The Wychford Poisoning Case Read online

  Roger laughed also.

  They proceeded to business. Roger knew exactly what he wanted, for he had gone into the matter with some care during his journey up to town; he wanted a car which would do sixty miles an hour on the flat, at least thirty miles to the gallon, not be more than twelve horse-power because of the tax, must be a four-seater and fitted with a saloon body, must be able to take all but the very worst hills on top because Mr Sheringham disliked changing his gears, must have all the latest gadgets, accessories and improvements, and must not cost a penny more than two hundred and fifty, or, at the very most, three hundred pounds. Roger told Mr Allen what he wanted. Mr Allen groaned patiently as if he were not altogether unused to this sort of thing, and endeavoured to instil a little hard reason into Roger’s requirements.

  They went on talking

  Half-past six came and went. Seven o’clock. Still they talked.

  At ten minutes past seven Roger jumped to his feet. ‘Look here, this is abominable!’ he said. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’ve talked myself quite hoarse. Come out and have a drink.’

  Mr Allen had no objection at all. They went. Allen tried to draw Roger into a cosy little public-house almost opposite, but Roger, alleging that there was a particularly favourite one of his own only a few streets away, refused to be drawn. He had no wish to share Allen among half-a-dozen of the latter’s own cronies; he wanted him to himself. In the end Roger found a quiet little place in a quiet little street over a quarter of a mile away, and hailed it readily as their goal. They passed into a comfortable and deserted private bar. Roger ordered whisky.

  Three minutes later Allen ordered more whisky. Not to be outdone, three more minutes later Roger ordered again. Allen did not want to be outdone either; also he hoped to sell Roger a car. Time, and whisky, passed.

  At last Roger, who had managed without being seen to empty most of his share of the libations into the coal-scuttle, judged that the hour was ripe. ‘By the way, Allen’ he said very airily. ‘I’ve been reading about a namesake of yours lately. That Wychford Poisoning Case, you know. Not a relation by any chance, is he?’

  Allen turned a slightly dull eye upon him. ‘Relashion? No. Why?’

  ‘Oh, I was only wondering. I know several people in Wychford myself. There’s a Dr Purefoy there, and a Mrs Saunderson. She’s mixed up in the case too, I see.’

  ‘You know Mrs Saundersh—Mrs Shaunderson?’

  ‘Oh, yes; quite well. She’s rather a friend of mine. That’s why I was wondering whether you happened to be any relation of that poor chap Allen who seems to have got into such a hole over it.’

  Allen contemplated him gloomily. ‘You’re a good f’la, Sheringham,’ he said with considerable emotion. ‘A dam’ good f’la. I’m not going to deshieve you. Not going to deshieve a dam’ good f’la like old Sheringham. No!—Besides,’ he added earnestly if a trifle vaguely, ‘a rolling stone gathers no moss, does it? Gathers no moss, a blessed rolling stone doesn’t, does it?’

  Roger hastened to clear the rolling stone of any such imputation. ‘Certainly not!’ he agreed with emphasis. ‘Most decidedly not.’

  ‘Thash right,’ Allen nodded wisely. ‘Gathers no moss, a rolling stone. I’m a rolling stone, old f’la!—but I’ve gathered a lot of moss!’ he added with some surprise. ‘A hell of a lot of moss!’

  Roger endeavoured to lead the conversation back into its former channel. ‘There must be exceptions to every rule,’ he said gravely. ‘But what is it you don’t want to deceive me about?’

  Allen laid a hand on the other’s shoulder and looked down upon him with an expression of intense seriousness. He was a good three inches taller than Roger, and his hand was a heavy one, having most of Mr Allen’s weight behind it, but Roger stood his ground; his face reflected the earnest gravity of his burden’s.

  ‘No, I’m not going to deshieve you,’ enunciated Allen a trifle thickly. ‘You’re a dam’ good f’la, Sheringham, and I’m not going to deshieve you. I’m the f’la!’

  ‘You’re the Allen of the Wychford Case?’ exclaimed Roger with excellent surprise. ‘You don’t say so!’

  ‘I do!’ returned Mr Allen sadly. ‘And why? Because I’m not going to deshieve a good f’la like you, Sheringham. Thash—that’s why. Yes, damn it, I’m the f’la!’

