Authors: Christianna Brand
Stout Theo?—who might yet have keen enough feelings, whose sick revulsion might be the more poignant because his own father had been involved. Or Step-son Bill?—who for this same unendurable thought of the beloved in the arms of another, could half-kill a man and cast off for ever the woman he still loved. Or the doctor?—who, of them all, had most closely known Elizabeth; who, as Cyrus Caxton’s medical adviser, knew only too intimately the gross body and crude appetites of the conquering male.
Theo, Bill, Dr. Ross. Out of these three… Softly, softly catchee monkey, said Inspector Cockrill to himself. Aloud he said: ‘This murder was a planned murder; nothing would have been left to chance. So why, I go on asking myself, should his first mouthful of peach have been the fatal one? And I answer myself: “Think about that spoon!”’
‘You mean the spoon Theo was using to dish out the peaches?’ said Elizabeth quickly. ‘But no, because Theo didn’t hand the plate to his father. He couldn’t know which peach he’d get.’
‘Unless he directed a special plate to his father?’ suggested Bill, casting a quizzical glance at Inspector Cockrill. He reassured a suddenly quacking Theo. ‘O.K. pal, take it easy. We’ve already worked through that one.’
‘In any event, it wouldn’t account for the first mouthful being the poisoned one. And Elizabeth,’ said Inspector Cockrill severely, ‘please don’t go trying to put me off! That was a red-herring—to draw my attention away from the other spoon: the spoon handed directly to your husband by Master Bill here.’
She began to cry, drearily, helplessly, biting on the little white screwed-up ball of her handkerchief. ‘Inspector, Cyrus is dead, all this won’t bring him back. Couldn’t you—? Couldn’t we—?’ And she burst out that if it was all because of her, it was so dreadful for people to be in all this trouble…
‘But your husband has been murdered: what do you expect me to do, let it go at that, just because his murderer had a sentimental crush on you?’ He came back to the spoon. ‘If that spoon had been smeared with poison—’
She stopped crying at once, raised her head triumphantly. ‘It couldn’t have been. Cyrus looked at it to see that it was polished clean; he always did after the servants left, he said that I…’ The lower lip began to wobble again. ‘I know he’s dead; but he wasn’t very kind,’ she said.
Not Theo then: who could not have known that the poisoned peach would reach his father. Not Bill, who could not have poisoned the peach at all. ‘And so,’ said Dr. Ross, ‘you come to me?’
It was very quiet out there on the terrace; the sun had gone down now and soon the stars would be out, almost invisible in the pale evening sky. They stood, still and quiet also, and for a little while all were silent. Elizabeth said slowly: ‘Inspector—Dr. Ross has a wife of his own; and children.’
‘He still might not care for the vision of you in the arms of “that filthy old brute” as he has called him.’
‘That went for us all,’ said the doctor.
‘But it was you that went for Mr. Caxton, doctor—wasn’t it? Or
to
him, if you prefer. Went to him and put down his throat a finger protected by a rubber finger-stall.’
A finger-stall—thrust down the throat of a man having an every-day choking fit. A finger-stall dabbled in advance in a tin of poison.
‘You don’t believe this?’ said Dr. Ross, staring aghast. ‘You can’t believe it? Murder my own patient!’ Elizabeth caught his arm, crying out, ‘Of course he doesn’t mean it!’ but he ignored her. ‘And murder him in such a way! And anyway, how could I have known he would have a choking fit?’
‘He was always having choking fits,’ said Cockie.
‘But Dr. Ross couldn’t have
got
the poison,’ said Elizabeth ‘It wasn’t he who fetched the bag from the hall.’ She broke off. ‘Oh, Theo, I didn’t intend—’
‘I got the bag,’ said Theo. ‘But that doesn’t mean anything.’
‘It could mean it was you who dabbled the finger-stall in the poison.’
Theo’s round face lost colour. ‘Me, Inspector? How could I have? How could I know anything about it?
I
don’t know what they use finger-stalls for and what they don’t.’
‘Anyway, he wouldn’t have had time,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Not to think it all out, undo the poison tin, find the finger-stall in the bag. Finger-stalls are kept in a side pocket, not floating about at the top of a medical bag.’
But in fact that was just where it had been: floating about at the top of the medical bag. Bill, crouching beside the doctor over the heaving body, had located it immediately and handed it to him. ‘I had used it on a patient just before I came to the church,’ said Dr. Ross patiently. ‘You can check if you like. I threw it into boiling water, dried it and chucked it back into the bag. I was in a hurry to come to the wedding.’
