‘Both very useful accomplishments,’ George pointed out.
‘Yes, but one wants to feel a man is a man.’
‘The great wide-open spaces where men are men.’ George quoted absently.
‘Exactly. But we have no wide-open spaces in England. So one has to create a situation artificially. That’s what I did.’
‘Do you mean –?’
‘I do mean. That house, as it happens, actually is my house. We came to it by design – not by chance. And the man – that man that you nearly killed –’
‘Yes?’
‘He’s Rube Wallace – the film actor. He does prize-fighters, you know. The dearest and gentlest of men. I engaged him. Bella’s his wife. That’s why I was so terrified that you’d killed him. Of course the revolver wasn’t loaded. It’s a stage property. Oh, George, are you very angry?’
‘Am I the first person you have – er – tried this test on?’
‘Oh, no. There have been – let me see – nine and a half!’
‘Who was the half?’ inquired George with curiosity.
‘Bingo,’ replied Mary coldly.
‘Did any of them think of kicking like a mule?’
‘No – they didn’t. Some tried to bluster and some gave in at once, but they all allowed themselves to be marched upstairs and tied up, and gagged. Then, of course, I managed to work myself loose from my bonds – like in books – and I freed them and we got away – finding the house empty.’
‘And nobody thought of the mule trick or anything like it?’
‘No.’
‘In that case,’ said George graciously, ‘I forgive you.’
‘Thank you, George,’ said Mary meekly.
‘In fact,’ said George, ‘the only question that arises is: where do we go now? I’m not sure if it’s Lambeth Palace or Doctor’s Commons, wherever that is.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The licence. A special licence, I think, is indicated. You’re too fond of getting engaged to one man and then immediately asking another one to marry you.’
‘I didn’t ask you to marry me!’
‘You did. At Hyde Park Corner. Not a place I should choose for a proposal myself, but everyone has their idiosyncrasies in these matters.’
‘I did nothing of the kind. I just asked, as a joke, whether you would care to marry me? It wasn’t intended seriously.’
‘If I were to take counsel’s opinion, I am sure that he would say it constituted a genuine proposal. Besides, you know you want to marry me.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Not after nine and a half failures? Fancy what a feeling of security it will give you to go through life with a man who can extricate you from any dangerous situation.’
Mary appeared to weaken slightly at this telling argument. But she said firmly: ‘I wouldn’t marry any man unless he went on his knees to me.’
George looked at her. She was adorable. But George had other characteristics of the mule beside its kick. He said with equal firmness:
‘To go on one’s knees to any woman is degrading. I will not do it.’
Mary said with enchanting wistfulness: ‘What a pity.’
They drove back to London. George was stern and silent. Mary’s face was hidden by the brim of her hat. As they passed Hyde Park Corner, she murmured softly:
‘Couldn’t you go on your knees to me?’
George said firmly: ‘No.’
He felt he was being a superman. She admired him for his attitude. But unluckily he suspected her of mulish tendencies herself. He drew up suddenly.
‘Excuse me,’ he said.
He jumped out of the car, retraced his steps to a fruit barrow they had just passed and returned so quickly that the policeman who was bearing down upon them to ask what they meant by it, had not had time to arrive.
George drove on, lightly tossing an apple into Mary’s lap. ‘Eat more fruit,’ he said. ‘Also symbolical.’
‘Symbolical?’
‘Yes. Originally Eve gave Adam an apple. Nowadays Adam gives Eve one. See?’
‘Yes,’ said Mary rather doubtfully.
‘Where shall I drive you?’ inquired George formally. ‘Home, please.’
He drove to Grosvenor Square. His face was absolutely impassive. He jumped out and came round to help her out. She made a last appeal.
‘Darling George – couldn’t you? Just to please me?’
‘Never,’ said George.
And at that moment it happened. He slipped, tried to recover his balance and failed. He was kneeling in the mud before her. Mary gave a squeal of joy and clapped her hands.
