would readily turn it into a pumpkin or a coach and four if it was not approved of.
“Oh!” said Mr. Mummery. “Pastry? Well, I—”
“You’ll find it beautiful and light,” protested the cook, whisking open the oven door for Mr. Mummery to see. “And it’s made with butter, sir, you having said that you found lard indigestible.”
“Thank you, thank you,” said Mr. Mummery. “I’m sure it will be most excellent. I haven’t been feeling altogether the thing just lately, and lard does not seem to suit me nowadays.”
“Well, it don’t suit some people, and that’s a fact,” agreed Mrs. Sutton. “I shouldn’t wonder if you’ve got a bit of a chill on the liver. I’m sure this weather is enough to upset anybody.”
She bustled to the table and cleared away the picture paper which she had been reading.
“Perhaps the mistress would like her dinner sent up to her?” she suggested.
Mr. Mummery said he would go and see, and tiptoed his way upstairs. Ethel was lying snuggled under the eiderdown and looked very small and fragile in the big double bed. She stirred as he came in and smiled up at him.
