Antidote to Venom (15 page)

He had been explaining that his neglect had been due to the extra work at the Zoo resulting from the loss of the snake and the death of Burnaby. Before the true facts had come out, the police had formed a theory of murder. He had believed they were shadowing all connected with the Zoo, himself included, and till he was sure their suspicions had been dropped, he had feared to lead them to “Rose Cottage.” It was Nancy's reply which so much upset him.

“The idea!” she said scornfully. “As if anyone would murder that poor old man, and particularly in so horrible a way! Oh, if anyone had done such a thing, I think I'd take pleasure in seeing him hanged.”

George pulled himself together. “Don't let's talk about it,” he begged. “It's a miserable business. Let's think of something else,” and he turned to the breaking-in of the garden, which had grown entirely out of hand.

They dropped the subject, but that evening as George sat in his study Nancy's words returned to him. Nancy, the one person in the world whom he really loved, or thought he did: that one person, if she knew the truth, would take pleasure in seeing him hanged! He had done all this for her—or again, so he thought. He had lost his wife, his self-respect, his peace of mind, for her—and if she were to find out what he actually was like, she would wish to see him hanged!

George felt more alone than ever before in his life. If the truth came out, not only Nancy but everyone,
everyone
, would be glad to see him dead. Clarissa, whom he had once loved and who had once loved him, would be an exception. She would be sorry. But it wouldn't be sorrow for him. It would be for herself, because of the shame and ruin he had brought on her. Him she would curse.

As George sat alone, the thought which had worried him some nights earlier returned. He seemed to see as in a vision, Burnaby, old and feeble, struggling vainly with the snake. There was fear and horror in the old man's eyes; fear and horror that he, George, had put there. Those eyes followed him. Wherever he looked, they were gazing at him—reproachfully. They peered down from the pictures on the walls, they were in the red coals of the fire, they gazed up from the pages of his book. What reproach they held as they stared at their false friend. What sorrowful surprise as they realised what he was.

With an oath George got up suddenly, poured himself out a couple of fingers of whisky, and with only a drop or two of soda, tossed it off. It quickly produced its effect. His mind cleared. The vision of Burnaby and his reproachful eyes faded and his outlook on life grew more normal. He needn't worry, he now saw, over what was past. This old world wasn't such a bad place, after all. Let him enjoy it while he could. And now that he had money coming to him, he could enjoy it as never before.

Absently he poured out a second couple of fingers, added soda, and returned to his chair before the fire. Good stuff, whisky, he thought, as he began to sip it. If you got a bit morbid, it pulled you together. Yes, as long as one had whisky, there was always a way of producing a satisfied body and a contented mind. Wonderful stuff!

Then another thought flashed into his mind and he set the glass down on the table beside his chair. Fool! Fool that he was to think such thoughts! There was no salvation for him in whisky. Fearfully he recalled another effect of alcohol. It loosened men's tongues. God! if he took too much, what might he not say? Better all the morbid and desperate thought that could flood his mind than the risk of babbling out his secret. A word too much and—He grew cold as what would follow presented itself to his excited imagination in a series of too vivid pictures. The arrest (he had heard they were extremely polite and kindly about arrests, though somehow that would only add to the horror); the waiting; the trial; the waiting again, this time with two warders always there; and then…

George shivered once again and picked up his glass. Then with an oath he flung it into the fire. The glass shivered and the flame fizzed and spluttered. Hell! he couldn't stand this. He would go down to the club and find someone to speak to.

He glanced at the clock. It was too late to go to the club. It was, indeed, past his normal bedtime. But in his present mood he couldn't face bed. He shouldn't sleep and he was better up.

Gradually his mind quieted down. He must, he thought, get off drink altogether. It would be a pretty tough job, but he would have to face it. The first few days would be the trouble, then it would be easy enough.

Then a further thought darted into his mind. Capper! Suppose Capper were feeling as he was: would Capper avoid drink? Would Capper one day take too much and say something he ought not?

All George's fears swept back as he realised that from henceforth his safety, his avoidance of
that
, depended on Capper's abstemiousness.
Was
Capper abstemious? He didn't know.

