“I tell you this so that you may realise that in a country village like ours, everything that happens is of supreme importance. About a week ago, I got a box of chocolates sent through the post. There was nothing inside to indicate who they came from. Now I myself am not particularly fond of chocolates, but the others in the house are, and the box was passed round. As a result, everyone who had eaten any chocolates was taken ill. We sent for the doctor, and after various inquiries as to what other things had been eaten, he took the remains of the chocolates away with him, and had them analysed. Mr. Blunt, those chocolates contained arsenic! Not enough to kill anyone, but enough to make anyone quite ill.”
“Extraordinary,” commented Tommy.
“Dr. Burton was very excited over the matter. It seems that this was the third occurrence of the kind in the neighbourhood. In each case a big house was selected, and the inmates were taken ill after eating the mysterious chocolates. It looked as though some local person of weak intellect was playing a particularly fiendish practical joke.”
“Quite so, Miss Hargreaves.”
“Dr. Burton put it down to Socialist agitation—rather absurdly, I thought. But there are one or two malcontents in Thurnly village, and it seemed possible that they might have had something to do with it. Dr. Burton was very keen that I should put the whole thing in the hands of the police.”
“A very natural suggestion,” said Tommy. “But you have not done so, I gather, Miss Hargreaves?”
“No,” admitted the girl. “I hate the fuss and the publicity that would ensue—and you see, I know our local Inspector. I can never imagine him finding out anything! I have often seen your advertisements, and I told Dr. Burton that it would be much better to call in a private detective.”
“I see.”
“You say a great deal about discretion in your advertisement. I take that to mean—that—that—well, that you would not make anything public without my consent?”
Tommy looked at her curiously, but it was Tuppence who spoke.
“I think,” she said quietly, “that it would be as well if Miss Hargreaves told us everything.”
She laid especial stress upon the last word, and Lois Hargreaves flushed nervously.
“Yes,” said Tommy quickly, “Miss Robinson is right. You must tell us everything.”
“You will not—” she hesitated.
“Everything you say is understood to be strictly in confidence.”
“Thank you. I know that I ought to have been quite frank with you. I have a reason for not going to the police. Mr. Blunt, that box of chocolates was sent by someone in our house!”
“How do you know that, mademoiselle?”
“It’s very simple. I’ve got a habit of drawing a little silly thing—three fish intertwined—whenever I have a pencil in my hand. A parcel of silk stockings arrived from a certain shop in London not long ago. We were at the breakfast table. I’d just been marking something in the newspaper, and without thinking, I began to draw my silly little fish on the label of the parcel before cutting the string and opening it. I thought no more about the matter, but when I was examining the piece of brown paper in which the chocolates had been sent, I caught sight of the corner of the original label—most of which had been torn off. My silly little drawing was on it.”
Tommy drew his chair forward.
“That is very serious. It creates, as you say, a very strong presumption that the sender of the chocolates is a member of your household. But you will forgive me if I say that I still do not see why that fact should render you indisposed to call in the police?”
Lois Hargreaves looked him squarely in the face.
“I will tell you, Mr. Blunt. I may want the whole thing hushed up.”
Tommy retired gracefully from the position.
“In that case,” he murmured, “we know where we are. I see, Miss Hargreaves, that you are not disposed to tell me who it is you suspect?”
“I suspect no one—but there are possibilities.”
“Quite so. Now will you describe the household to me in detail?”
