MRS PUREFOY was a pleasant little person with hair just beginning to go grey and a jolly smile. Roger took a liking to her at first sight, while she was at no pains to hide her gratification in welcoming so distinguished a guest.
‘I’ve read all your books, Mr Sheringham,’ she said at once as she shook hands with him. ‘Every single one!’
Roger was never in the least embarrassed by this sort of thing. ‘Well, I hope you enjoyed reading them more than I did the writing of them, Mrs Purefoy,’ he said easily.
‘Does that mean you didn’t enjoy writing them? I thought you novelists were only really happy when you’d got a pen in your hands.’
‘Somebody’s been misinforming you,’ Roger replied with a grave face. ‘If I can speak for the tribe, we’re only really happy when we’ve got a pen out of our hands.’ As far as Roger was concerned, this was perfectly untrue; he had to write, or explode. But he had an intense dislike for the glib talk about self-expression indulged in by so many second-rate writers who take themselves and their work a good deal too seriously, and put it down to posing of the most insufferable description. That his own anxiety not to emulate these gentry had driven him into no less of a pose of his own, in the precisely opposite direction, had curiously enough never occurred to him.
‘But this is most devastating! You’re shattering all my most cherished illusions. Don’t you write for the joy of writing, then?’
‘Alas, Mrs Purefoy, I see I can hide nothing from you. I don’t! I write for a living. There may be people who do the other thing (I have heard rumours about them), but believe me, they’re very rare and delicate birds.’
‘Well, you’re candid at any rate,’ Mrs Purefoy smiled.
‘Roger’s got a hobby all right, Molly,’ Alec put in, ‘and it’s got plenty to do with words; but it isn’t writing.’
‘Oh? What is it, then, Alec?’
‘You’ll have found out before dinner’s over,’ Alec replied cryptically.
‘What he means is that I won’t let him monopolise the conversation all the time, Mrs Purefoy.’
Mrs Purefoy looked from one to the other. ‘I suppose I’m very dense, but this is beyond me.’
‘I think Alec is hinting that I talk too much,’ Roger explained.
‘Oh, is that all? Well, I’m very glad to hear it. I like listening to somebody who can talk.’
‘You hear that, Alec?’ Roger grinned. ‘I’m going to be appreciated at last.’
The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a dark, shingled maiden, in a pale green dinner-frock.
‘My eldest daughter,’ Mrs Purefoy announced with maternal pride. ‘Sheila, dear, this is Mr Sheringham.’
‘How de do?’ said the dark, shingled maiden languidly. ‘You’re the great Roger Sheringham? Read some of your books. Topping. Hallo, Alec, old hoss. Dinner nearly ready, mum?’
‘In a few minutes, dear. We’re waiting for father.’
‘Well, need we wait for him on our feet? What about sitting down to it?’ And she collapsed wearily into the largest chair in the room.
Alec pulled one up beside it, and they embarked immediately on a discussion of the Gentlemen and Players match then in progress at Lord’s. Roger sat down beside his hostess on a chesterfield couch.
‘Alec didn’t mention that you have a daughter, Mrs Purefoy,’ he remarked.
‘Didn’t he? I have two. And a son. The other two are away from home just at present.’
‘I—I suppose you’re not making any mistake, are you?’ Roger asked warily. ‘The lady at present telling Alec things he doesn’t know about cricket really is your daughter?’
‘She is, Mr Sheringham. Why?’
‘Oh, nothing. I was just wondering whether you weren’t getting a little mixed in the relationship. I should have said off-hand that you were the daughter and she the mother.’
Mrs Purefoy laughed. ‘Yes, Sheila is a little overpowering in her sophistication, isn’t she? But it’s only a pose, you know. All her friends are just the same. I’ve never seen her quite like this before though; I think this must be a pose for your special benefit. She’d do anything rather than admit to the slightest respect for any person living, you see. I’m afraid she’s dreadfully typical.’
‘The modern girl, vide Sunday papers passim, eh? Well, scratch her and you’ll find much the same sort of girl there always has been underneath her powder, I suppose.’
‘A very good idea,’ Mrs Purefoy smiled. ‘Scratch Sheila by all means, Mr Sheringham, if you want to pursue any investigations into the modern girl; it would do her all the good in the world. Aren’t I an inhuman mother? But really, I simply ache at times to turn Sheila over my knee and give her a good old-fashioned spanking! And most of her silly precocious friends as well!’
‘You’re quite right,’ Roger laughed. ‘That’s the only cure. There ought to be a new set of sumptuary laws passed and a public spanker appointed in every town, with a thumping salary out of the rates, to deal with the breaches of them (no joke intended). Ration ’em down to one lipstick a month, one ounce of powder ditto, twenty cigarettes a week, and four damns a day, and we might—Ah, here’s your husband.’