  Roger dexterously shifted the weight from his shoulder on to its own feet and steered it to a chair in the corner of the little room. He drew another chair close up beside it.

  ‘So you’re the Allen of the Wychford Case! Well, well.’ Roger paused to determine his line of attack. ‘Do you know, I met Mrs Bentley once, I believe, at Mrs Saunderson’s,’ he went on with bland untruth, ‘and I should never have considered her capable of a thing like that. Never! And I flatter myself that I’m a pretty good judge of character too.’

  ‘Nor should I, old man,’ returned Allen dolefully. ‘’Pon my word, I never would. It beats me altogether—absolutely whacks me! Can’t make head or tail of it.’

  ‘I thought her a particularly nice woman,’ Roger prompted.

  ‘So she is. Topping little woman! Wouldn’t hurt a fly, you’d say. I’d never have believed it of her. Can’t understand it.’

  ‘Ah, well, it’s extraordinary what a woman will do for love, isn’t it?’

  ‘But she didn’t love me! Thash the whole point. She didn’t love me any more than I loved her. Knew that all the time. Both of us knew it.’

  Roger’s eyes gleamed. ‘She didn’t love you? But that’s supposed to be her motive for the whole thing.’

  ‘I know it is! Too dam’ silly for words. I’ve told the police time and time again, but they won’t take any notice. Told the reporters too, but they won’t print it. Supposed to be a great passion, y’see, or some nonsense like that; creem pashonelle, or whatever they call it. Dam’ fools, the whole lot of ’em. I told her solicitor, but even he didn’t seem to believe it! He’s a dam’ fool too. Everybody’s a dam’ fool!’ added Mr Allen with fine impartiality.

  ‘But this is extraordinarily interesting. It throws a different light on the whole affair. You say neither of you loved each other? You didn’t love her either, then?’

  ‘Course I didn’t,’ said Mr Allen with simple dignity. ‘I love my wife. F’la must love his wife, mustn’t he? Monkeys about a bit, p’raps; but only loves his wife really.’

  ‘It doesn’t always hold good,’ said Roger mildly.

  ‘Well, it does with me. Don’t know why I’m telling you all this, but you’re a good f’la, Sheringham. You’re different somehow from the other f’las. Can’t talk to them about it. Fact is, I want to talk to somebody. Worried to death about the whole thing. Jacky must’ve been mad, y’see. Assolutely mad! Been wondering what I ought to do about it. My fault in a way, y’see. Look here, Sheringham, you know about these things; think it’d be any good me going to the police and telling ’em I did it, eh? Been wondering. Must get Jacky out of it if I can, y’see.’

  Roger glanced at his companion with sympathetic interest. This coarse, rather vulgar man, slightly drunk and superficially most unattractive, was offering, unheroically and in cold blood, to perform the greatest sacrifice that any man can for a fellow-creature. Roger came to a sudden decision.

  ‘Look here, Allen,’ he said, ‘I’m going to tell you something. It’s my belief that Mrs Bentley is innocent, and I’m trying to prove it. I’m going to get you something to sober you up a bit, and then I’m going to ask you a devil of a lot of questions. If you want to help Mrs Bentley, you’ll answer them.’

  Allen was not so drunk that he could not comprehend this surprising statement. ‘Innocent?’ he repeated without hope. ‘Wish to hell I could think so. Still, I’ll answer anything you like. Yes, I am a bit near the edge. Spot of Worcester sauce’s what I want. Don’t you bother. I know. Order it myself.’

  He heaved himself up and rapped on the counter. An intimate conversation with the stout lady on the other side of it ensued.

  ‘Now then, let’
s go somewhere and have a bit of dinner,’ Roger suggested, when the pick-me-up had been duly mixed and swallowed. ‘Some quiet place, where we can talk.’

  ‘I know one,’ Allen agreed, walking just a trifle unsteadily to the door. ‘Other side of Orange Street. Have lunch there sometimes. It’ll be pretty empty at this time. Come ’long. Walk’ll do me good.’

  He lumbered out into the street, and Roger followed. As they walked along Allen’s speech became gradually less thick, his gait more assured. By the time they had reached their destination and seated themselves in a big, almost empty room at the back of the decidedly superior hostelry into which they had turned, he was a comparatively sober man.