‘Darling George! Now I will marry you. You can go straight to Lambeth Palace and fix up with the Archbishop of Canterbury about it.’
‘I didn’t mean to,’ said George hotly. ‘It was a bl – er – a banana skin.’ He held the offender up reproachfully.
‘Never mind,’ said Mary. ‘It happened. When we quarrel and you throw it in my teeth that I proposed to you, I can retort that you had to go on your knees to me before I would marry you. And all because of that blessed banana skin! It was a blessed banana skin you were going to say?’
‘Something of the sort,’ said George.
At five-thirty that afternoon, Mr Leadbetter was informed that his nephew had called and would like to see him.
‘Called to eat humble pie,’ said Mr Leadbetter to himself. ‘I dare say I was rather hard on the lad, but it was for his own good.’
And he gave orders that George should be admitted.
George came in airily.
‘I want a few words with you, uncle,’ he said. ‘You did me a grave injustice this morning. I should like to know whether, at my age, you could have gone out into the street, disowned by your relatives, and between the hours of eleven-fifteen and five-thirty acquire an income of twenty thousand a year. This is what I have done!’
‘You’re mad, boy.’
‘Not mad, resourceful! I am going to marry a young, rich, beautiful society girl. One, moreover, who is throwing over a duke for my sake.’
‘Marrying a girl for her money? I’d not have thought it of you.’
‘And you’d have been right. I would never have dared to ask her if she hadn’t – very fortunately – asked me. She retracted afterwards, but I made her change her mind. And do you know, uncle, how all this was done? By a judicious expenditure of twopence and a grasping of the golden ball of opportunity.’
‘Why the tuppence?’ asked Mr Leadbetter, financially interested.
‘One banana – off a barrow. Not everyone would have thought of that banana. Where do you get a marriage licence? Is it Doctor’s Commons or Lambeth Palace?’
Chapter 31
Accident
‘Accident’ was first published as ‘The Uncrossed Path’ in The Sunday Dispatch, 22 September 1929.
‘. . . And I tell you this – it’s the same woman – not a doubt of it!’
Captain Haydock looked into the eager, vehement face of his friend and sighed. He wished Evans would not be so positive and so jubilant. In the course of a career spent at sea, the old sea captain had learned to leave things that did not concern him well alone. His friend, Evans, late C.I.D. Inspector, had a different philosophy of life. ‘Acting on information received –’ had been his motto in early days, and he had improved upon it to the extent of finding out his own information. Inspector Evans had been a very smart, wide-awake officer, and had justly earned the promotion which had been his. Even now, when he had retired from the force, and had settled down in the country cottage of his dreams, his professional instinct was still active.
‘Don’t often forget a face,’ he reiterated complacently. ‘Mrs Anthony – yes, it’s Mrs Anthony right enough. When you said Mrs Merrowdene – I knew her at once.’
Captain Haydock stirred uneasily. The Merrowdenes were his nearest neighbours, barring Evans himself, and this identifying of Mrs Merrowdene with a former heroine of a caus
e célèbre distressed him.
‘It’s a long time ago,’ he said rather weakly. ‘Nine years,’ said Evans, accurately as ever. ‘Nine years and three months. You remember the case?’
‘In a vague sort of way.’
‘Anthony turned out to be an arsenic eater,’ said Evans, ‘so they acquitted her.’
‘Well, why shouldn’t they?’
‘No reason in the world. Only verdict they could give on the evidence. Absolutely correct.’
‘Then that’s all right,’ said Haydock. ‘And I don’t see what we’re bothering about.’
‘Who’s bothering?’
‘I thought you were.’
‘Not at all.’
‘The thing’s over and done with,’ summed up the captain. ‘If Mrs Merrowdene at one time of her life was unfortunate enough to be tried and acquitted for murder –’
‘It’s not usually considered unfortunate to be acquitted,’ put in Evans. ‘You know what I mean,’ said Captain Haydock irritably. ‘If the poor lady has been through that harrowing experience, it’s no business of ours to rake it up, is it?’