In a hurry—to come to Elizabeth’s wedding. ‘So the fingerstall was in the fore-front of your mind then, doctor?—when you brought in your medical bag and put it down on the chair and your eye fell on that tin of poison. Everyone is milling about, just back from the ceremony, not thinking of anyone except the bride and bridegroom. You take a little scoop of the poison, using the finger-stall—just in case occasion arises. And occasion does arise. What a bit of luck!’
‘Inspector Cockrill,’ said Elizabeth steadily, ‘this is all nonsense. Dr. Ross smelt the stuff on Cyrus’s breath, long before he put the finger-stall down his throat. You saw him yourself, like I said, sort of—snuffing…’
‘Sort of snuffing at nothing,’ said Cockie. ‘There was nothing to snuff at, was there, doctor?—not yet. But it placed the poison, you see, in advance of the true poisoning with the finger-stall. The man chokes, the doctor leans over him, pretends to be suspicious.
Then
the finger-stall down the throat; and this time there
is
something to snuff at. And when the finger-stall is later examined, the fact of its having been down the man’s throat will account for traces of cyanide on it. Now all that remains is to pin-point the earlier source of the poison. Well, that’s easy: he wipes off the finger-stall on the napkin; and then, so innocently!—places the napkin over the peach.’ His bright eyes, bird-like, looked triumphantly round upon them.
They all stood rigid, staring at the doctor: horrified, questioning. Elizabeth cried out: ‘Oh, it isn’t true!’ but on a note of doubt.
‘I don’t think so, no,’ said Cockie. ‘This isn’t a crime where anything was left to chance. And this is based on the chance that the old man might have a choking fit.’
She went over to the doctor, put her two little hands on his arm, laid her forehead for a moment against his shoulder in a gesture devoid of coquetry. ‘Oh, thank God! He frightened me.’
‘He didn’t frighten me,’ said Dr. Ross stoutly; but he looked all the same exceedingly pale. To Cockrill he said: ‘He got these choking fits, yes: but—once or twice in a year. You couldn’t risk all that on the chance of his having one.’
‘So that brings us back to you, Theo,’ said Inspector Cockrill blandly. ‘Who gave him peaches in Kirsch and
made
him have one.’
Theo looked as likely as his father had ever done, to have a choking fit.
‘I
made him have one?’
‘My dear Theo! A man is a rabid teetotaller. You provide him with a peach in a thick syrup of Kirsch—observing that he has a heavy cold and won’t smell the liqueur in advance. He takes a great gulp of it and realises that he’s been tricked into taking alcohol. You knew your father: he would go off into one of his spluttering rages and if he didn’t choke on the peach, he’d choke on his own spluttering. And it isn’t true, is it? that you didn’t know about choking fits, and how the air-passages may be freed with a finger, covered with a finger-stall. You must have seen your father in these attacks at least once or twice; he’d been having them for years.’
He began to splutter himself. ‘I couldn’t have done it. Gone out into the hall, you mean, to get the bag, and put the stuff on the finger-stall then? Elizabeth showed that earlier; I wouldn’t have had time.’
‘We were all preoccupied, getting your father out of his chair and lowered on to the floor. The seconds pass quickly.’
But she couldn’t bear it for Theo, either. ‘Don’t listen to him, Theo, don’t be frightened! This is no more true than the other theory. He’s—he’s sort of teasing us; needling us, trying to make us say something. If Theo did it, Inspector, what about Dr. Ross? Why should he have sniffed at Cyrus’s breath, when he was lying back in the chair. There would have been nothing to smell, yet. You say he was pretending; but if it was Theo who put the poison on the finger-stall—why should the doctor have pretended? Unless…’ She broke off, clapped her hand to her mouth; took it away immediately, began to fiddle unconcernedly with the handkerchief. Inspector Cockrill said: ‘Yes, Elizabeth? Unless—?’
‘Nothing,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I just mean that the doctor wouldn’t have put on an act if it had been Theo who’d done it.’
Unless… He thought about it and his eyes were brilliant as stars. ‘Unless, Elizabeth, you were going to say—unless they were in it together.’ And he looked round at the three of them and smiled with the smile of a tiger. ‘Unless they were all three in it together.’
Three men—united: united in loving the same woman, united in not wishing actually to possess her; united in determination, however, that a fourth man should not.