Dr Purefoy, in contrast to his wife, was long and cadaverous. His face was lean, but from time to time a twinkling of almost unexpected humour lit his eyes. He looked tired, but shook hands with Roger warmly enough.
‘So sorry to have kept you waiting like this,’ he said, ‘but there was a tremendously big surgery tonight. There always is when I particularly want to finish early.’
‘Very busy just now?’ Roger asked.
‘Very. Autumn just setting in, you see; that always means a busy time for us. Well, shall we go in at once? Molly, you don’t want us to form a procession and link arms, do you?’
‘Of course not, dear. This isn’t a dinner-party. Sheila, dear, will you show Mr Sheringham the way?’
The little party made their way informally to the dining-room and took their seats. For a few minutes, while the maid was in the room, the conversation turned upon the usual topics; but it was a very short time before the subject cropped up which was uppermost in all their minds.
It was Sheila Purefoy who introduced it. ‘Well, Mr Sheringham,’ she said, ‘what do you think of our local thrill?’
‘Meaning, of course, the Bentley case?’ said Roger, who was sitting next to her. ‘I think it’s rather a remarkable business.’
‘Is that all? I was hoping that you’d think something rather more original than that about it.’
‘I’m most stereotyped about murders,’ Roger assured her. ‘Always have been, from a child. What do you think about it?’
‘Oh, I d’no. I think the Bentley woman’s innocent.’
‘You do?’ cried Roger, genuinely startled.
‘Sheila, dear!’ exclaimed Mrs Purefoy. ‘Whatever makes you think that?’
‘Don’t get alarmed, mum. I was only trying to be original.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Roger, not a little disappointed. ‘A hint for me, eh?’
‘For all that, I shouldn’t be so ghastly surprised if she was,’ observed Sheila languidly. ‘Everyone’s quite made up their minds that she’s guilty, you see.’
‘Mass suggestion, you mean. Well, somebody’s being very cunning indeed if that is the case.’
‘I don’t know anything about mass suggestion, but it’s a fact that most people spend their lives being wrong about everything. Most people think she’s guilty. Therefore, she isn’t. Shove the gravy over, please, Alec. Ta.’
‘It’s an ingenious defence,’ Roger said gravely. ‘Do you agree, Dr Purefoy?’
‘That she’s innocent? No, I’m afraid not. I wish I could say that I did, but I can’t see the faintest possibility of it.’
‘Now, I’m quite sure she’s innocent,’ Sheila murmured.
‘Sheila, Sheila!’ said her mother.
‘Sorry, mum; but you know perfectly well that father’s never been known in all his life to grasp any stick except by the wrong end. To my mind, that proves it. I’d better write to the woman’s solicitor.’
‘You see the respect with which we parents are treated nowadays,’ smiled Dr Purefoy.
‘Sheila,’ said Alec suddenly, ‘I think I’ll scrag you after dinner. Like I used to when we were kids.’
‘Why this harshness?’ inquired Miss Purefoy.
‘Because you jolly well deserve it,’ said Alec, and relapsed into silence again.
‘Thank you, Alec,’ Dr Purefoy said pathetically. ‘You’re a brave man. I wish I had your courage.’
‘I like that, father,’ said his daughter indignantly. ‘When you absolutely ruined my best evening frock only last week.’
But Roger had no intention of allowing the conversation to wander off into the paths of family badinage. ‘Do you know the Bentleys or any of the people mixed up in the case personally?’ he asked the girl at his side.
‘Not the Bentleys. I know the Saundersons more or less, and I believe I’ve met Allen. Of course I know Dr James and Dr Peters.’
‘You know Mrs Saunderson, do you?’ Roger said with interest. ‘What sort of woman is she?’
‘A damned little cat,’ said Miss Purefoy frankly.
‘Sheila!’ This from her mother.
‘Well, she is, mum, as jolly well you know; so why on earth not say so? Isn’t she, father?’
‘If my information is correct, your remark was a laudable understatement, my dear,’ Dr Purefoy said with a perfectly grave face.
‘I’d rather gathered that, from the newspaper reports,’ Roger murmured. ‘In what way, Miss Purefoy?’
‘Well, look at what she did! That’s enough, isn’t it? Of course she hasn’t got a husband to teach her decent behaviour (she’s a widow, you know), but there are some things that simply aren’t done. After all, she was supposed to be the Bentley’s friend, wasn’t she? But that’s just like her; double-faced little beast. She’d give her soul to be talked about. Of course she’s in the seventh heaven now. I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if it turned out that she’d poisoned the man herself just to get her name in the papers. That’s the sort of daisy she is.’