“The servants, with the exception of the parlourmaid, are all old ones who have been with us many years. I must explain to you, Mr. Blunt, that I was brought up by my aunt, Lady Radclyffe, who was extremely wealthy. Her husband made a big fortune, and was knighted. It was he who bought Thurnly Grange, but he died two years after going there, and it was then that Lady Radclyffe sent for me to come and make my home with her. I was her only living relation. The other inmate of the house was Dennis Radclyffe, her husband’s nephew. I have always called him cousin, but of course he is really nothing of the kind. Aunt Lucy always said openly that she intended to leave her money, with the exception of a small provision for me, to Dennis. It was Radclyffe money, she said, and it ought to go to a Radclyffe. However, when Dennis was twenty-two, she quarrelled violently with him—over some debts that he had run up, I think. When she died, a year later, I was astonished to find that she had made a will leaving all her money to me. It was, I know, a great blow to Dennis, and I felt very badly about it. I would have given him the money if he would have taken it, but it seems that kind of thing can’t be done. However, as soon as I was twenty-one, I made a will leaving it all to him. That’s the least I can do. So if I’m run over by a motor, Dennis will come into his own.”
“Exactly,” said Tommy. “And when were you twenty-one, if I may ask the question?”
“Just three weeks ago.”
“Ah!” said Tommy. “Now will you give me fuller particulars of the members of your household at this minute?”
“Servants—or—others?”
“Both.”
“The servants, as I say, have been with us some time. There is old Mrs. Holloway, the cook, and her niece Rose, the kitchenmaid. Then there are two elderly housemaids, and Hannah who was my aunt’s maid and who has always been devoted to me. The parlourmaid is called Esther Quant, and seems a very nice quiet girl. As for ourselves, there is Miss Logan, who was Aunt Lucy’s companion, and who runs the house for me, and Captain Radclyffe—Dennis, you know, whom I told you about, and there is a girl called Mary Chilcott, an old school friend of mine who is staying with us.”
Tommy thought for a moment.
“That all seems fairly clear and straightforward, Miss Hargreaves,” he said after a minute or two. “I take it that you have no special reason for attaching suspicion more to one person than another? You are only afraid it might prove to be—well—not a servant, shall we say?”
“That’s it exactly, Mr. Blunt. I have honestly no idea who used that piece of brown paper. The handwriting was printed.”
“There seems only one thing to be done,” said Tommy. “I must be on the spot.”
The girl looked at him inquiringly.
Tommy went on after a moment’s thought.
“I suggest that you prepare the way for the arrival of—say, Mr. and Miss Van Dusen—American friends of yours. Will you be able to do that quite naturally?”
“Oh, yes. There will be no difficulty at all. When will you come down—tomorrow—or the day after?”
“Tomorrow, if you please. There is no time to waste.”
“That is settled then.”
The girl rose and held out her hand.
“One thing, Miss Hargreaves, not a word, mind, to anyone—anyone at all, that we are not what we seem.”
“What do you think of it, Tuppence?” he asked, when he returned from showing the visitor out.
“I don’t like it,” said Tuppence decidedly. “Especially I don’t like the chocolates having so little arsenic in them.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t you see? All those chocolates being sent round the neighbourhood were a blind. To establish the idea of a local maniac. Then, when the girl was really poisoned, it would be thought to be the same thing. You see, but for a stroke of luck, no one would ever have guessed that the chocolates were actually sent by someone in the house itself.”
/>
“That was a stroke of luck. You’re right. You think it’s a deliberate plot against the girl herself?”
“I’m afraid so. I remember reading about old Lady Radclyffe’s will. That girl has come into a terrific lot of money.”
“Yes, and she came of age and made a will three weeks ago. It looks bad—for Dennis Radclyffe. He gains by her death.”
Tuppence nodded.
“The worst of it is—that she thinks so too! That’s why she won’t have the police called in. Already she suspects him. And she must be more than half in love with him to act as she has done.”
“In that case,” said Tommy thoughtfully, “why the devil doesn’t he marry her? Much simpler and safer.”
Tuppence stared at him.
“You’ve said a mouthful,” she observed. “Oh, boy! I’m getting ready to be Miss Van Dusen, you observe.”
“Why rush to crime, when there is a lawful means near at hand?”
Tuppence reflected for a minute or two.
“I’ve got it,” she announced. “Clearly he must have married a barmaid whilst at Oxford. Origin of the quarrel with his aunt. That explains everything.”