Something not far from panic gripped George as he realised that his safety was not in his own hands. He must see Capper. At all costs he must see him and get his promise to give up liquor. But what would such a promise be worth?

George once more grew cold as he thought of it. Was this another hideously-contrived trap? If Capper's existence was dangerous to him, only one thing would make him safe.

God, how ghastly! George looked longingly at the decanter, and swore again. He hadn't realised things were going to be like this. If it were to go on, he couldn't stand it. Better to be dead himself.…

Once again he sharply rallied himself. All this was just nerves. He was physically upset from the strain. He wanted a holiday. He would soon have this money and then he would take one. He would go off somewhere: to South America or the Cape or—somewhere. And he would take Nancy with him. He would send Clarissa to California, where she had always wanted to visit relatives, and he himself would go with Nancy. He would have a good time and forget all these nightmares.

But though he thought these brave thoughts, in his heart of hearts George knew that never as long as life lasted would he forget—what had happened.

Chapter XV

Venom: In the Press

While George was struggling with his difficulties in Birmington, events were taking place in London which were destined to have a decisive effect on his life and the lives of a great many others associated with him.

It happened that on the second week-end after the inquest, that on which George had his financial interview with Capper, Chief Inspector Joseph French, of New Scotland Yard, was busily engaged in entertaining a guest. This does not, perhaps, give an entirely accurate picture of the situation, for two reasons. First, it was the guest who was really entertaining French, for Arthur Milliken was an intelligent and well-informed man, with interesting views on people and things and an interesting way of putting them; and, secondly, he was not French's guest at all, but his wife's.

Arthur Milliken was Mrs. French's brother-in-law; he had married her younger and favourite sister. Some years later the sister had died, causing one of Mrs. French's greatest griefs. But by that time both she and French had become fond of Arthur, and when he came to town, as he did every few months, he usually spent a week-end with them.

He was a clerk, was Arthur Milliken, but of a superior type. He was, in fact, chief clerk in the head office of the Winslow and Waterton Insurance Company, of Birmington. He had two brothers, both also living in the city: Peter, our old friend the head keeper at the Zoo, and Charles, who ran a small garage.

They had been chatting for a little time, and Arthur, who had done most of the talking, decided it was time to hear French's news.

“Been busy lately?” he asked, as they reached a pause in the conversation.

“I've just got back from Cornwall,” French answered, as he refilled his pipe with the mixture he preferred to all other forms of tobacco. “Been down there for a fortnight. Glad to be back, too.”

“A State secret?”

“Not at all. A man was found lying dead on his drive, without a scratch on his body. A post mortem revealed arsenic in his stomach. Problem: how did he come to take it?”

“And did you find out?”

“Suicide, I think. He was elderly and had a pretty young wife, and there was another man, so some of the local boneheads plumped for murder. But I don't think it was. Certainly there was no evidence to convict anyone.”

Milliken, in his turn, knocked out his pipe and French pushed over his tin of tobacco.

“A bit of a coincidence your man should have been found dead on a drive,” the former remarked, as he helped himself. “It reminds me of a curious case we've just had in Birmington. Rather excited us all really, because my brother Peter was in it up to the neck. I expect you've read about it: the death of an old professor who was working with a snake?”

“I didn't see about it. What was the case?”

French spoke with a polite appearance of interest, though he was feeling a little bored. He wished people would talk to him about anything rather than crime. It was not an extraordinarily cheerful subject at the best, and he got all of it he wanted during working hours. But people seemed to think it was the proper subject to discuss with him, though he was sure that if they only knew how much ignorance they were exhibiting, they wouldn't do it. However, guests, at least, must be humoured.

“He was found on a drive, too,” Milliken answered, warming to his task. “That's what put me in mind of the thing. Only it wasn't on his own drive, but on his doctor's. The old boy was experimenting with snake poison,” and he went on to give an adequate and slightly humorous summary of the affair.

“An interesting case,” French admitted, still conscious of his duties as host.

“Isn't it?” Milliken was gratified at the reception of his tale. “And you know it's a bit of a mystery, too, in spite of the coroner's verdict and all that. A case after your own heart, I should call it.”

“Oh?” said French. “How's that?”

“Well, it's only what Peter said, you know. He says he doesn't believe the old josser ever stole the snake. He wouldn't have had the nerve; not recently.”

