Strong Poison, Page 2
Dorothy L. Sayers
Salcombe Hardy groaned: “How long, O Lord, how long shall we have to listen to all this tripe about commercial arsenic? Murderers learn it now at their mother’s knee.”
“I particularly want you to remember those dates—I will give them to you again—the 10th April and the 5th May.” (The jury wrote them down. Lord Peter Wimsey murmured: “They all wrote down on their slates, ‘She doesn’t believe there’s an atom of meaning in it.’” The Hon. Freddy said “What? What?” and the judge turned over another page of his notes.)
“About this time, Philip Boyes began to suffer from renewed attacks of a gastric trouble to which he had been subject from time to time during his life. You have read the evidence of Dr. Green, who attended for something of the sort during his University career. That is some time ago; but there is also Dr. Weare, who, in 1925 prescribed for a similar attack. Not grave illnesses, but painful and exhausting, with sickness and so on, and aching in the limbs. Plenty of people have such troubles from time to time. Still, there is a coincidence of dates here which may be significant. We get these attacks—noted in Dr. Weare’s case-book—one on the 31st of March, one on the 15th of April and one on the 12th of May. Three sets of coincidences—as you may perhaps think them to be—Harriet Vane and Philip Boyes meet ‘towards the end of March,’ and he has an attack of gastritis on March 31st; on April 10th Harriet Vane purchases two ounces of arsenic—they meet again ‘in the second week in April,’ and on April 15th, he has another attack; on May 5th there is the purchase of weed-killer—‘some time in May’ there is another meeting, and on May 12th he is taken ill for the third time. You may think that this is rather curious, but you must not forget that the Crown have failed to prove any purchase of arsenic before the meeting in March. You must bear that in mind when considering this point.
“After the third attack—the one in May—the doctor advises Boyes to go away for a change, and he selects the north-west corner of Wales. He goes to Harlech, and spends a very pleasant time there and is much better. But he has a friend to accompany him, Mr. Ryland Vaughan, whom you have seen, and this friend says that ‘Philip was not happy.’ In fact, Mr. Vaughan formed the opinion that he was fretting after Harriet Vane. His bodily health improved, but he grew mentally depressed. And so on June 16th, we find him writing a letter to Miss Vane. Now that is an important letter, so I will read it to you once more:
“‘DEAR HARRIET,
Life is an utter mess-up. I can’t stick it out here any longer. I’ve decided to cut adrift and take a trip out West. But before I go, I want to see you once again and find out if it isn’t possible to put things straight again. You must do as you like, of course, but I still cannot understand the attitude you take up. If I can’t make you see the thing in the right perspective this time I’ll chuck it for good. I shall be in town on the 20th. Let me have a line to say when I can come round.
‘Yours,
‘P.’
“Now that, as you have realised, is a most ambiguous letter. Sir Impey Biggs, with arguments of great weight, has suggested that by the expressions ‘cut adrift and take a trip out west,’ ‘I can’t stick it out here,’ and ‘chuck it for good,’ the writer was expressing his intention to make away with himself if he could not effect a reconciliation with the accused. He points out that ‘to go west’ is a well-known metaphor for dying, and that, of course, may be convincing to you. But Mr. Urquhart, when examined on the subject by the Attorney-General, said that he supposed the letter to refer to a project which he himself had suggested to the deceased, of taking a voyage across the Atlantic to Barbados, by way of change of scene. And the learned Attorney-General makes this other point that when the writer says, ‘I can’t stick it out here any longer,’ he means, here in Britain, or perhaps merely ‘here at Harlech,’ and that if the phrase had reference to suicide it would read simply ‘I can’t stick it out any longer.’
“No doubt you have formed your own opinion on this point. It is important to note that the deceased asks for an appointment on the 20th. The reply to this letter is before us; it reads:
‘DEAR PHIL,
You can come round at 9.30 on the 20th if you like, but you certainly will not make me change my mind.’
“And it is signed simply ‘M.’ A very cold letter, you may think—almost hostile in tone. And yet the appointment is made for 9.30.
“I shall not have to keep your attention very much longer, but I do ask for it at this point, specially—though you have been attending most patiently and industriously all the time—because we now come to the actual day of the death itself.”
The old man clasped his hands one over the other upon the sheaf of notes and leaned a little forward. He had it all in his head, though he had known nothing of it until the last three days. He had not reached the time to babble of green fields and childhood ways; he still had firm hold of the present; he held it pinned down flat under his wrinkled fingers with their grey, chalky nails.
“Philip Boyes and Mr. Vaughan came back to town together on the evening of the 19th, and there would seem to be no doubt at all that Boyes was then in the best of health. Boyes spent the night with Mr. Vaughan, and they breakfasted together in the usual way upon bacon and eggs, toast, marmalade and coffee. At 11 o’clock Boyes had a Guinness, observing that, according to the advertisements it was ‘Good for you.’ At 1 o’clock he ate a hearty lunch at his club, and in the afternoon he played several sets of tennis with Mr. Vaughan and some other friends. During the game the remark was made by one of the players that Harlech had done Boyes good, and he replied that he was feeling fitter than he had done for many months.
“At half-past seven he went round to have dinner with his cousin, Mr. Norman Urquhart. Nothing at all unusual in his manner or appearance was noticed, either by Mr. Urquhart or by the maid who waited at table. Dinner was served at 8 o’clock exactly, and I think it would be a good thing if you were to write down that time (if you have not already done so) and also the list of things eaten and drunk.