“Then why not send the poisoned sweets to the barmaid?” suggested Tommy. “Much more practical. I wish you wouldn’t jump to these wild conclusions, Tuppence.”
“They’re deductions,” said Tuppence, with a good deal of dignity. “This is your first corrida, my friend, but when you have been twenty minutes in the arena—”
Tommy flung the office cushion at her.
II
“Tuppence, I say, Tuppence, come here.”
It was breakfast time the next morning. Tuppence hurried out of her bedroom and into the dining room. Tommy was striding up and down, the open newspaper in his hand.
“What’s the matter?”
Tommy wheeled round, and shoved the paper into her hand, pointing to the headlines.
MYSTERIOUS POISONING CASE
DEATHS FROM FIG SANDWICHES
Tuppence read on. This mysterious outbreak of ptomaine poisoning had occurred at Thurnly Grange. The deaths so far reported were those of Miss Lois Hargreaves, the owner of the house, and the parlourmaid, Esther Quant. A Captain Radclyffe and a Miss Logan were reported to be seriously ill. The cause of the outbreak was supposed to be some fig paste used in sandwiches, since another lady, a Miss Chilcott, who had not partaken of these was reported to be quite well.
“We must get down there at once,” said Tommy. “That girl! That perfectly ripping girl! Why the devil didn’t I go straight down there with her yesterday?”
“If you had,” said Tuppence, “you’d probably have eaten fig sandwiches too for tea, and then you’d have been dead. Come on, let’s start at once. I see it says that Dennis Radclyffe is seriously ill also.”
“Probably shamming, the dirty blackguard.”
They arrived at the small village of Thurnly about midday. An elderly woman with red eyes opened the door to them when they arrived at Thurnly Grange.
“Look here,” said Tommy quickly before she could speak. “I’m not a reporter or anything like that. Miss Hargreaves came to see me yesterday, and asked me to come down here. Is there anyone I can see?”
“Dr. Burton is here now, if you’d like to speak to him,” said the woman doubtfully. “Or Miss Chilcott. She’s making all the arrangements.”
But Tommy had caught at the first suggestion.
“Dr. Burton,” he said authoritatively. “I should like to see him at once if he is here.”
The woman showed them into a small morning room. Five minutes later the door opened, and a tall, elderly man with bent shoulders and a kind, but worried face, came in.
“Dr. Burton,” said Tommy. He produced his professional card. “Miss Hargreaves called on me yesterday with reference to those poisoned chocolates. I came down to investigate the matter at her request—alas! too late.”
The doctor looked at him keenly.
“You are Mr. Blunt himself?”
“Yes. This is my assistant, Miss Robinson.”
The doctor bowed to Tuppence.
“Under the circumstances, there is no need for reticence. But for the episode of the chocolates, I might have believed these deaths to be the result of severe ptomaine poisoning—but ptomaine poisoning of an unusually virulent kind. There is gastrointestinal inflammation and haemorrhage. As it is, I am taking the fig paste to be analysed.”
“You suspect arsenic poisoning?”
“No. The poison, if a poison has been employed, is something far more potent and swift in its action. It looks more like some powerful vegetable toxin.”
“I see. I should like to ask you, Dr. Burton, whether you are thoroughly convinced that Captain Radclyffe is suffering from the same form of poisoning?”
The doctor looked at him.
“Captain Radclyffe is not suffering from any sort of poisoning now.”
“Aha,” said Tommy. “I—”
“Captain Radclyffe died at five o’clock this morning.”
Tommy was utterly taken aback. The doctor prepared to depart.
“And the other victim, Miss Logan?” asked Tuppence.
“I have every reason to hope that she will recover since she has survived so far. Being an older woman, the poison seems to have had less effect on her. I will let you know the result of the analysis, Mr. Blunt. In the meantime, Miss Chilcott, will, I am sure, tell you anything you want to know.”
