Poisoned Chocolates Case (8 page)

“Then Lady Pennefather did have an accomplice?” murmured Mr. Bradley, with the air of one discussing The Three Bears with a child of four.

“An innocent accomplice,” retorted Sir Charles.

“My agent questioned the maid tactfully, and learned that her mistress had told her that she had to go over to England on urgent business but, having already spent six months of the current year in that country, would have to pay British income - tax if she so much as set foot in England again that year. A considerable sum was in question, and Lady Pennefather suggested this plan as a means of getting round the difficulty, with a handsome bribe to the girl. Not unnaturally the offer was accepted. Most ingenious; most ingenious.” He paused again and beamed round, inviting tributes.

“How very clever of you, Sir Charles,” murmured Alicia Dammers, stepping into the breach.

“I have no actual proof of her stay in this country,” regretted Sir Charles, “so that from the legal point of view the case against her is incomplete in that respect, but that will be a matter for the police to discover. In all other respects, I submit, my case is complete. I regret, I regret exceedingly, having to say so, but I have no alternative: Lady Pennefather is Mrs. Bendix's murderess.”

There was a thoughtful silence when Sir Charles had finished speaking. Questions were in the air, but nobody seemed to care to be the first to put one. Roger gazed into vacancy, as if looking longingly after the spoor of his own hare. There was no doubt that, as matters stood at present. Sir Charles seemed to have proved his case.

Mr. Ambrose Chitterwick plucked up courage to break the silence. “We must congratulate you, Sir Charles. Your solution is as brilliant as it is surprising. Only one question occurs to me and that is the one of motive. Why should Lady Pennefather desire her husband's death when she is actually in process of divorcing him? Had she any reason to suspect that a decree would not be granted?”

“None at all,” replied Sir Charles blandly. “It was just because she was so certain that a decree would be granted that she desired his death.”

“I - I don't quite understand,” stammered Mr. Chitterwick. Sir Charles allowed the general bewilderment to continue for a few more moments before he condescended to dispel it. He had the orator's feeling for atmosphere.

"I referred at the beginning of my remarks to a piece of knowledge which had come into my possession and which had helped me materially towards my solution. I am now prepared to disclose, in strict confidence, what that piece of knowledge was.

"You already know that there was talk of an engagement between Sir Eustace and my daughter. I do not think I shall be violating the secrets of the confessional if I tell you that not many weeks ago, Sir Eustace came to me and formally asked me to sanction an engagement between them as soon as his wife's decree nisi had been pronounced.

"I need not tell you all that transpired at that interview. What is relevant is that Sir Eustace informed me categorically that his wife had been extremely unwilling to divorce him, and he had only succeeded in the end by making a will entirely in her favour, including his estate in Worcestershire. She had a small private income of her own, and he was going to make her such allowance in addition as he was able; but with the interest on the mortgage on his estate swallowing up nearly all the rent he was getting for it, and his other expenses, this could not be a large one. His life, however, was heavily insured in accordance with Lady Pennefather's marriage settlements, and the mortgage on the estate was in the nature of an endowment policy, and lapsed with his death. He had therefore, as he candidly admitted, very little to offer my daughter.

“Like myself,” said Sir Charles impressively, "you cannot fail to grasp the significance of this. According to the will then in existence, Lady Pennefather from being not even comfortably off would become a comparatively rich woman on her husband's death. But rumours are reaching her ears of a possible marriage between that husband and another woman as soon as the divorce is complete. What is more probable than that when such an engagement is actually concluded, a new will will be made?

“Her character is already shown in a strong enough light by her willingness to accept the bribe of the will as an inducement to divorce. She is obviously a grasping woman, greedy for money. Murder is only another step for such a woman to take. And murder is her only hope. I do not think,” concluded Sir Charles, “that I need to labour the point any further.” His glasses swung deliberately.

“It's uncommonly convincing,” Roger said, with a little sigh. “Are you going to hand this information over to the police, Sir Charles?”

“I conceive that failure to do so would be a gross dereliction of my duty as a citizen,” Sir Charles replied, with a pomposity that in no way concealed how pleased he was with himself.

“Humph!” observed Mr. Bradley, who evidently was not going to be so pleased with Sir Charles as Sir Charles was. “What about the chocolates? Is it part of your case that she prepared them over here, or brought them with her?”

