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- Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
Sleeping Dogs by Carolyn Wells is a riveting mystery that will keep you guessing with every turn of the page. When a renowned scientist is found dead under mysterious circumstances, the investigation quickly reveals a tangled web of motives and secrets. As detective Fleming Stone delves into the case, he uncovers a hidden world of betrayal, deception, and long-buried grudges. With the clock ticking and the stakes rising, Stone must navigate a complex maze of clues and suspects to uncover the truth. Will he unearth the secrets that everyone is trying to keep buried, or will the truth remain elusive? Prepare yourself for a thrilling ride in this classic whodunit.
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Table of Contents
Sleeping Dogs
Chapter 1 - The Death Of A Darling
Chapter 2 - Maisie, A Modern Maiden
Chapter 3 - The Red-Haired Secretary
Chapter 4 - Enter Kenneth Carlisle, Detective
Chapter 5 - Under The Greenwood Tree
Chapter 6 - Testimony But No Evidence
Chapter 7 - The Ways Of Witnesses
Chapter 8 - Playing A Murder Game
Chapter 9 - An Exalted Love Affair
Chapter 10 - The Loveliness Of Lorna
Chapter 11 - Let Sleeping Dogs Lie
Chapter 12 - Poison All Over the Place
Chapter 13 - The Mystery Of Maude Mercer
Chapter 14 - A Note Found In A Hat
Chapter 15 - The Fringe On The Scarf
Chapter 16 - More Mercury
Chapter 17 - The Absence Of Clues
Chapter 18 - Kenneth Carlisle, Detective Extraordinary
Landmarks
Table of Contents
Cover
Sleeping Dogs
Chapter 1 - The Death Of A Darling
Eileen Abercrombie was dead.
The very statement of the fact sounds like a contradiction of terms.
For Eileen Abercrombie was the most alive, alert, and vital woman on earth, and to think of her as dead was too impossible.
Eileen was forty-two, but nobody would ever have believed that. She looked more like thirty-two, but aside from looks, she was the sort of woman who could not be measured by years.
As old as She, as young as Peter Pan, there were far more intriguing mysteries about her than the question of her birth date.
There was, to be sure, a tiny lace network of wrinkles around her big dark eyes, but they disappeared or were forgotten when she smiled.
For Eileen’s smile was the kind that bursts suddenly, like a flowering skyrocket, and it filled her eyes with witchery that warmed the cockles of the hearts of all who were near her, and there were always plenty near her.
She was the living embodiment of vitality, vivacity, vim, verve, and vigour—everything, in fact, that begins with a v.
She was vivid, volatile, versatile, and victorious, and she was always ready and eager for anything that promised interest or enjoyment.
She entered a room like an army with banners, but not an aggressive army—rather a joyous, happy army, that one could greet ecstatically, knowing the greeting would be returned in kind.
That was Eileen Abercrombie, and everybody admired, adored, and envied her.
Now, only recently, she had inherited from an aged uncle a goodly sum of money, and though her husband had money aplenty, this new fortune was a godsend to Eileen’s daughter.
For Eileen’s daughter, Maisie, was not the daughter of Eileen’s present husband, but of her former one.
The girl, Maisie, had taken the name of Abercrombie when her mother had, and though far from possessing her mother’s charm and delightful personality, she was an attractive girl, of the smart and up-to-date school. Her lipstick and eyebrow pencil were of the finest and used with frequency and efficiency.
Maisie was nobody’s fool, and though she couldn’t hold a candle to her mother for capability or a sense of relative values, yet she had a lot of common sense and a fine type of worldly wisdom.
Only twenty, she stood, with unreluctant feet and arms outspread, to welcome what she felt sure was to be a long and well-spent life.
Hugh Abercrombie, the husband of Eileen, was, surprisingly, twelve years younger than his wife.
He was one of your reserved, gentle men, who accept all happenings and who would sacrifice personal preferences or even crush down the longings of a tortured heart rather than interfere with the wishes of another.
He had much conscience, more patience, and not an oversupply of humour.
To his wife he was kind and indulgent; to his stepdaughter he was all that a real father could be; and to his friends he was a very prince among men.
His outstanding traits were generosity of thought and unworldliness of mind. Also, though he never obtruded his views or opinions, they were invariably and inevitably right.