Evans did not answer.
‘Come now, Evans. The lady was innocent – you’ve just said so.’
‘I didn’t say she was innocent. I said she was acquitted.’
‘It’s the same thing.’
‘Not always.’
Captain Haydock, who had commenced to tap his pipe out against the side of his chair, stopped, and sat up with a very alert expression.
‘Hallo – allo – allo,’ he said. ‘The wind’s in that quarter, is it? You think she wasn’t innocent?’
‘I wouldn’t say that. I just – don’t know. Anthony was in the habit of taking arsenic. His wife got it for him. One day, by mistake, he takes far too much. Was the mistake his or his wife’s? Nobody could tell, and the jury very properly gave her the benefit of the doubt. That’s all quite right and I’m not finding fault with it. All the same – I’d like to know.’
Captain Haydock transferred his attention to his pipe once more. ‘Well,’ he said comfortably. ‘It’s none of our business.’
‘I’m not so sure . . .’
‘But surely –’
‘Listen to me a minute. This man, Merrowdene – in his laboratory this evening, fiddling round with tests – you remember –’
‘Yes. He mentioned Marsh’s test for arsenic. Said you would know all about it – it was in your line – and chuckled. He wouldn’t have said that if he’d thought for one moment –’
Evans interrupted him.
‘You mean he wouldn’t have said that if he knew. They’ve been married how long – six years you told me? I bet you anything he has no idea his wife is the once notorious Mrs Anthony.’
‘And he will certainly not know it from me,’ said Captain Haydock stiffly.
Evans paid no attention, but went on:
‘You interrupted me just now. After Marsh’s test, Merrowdene heated a substance in a test-tube, the metallic residue he dissolved in water and then precipitated it by adding silver nitrate. That was a test for chlorates. A neat unassuming little test. But I chanced to read these words in a book that stood open on the table:
H2SO4 decomposes chlorates with evolution of CL4O2. If heated, violent explosions occur; the mixture ought therefore to be kept cool and only very small quantities used.’
Haydock stared at his friend.
‘Well, what about it?’
‘Just this. In my profession we’ve got tests too – tests for murder. There’s adding up the facts – weighing them, dissecting the residue when you’ve allowed for prejudice and the general inaccuracy of witnesses. But there’s another test of murder – one that is fairly accurate, but rather – dangerous! A murderer is seldom content with one crime. Give him time, and a lack of suspicion, and he’ll commit another. You catch a man – has he murdered his wife or hasn’t he? – perhaps the case isn’t very black against him. Look into his past – if you find that he’s had several wives – and that they’ve all died shall we say – rather curiously? – then you know! I’m not speaking legally, you understand. I’m speaking of moral certainty. Once you know, you can go ahead looking for evidence.’
‘Well?’
‘I’m coming to the point. That’s all right if there is a past to look into. But suppose you catch your murderer at his or her first crime? Then that test will be one from which you get no reaction. But suppose the prisoner acquitted – starting life under another name. Will or will not the murderer repeat the crime?’
‘That’s a horrible idea!’
‘Do you still say it’s none of our business?’
‘Yes, I do. You’ve no reason to think that Mrs Merrowdene is anything but a perfectly innocent woman.’
The ex-inspector was silent for a moment. Then he said slowly: ‘I told you that we looked into her past and found nothing. That’s not quite true. There was a stepfather. As a girl of eighteen she had a fancy for some young man – and her stepfather exerted his authority to keep them apart. She and her stepfather went for a walk along a rather dangerous part of the cliff. There was an accident – the stepfather went too near the edge – it gave way, and he went over and was killed.’
‘You don’t think –’
‘It was an accident. Accident! Anthony’s over-dose of arsenic was an accident. She’d never have been tried if it hadn’t transpired that there was another man – he sheered off, by the way. Looked as though he weren’t satisfied even if the jury were. I tell you, Haydock, where that woman is concerned I’m afraid of another – accident!’