  ‘Now then,’ Roger began, when they had given their order, ‘I’ve got a confession to make to you. I don’t want to buy a car in the least. I came up to town to see you today and I deliberately took you out and tried to put you a little bit over the edge in pursuance of these inquiries I’m making into Mrs Bentley’s case. I’m acting entirely on my own, I haven’t the faintest shadow of authority from anybody at all, and I’m doing it entirely for my own personal satisfaction and interest; but, right from the beginning, I had an idea that Mrs Bentley might be innocent and, as I said, I’m trying to prove it. I can’t tell you what I’ve been doing or what I’ve found out, but I will tell you this—I’m more certain than ever that I’m on the right tack!’

  ‘You really think so?’ Allen asked eagerly. ‘Good God, I only hope you’re right, Sheringham. I’d give anything to see Jacky out of this rotten business, she’s such a dam’ good little sort. Go ahead and ask me anything you like; I’ll only be too glad to tell you.’

  ‘I warn you, some of my questions will be extraordinarily intimate and unpleasant for you to answer to a complete stranger!’

  ‘What’s the matter? You go ahead. I know I can trust you. I’m a bit of a character-judge too (have to be in business, y’know), but your reputation’s good enough for me in any case. I know you wouldn’t be the sort of chap to fake up a cock-and-bull story. Well, what do you want to know?’

  ‘This, first of all,’ Roger said deliberately. ‘Why, if you love your wife, did you embark on that affair with Mrs Bentley?’

  Allen reddened slightly. ‘Oh, well, you know how it is. I liked the kid, and I was sorry for her; she had a rotten time of it with that little worm, always interfering with her and ordering her about and yapping about his infernal imaginary illnesses. It was a bit of a lark, taking her out, both of us having to keep it so dark and all that; sort of exciting. We got on well together too. She was my sort—jolly and full of fun and that sort of thing. The rest just sort of followed naturally. You know how it is with a chap.’

  Roger nodded. ‘She was your sort?’ he asked significantly.

  Allen caught his meaning. ‘You haven’t met my wife, have you?’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  Allen’s flush deepened a little. ‘Well, you can see she’s a cut above me, to put it bluntly. And she’s different from me too. She’s the only one I’ve ever been really fond of, but—well, I know it sounds a bit rotten, but one does want a rest from dignity and that sort of thing occasionally. She’s a real good sort, and I can tell you, Sheringham, I’m most damnably sorry about it all now for her sake nearly as much as anybody else’s (she took it like a real sport)—but she is a bit of an ice-box, Edith is. Not the jolly kind, like me or Jacky.’

  Roger smiled faintly. ‘Jolly’ was just about the last word in the whole dictionary that one could apply to the superb Mrs Allen.

  ‘Yes, I understand. To put it crudely, when one’s had nothing but grouse for a year or two, a little homely mutton becomes rather a relief.’

  ‘By Jove, yes; you’ve hit it exactly. It’s pretty rotten, I suppose, but it’s the way we’re made. Can’t sort of help feeling like that, can one?’

  The arrival of their steaks interrupted the conversation for a few minutes. When the waiter had gone, Roger took up the thread again.

  ‘Now, how do you know for certain that Mrs Bentley wasn’t in love with you, Allen?’ he asked. ‘Sorry to press you over this, but it’s a very important point.’

  ‘Oh, well—I’ve knocked about pretty well ever since I was a youngster. It’s easy enough to tell whether a girl’s really got it badly, isn’t it? When you know each other pretty well, I mean.’

  ‘You don’t think that she might just have been pretending when she realised that you weren’t in love with her, to save her pride?’

  ‘Oh, Lord, no. Sure she wasn’t.’

  ‘Then why did she behave as she did? That may not always mean a frightful lot to a man, but it usually does to a woman; and in respectable society love is generally the only excuse for it.’

  ‘She was French, y’see,’ Allen said vaguely.

  ‘You mean that the French can’t be expected to have a moral sense?’ Roger smiled. ‘Don’t you believe it. That’s just as much a silly popular fiction as that they live on snails and boiled frogs.’