‘Is she, though?’ Roger said softly. ‘That’s very interesting. And what about Mrs Allen?’
‘Oh, she’s a good bit older. Older than her husband, too. Always happens, doesn’t it?’ went on this sophisticated damsel. ‘Any woman who marries a man younger than herself deserves all that’s coming to her, in my opinion. But of course Mr Allen is a bit of a lad, you know. I heard about him before I was out of my teens. You know, whispers in dark corners and breath well bated. Well, it’s a matter of common knowledge that he—’
‘That will do, Sheila!’ said Mrs Purefoy, whose expression had during the last minute been growing more and more apprehensive.
‘Mother always shuts me up before I can get on to the really spicy bits,’ confided Miss Purefoy to the world at large.
The entry of the parlourmaid cut short any further attempts on the part of her daughter to add to the grey in Mrs Purefoy’s lustrous dark hair. The conversation which ensued would have satisfied a Sunday school teacher.
It was not until the three men were left alone together after dinner that Roger re-introduced the subject. He did not wish, for the present at any rate, to advertise the reason for his visit to Wychford, even to the Purefoys; and too great an interest in the murder, unless its cause were to be more fully explained, would only appear to spring from a curiosity unbridled to the point of indecency. When the two women had retired, however, and the doctor’s excellent port was circulating for the second time, he did feel at liberty to raise the matter.
‘About this Bentley case, doctor,’ he remarked. ‘Of course you know the two doctors concerned. Is there any point of particular interest, do you think, in the medical evidence?’
Dr Purefoy stroked his lean jaw with the palm of his hand. ‘No, I don’t think so, Sheringham. It all seems perfectly straightforward. Do you mean about the cause of death?’
‘Well, yes. That or anything else.’
‘Because that, of course, isn’t in doubt for a minute. As clear a case of arsenical poisoning as there could possibly be. Actually more than a fatal dose found in the man’s body after death, and that’s very rare indeed; a great deal is always eliminated between the time of swallowing the dose and death.’
‘How much would you say he had been given, then?’
‘Well, it’s impossible to say. Might have been as little as five grains; might have been as much as twenty. Making a pure guess at it, I should say about eight to ten grains. He didn’t vomit nearly as much as one might expect, James told me, which points to a comparatively small dose.’
‘A fatal dose being about three grains?’
‘Yes, two and a half to three. Two and a half is reckoned an average small fatal dose, but it would have been ample for Bentley, I imagine.’
‘Why for him particularly?’
‘Well, he was rather a poor creature. Undersized, delicate, poor physique; a bit of a little rat, to our way of thinking.’
‘And very fussy about his health, I gather?’
‘Exactly. One of those maddening patients (we all have ’em) who think they know a sight more about their ailments and the right drugs to cure them than their doctor does. Oh, quite impossible people; and I understand from James that Bentley was as bad a specimen of the tribe as you’d hope to see.’
‘Oh? In what way?’
‘Well, you prescribe for ’em and all that, and then find that the prescription can’t be used because the fellow’s already been prescribing for himself before he came to you at all, and the two prescriptions clash; and then you prescribe something else, and the fellow goes and takes something perfectly different that he thinks is going to suit his case better. Oh, hopeless! That’s just the lunatic Bentley was. Always dosing himself from morning to night: never happy unless he was stuffing some drug or other inside his skin.’
‘Do you mean that he drugged? Morphia, or anything like that?’
‘Oh, dear me, no. I was using the word in its correct sense, not the particular meaning with which the public seem to invest it. No, I don’t mean that he took any harmful drugs; just that his chief joy in life seemed to lie in turning his long-suffering stomach into a fair imitation of the inside of a chemist’s shop.’
‘So that it wouldn’t take a big dose of arsenic to finish him off?’
‘Just so. His stomach must have been in a very delicate state. You might say that he had already a predisposition to gastro-enteritis. That’s why James hadn’t the least hesitation in diagnosing it when he was called in to see him the morning after the picnic, if you remember. Of course there hadn’t been any talk of arsenic then.’
‘Oh, yes; that was another thing I meant to ask you about. Two things, in fact. One of them is—why did Dr James diagnose acute dyspepsia on that occasion? You’ve answered it partially, but was there anything else to make him think so? Had Bentley eaten anything to disagree with him at the picnic, so far as you know?’
‘Dear me,’ Dr Purefoy smiled, ‘this is a regular cross-examination!’
‘Am I being frightfully rude?’ Roger asked in concern. ‘I am, aren’t I, Alec?’
‘Not more than usual,’ grunted that gentleman.
‘Not a bit!’ the doctor protested. ‘I was only joking.’
‘I’m afraid I am, for all that,’ Roger laughed. ‘But I must plead an overwhelming interest in this case, as you’ve no doubt gathered.’
