Strong Poison (8 page)

“Yes. You’ve come a mucker over this, old man, you really have.”

“Well, I don’t know. It looked pretty straightforward to us.”

“Charles, acushla, distrust the straightforward case, the man who looks you straight in the eyes, and the tip straight from the horse’s mouth. Only the most guileful deceiver can afford to be so aggressively straight. Even the path of the light is curved – or so they tell us. For God’s sake, old man, do what you can to put the thing right before next assizes. If you don’t, I’ll never forgive you. Damn it, you don’t want to hang the wrong person, do you? – especially a woman and all that.”

“Have a fag,” said Parker. “You’re looking quite wild about the eyes. What have you been doing with yourself? I’m sorry if we’ve got the wrong pig by the ear, but it’s the defence’s business to point out where we’re wrong, and I can’t say they put up a very convincing show.”

“No, confound them. Biggy did his best, but that fool and beast Crofts gave him no materials at all. Blast his ugly eyes! I know the brute thinks she did it. I hope he will fry in hell and be served up with cayenne pepper on a red hot dish!”

“What eloquence!” said Parker, unimpressed. “Anybody would think you’d gone goopy over the girl.”

“That’s a damned friendly way to talk,” said Wimsey, bitterly. “When you went off the deep end about my sister, I may have been unsympathetic – I daresay I was – but I swear I didn’t dance on your tenderest feelings and call your manly devotion ‘going goopy over a girl.’ I don’t know where you pick up such expressions, as the clergyman’s wife said to the parrot. ‘Goopy,’ indeed! I never heard anything so vulgar!”

“Good lord,” exclaimed Parker, “you don’t seriously say -”

“Oh, no!” retorted Wimsey, bitterly. “I’m not expected to be serious. A buffoon, that’s what I am. I now know exactly what Jack Point feels like. I used to think the ‘Yeomen’ sentimental tosh, but it is all too true. Would you like to see me dance in motley?”

“I’m sorry,” said Parker, taking his cue rather from the tone than the words. “If it’s like that, I’m damned sorry, old man. But what can I do?”

“Now you’re talking. Look here – the most likely thing is that this unsavoury blighter Boyes committed suicide. The unspeakable defence haven’t been able to trace any arsenic to his possession – but then they probably couldn’t trace a herd of black cattle over a snow-bound field in broad noonday with a microscope. I want your people to take it up.”

“Boyes – query arsenic,” said Parker, making a note on a pad. “Anything else?”

“Yes. Find out if Boyes visited any pub in the neighbourhood of Doughty Street between, say, 9.50 and 10.10 on the night of June 20th – if he met anybody, and what he took to drink.”

“It shall be done. Boyes – query pub.” Parker made another note. “Yes?”

“Thirdly, if any bottle or paper that might have contained arsenic was picked up in that district.”

“Oh, indeed? And would you like me to trace the ’bus ticket dropped by Mrs. Brown outside Selfridge’s in the last Christmas rush? No use making it too easy.”

“A bottle is more likely than a paper,” went on Wimsey, ignoring him, “because I think the arsenic must have been taken in liquid form to work so quickly.”

Parker made no further protest, but noted down “Boyes – Doughty Street – query bottle,” and paused expectantly.

“Yes?”

“That’s all for the moment. By the way, I should try the garden in Mecklenburgh Square. A thing might lie quite a long time under those bushes.”

“Very well. I’ll do my best. And if you find out anything which really proves that we’ve been on the wrong tack, you’ll let us know, won’t you? We don’t want to make large and ignominious public mistakes.”

“Well – I’ve just earnestly promised the defence that I’ll do no such thing. But if I spot the criminal, I’ll let you arrest him.”

“Thanks for small mercies. Well, good luck! Funny for you and me to be on opposite sides, isn’t it?”

“Very,” said Wimsey. “I’m sorry about it, but it’s your own fault.”

“You shouldn’t have been out of England. By the way -”

“Yes?”

“You realise that probably all our young friend did during those missing ten minutes was to stand about in Theobalds Road or somewhere, looking for a stray taxi.”

“Oh, shut up!” said Wimsey, crossly, and went out.