“Then how does he account for it?”

“He doesn't account for it; that's just it. He says the facts that have come out don't explain it and that there must be more to it than we've heard.”

“The coroner's jury apparently don't think so.”

“That's what I told Peter. But he said the coroner's jury didn't know the old man as he did. He said to steal a dangerous snake would take quite a lot of nerve and old Burnaby just hadn't it. And Peter's a pretty sound man, though I say it as oughtn't.”

In spite of himself, French's thoughts slipped back to more than one occasion in the past when he had heard this argument put up by people as a reason for rejecting otherwise obvious deductions. Not so long before he had sat in the police station at Henley and listened to Major Marsh, the local Chief Constable, declaring that he did not believe the millionaire, Andrew Harrison, had committed suicide, because he knew him personally and he just wasn't that kind of man. That was the case in which the millionaire was found dead in the cabin of his houseboat after suggestive jugglings on the Stock Exchange. On that occasion the Chief Constable's hunch—or knowledge of psychology—had been justified and had led to the discovery of a particularly ingenious murder. It was paralleled, moreover, by several similar instances. The psychological argument could never be disregarded. In fact, the older French grew and the more varied his experience became, the more weighty he found it.

In this case, of course, it was unlikely to have any significance. The opinion of a chief constable, a man used all his life to weighing character and its resultant action, was one thing; that of a head keeper in a zoo was quite another. Peter Milliken might be all his brother claimed—French had met him and thought highly of him—but he couldn't have the judgment of a trained man. Besides, neither the coroner nor police of a great city like Birmington were fools. If there had been anything in this argument of Peter's they would have recognised it and acted accordingly.

“I expect the police went into that side of it,” he said easily. “And they had a doctor, I presume? He would have gone into it, too.”

Arthur agreed. “I don't myself suppose there's anything in it,” he went on. “It's just that Peter was so sure.”

“How on earth would you steal a snake?” French queried. “It's not a job I should care to tackle myself.”

“It seems there's a sort of tongs for catching them: a leather loop on the end of a stick. You open the cage and slip the loop over the head of the one you want. Then you lift it out by the neck.”

“Not easy, I imagine.”

“No, specially if the snake is threshing about, as it would if it didn't want to be caught. I'd rather Peter did it than me.”

The more French thought over it, the more heartily he found himself in agreement. It would be a difficult and dangerous job: particularly as presumably the snake must not be hurt. Both nerve and skill would be required.

But if so, was Peter Milliken's belief so very absurd? Could the broken-down old scientist really have accomplished it? French grew slightly more interested.

“What evidence of old Burnaby's condition was given at the inquest?” he asked.

Arthur paused in thought. “A number could have given it,” he said presently, “but I don't know exactly who did. There was the doctor, Dr. Marr, and the director of the Zoo, Mr. Surridge, and Nesbit, one of the keepers in the snake-house, as well as Peter. It mightn't exactly be Nesbit's or Peter's place to say anything, but it would be Marr's. If he had thought the old boy couldn't have done it, he'd have said so.”

French was not so sure. It would depend on the personalities of the coroner and doctor. If the latter had been throwing his weight about and had been snubbed for it, he might close up on points of opinion and answer only what he was asked.

“What sort of man is Marr?”

“One of the best,” Arthur answered, with enthusiasm. “Straight and decent and always out to do anyone a good turn. And very successful in his cases. People like him and trust him and he does them good.”

Then he wouldn't be likely to get on his high horse and hold back information on the ground that it hadn't been asked for. It would be interesting to know just what he had said.

“Was the case well reported?”

Arthur smiled triumphantly. “I thought it would interest you,” he returned, “and I brought up the
Birmington Times
in case you'd like to see it. The report is pretty full because everyone was interested. There was the scare, you see, that the snake was loose in the town, and if you ask me, most people were really frightened about it.”

French nodded. “Very good of you, I'm sure. Yes, I'd be interested to look over it. You don't happen to know if the police have accepted the inquest verdict?”

“I don't. I thought they would do so automatically.”

“Not necessarily. But, of course, it's usual.”

“Is that so? Well, I can't tell you. I'm not in their inner councils.”