The first casual exchange of thought, of feeling, of their common disgust and dread; the first casual discussion of some sort of action, some sort of rescue, the vague threats, hardening into determination, into hard fact, into realistic plotting. But—murder! Even backed up by the rest—which one of them would positively commit murder? And, none accepting—divide the deed, then, amongst them: as in an execution, where a dozen men fire the bullets, no one man kills.
Bill’s task to acquire the poison, see that it remains available in the hall. Theo’s task to ensure, as far as possible, that a chance arises to use the poisoned finger-stall. The doctor, of course, actually to employ it. But lest that seem too heavy a share of the guilt for any one partner to carry, let Theo be the one to go out into the hall and poison the finger-stall; let Bill take the bag from him, hand the poisoned thing to the doctor. Executioners: does he who administers the poison, kill more than he who procures it?—does he who presents the victim to the murderer, kill the less because he does not do the actual slaying? All for one and one for all! And all for the purity of Elizabeth, the Virgin Queen.
Elizabeth stood with him, weeping, in the hall, while a sergeant herded the three men into the huge, hideous drawing-room and kept them there till the police car should come. ‘I don’t believe it: I utterly don’t believe it, Inspector. Those three? A plot—’
He had said it long ago: from the very beginning. ‘A very deep-laid, elaborate, absolutely sure-fire plan.’
‘Between the doctor and Theo then, if you must. But Bill—why drag Bill into it?’
‘Ah, Bill,’ he said. ‘But without Bill…? You have been very loyal; but I think we must now come into the open about Bill?’
And he was back with her, so many weeks ago now, when Cyrus Caxton’s proposed new marriage had first become an open secret. ‘With your job, Elizabeth, you could travel, you could see the world.’ ‘I
have
seen the world,’ she had answered. ‘All right,’ she admitted now, in a small voice. ‘Yes. I did go to America, with a private patient. I did get married there. Cyrus knew that I’d been married and divorced. I didn’t tell other people because he didn’t like anyone knowing that I was—well, he called it second-hand.’
Married; and divorced. Married to one who ‘bumming around’ had heard through the devoted family servants that his mother’s illness would be her last. ‘Inspector, we were desperate. He wouldn’t work, he gambled like a maniac, my nursing wouldn’t keep the two of us. And yet I couldn’t leave him. I told you that I had had a lost love; well, that was true in its own way. My love he was—and yet not lost really after all: my love he is still and to my ruin ever shall be. I suppose some women are like that.’
‘And some men,’ said Cockie; thinking of that suddenly desolate look with which he had said, ‘I think now that I made some pretty big mistakes.’
‘I’ve been so ashamed, Inspector,’ she said, weeping again. ‘Not only of what we were doing; but of all the lies, all the acting.’
‘Yet you went through with it.’
‘You don’t know Bill,’ she said. ‘But yes—it’s true. He wrote to his mother secretly, through the servants. He said a girl would get in touch with her, a wonderful nurse, who would soon be coming over to England. He told her to say nothing to the old man but to try to get this girl engaged to look after her; of course the girl was me, Inspector. The idea at first was simply to look after his interests, to try to get his mother’s money ensured to him, before she died. But then he got this other idea. The old man would soon be a widower; and he thought of him as a
very
old man, old and, he knew, in bad health. He hadn’t seen his step-father for years; to an adolescent, all adults seem far more aged than they are. He imagined an old crock far more in need of a nurse than of a wife. So—the first thing was a divorce. He beat up a man whom he accused of having an affair with me; he over-did that a bit and landed himself in prison; but even that he didn’t mind, it helped in speeding up the divorce because of the reason for the assault.’
‘Without a divorce, you couldn’t have inherited, of course. The marriage with the old man had to be water-tight.’
‘Inspector,’ she said, in anguish, ‘don’t believe for one moment that this began as a murder plot. It started from small beginnings, as I’ve said; and then in that gambler’s mind of his, it just grew and grew. Here was this golden chance. He knew that I had this—this power over men; something that I just have, I can’t help it, you’ve seen for yourself how, without any effort on my part, it works. With such an asset—how could he bear not to exploit it? A sick old man, recently widowed, a pretty little nurse already installed: how could it fail?’
‘And he was prepared to wait?’
‘He saw the thing in terms of a year or two, no longer. Meanwhile he would remain in England, we could see one another—after all, he was a member of the family. And I would provide him with money, I suppose; and he would gamble.’