As he spoke, the door opened, and a girl appeared. She was tall, with a tanned face, and steady blue eyes.
Dr. Burton performed the necessary introductions.
“I am glad you have come, Mr. Blunt,” said Mary Chilcott. “This affair seems too terrible. Is there anything you want to know that I can tell you?”
“Where did the fig paste come from?”
“It is a special kind that comes from London. We often have it. No one suspected that this particular pot differed from any of the others. Personally I dislike the flavour of figs. That explains my immunity. I cannot understand how Dennis was affected, since he was out for tea. He must have picked up a sandwich when he came home, I suppose.”
Tommy felt Tuppence’s hand press his arm ever so slightly.
“What time did he come in?” he asked.
“I don’t really know. I could find out.”
“Thank you, Miss Chilcott. It doesn’t matter. You have no objection, I hope, to my questioning the servants?”
“Please do anything you like, Mr. Blunt. I am nearly distraught. Tell me—you don’t think there has been—foul play?”
Her eyes were very anxious, as she put the question.
“I don’t know what to think. We shall soon know.”
“Yes, I suppose Dr. Burton will have the paste analysed.”
Quickly excusing herself, she went out by the window to speak to one of the gardeners.
“You take the housemaids, Tuppence,” said Tommy, “and I’ll find my way to the kitchen. I say, Miss Chilcott may feel very distraught, but she doesn’t look it.”
Tuppence nodded assent without replying.
Husband and wife met half an hour later.
“Now to pool results,” said Tommy. “The sandwiches came out for tea, and the parlourmaid ate one—that’s how she got it in the neck. Cook is positive Dennis Radclyffe hadn’t returned when tea was cleared away. Query—how did he get poisoned?”
“He came in at a quarter to seven,” said Tuppence. “Housemaid saw him from one of the windows. He had a cocktail before dinner—in the library. She was just clearing away the glass now, and luckily I got it from her before she washed it. It was after that that he complained of feeling ill.”
“Good,” said Tommy. “I’ll take that glass along to Burton, presently. Anything else?”
“I’d like you to see Hannah, the maid. She’s—she’s queer.”
“How do you mean—queer?”
“She looks to me as though she were going off he
r head.”
“Let me see her.”
Tuppence led the way upstairs. Hannah had a small sitting room of her own. The maid sat upright on a high chair. On her knees was an open Bible. She did not look towards the two strangers as they entered. Instead she continued to read aloud to herself.
“Let hot burning coals fall upon them, let them be cast into the fire and into the pit, that they never rise up again.”
“May I speak to you a minute?” asked Tommy.
Hannah made an impatient gesture with her hand.
“This is no time. The time is running short, I say. I will follow upon mine enemies and overtake them, neither will I turn again till I have destroyed them. So it is written. The word of the Lord has come to me. I am the scourge of the Lord.”
“Mad as a hatter,” murmured Tommy.
“She’s been going on like that all the time,” whispered Tuppence.
Tommy picked up a book that was lying open, face downwards on the table. He glanced at the title and slipped it into his pocket.
Suddenly the old woman rose and turned towards them menacingly.
“Go out from here. The time is at hand! I am the flail of the Lord. The wind bloweth where it listeth—so do I destroy. The ungodly shall perish. This is a house of evil—of evil, I tell you! Beware of the wrath of the Lord whose handmaiden I am.”
She advanced upon them fiercely. Tommy thought it best to humour her and withdrew. As he closed the door, he saw her pick up the Bible again.
“I wonder if she’s always been like that,” he muttered.
He drew from his pocket the book he had picked up off the table.
“Look at that. Funny reading for an ignorant maid.”
Tuppence took the book.
“Materia Medica,” she murmured. She looked at the flyleaf, “Edward Logan. It’s an old book. Tommy, I wonder if we could see Miss Logan? Dr. Burton said she was better.”
“Shall we ask Miss Chilcott?”