Strong Poison (27 page)

“Wouldn’t it be better if I kept the will and asked him to come for it?”

“But perhaps he requires it urgently?”

“Then why hasn’t he been to fetch it?” Miss Climpson noted with some irritation that, where spiritualistic messages were not concerned, Miss Booth showed signs of developing an independent judgment.

“Perhaps he doesn’t know yet that he wants it. Perhaps the spirits foresaw an urgent need that will only arise tomorrow.”

“Oh, yes, that’s quite likely. If only people would avail themselves more fully of the marvellous guidance given to them, so much might be foreseen and provided for! Well, I think you are right. We will find a big envelope to fit it, and I will write a letter and we will send it by the first post tomorrow.”

“It had better be registered,” said Miss Climpson. “If you will entrust it to me, I will take it down to the post office first thing.”

“Will you? That will be a great relief to my mind. Well now, I’m sure you’re as tired as I am, so I’ll put on a kettle for the hot-water bottles and we’ll turn in. Will you make yourself comfy in my sitting-room? I’ve only got to put the sheets on your bed. What? No, indeed, I can do it in a moment; please don’t bother. I’m so used to making beds.”

“Then I’ll see to the kettles,” said Miss Climpson. “I simply must make myself useful.”

“Very well. It won’t take long. The water is quite hot in the kitchen boiler.”

Left alone in the kitchen, with a kettle bumping and singing on its way to boiling point, Miss Climpson wasted no time. She tip-toed quickly out again and stood with ear cocked at the foot of the stairs, listening to the nurse’s footsteps as they pattered into the distance. Then she slipped into the little sitting-room, took up the will in its sealed envelope, and a long thin paper-knife which she had already marked down as a useful weapon, and hastened back to the kitchen.

It is astonishing how long a kettle which seems to be on the verge of boiling will take before the looked-for jet of steady steam emerges from its spout. Delusive little puffs and deceptive pauses in the song tantalise the watcher interminably. It seemed to Miss Climpson that there would have been time to make twenty beds before the kettle boiled that evening. But even a watched pot cannot absorb heat for ever. After what appeared to be an hour, but was actually about seven minutes, Miss Climpson, guilty and furtive, was holding the flap of the envelope before the scalding steam.

“I mustn’t hurry,” said Miss Climpson, “oh, blessed saints, I mustn’t hurry, or I shall tear it.”

She slipped the paper-knife under the flap; it lifted; it opened cleanly, just as Miss Booth’s step resounded in the passage.

Miss Climpson adroitly dropped the paper-knife behind the stove and thrust the envelope, with the flap doubled back to prevent it from re-sticking itself, behind a dishcover on the wall.

“The water’s ready!” she cried blithely. “Where are the bottles?”

It is a tribute to her nerve that she filled them with a steady hand. Miss Booth thanked her, and departed upstairs, a bottle in each hand.

Miss Climpson pulled the will from its hiding-place, drew it from its envelope and glanced swiftly through it.

It was not a long document, and in spite of the legal phraseology, its purport was easily gathered. Within three minutes she had replaced it, moistened the gum and stuck the flap down again. She put it in her petticoat-pocket – for her garments were of a useful and old-fashioned kind – and went to hunt in the pantry. When Miss Booth returned, she was making tea peacefully.

“I thought it would refresh us after our labours,” she remarked.

“A very good idea,” said Miss Booth; “in fact, I was just going to suggest it.”

Miss Climpson carried the tea-pot to the sitting-room, leaving Miss Booth to follow with the cups, milk and sugar on a tray. With the tea-pot on the hob and the will once more lying innocently on the table, she smiled and breathed deeply. Her mission was accomplished.

Letter from Miss Climpson to Lord Peter Wimsey.

Tuesday, Jan. 7, 1930.

my dear lord peter,

“As my telegram this morning will have informed you, I have succeeded!! Though what excuse I can find in my conscience for the methods I have used, I don’t know! but I believe the Church takes into account the necessity of deception in certain professions, such as that of a police-detective or a spy in time of warfare, and I trust that my subterfuges may be allowed to come under that category. However, you will not want to hear about my religious scruples! So I will hasten to let you know what I have discovered!!