The next day dawned bright and fair, and Wimsey felt a certain exhilaration as he purred down to Tweedling Parva. “Mrs. Merdle” the car, so called because, like that celebrated lady, she was averse to “row,” was sparking merrily on all twelve cylinders, and there was a touch of frost in the air. These things conduce to high spirits.

Wimsey reached his destination about 10 o’clock, and was directed to the vicarage, one of those large, rambling and unnecessary structures which swallow the incumbent’s income during his life and land his survivors with a heavy bill for dilapidations as soon as he is dead.

The Rev. Arthur Boyes was at home, and would be happy to see Lord Peter Wimsey.

The clergyman was a tall, faded man, with lines of worry deeply engraved upon his face, and mild blue eyes a little bewildered by the disappointing difficulty of things in general. His black coat was old, and hung in depressed folds from his stooping, narrow shoulders. He gave Wimsey a thin hand and begged him to be seated.

Lord Peter found it a little difficult to explain his errand. His name evidently aroused no associations in the mind of this gentle and unworldly parson. He decided not to mention his hobby of criminal investigation, but to represent himself, with equal truth, as a friend of the prisoner’s. That might be painful, but it would be at least intelligible. Accordingly, he began, with some hesitation:

“I’m fearfully sorry to trouble you, especially as it’s all so very distressin’ and that, but it’s about the death of your son, and the trial and so on. Please don’t think I’m wanting to make an interfering nuisance of myself, but I’m deeply interested – personally interested. You see, I know Miss Vane – I – in fact I like her very much, don’t you know, and I can’t help thinking there’s a mistake somewhere and – and I should like to get it put right if possible.”

“Oh – oh, yes!” said Mr. Boyes. He carefully polished a pair of pince-nez and balanced them on his nose, where they sat crookedly. He peered at Wimsey and seemed not to dislike what he saw, for he went on:

“Poor misguided girl! I assure you, I have no vindictive feelings – that is to say, nobody would be more happy than myself to know that she was innocent of this dreadful thing. Indeed, Lord Peter, even if she were guilty, it would give me great pain to see her suffer the penalty. Whatever we do we cannot bring back the dead to life, and one would infinitely prefer to leave all vengeance in the hand of Him to whom it belongs. Certainly, nothing could be more terrible than to take the life of an innocent person. It would haunt me to the end of my days if I thought there were the least likelihood of it. And I confess that, when I saw Miss Vane in court, I had grievous doubts whether the police had done rightly accusing her.”

“Thank you,” said Wimsey, “it is very kind of you to say that. It makes the job much easier. Excuse me, you say, ‘when you saw her in court.’ You hadn’t met her previously?”

“No. I knew, of course, that my unhappy son had formed an illicit connection with a young woman, but – I could not bring myself to see her – and indeed, I believe that she, with very proper feeling, refused to allow Philip to bring her linto contact with any of his relations. Lord Peter, you are a younger man than I am, you belong to my son’s generation, and you will perhaps understand that – though he was not bad, not depraved, I will never think that – yet somehow there was not that full confidence between us which there should be between father and son. No doubt I was much to blame. If only his mother had lived -”

“My dear sir,” mumbled Wimsey, “I perfectly understand. It often happens. In fact, it’s continually happening. The post-war generation and so on. Lots of people go off the rails a bit – no real harm in ’em at all. Just can’t see eye to eye with the older people. It generally wears off in time. Nobody really to blame. Wild oats and, er, all that sort of thing.”

“I could not approve,” said Mr. Boyes, sadly, “ of ideas so opposed to religion and morality – perhaps I spoke my mind too openly. If I had sympathised more -”

“It can’t be done,” said Wimsey. “People have to work it out for themselves. And, when they write books and so on, and get into that set of people, they tend to express themselves rather noisily, if you see what I mean.”

“Maybe, maybe. But I reproach myself. Still, this does not help you at all. Forgive me. If there is any mistake and the jury were evidently not satisfied, we must use all our endeavours to put it right. How can I assist?”

“Well, first of all,” said Wimsey, “and I’m afraid this is rather a hateful question, did your son ever say anything, or write anything to you which might lead you to think that he – was tired of his life or anything of that kind? I’m sorry.”