  ‘Oh, I know all about the French. I was with a motor firm in Rouen for a couple of years before the war. That was another reason for her taking to me, by the way, me being able to talk her language; that and me being so different from John. No, that isn’t what I mean a bit. It’s difficult to explain exactly, but you might put it like this. It isn’t as if the French haven’t got any moral sense. I know that; but that they don’t take that sort of thing so seriously as we do here. Look at their comic papers; it’s the only sort of joke they’ve got. Well, Jacky was a passionate kid, y’see, and she wasn’t any too fond of her husband by that time; and I suppose she was grateful to me for taking her about, and—well, anyhow, it didn’t go against the grain, so to speak, and it certainly didn’t mean as much to her as it would to—well, say Edith. That’s the only way I can explain it. And of course you’ve got to remember that she wouldn’t feel she owed John anything.’

  ‘Oh? Why not?’

  ‘Don’t you know about him? Oh, well, John was a pretty poor sort of little specimen, but he wasn’t a puritan by any means as far as the girls were concerned. Anything but!’

  ‘You mean, he’d given his wife cause for divorce?’

  ‘Well, it sounds politer to put it that way.’

  ‘Why hadn’t she divorced him, then?’

  ‘She was a Catholic. She didn’t believe in divorce.’

  ‘Oh!’ Roger helped himself to more fried potatoes with a distinctly thoughtful air.

  For some minutes they ate in silence.

  It was not until their plates had been cleared away and two large helpings of apple-pie and cream had been set before them that Roger continued his examination.

  ‘I think there’s only one more thing I want to ask you about,’ he said. ‘You remember that on the Monday before he died you spent the evening with Bentley in his bedroom. Can you remember whether there was a small packet wrapped in white paper on the table by his bed then, or not?’

  Allen looked up quickly. ‘The packet with all that arsenic in? No, I’m sure it wasn’t. There was nothing there but a book and a vase of flowers. I’m positive about that.’

  ‘You are? Thanks. Oh, and was there a glass of lemonade on the chest-of-drawers, did you notice?’

  ‘I can’t remember. Couldn’t say, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You don’t remember noticing any lemonade in the room at all? A jug, perhaps, or anything like that?’

  Allen shook his head. ‘No, I couldn’t possibly say, one way or the other. But, Sheringham, look here: I wish you’d give me some idea of why you think Jacky mightn’t have done it after all, can you?’

  Roger went on to mention some of the points which he had put before Alec in their very first discussion by the little trout-stream.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  MR SHERINGHAM LECTURES ON ADULTERY

  ROGER returned to Wychford by the last train. It was a slow train, and it stopped at every single station on the way down, but Roger did not notice the time
drag. He entered a brown study the moment the porter closed the carriage-door on him at Charing Cross, and he did not emerge from it ’til somebody came and turned him out on Wychford platform—fortunately the train’s ultimate destination; otherwise Roger might have woke up an hour or two later to find himself at Dover or similarly unhandy spot.

  As on the previous night it was past one o’clock when he got back, and once more Alec was waiting up for him. But this time he was not alone; Sheila had already crept downstairs to share his vigil, clad as before in her black and silver kimono, though not now in those other garments which had prompted Roger’s derision.

  ‘Hallo, Roger!’ she greeted him cheerfully. ‘No, you needn’t look at me like that. I’m a perfect lady and I’ve got a nightie on, so you can’t be sarcastic this time.’

  ‘The way this young person continues to throw her more intimate garments in our faces strikes me as nothing less than indecent,’ observed Roger sadly to the young person’s cousin. ‘No, don’t bother about mixing me a drink tonight, thanks, Alec; I’ve seen about as much whisky this evening as I want to look at for quite a long time.’ He dropped into a vacant chair and regarded his colleagues benignly.

  ‘He’s got news!’ Sheila cried. ‘I know he has!’

  ‘Have you, Roger?’ Alec demanded.

  ‘Children, I have,’ Roger beamed. ‘Your noble-minded superintendent, oozing devotion to duty at every pore, has walked off with the coconut once more. The man Allen is struck off the list of suspects. I have spoken.’

  ‘I told you so!’ Sheila crowed, wriggling in her chair with excitement. ‘I told you so at tea, didn’t I?’

  ‘You did, my dear. You shall have a portion of the coconut. The milk. Milk’s very good for infants, they tell me.’

  ‘Shut up, Sheila. Go on, Roger. Why have you struck Allen off? I thought you were suspecting him rather strongly. Have you been with him all this time?’