Silent Nights (12 page)

“What do you mean to do?”

“Tell Mrs Warnham—with her husband listening.”

Dr Eden followed him out like a man going to be hanged.

Mrs Warnham indeed met them in her hall. “Mr Fortune”—she took his hand, she had won back her old calm, but her eyes grew dark as she looked at him—“Gerald has been asking for you. And I want to speak to you.”

“I shall be glad to talk over the case with you and Captain Warnham,” said Reggie gravely. “I'll see the small boy first, if you don't mind.” And the small boy kept his Mr Fortune a long time.

Mrs Warnham had her husband with her when the doctors came down. “I say, Fortune,” Captain Warnham started up, “awfully good of you to take so much trouble. I mean to say”—he cleared his throat—“I feel it, you know. How is the little beggar?”

“There's no reason why he shouldn't do well,” Reggie said slowly. “But it's a strange case, Captain Warnham. Yes, a strange case. You may take it, there is no doubt the child was poisoned.”

“Poisoned!” Warnham cried out in that queer hoarse voice.

“You mean it was something Gerald shouldn't have eaten?” Mrs Warnham said gently.

“It was arsenic, Captain Warnham. Not much more than an hour before the time he felt ill, perhaps less, he had swallowed enough arsenic to kill him.”

“I say, are you certain of all that? I mean to say, no doubt about anything?” Warnham was flushed. “Arsenic—and the time—and the dose? It's pretty thick, you know.”

“There is no doubt. I have found arsenic. I can estimate the dose. And arsenic acts within that time.”

“But I can't believe it,” Mrs Warnham said. “It would be too horribly cruel. Mr Fortune, couldn't it have been accident? Something in his food?”

“It was certainly in his food or drink. But not accident, Mrs Warnham. That is not possible.”

“I say, let's have it all out, Fortune,” Warnham growled. “Do you suspect anyone?”

“That's rather for you, isn't it?” said Reggie.

“Who could want to poison Gerald?” Mrs Warnham cried.

“He says some one did,” Warnham growled.

“When do you suppose he took the stuff, Fortune? At the party or after he came home?”

“What did he have when he came home?”

Warnham looked at his wife. “Only a little milk. He wouldn't eat anything,” she said. “And I tasted his milk, I remember. It was quite nice.”

“That points to the party,” Eden said.

“But I can't believe it. Who could want to poison Gerald?”

“I've seen some of the people who were there,” Eden frowned. “I don't believe there's another child ill. Only this one of the whole party.”

“Yes. Yes. A strange case,” said Reggie. “Was there anyone there with a grudge against you, Mrs Warnham?”

“I don't think there's anyone with a grudge against me in the world.”

“I don't believe there is, Catherine,” her husband looked at her. “But damn it, Fortune found the stuff in the child. I say, Fortune, what do you advise?”

“You're sure of your own household? There's nobody here jealous of the child?”

Mrs Warnham looked her distress. “I couldn't, I couldn't doubt anybody. There isn't any reason. You know, it doesn't seem real.”

“And there it is,” Warnham growled.

“Yes. Well, I shouldn't talk about it, you know. When he's up again take him right away, somewhere quiet. You'll live with him yourself, of course. That's all safe. And I—well, I shan't forget the case. Good-bye.”

“Oh, Mr Fortune—” she started up and caught his hands.

“Yes, yes, good-bye,” said Reggie, and got away. But as Warnham let them out he felt Warnham's lean hand grip into his arm.

“A little homely comfort would be grateful,” Reggie murmured. “Come and have tea at the Academies, Eden. They keep a pleasing muffin.” He sank down in his car at Eden's side with a happy sigh.

But Eden's brow was troubled. “Do you think the child will be safe now, Fortune?” he said.

“Oh, I think so. If it was Warnham or Mrs Warnham who poisoned him—”

“Good Lord! You don't think that?”

“They are frightened,” said Reggie placidly. “I frightened 'em quite a lot. And if it was somebody else—the child is going away and Mrs Warnham will be eating and drinking everything he eats and drinks. The small Gerald will be all right. There remains only the little problem, who was it?”

“It's a diabolical affair. Who could want to kill that child?”