“In my last letter I explained the plan I had in mind, so you will know what to do about the Will itself, which was duly despatched by Registered Post this morning under cover to Mr. Norman Urquhart. How surprised he will be to get it!!! Miss Booth wrote an excellent covering letter which I saw before it went, which explains the circumstances and mentions no names!! I have wired to Miss Murchison to expect the package, and I hope that when it comes she will contrive to be present at the opening, so as to constitute yet another witness to its existence. In any case, I should not think he would venture to tamper with it. Perhaps Miss Murchison may be able to investigate it in detail, which I had not time to do (it was all most adventurous! and I am looking forward to telling you all about it when I come back), but in case she is not able to do so, I will give you the rough outline.

“The property consists of real estate (the house and grounds) and a personalty (am I not good at legal terms??) which I am not able to calculate exactly. But the gist of it all is this: -

“The real estate is left to Philip Boyes, absolutely.

“Fifty thousand pounds is left to Philip Boyes also, in cash.

“The remainder (is not this called the residue?) is left to norman urquhart, who is appointed sole executor.

“There are a few small legacies to Stage Charities, of which I did not manage to memorise any particulars.

“There is a special paragraph, explaining that the greater part of the property is left to Philip Boyes in token that the testatrix forgives the ill treatment meted out to her by his family, for which he was not responsible.

“The date of the Will is 5 June 1920, and the witnesses are Eva Gubbins, housekeeper, and John Briggs, gardener.

“I hope, dear Lord Peter, that this information will be enough for your purpose. I had hoped that even after Miss Booth had enclosed the Will in a covering envelope I might be able to take it out and peruse it at leisure, but unfortunately she sealed it for greater security with Mrs. Wrayburn’s private seal, which I had not sufficient dexterity to remove and replace, though I understand it is possible to do so with a hot knife.

“You will understand that I cannot leave Windle just yet – it would look so odd to do so immediately after this occurrence. Besides, I am hoping, in a further series of ‘sittings,’ to warn Miss Booth against Mrs. Craig and her ‘control’ Fedora, as I am quite sure that this person is quite as great a charlatan as I AM!!! – and without my altruistic motives!! So you will not be surprised if I am away from Town for, say, another week! I am a little worried about the extra expense of this, but if you do not think it justified for the sake of safety, let me know – and I will alter my arrangements accordingly.

“Wishing you all success, dear Lord Peter,

Most sincerely yours,

“Katharine A. Climpson.

“P.S. I managed to do the ‘job’ very nearly within the stipulated week, you see. I am so sorry it was not quite finished yesterday, but I was so terrified of spoiling the whole thing by rushing it!!

“Bunter,” said Lord Peter, looking up from this letter, “I knew there was something fishy about that will.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“There is something about wills which brings out the worst side of human nature. People who under ordinary circumstances are perfectly upright and amiable, go as curly as corkscrews and foam at the mouth, whenever they hear the words ‘I devise and bequeath.’ That reminds me, a spot of champagne in a silver tankard is no bad thing to celebrate on. Get up a bottle of the Pommery and tell Chief-Inspector Parker I should be glad of a word with him. And bring me those notes of Mr. Arbuthnot’s. And oh, Bunter!”

“My lord?”

“Get Mr. Crofts on the ’phone and give him my compliments, and say I have found the criminal and the motive and hope presently to produce proof of the way the crime was done, if he will see that the case is put off for a week or so.”

“Very good, my lord.”

“All the same, Bunter, I really don’t know how it was done.”

“That will undoubtedly suggest itself before long, my lord.”

“Oh, yes,” said Wimsey, airily. “Of course. Of course. I’m not worrying about a trifle like that.”

“T’ch!t’ch!” said Mr. Pond, clicking his tongue against his denture.

Miss Murchison looked up from her typewriter.

“Is anything the matter, Mr. Pond?”

“No, nothing,” said the head-clerk, testily. “A foolish letter from a foolish member of your sex, Miss Murchison.”

“That’s nothing new.”

Mr. Pond frowned, conceiving the tone of his subordinate’s voice to be impertinent. He picked up the letter and its enclosure and took them into the inner office.