Sir Charles waved an airy hand. “Is that material?”

“I should say that it would be very material to connect her at any rate with the poison.”

“Nitrobenzene? One might as well try to connect her with the purchase of the chocolates. She would have no difficulty in getting hold of that. I regard her choice of poison, in fact, as on a par with the ingenuity she has displayed in all the other particulars.”

“I see.” Mr. Bradley stroked his little moustache and eyed Sir Charles combatively. “Come to think of it, you know, Sir Charles, you haven't really proved a case against Lady Pennefather at all. All you've proved is motive and opportunity.”

An unexpected ally ranged herself beside Mr. Bradley. “Exactly!” cried Mrs. Fielder - Flemming. “That's just what I was about to point out myself. If you hand over the information you've collected to the police, Sir Charles, I don't think they'll thank you for it. As Mr. Bradley says, you haven't proved that Lady Pennefather's guilty, or anything like it. I'm quite sure you're altogether mistaken.”

Sir Charles was so taken aback that for a moment he could only stare. “Mistaken!” he managed to ejaculate. It was clear that such a possibility had never entered Sir Charles's orbit.

“Well, perhaps I'd better say - wrong,” amended Mrs. Fielder - Flemming, quite drily.

“But my dear madam - - ” For once words did not come to Sir Charles. “But why?” he fell back upon, feebly.

“Because I'm sure of it,” retorted Mrs. Fielder - Flemming, most unsatisfactorily.

Roger had been watching this exchange with a gradual change of feeling. From being hypnotised by Sir Charles's persuasiveness and self - confidence into something like reluctant agreement, he was swinging round now in reaction to the other extreme. Dash it all, this fellow Bradley had kept a clearer head after all. And he was perfectly right. There were gaps in Sir Charles's case that Sir Charles himself, as counsel for Lady Pennefather's defence, could have driven a coach - and - six through.

“Of course,” he said thoughtfully, “the fact that before she went abroad Lady Pennefather may have had an account at Mason's isn't surprising in the least. Nor is the fact that Mason's send out a complimentary chit with their receipts. As Sir Charles himself said, very many old - fashioned firms of good repute do. And the fact that the sheet of paper on which the letter was written had been used previously for some such purpose is not only not surprising, when one comes to consider; it's even obvious. Whoever the murderer, the same problem of getting hold of the piece of notepaper would arise. Yes, really, that Sir Charles's three initial questions should have happened to find affirmative answers does seem little more than a coincidence.”

Sir Charles turned on this new antagonist like a wounded bull. “But the odds were enormous against it!” he roared. “If it was a coincidence, it was the most incredible one in the whole course of my experience.”

“Ah, Sir Charles, but you're prejudiced,” Mr. Bradley told him gently. “And you exaggerate dreadfully, you know. You seem to be putting the odds at somewhere round about a million to one. I should put them at six to one. Permutations and combinations, you know.”

“Damn your permutations, sir!” riposted Sir Charles with vigour. “And your combinations too.”

Mr. Bradley turned to Roger. “Mr. Chairman, is it within the rules of this club for one member to insult another member's underwear? Besides, Sir Charles,” he added to that fuming knight, “I don't wear the things. Never have done, since I was an infant.”

For the dignity of the chair Roger could not join in the delighted titters that were escaping round the table; in the interests of the Circle's preservation he had to pour oil on these very seething waters.

“Bradley, you're losing sight of the point, aren't you? I don't want to destroy your theory necessarily, Sir Charles, or detract in any way from the really brilliant manner in which you've defended it; but if it's to stand its ground it must be able to resist any arguments we can bring against it. That's all. And I honestly do think that you're inclined to attach a little too much importance to the answers to those three questions. What do you say, Miss Dammers?”

“I agree,” Miss Dammers said crisply. “The way Sir Charles emphasised their importance reminded me at the time of a favourite trick of detective-story writers. He said, if I remember rightly, that if those questions were answered in the affirmative he knew that his suspect was guilty just as much as if he'd seen her with his own eyes putting the poison into the chocolates, because the odds against a coincidental affirmative to all three of them were incalculable. In other words he simply made a strong assertion, unsupported by evidence or argument.”