The old captain shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s been nine years since that affair. Why should there be another “accident”, as you call it, now?’
‘I didn’t say now. I said some day or other. If the necessary motive arose.’
Captain Haydock shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, I don’t know how you’re going to guard against that.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Evans ruefully.
‘I should leave well alone,’ said Captain Haydock. ‘No good ever came of butting into other people’s affairs.’
But that advice was not palatable to the ex-inspector. He was a man of patience but determination. Taking leave of his friend, he sauntered down to the village, revolving in his mind the possibilities of some kind of successful action.
Turning into the post office to buy some stamps, he ran into the object of his solicitude, George Merrowdene. The ex-chemistry professor was a small dreamy-looking man, gentle and kindly in manner, and usually completely absent-minded. He recognized the other and greeted him amicably, stooping to recover the letters that the impact had caused him to drop on the ground. Evans stooped also and, more rapid in his movements than the other, secured them first, handing them back to their owner with an apology.
He glanced down at them in doing so, and the address on the topmost suddenly awakened all his suspicions anew. It bore the name of a well-known insurance firm.
Instantly his mind was made up. The guileless George Merrowdene hardly realized how it came about that he and the ex-inspector were strolling down the village together, and still less could he have said how it came about that the conversation should come round to the subject of life insurance.
Evans had no difficulty in attaining his object. Merrowdene of his own accord volunteered the information that he had just insured his life for his wife’s benefit, and asked Evans’s opinion of the company in question.
‘I made some rather unwise investments,’ he explained. ‘As a result my income has diminished. If anything were to happen to me, my wife would be left very badly off. This insurance will put things right.’
‘She didn’t object to the idea?’ inquired Evans casually. ‘Some ladies do, you know. Feel it’s unlucky – that sort of thing.’
‘Oh, Margaret is very practical,’ said Merrowdene, smiling. ‘Not at all superstitious. In fact, I believe it was her idea originally. She didn’t like my bein
g so worried.’
Evans had got the information he wanted. He left the other shortly afterwards, and his lips were set in a grim line. The late Mr Anthony had insured his life in his wife’s favour a few weeks before his death.
Accustomed to rely on his instincts, he was perfectly sure in his own mind. But how to act was another matter. He wanted, not to arrest a criminal red-handed, but to prevent a crime being committed, and that was a very different and a very much more difficult thing.
All day he was very thoughtful. There was a Primrose League Fête that afternoon held in the grounds of the local squire, and he went to it, indulging in the penny dip, guessing the weight of a pig, and shying at coconuts all with the same look of abstracted concentration on his face. He even indulged in half a crown’s worth of Zara, the Crystal Gazer, smiling a little to himself as he did so, remembering his own activities against fortune-tellers in his official days.
He did not pay very much heed to her sing-song droning voice – till the end of a sentence held his attention.
‘. . . And you will very shortly – very shortly indeed – be engaged on a matter of life or death . . . Life or death to one person.’
‘Eh – what’s that?’ he asked abruptly. ‘A decision – you have a decision to make. You must be very careful – very, very careful . . . If you were to make a mistake – the smallest mistake –’
‘Yes?’
The fortune-teller shivered. Inspector Evans knew it was all nonsense, but he was nevertheless impressed.
‘I warn you – you must not make a mistake. If you do, I see the result clearly – a death . . .’
Odd, damned odd. A death. Fancy her lighting upon that! ‘If I make a mistake a death will result? Is that it?’
‘Yes.’
‘In that case,’ said Evans, rising to his feet and handing over half a crown, ‘I mustn’t make a mistake, eh?’
He spoke lightly enough, but as he went out of the tent, his jaw set determinedly. Easy to say – not so easy to be sure of doing. He mustn’t make a slip. A life, a vulnerable human life depended on it.
And there was no one to help him. He looked across at the figure of his friend Haydock in the distance. No help there. ‘Leave things alone,’ was Haydock’s motto. And that wouldn’t do here.