Miss Murchison nipped swiftly across to his desk and glanced at the registered envelope which lay upon it, open. The post-mark was ‘Windle.’

“That’s luck,” said Miss Murchison, to herself. “Mr. Pond is a better witness than I should be. I’m glad he opened it.”

She regained her place. In a few minutes Mr. Pond emerged, smiling slightly.

Five minutes later, Miss Murchison, who had been frowning over her shorthand note-book, rose up and came over to him.

“Can you read short-hand, Mr. Pond?”

“No,” said the head-clerk. “In my day it was not considered necessary.”

“I can’t make out this outline,” said Miss Murchison. “It looks like ‘give consent to,’ but it may be only ‘give consideration to’ – there’s a difference, isn’t there?”

“There certainly is,” said Mr. Pond, drily.

“P’raps I’d better not risk it,” said Miss Murchison. “It’s got to go off this morning. I’d better ask him.”

Mr. Pond snorted – not for the first time – over the carelessness of the female typist.

Miss Murchison walked briskly across the room and opened the inner door without knocking – an informality which left Mr. Pond groaning again.

Mr. Urquhart was standing up with his back to the door, doing something or other at the mantelpiece. He turned round sharply, with an exclamation of annoyance.

“I have told you before, Miss Murchison, that I like you to knock before entering.”

“I am very sorry; I forgot.”

“Don’t let it happen again. What is it?”

He did not return to his desk, but stood leaning against the mantelshelf. His sleek head, outlined against the drab-painted panelling, was a little thrown back, as though – Miss Murchison thought – he were protecting or defying somebody.

“I could not quite make out my shorthand note of your letter to Tewke & Peabody,” said Miss Murchison, “and I thought it better to come and ask you.”

“I wish,” said Mr. Urquhart, fixing a stern eye upon her, “that you would take your notes clearly at the time. If I am going too fast for you, you should tell me so. It would save trouble in the end – wouldn’t it?”

Miss Murchison was reminded of a little set of rules which Lord Peter Wimsey – half in jest and half in earnest – had once prepared for the guidance of “The Cattery.” Of Rule Seven, in particular, which ran: “Always distrust the man who looks you straight in the eyes. He wants to prevent you from seeing something. Look for it.”

She shifted her eyes under her employer’s gaze.

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Urquhart. I won’t let it occur again,” she muttered. There was a curious dark line at the edge of the panelling just behind the solicitor’s head, as though the panel did not quite fit its frame. She had never noticed it before.

“Well, now, what is the trouble?”

Miss Murchison asked her question, got her answer and retired. As she went, she cast a glance over the desk. The will was not there.

She went back and finished her letters. When she took them in to be signed, she seized the opportunity to look at the panelling again. There was no dark line to be seen.

Miss Murchison left the office promptly at half-past four. She had a feeling that it would be unwise to linger about the premises. She walked briskly away through Hand Court, turned to the right along Holborn, dived to the right again through Featherstone Buildings, made a detour through Red Lion Street and debouched into Red Lion Square. Within five minutes she was at her old walk round the square, and up Princeton Street. Presently, from a safe distance, she saw Mr. Pond come out, thin, stiff and stooping, and walk down Bedford Row towards Chancery Lane Station. Before very long, Mr. Urquhart followed. He stood a moment on the threshold, glancing to left and right, then came straight across the street towards her. For a moment she thought he had seen her, and she dived hurriedly behind a van that was standing at the kerb. Under its shelter she withdrew to the corner of the street, where there is a butcher’s shop, and scanned a windowful of New Zealand lamb and chilled beer. Mr. Urquhart came nearer. His steps grew louder – then paused. Miss Murchison glued her eyes on a round of meat marked 4½ lb. 3s. 4d. A voice said: “Good evening, Miss Murchison. Choosing your supper chop? ”

“Oh! Good evening, Mr. Urquhart. Yes – I was just wishing that Providence had seen fit to provide more joints suitable for single people.”

“Yes – one gets tired of beef and mutton.”

“And pork is apt to be indigestible.”

“Just so. Well, you should cease to be single, Miss Murchison.”