‘I don’t blame you. It’s a most interesting case, in spite of the lack of any element of doubt about it. And if I can tell you anything you want to know, I shall be only too pleased. James and I are very old friends, and I know almost as much about his share in it as he does.’
‘Well, I must say I’d be most awfully obliged. About this picnic business, now?’
‘Oh, yes. Well, it wasn’t so much what he’d had to eat that prompted James’s diagnosis, as the climatic conditions. It wasn’t by any means a warm day and Bentley had gone off in the car without his overcoat. Added to which he undoubtedly sat on the damp grass. Those facts would have been quite enough to give a man in his state of health an internal chill, which would perfectly well have accounted for that particular set of symptoms.’
‘But you think now that Dr James was wrong?’
‘There’s no doubt about it. James says so himself. That attack was certainly the result of a first administration of arsenic.’
‘Yes, that’s the second question I had in mind. Why is the medical evidence so firm that this attack was due to arsenic?’
‘Well, you see, it’s like this. Arsenical poisoning can be of two kinds, chronic or acute. Chronic arsenical poisoning consists of a number of small doses spread over a period of time, the poison then acting cumulatively; acute arsenical poisoning is the result of one large fatal dose. Now this case has been proved to have been a mixture of both methods.’
‘The traces of arsenic found in the hair, nails and skin showing that the administration must have begun at the very least a fortnight before death,’ Roger put in promptly.
‘But you know as much about it as I do!’ exclaimed the doctor.
‘I have studied it a bit,’ Roger admitted, with childish enjoyment of his triumph. ‘Yes, I thought that was the reason, but I just wanted to verify it. And now another thing. I’ve often noticed, reading the trials of these poisoning cases, that the defence is nearly always based on the plea that the dead person did not die from the effects of poison but that death was due to natural causes—in spite of the inconvenient presence of poison in the body. And what’s more, they nearly always seem able to call experts in support of the contention. Now do you think that is likely to happen in this case? Of course we don’t know yet what the defence is to be; but supposing it does run on those lines, do you think that any expert will be found to give it as his opinion that Bentley did, in fact, die of natural gastroenteritis (I know that’s a medical contradiction in terms, but let it pass; you see what I mean) and not from arsenical poisoning?’
‘No!’ Dr Purefoy said with emphasis. ‘I do not. If there had been less arsenic found, then perhaps they might have got hold of somebody with pet theories about the symptoms of arsenical poisoning to come and say that all the symptoms he would have expected to see weren’t present and therefore death couldn’t possibly be due to arsenic. But nobody can get over those three grains.’
‘I see. Then in that case the defence will have to rest on some other basis, won’t it? And there’s only one other possible basis it can rest on, and that is that Mrs Bentley did not herself administer the poison but that someone else did.’
‘It’ll be interesting to see what they fake up,’ agreed Dr Purefoy pleasantly. ‘Alec, help yourself to some more port and pass the decanter along.’
‘No more for me, thanks,’ Alec said, jumping suddenly to his feet. ‘If you two’ll excuse me, I’m going along to the drawing-room.’
‘Why the hurry, Alexander?’ asked Roger. ‘Am I boring you so much?’
‘Oh, no. It’s not that. But I promised to scrag Sheila, and I’d better get it done before you two’ve finished gassing. So long!’
‘Alec,’ observed Dr Purefoy as the door closed, ‘is one of those rare and refreshing people who have nothing to say and therefore don’t say it. I’ve only met one before in my life, and that, it may surprise you to learn, was a woman. Well, help yourself to the port, Sheringham, and then push it along to me, will you? Now then, any more questions?’
‘Thanks,’ Roger said, re-filling his glass. ‘Yes, there is one other thing. What is the usual sort of period to elapse between the administration of a fatal dose of arsenic and death?’
‘Well, it’s really impossible to say. It may be anything between a couple of hours and several days.’
‘Oh!’ said Roger.
‘Twenty-four hours is usually reckoned the average, but death in three to eight hours is quite common.’
‘And when do the symptoms begin to show themselves after the dose has been swallowed?’
‘In half an hour to an hour.’
‘Ah!’ said Roger.
There was a short pause, while Dr Purefoy sipped his port appreciatively. It was good port, but for the moment Roger appeared to have forgotten all about it.
‘Then in a disputed case, one might say that anybody was under suspicion who came into contact with the dead man during the penultimate half-hour before the symptoms appeared?’
‘Certainly.’
‘And anybody who did not do so would be automatically cleared?’
‘Within reasonable limits, yes. But it’s all rather anomalous.’
‘Um!’ said Roger, and finished his port off at a gulp.
Dr Purefoy looked a trifle pained. It was good port, and undoubtedly it merited a little more consideration than that.