But Abercrombie would be the last man in the world to claim this, and so he was not infrequently downed in argument and set aside in a discussion.
Though not at all of the temperament that is called temperamental, he was of a nature so sensitive as to be almost mimosa-like, with the result that his real depths of feeling were quelled and suppressed and his more passionate impulses frozen over with the icy calm he forced himself to present to the world.
And so, when Hugh Abercrombie was told that his wife was dead, he almost gave way to a nervous breakdown.
It was Miss Mercer who brought him the news. Miss Maude Mercer, who was Eileen’s social secretary and trusted confidante.
Early in the morning she came to his door, and tapping lightly, soon told him of the shocking discovery of Mrs. Abercrombie dead in her bed.
Hugh had heard her in silence, and had, a little impolitely, shut the door in her face, and then rang for his valet.
He had never liked Miss Mercer, and so he had to shut the door in her face.
He didn’t much like his valet, Louis, either, but then there were a lot of people Hugh didn’t like. His wife had been one of them.
After Louis had looked after him duly, he sent for Corinne, who was Eileen’s maid.
“Tell me about it,” he said curtly, and Corinne told him.
“You see,” the girl began, “Madame has been out of sorts for a week or more.”
“I did not know it,” Hugh said.
“No, monsieur; Madame desired nobody should know. She had the trouble of the stomach. She was ill—even sick, but she desired no doctor, no medicine. She was even more sick last night, and though I besought her, no help would she allow to be called. And so she dismissed me, about midnight, and when this morning I went to waken her, she was—ah, poor lady, she no longer lived.”
The complete personality of Corinne might be expressed in the one word—trim.
Her uniform was Frenchy and trim; her bobbed black hair was trim; and her every movement and gesture was clean-cut and correct. Slender and graceful, with slim, black silk-stockinged legs, she was the trim ladies’ maid of the theatre and might have just stepped out of an otherwise unimportant second act.
Hugh Abercrombie looked into her eyes, not seeing her trimness.
“What killed her, Corinne?” he said in his gentle voice.
“That I do not know, monsieur. But it was something—not merely an indisposition. There was something particulier, yes, even something strange.”
“Such as what? Speak out.”
“I cannot say, but I suggest, if I may, that you have the doctor come.”
“Hasn’t she had the doctor?”
“No, she would not. Her own doctor, as you know, is away, and she refused any other.”
“Yes, she would. Now, tell me just what you are insinuating.”
Abercrombie was getting the better of his nervous breakdown. He usually got the better of things that bothered him, unless, indeed, so doing would bother somebody else. He awaited Corinne’s reply.
“Well, monsieur, I will then do so.” Corinne looked at him keenly. She was a trim-mannered French girl, but she had a shrewd eye in her head. “I cannot help the feeling that Madame is the victim of a poison.”
“Poison! Good Lord, what do you mean?”
“Only that. It may not be, I may make the mistake, but I fear—I fear it is the truth.”
“But how—who—” Abercrombie gazed at her. His gray-blue eyes were misty and his brow was furrowed with anxiety.
“Ah, that we do not know,” Corinne nodded with understanding. “Yet the symptoms, the effects—I am not a nurse, but I fear—I fear—”
Corinne’s eyes dropped and she put on a mysterious air that maddened Abercrombie.
“Get out!” he cried. “Send me back that Mercer woman.”
As a matter of fact, Hugh Abercrombie rarely allowed himself to become annoyed, but there was something about the French maid that drove him to desperation.
Her shoulders raised in trim huffiness, Corinne departed and soon Miss Mercer returned.
But she could give no real information. She knew Mrs. Abercrombie was dead, she knew no more.
Now Hugh Abercrombie, for all his gentleness, was by no means a weakling.
He knew he had to take the head of the affair, and he promptly took it.
First, Maisie must be told. Even before a doctor was called, Maisie must be told of her mother’s death.
He went to the girl’s room and tapped at the door.
“Come in,” she called, and Hugh went in.
“Good gosh, Daddy, it’s you!”
“Yes, Maisie—there’s bad news.”
“Mother?” she said as he drew a chair to the bedside and sat down.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Just guessed. What is it? The worst?”