“Diabolical is the word,” Reggie agreed. “And a little simple food is what we need,” and they went into the club and through a long tea he talked to Eden of rock gardens and Chinese nursery rhymes.

But when Eden, somewhat dazed by his appetite and the variety of his conversation, was gone, he made for that corner of the club where Lomas sat drinking tea made in the Russian manner. He pointed a finger at the clear weak fluid. “‘It was sad and bad and mad' and it was not even sweet,” he complained. “Take care, Lomas. Think what's happened to Russia. You would never be happy as a Bolshevik.”

“I understand that the detective police force is the one institution which has survived in Russia.”

“Put down that repulsive concoction and come and take the air.”

Lomas stared at him in horror. “Where's your young lady? I thought you were walking out. You're a faithless fellow, Fortune. Go and walk like a little gentleman.” But there was that in Reggie's eye which made him get up with a groan. “You're the most ruthless man I know.”

The car moved away from the club and Reggie shrank under his rug as the January east wind met them. “I hope you are cold,” said Lomas. “What is it now?”

“It was nearly another anonymous murder,” and Reggie told him the story.

“Diabolical,” said Lomas.

“Yes, I believe in the devil,” Reggie nodded.

“Who stood to gain by the child's death? It's clear enough. There's only Warnham. Mrs Warnham was left a rich woman when her first husband died, old Staveleigh. Every one knew that was why Warnham was after her. But the bulk of the fortune would go to the child. So he took the necessary action. Good Gad! We all knew Crab Warnham didn't stick at a trifle. But this—! Cold-blooded scoundrel. Can you make a case of it?”

“I like you, Lomas. You're so natural,” Reggie said. “That's all quite clear. And it's all wrong. This case isn't natural, you see. It hath a devil.”

“Do you mean to say it wasn't Warnham?”

“It wasn't Warnham. I tried to frighten him. He was frightened. But not for himself. Because the child has an enemy and he doesn't know who it is.”

“Oh, my dear fellow! He's not a murderer because you like his face.”

“Who could like his face? No. The poison was given at the party where Warnham wasn't.”

“But why? What possible motive? Some homicidal lunatic goes to a Kensington children's party and picks out this one child to poison. Not very credible, is it?”

“No, it's diabolical. I didn't say a lunatic. When you tell me what lunacy is, we'll discuss whether the poisoner was sane. But the diabolical is getting a little too common, Lomas. There was Bigod: young, healthy, well off, just engaged to a jolly girl. He falls into a chalkpit and the jury says it was misadventure. There was the lady doctor: young, clean-living, not a ghost of a past, everybody liking her. She is murdered and a girl who was very fond of her nearly goes mad over it. Now there's the small Gerald: a dear kid, his mother worships him, his step-father's mighty keen on him, everybody likes him. Somebody tries to poison him and nearly brings it off.”

“What are you arguing, Fortune? It's odd the cases should follow one another. It's deuced awkward we can't clean them up. But what then? They're not really related. The people are unconnected. There's a different method of murder—if the Bigod case was murder. The only common feature is that the man who attempted murder is not known.”

“You think so? Well, well. What I want to know is, was there any one at Mrs Lawley's party in Kensington who was also at the Home of Help party and also staying somewhere near the chalkpit when Bigod fell into it. Put your men on to that.”

“Good Gad!” said Lomas. “But the cases are not comparable—not in the same class. Different method—different kind of victim. What motive could any creature have for picking out just these three to kill?”

Reggie looked at him. “Not nice murders, are they?” he said. “I could guess—and I dare say we'll only guess in the end.”

That night he was taking Miss Amber, poor girl, to a state dinner of his relations. They had ten minutes together before the horrors of the ceremony began and she was benign to him about the recovery of the small Gerald. “It was dear of you to ring up and tell me. I love Gerry. Poor Mrs Warnham! I just had to go round to her and she was sweet. But she has been frightened. You're rather a wonderful person, sir. I didn't know you were a children's doctor—as well as a million other things. What was the matter? Mrs Warnham didn't tell us. It must—”

“Who are ‘us,' Joan?”

“Why, Lady Chantry was with her. She didn't tell us what it really was. After we came away Lady Chantry asked me if I knew.”