Later that evening French read the report. The case appeared to have been well handled by the coroner and the police evidence was just what might have been expected. There was no question of glossing over the deceased's poor state of health: in fact, this was stressed. The point that the old man might not have been able to commit the theft had been made by the coroner himself, and the jury could not have failed to appreciate it. Yet it hadn't weighed with them in bringing in their verdict. Peter Milliken was entitled to his opinion, but in this case he must have been wrong.

French presently dismissed the matter from his mind and turned to his usual Saturday evening pursuits. But that night as he lay awake the affair recurred to him. An unusual case, he thought, and dramatic too. For many people snakes had a kind of morbid fascination, and the idea of this poor old man meeting so horrible a fate alone and in darkness would set the average person shuddering.

French wondered what exactly had happened during that fatal period. Apparently just as Burnaby left, or was about to leave, his house, he was struck. Probably he had been looking if the snake was all right, and in some way had allowed it to escape. Probably again he had caught it by the neck, and the easiest way to get rid of so embarrassing a burden would be to drop it into the barrel. Being alone, he would think his best chance would be to hurry to the doctor's. Yes, this seemed reasonable and was doubtless the view held by the coroner.

French was rather annoyed to find that the affair had taken hold of his mind just as if it were one of his own cases. He could neither sleep nor could he banish it from his thoughts. In spite of himself he continued turning over the facts and weighing their bearing one upon another.

Suddenly a point occurred to him which up till then he had missed, and a faint excitement stirred in his mind as he considered its implications. He switched on his light, and creeping softly downstairs, found Arthur's paper and took it back to bed. Once again he read the evidence. Then after some more thought he put the paper aside, switched off the light, and composed himself to sleep.

On Monday when he had dealt with his letters and reckoned that the Assistant Commissioner, Sir Mortimer Ellison, had done the same, he rang him up and asked for an interview.

“Well, French, what's the trouble?” he was greeted, on reaching his superior's room.

French laid his newspaper on the other's desk. “Have you read that case, sir?” he asked, quietly.

Sir Mortimer looked at him searchingly as he took the paper. “Not in any detail,” he answered. “What of it?”

“May I outline the case to you, sir?”

The Assistant Commissioner made a gesture of dismay. “If it's absolutely unavoidable,” he breathed gently.

French knew his chief. He grinned appreciatively. “I don't know that it is,” he returned, “but I should like to put up a point, if you don't mind.”

“I do mind, but a lot you care about that. However, I see you won't be happy till you get it off your chest. Go ahead.”

French, well satisfied, went ahead. Long practice had enabled him to condense his stories into the minimum of words. Sir Mortimer sat motionless during the recital, his heavy lids lowered over his eyes as if he were half asleep. But French knew he was anything but asleep. He was aware that he was listening keenly, and that his alert brain was checking up and docketing the facts as he heard them.

“Well?” he said, as French came to an end.

“Just one point struck me, sir. There were no snake tongs found at ‘Riverview.' ”

Sir Mortimer gave him another exceedingly keen glance and once more dropped to his languishing position. “How do you know?” he asked, presently.

“I don't, of course, know absolutely,” French admitted, “but it seems to follow from the facts given. The house was obviously searched by Inspector Rankin, and if he had found a pair of tongs I can't believe he wouldn't have mentioned it. It would have been highly material evidence and of great use in supporting his case.”

“There might have been something else.”

“You mean some other tool in which the snake could have been carried?”

“Yes: a bag or box or net.”

“I should think the same argument would apply. If there had been anything which would have done the job Rankin would have brought it forward.”

For some seconds silence reigned. Then Sir Mortimer again looked up. “'Pon my soul, French, I believe you're right. However, don't let's have any misunderstandings. Just put what you mean into words.”

“I looked at it like this, sir. To convey the snake from the Zoo to ‘Riverview' some apparatus was necessary. I imagine, though of course I can't be sure, that this must have been a tongs, because some way of handling the snake at ‘Riverview' would probably have been necessary. Remember also that the snake's neck was bruised from tongs having been used. If I'm right and there was a tongs, and it wasn't found, someone must have taken it away. Who was this? Obviously not the deceased. Therefore someone else was present who did remove it.”