“Yes. But I don’t understand. Why do you think so?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m psychic or something. What, exactly, has happened?”
Hugh told her what had been told him, and the two sat silently staring at each other.
An exquisite bit of humanity, Maisie was.
Had she been on earth at the right time, she might have posed for a Tanagra figurine, so unconsciously lovely were her postures. Her golden-brown hair was of a natural curl and clustered damply round her forehead in babyish ringlets.
Her eyes, amber-coloured, were inscrutable, and she looked at her stepfather with a blank air that annoyed him afresh. Was he to get no sympathy from anyone?
Maisie’s pajamas were of all-over lace, cream-coloured, with bands of light blue silk for trimming. Eileen had favoured Oriental types, and Hugh was subconsciously aware that this dainty effect was the prettier.
“Well,” he said at last, “you’d better get up and dress. You’ve a hard day ahead of you.”
“You, too, Dad.”
“Yes, of course.” He rose. “That’s a pretty rig-out you’ve got on, child,” he said absently, and she nodded, even more absently.
His subconscious mind was dully wondering what sort of rig-out Lorna Garth wore.
He always meant to curb and train properly his subconsciousness, but somehow he never got definitely at it.
He paused at the door, his hand already on the knob.
“Maisie,” he said, turning to face her, “your mother couldn’t have been—er—poisoned—could she?”
“No,” said the girl judicially. “No, I should say not! She’s too smart to let anybody put it over her like that.”
“I didn’t mean—what you mean. I mean—you know—would she take it herself?”
“Hell, no! And she wasn’t poisoned, anyway. Acute indigestion, more likely, or something of that sort. I’ll be down in a few moments, Dad; don’t make a fool of yourself till I get there.”
Then Hugh Abercrombie turned his steps toward his wife’s bedroom.
Corinne seemed to be in charge, with Miss Mercer in the boudoir adjoining.
“Have you called the doctor?” he asked, and Miss Mercer replied.
“Yes, I called. And Dr. Garth is home again. He arrived last night. He will be right over.”
Abercrombie turned to the still figure on the bed.
Heedful of cautions from Miss Mercer, Corinne had touched nothing, though her fingers fairly itched to straighten the pillows and tidy up the coverlets.
But the bed showed no real disorder.
Eileen lay as if asleep, with no visible sign of pain or suffering.
Her hair, shingled at the back, was in soft, thick masses round her face. One heavy obstreperous lock, ever falling into her eyes, was thrust back as if impatiently pushed off her brow. The morning sunshine sent gold lights through the dark bronze tresses, and the long curving lashes hid the eyes that would never smile again.
The pitiless sunshine betrayed the few timid ravages that Time had dared to make, but the clear fine skin and the exquisitely carved features braved triumphantly the light of day.
Moving slowly, Hugh approached the bed and sat down on the edge of it.
“Don’t touch her,” Miss Mercer said impulsively, but received in response such a gaze of mingled reproach and reproof that no further suggestions were made.
Motionless the husband sat, staring at his wife as at some inexplicable mystery, and then the doctor arrived.
Garth, the family physician for many years, was a handsome man, with gray hair and a gray Vandyke beard. He had an air of competent authority, and dismissed Hugh from the room by the simple method of taking him by the arm and leading him to the door.
He looked carefully at the dead woman, and then ordered Miss Mercer and Corinne to leave the room also.
Expeditiously and with great care the doctor made his examination and investigation.
The latter included a thorough search in the bathroom which opened off the bedroom.
In the usual medicine cabinet Dr. Garth found a fairly large collection of creams, lotions, and tablets, as well as many bottles whose labels bore the marks of his own prescriptions.
Scanning the lot quickly but systematically, he picked out a small box of prepared powders, a little bottle of dark liquid, and another small vial whose label was so old as to be almost illegible.
These things he put in his pocket and then opened the door to the hall.
“Where is Mr. Abercrombie?” he said to Corinne, who was hovering there.
“He went downstairs, Doctor,” she informed him. “Perhaps in the dining room, at his breakfast, you will find him. Me, shall I now straighten the room?”
“No, touch nothing. Nothing, do you hear?”
Corinne heard perfectly, but it was the stern expression on the doctor’s face that made her decide in favour of strict obedience.