“No, no – not at all. I was, of course, asked the same question by the police and by the counsel for the defence. I can truly say that such an idea never occurred to me. There was nothing at all to suggest it.”

“Not even when he parted company with Miss Vane?”

“Not even then. In fact, I gathered that he was rather more angry than despondent. I must say that it was a surprise to me to hear that, after all that had passed between them, she was unwilling to marry him. I still fail to comprehend it. Her refusal must have come as a great shock to him. He wrote so cheerfully to me about it beforehand. Perhaps you remember the letter?” He fumbled in an untidy drawer. “I have it here, if you would like to look at it.”

“If you would just read the passage, sir,” suggested Wimsey.

“Yes, oh, certainly. Let me see. Yes. ‘Your morality will be pleased to hear, Dad, that I have determined to regularise the situation, as the good people say.”

He had a careless way of speaking and writing sometimes, poor boy, which doesn’t do justice to his good heart. Dear me. Yes. ‘My young woman is a good little soul, and I have made up my mind to do the thing properly. She really deserves it, and I hope that when everything is made respectable, you will extend your paternal recognition to her. I won’t ask you to officiate – as you know, the registrar’s office is more in my line, and though she was brought up in the odour of sanctity, like myself, I don’t think she will insist on the Voice that Breathed o’er Eden. I will let you know when it’s to be, so that you can come and give us your blessing (qua father if not qua parson) if you should feel so disposed.’ You see, Lord Peter, he quite meant to do the right thing, and I was touched that he should wish for my presence.”

“Quite so,” said Lord Peter; and thought, “If only that young man were alive, how dearly I should love to kick his bottom for him.”

“Well, then there is another letter, saying that the marriage had fallen through. Here it is. ‘Dear Dad – sorry, but I’m afraid your congratulations must be returned with thanks. The wedding is off, and the bride has run away. There’s no need to go into the story. Harriet has succeeded in making a fool of herself and me, so there’s no more to be said.’ Then later I heard that he had not been feeling well – but all that you know already.”

“Did he suggest any reason for these illnesses of his?”

“Oh, no – we took it for granted that it was a recurrence of the old gastric trouble. He was never a very robust lad. He wrote in very hopeful mood from Harlech, saying that he was much better, and mentioning his plan of a voyage to Barbados.”

“He did?”

“Yes. I thought it would do him a great deal of good, and take his mind off other things. He spoke of it only as a vague project, not as though anything were settled.”

“Did he say anything more about Miss Vane?”

“He never mentioned her name to me again until he lay dying.”

“Yes – and what did you think of what he said then?”

“I didn’t know what to think. We had no idea of any poisoning then, naturally, and I fancied it must refer to the quarrel between them that had caused the separation.”

“I see. Well now, Mr. Boyes. Supposing it was not self-destruction -”

“I really do not think it could have been.”

“Now is there anybody else at all who could have an interest in his death?”

“Who could there be?”

“No – no other woman, for instance?”

“I never heard of any. And I think I should have done. He was not secretive about these things, Lord Peter. He was remarkably open and straightforward.”

“Yes,” commented Wimsey internally, “liked to swagger about it, I suppose. Anything to give pain. Damn the fellow.” Aloud he merely said: “There are other possibilities. Did he, for instance, make a will?”

“He did. Not that he had much to leave, poor boy. His books were very cleverly written – he had a fine intellect, Lord Peter – but they did not bring him in any great sums of money. I helped him with a little allowance, and he managed on that and on what he made from his articles in the periodicals.”

“He left his copyrights to somebody, though, I take it?”

“Yes. He wished to leave them to me, but I was obliged to tell him that I could not accept the bequest. You see, I did not approve of his opinions, and I should not have thought it right to profit by them. No; he left them to his friend Mr. Vaughan.”

“Oh! – may I ask when this will was made?”

“It is dated at the period of his visit to Wales. I believe that before that he had made one leaving everything to Miss Vane.”

“Indeed!” said Wimsey. “I suppose she knew about it.” His mind reviewed a number of contradictory possibilities, and he added: “But it would not amount to an important sum, in any case?”

“Oh, no. If my son made 50 pounds a year by his books, that was the utmost. Though they tell me,” added the old gentleman, with a sad smile, “that, after this, his new book will do better.”