“And that is what detective - story writers do, Miss Dammers?” queried Mr. Bradley, with a tolerant smile.

“Invariably, Mr. Bradley. I've often noticed it in your own books. You state a thing so emphatically that the reader does not think of questioning the assertion. 'Here,' says the detective, 'is a bottle of red liquid and here is a bottle of blue. If these two liquids turn out to be ink, then we know that they were purchased to fill up the empty ink - pots in the library as surely as if we had read the dead man's very thoughts.' Whereas the red ink might have been bought by one of the maids to dye a jumper, and the blue by the secretary for his fountain - pen; or a hundred other such explanations. But any possibilities of that kind are silently ignored. Isn't that so?”

“Perfectly,” agreed Bradley, unperturbed. “Don't waste time on unessentials. Just tell the reader very loudly what he's to think, and he'll think it all right. You've got the technique perfectly, Why don't you try your hand at it? It's quite a paying game, you know.”

“I may one day. And anyhow I will say for you, Mr. Bradley, that your detectives do detect. They don't just stand about and wait for somebody else to tell them who committed the murder, as the so - called detectives do in most of the so - called detective - stories I read.”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Bradley, “Then you actually read detective - stories, Miss Dammers?”

“Certainly,” said Miss Dammers, crisply. “Why not?” She dismissed Mr. Bradley as abruptly as she had answered his challenge. “And the letter itself, Sir Charles? The typewriting. You don't attach any importance to that?”

“As a detail, of course it would have to be considered; I was only sketching out the broad lines of the case.” Sir Charles was no longer bull - like. “I take it that the police would ferret out pieces of conclusive evidence of that nature.”

“I think they might have some difficulty in connecting Pauline Pennefather with the machine that typed that letter,” observed Mrs. Fielder - Flemming, not without tartness. The tide of feeling had obviously set in against Sir Charles.

“But the motive,” he pleaded, now pathetically on the defensive. “You must admit that the motive is overwhelming.”

“You don't know Pauline, Sir Charles - Lady Pennefather?” Miss Dammers suggested.

“I do not.”

“Evidently,” commented Miss Dammers.

“You don't agree with Sir Charles's theory, Miss Dammers?” ventured Mr. Chitterwick.

“I do not,” said Miss Dammers with emphasis. “Might one enquire your reason?” ventured Mr. Chitterwick further.

“Certainly you may. It's a conclusive one, I'm afraid, Sir Charles. I was in Paris at the time of the murder, and just about the very hour when the parcel was being posted I was talking to Pauline Pennefather in the foyer of the Opera.”

“What!” exclaimed the discomfited Sir Charles, the remnants of his beautiful theory crashing about his ears.

“I should apologise for not having given you this information before, I suppose,” said Miss Dammers with the utmost calmness, “but I wanted to see what sort of a case you could put up against her. And I really do congratulate you. It was a remarkable piece of inductive reasoning. If I hadn't happened to know that it was built up on a complete fallacy you would have quite convinced me.”

“But - but why the secrecy, and - and the impersonation by the maid, if her visit was an innocent one?” stammered Sir Charles, his mind revolving wildly round private aeroplanes and the time they would take from the Place de L'Opera to Trafalgar Square.

“Oh, I didn't say it was an innocent one,” retorted Miss Dammers carelessly. “Sir Eustace isn't the only one who is waiting for the divorce to marry again. And in the interim Pauline, quite rightly, doesn't see why she should waste valuable time. After all, she isn't so young as she was. And there's always a strange creature called the King's Proctor, isn't there?”

Shortly after that the Chairman adjourned the meeting of the Circle. He did so because he did not wish one of the members to die of apoplexy on his hands.

MRS. FIELDER - FLEMMING was nervous. Actually nervous.

She shuffled the pages of her notebook aimlessly, and seemed hardly able to sit through the few preliminaries which had to be settled before Roger asked her to give the solution which she had already affirmed, privately, to Alicia Dammers, to be indubitably the correct one of Mrs. Bendix's murder. With such a weighty piece of knowledge in her mind one would have thought that for once in her life Mrs. Fielder - Flemming had a really heaven - sent opportunity to be impressive, but for once in her life she made no use of it. If she had not been Mrs. Fielder - Flemming, one might have gone so far as to say that she dithered.