She had no desire to do anything wrong, not she.
Garth went on downstairs and found Abercrombie in the breakfast room, where Maisie had persuaded him to go by saying that otherwise she would take no breakfast herself.
The beautiful little room, an octagon extension from the main dining room, overlooked the water across a stretch of lawn and a few flower beds.
The house, Graysands, was on one of the small bays on the north shore of Long Island. Planned by a master architect, it was an echo of Old France, but so well adapted to its environs that it seemed neither anomalous nor incongruous.
A great tower and a somewhat church-like structure composed the main part, while from either side rambled a walled and turreted pile that was as picturesque as it was available for comfort.
Abercrombie loved it and hastened through his work, on the days he spent in New York, to get back as soon as possible to Graysands and its delights.
On an eminence, it overlooked the Sound, and its harmonious though irregular outline could be seen from the far distance.
Near-by lawns surrounded the house and faded off to wilder bits of wood and copse, and thence down to the water.
The breakfast room, Eileen had ordained, should be in orange and pale green, and with its painted furniture and harmonious appointments it was an attractive place to begin the day.
Dr. Garth entered, and in silence took one of the empty chairs at the table. He accepted a cup of coffee and tasted it before speaking.
Then, looking round at the others, he began to talk.
“I think there is no occasion for secrecy,” he said. “Mrs. Abercrombie came to her death by poison. As you all know, I have been her physician for several years, and so am familiar with her constitution and physical condition. She died, I am convinced beyond all doubt, from the effects of the irritant poison bichloride of mercury.”
There were four at the table besides the speaker: Abercrombie, Maisie, Miss Mercer, and a guest named Murgatroyd Loring.
All four looked at him without a word.
Hugh Abercrombie’s face showed no translatable expression of any sort.
Maisie, her spoonful of melon arrested halfway to her mouth, sat as if paralyzed, her eyes big with horror and her delicately rouged lips parted, as if benumbed by stark amazement.
Miss Mercer, as befitted her position, made no outward sign of concern, but her blue eyes travelled slowly from one face to another, and her delicate, fair skin seemed to glow a little pinker, as if from the will power she exerted to keep silent.
“Who gave her bichloride of mercury?” asked Hugh, his usually soft voice harsh with accusation.
“We do not know that anyone gave it to her,” Garth returned. “It may be that she took it herself, by accident, let us say—”
“Let us say nothing, except what we know or believe to be the truth.” Hugh looked stern. “Eileen was not the sort to take poison by accident.”
“Nobody is the sort to take poison by accident,” was the doctor’s curt rejoinder. “There is no such sort or class of people. Yet the accident happens.”
“But how could it?” pursued Hugh. “Where would the—stuff come from? How could she get it?”
“Those things are not questions for us, but for the—the authorities.”
“The police!” said Maisie in a low, horrified whisper. “Ooooh!”
She swayed in her chair, and Loring, who sat next her, put an arm round her for support.
“Don’t be silly!” cried the girl. “I’m not going to faint. But to think of Mother poisoning herself! Wow! Can you breathe in the same room with it? I say, Dr. Garth, do something—get busy! What do you say, Dad?”
“I say, dear, that I’d like you to go to your room for a while. Let Corinne look after you. We others will settle on what’s to be done, and I’ll tell you all about it later.”
“No, Dad, I’ll do nothing of the sort.”
“Then you’ll keep quiet, Miss,” Dr. Garth said, turning his severe gaze on her. “Mind, now, either be still or leave the room.”
Maisie had been up against the doctor’s commands before, and she knew his way of carrying out his threats, so she subsided and waited the next move from the others.
“You see,” the doctor went on, addressing himself to Abercrombie, “I cannot give a certificate as the matter stands. It has to be reported and the coroner will advise us if an inquest is necessary.”
“Aren’t you forging ahead rather fast, Doctor?” asked Loring.
Murgatroyd Loring, or, as he was always called, Troy Loring, was a cousin of Mrs. Abercrombie’s first husband, and had, for some years, been her lawyer. He spent much of his time at Graysands, and though no favourite of Hugh’s was always made welcome and given the run of the place.
He was an able business man, and kept Eileen’s financial affairs in good shape. His principal claim to obnoxiousness lay in the fact that he wanted to manage everything, and had an overweening sense of his own capability for doing so.