“But I'm afraid you don't,” Reggie said. “Joan, I don't want you to talk about the small Gerry? Do you mind?”

“My dear, of course not.” Her eyes grew bigger. “But Reggie—the boy's going to be all right?”

“Yes. Yes. You're rather a dear, you know.”

And at the dinner-table which then received them his family found him of an unwonted solemnity. It was agreed, with surprise and reluctance, that his engagement had improved him: that there might be some merit in Miss Amber after all.

A week went by. He had been separated from Miss Amber for one long afternoon to give evidence in the case of the illegitimate Pekinese when she rang him up on the telephone. Lady Chantry, she said, had asked her to choose a day and bring Mr Fortune to dine. Lady Chantry did so want to know him.

“Does she, though?” said Mr Fortune.

“She was so nice about it,” said the telephone. “And she really is a good sort, Reggie. She's always doing something kind.”

“Joan,” said Mr Fortune, “you're not to go into her house.”

“Reggie!” said the telephone.

“That's that,” said Mr Fortune. “I'll speak to Lady Chantry.”

Lady Chantry was at home. She sat in her austere pleasant drawing-room, toasting a foot at the fire, a small foot which brought out a pretty leg. Of course she was in black with some white about her neck, but the loose gown had grace. She smiled at him and tossed back her hair. Not a thread of white showed in its crisp brown and it occurred to Reggie that he had never seen a woman of her age carry off bobbed hair so well. What was her age? Her eyes were as bright as a bird's and her clear pallor was unfurrowed.

“So good of you, Mr Fortune—”

“Miss Amber has just told me—”

They spoke together. She got the lead then. “It was kind of her to let you know at once. But she's always kind, isn't she? I did so want you to come, and make friends with me before you're married, and it will be very soon now, won't it? Oh, but do let me give you some tea.”

“No tea, thank you.”

“Won't you? Well, please ring the bell. I don't know how men can exist without tea. But most of them don't now, do they? You're almost unique, you know. I suppose it's the penalty of greatness.”

“I came round to say that Miss Amber won't be able to dine with you, Lady Chantry.”

It was a moment before she answered. “But that is too bad. She told me she was sure you could find a day.”

“She can't come,” said Reggie sharply.

“The man has spoken,” she laughed. “Oh, of course, she mustn't go behind that.” He was given a keen mocking glance. “And can't you come either, Mr Fortune?”

“I have a great deal of work, Lady Chantry. It's come rather unexpectedly.”

“Indeed, you do look worried. I'm so sorry. I'm sure you ought to take a rest, a long rest.” A servant came in. “Won't you really have some tea?”

“No, thank you. Good-bye, Lady Chantry.”

He went home and rang up Lomas. Lomas, like the father of Baby Bunting, had gone a-hunting. Lomas was in Leicestershire. Superintendent Bell replied: Did Bell know if they had anything new about the unknown murderer?

“Inquiries are proceeding, sir,” said Superintendent Bell.

“Damn it, Bell, I'm not the House of Commons. Have you got anything?”

“Not what you'd call definite, sir, no.”

“You'll say that on the Day of Judgement,” said Reggie.

It was on the next day that he found a telegram waiting for him when he came home to dress for dinner:

Gerald ill again very anxious beg you will come sending car to meet evening trains.

Warnham
Fernhurst
Blackover.

He scrambled into the last carriage of the half-past six as it drew out of Waterloo.

Mrs Warnham had faithfully obeyed his orders to take Gerald to a quiet place. Blackover stands an equally uncomfortable distance from two main lines, one of which throws out towards it a feeble and spasmodic branch. After two changes Reggie arrived, cold and with a railway sandwich rattling in his emptiness, on the dimly lit platform of Blackover. The porter of all work who took his ticket thought there was a car outside.

In the dark station yard Reggie found only one: “Do you come from Fernhurst?” he called, and the small chauffeur who was half inside the bonnet shut it up and touched his cap and ran round to his seat.

They dashed off into the night, climbing up by narrow winding roads through woodland. Nothing passed them, no house gave a gleam of light. The car stopped on the crest of a hill and Reggie looked out. He could see nothing but white frost and pines. The chauffeur was getting down.