It must be admitted that he was capable, but that didn’t offset his annoying insistence. His unasked advice and unwanted help so irritated Hugh Abercrombie that time and again he had begged Eileen to forbid the man the house.
To this she gave a laughing reply which however gently it was worded carried no hope of consent to his request, and Loring continued to make his home at Graysands whenever he felt it convenient for himself.
And now he was querying Dr. Garth’s dictum regarding the case of poor dead Eileen.
Abercrombie’s face darkened, as was its habit when he was annoyed, and he was about to tell Loring flatly that he was beyond his rights when he censured the doctor. But a sudden thought came to him that now that Eileen was gone he could himself forbid Troy Loring to come to his house. So poignantly did this idea strike him that he realized it was a base thought, and he knew that nothing would induce him to turn the circumstance of Eileen’s death to his own petty and personal advantage.
“Speak up, Hugh,” Troy said, looking at him closely.
“I saw you start to say something and then subside. Go ahead. Tell Dr. Garth that we, the family, will decide if and when to call the police.”
“I cannot agree, Troy, that you are one of the family,” Hugh said, his tones icy. “Nor can I do otherwise than to accept Dr. Garth’s suggestion or, rather, his implied suggestion, that the coroner be notified of the matter. Will you see to it, Doctor?”
“Yes,” and the medical man looked grave. “Don’t be foolish, Mr. Loring, this is the only possible procedure. I will call Garrett now.”
He left the table, and going out to the hall sought a telephone.
Loring, looking injured, said petulantly:
“I do wish, my dear Hugh, that you had a little more backbone.”
“Sorry I can’t accommodate you, Troy. But the situation is too serious to talk lightly. I wish I knew a little more about Mrs. Abercrombie’s illness. Miss Mercer, can you tell me just how long she had been feeling indisposed?”
“No, sir,” and Miss Mercer patted her smooth and sleek red hair, brushing back its already immaculate sheen.
It was plain to be seen that left to itself her hair would curl, but apparently she did not desire it to, for she was eternally smoothing it back. A good-looking face was Miss Mercer’s—regular, well-cut features and a little air of disdain that sat well on her. The bluest of blue eyes and a rather large but finely shaped mouth above a chin that bespoke determination and indomitable perseverance.
“I know only what I chanced to observe,” Miss Mercer resumed, seeming to feel that she had been unnecessarily curt. “Mrs. Abercrombie had planned some work for me to do last Friday morning. But when the time came, she said she was not feeling well and the work must be postponed. It has never been taken up, for each day, after the mail was attended to, Mrs. Abercrombie felt too ill to do more.”
“But why wasn’t I told? Why didn’t I know of this?” said Abercrombie, looking surprised.
“Are you sure you didn’t?” put in Troy Loring with a quizzical smile.
“Just what do you mean by that?” returned Hugh quietly, but with a steady gaze at the speaker.
“Nothing much. Only if your wife was so ill that she had to put off her social secretary for two or three days, it would seem she was ill enough to attract your attention.”
“Yes, it would seem so,” and Hugh continued to look at him.
“Unless, that is, your attention was centred elsewhere,” Loring went on.
Miss Mercer caught her breath at this, and Maisie, rising, went round and took a seat at her father’s side.
But Hugh Abercrombie only said, with a calm face and in even tones, “Yes, unless my attention was centred elsewhere.”
But he continued to look at Loring, and at last Troy’s eyes fell and he turned to Miss Mercer, saying, “Do ring for some hot coffee. Maisie has deserted her post at the head of the table.”
And then Dr. Garth came back.
“The coroner will arrive soon,” he said in a strained sort of voice. “And headquarters is sending men. I think I need not tell you that the line of least resistance will be best for all concerned. Nothing must be touched in any of the rooms used by Mrs. Abercrombie. For the rest, merely answer their questions and follow their directions. I trust it can be adjudged an accident, and that a half hour will see it all finished.”
“You’ll stay here, Garth?” asked Abercrombie.
“I can’t very well, as I have a serious consultation on. But they know where to find me and probably they won’t need me at present. I’ll look in here as soon as I am at leisure.”
Chapter 2 - Maisie, A Modern Maiden
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?”