“The two cousins dined alone together, and first, by way of cocktail, each had a glass of sherry. The wine was a fine Oleroso of 1847, and the maid decanted it from a fresh bottle and poured it into the glasses as they sat in the library. Mr. Urquhart retains the dignified old fashioned custom of having the maid in attendance throughout the meal, so that we have here the advantage of two witnesses during this part of the evening. You saw the maid, Hannah Westlock, in the box, and I think you will say she gave the impression of being a sensible and observant witness.
“Well, there was the sherry. Then came a cup of cold bouillon, served by Hannah Westlock from the tureen on the sideboard. It was very strong, good soup, set to a clear jelly. Both men had some, and after dinner, the bouillon was finished by the cook and Miss Westlock in the kitchen.
“After the soup came a piece of turbot with sauce. The portions were again carved at the sideboard, the sauceboat was handed to each in turn, and the dish was then sent out to be finished in the kitchen.
“Then came a poulet en casserole—that is, chicken cut up and stewed slowly with vegetables in a fireproof cooking utensil. Both men had some of this, and the maids finished the dish.
“The final course was a sweet omelette, which was made at the table in a chafing dish by Philip Boyes himself. Both Mr. Urquhart and his cousin were very particular about eating an omelette the moment it came from the pan—and a very good rule it is, and I advise you all to treat omelettes in the same way and never to allow them to stand, or they will get tough. Four eggs were brought to the table in their shells, and Mr. Urquhart broke them one by one into a bowl, adding sugar from a sifter. Then he handed the bowl to Mr. Boyes, saying: ‘You’re the real dab at omelettes, Philip—I’ll leave this to you’. Philip Boyes then beat the eggs and sugar together, cooked the omelette in the chafing-dish, filled it with hot jam, which was brought in by Hannah Westlock, and then himself divided it into two portions, giving one to Mr. Urquhart and taking the remainder himself.
“I should mention also that there was one article of diet which was partaken of by Philip Boyes alone, and that was a bottle of Burgundy. It was a fine old Corton, and was brought to the table in its original bottle. Mr. Urquhart drew the cork and then handed the bottle intact to Philip Boyes, saying that he himself would not take any—he had been advised not to drink at mealtimes. Philip Boyes drank two glassfuls and the remainder of the bottle was fortunately preserved. As you have already heard, the wine was later analysed and found to be quite harmless.
“This brings us to 9 o’clock. After dinner, coffee is offered, but Boyes excuses himself on the ground that he does not care for Turkish coffee, and moreover will probably be given coffee by Harriet Vane. At 9.15 Boyes leaves Mr. Urquhart’s house in Woburn Square, and is driven in a taxi to the house where Miss Vane has her flat, No. 100 Doughty Street—a distance of about half a mile. We have it from Harriet Vane herself, from Mrs. Bright, a resident in the ground floor flat, and from Police Constable D.1234 who was passing along the street at the time, that he was standing on the doorstep, ringing the prisoner’s bell, at 25 minutes past 9. She was on the lookout for him and let him in immediately.
“Now, as the interview was naturally a private one, we have no account of it to go upon but that of the prisoner. She has told us that as soon as he came in, she offered him ‘a cup of coffee which was standing ready upon the gas-ring.’ Now, when the learned Attorney-General heard the prisoner say that, he immediately asked what the coffee was standing ready in. The prisoner, apparently not quite understanding the purport of the question, replied ‘in the fender, to keep hot.’ When the question was repeated more clearly, she explained that the coffee was made in the saucepan, and that it was this which was placed on the gas-ring in the fender. The Attorney-General then drew the prisoner’s attention to her previous statement made to the police, in which this expression appeared: ‘I had a cup of coffee ready for him on his arrival.’ You will see at once the importance of this. If the cups of coffee were prepared and poured out separately before the arrival of the deceased, there was every opportunity to place poison in one of the cups beforehand and offer the prepared cup to Philip Boyes; but if the coffee was poured out from the saucepan in the deceased’s presence, the opportunity would be rather less, though of course the thing might easily be done while Boyes’ attention was momentarily distracted. The prisoner explained that in her statement she used the phrase ‘a cup of coffee’ merely as denoting ‘a certain quantity of coffee.’ You yourselves will be able to judge whether that is a usual and natural form of expression. The deceased is said by her to have taken no milk or sugar in his coffee, and you have the testimony of Mr. Urquhart and Mr. Vaughan that it was his usual habit to drink his after-dinner coffee black and unsweetened.
“According to the prisoner’s evidence, the interview was not a satisfactory one. Reproaches were uttered on both sides, and at 10 o’clock or thereabouts, the deceased expressed his intention of leaving her. She says that he appeared uneasy and remarked that he was not feeling well, adding that her behaviour had greatly upset him.
“At ten minutes past ten—and I want you to note these times very carefully, the taxi-driver Burke, who was standing on the rank in Guilford Street, was approached by Philip Boyes and told to take him to Woburn Square. He says that Boyes spoke in a hurried and abrupt tone, like that of a person in distress of mind or body. When the taxi stopped before Mr. Urquhart’s house, Boyes did not get out, and Burke opened the door to see what was the matter. He found the deceased huddled in a corner with his hand pressed over his stomach and his face pale and covered with perspiration. He asked him whether he was ill, and the deceased replied: ‘Yes, rotten.’ Burke helped him out and rang the bell, supporting him with one arm as they stood on the doorstep. Hannah Westlock opened the door. Philip Boyes seemed hardly able to walk; his body was bent almost double, and he sank groaning into a hall-chair and asked for brandy. She brought him a stiff bandy-and-soda from the dining room, and after drinking this, Boyes recovered sufficiently to take money from his pocket and pay for the taxi.
“As he still seemed very ill, Hannah Westlock summoned Mr. Urquhart from the library. He said to Boyes, ‘Hullo, old man—what’s the matter with you?’ Boyes replied, ‘God knows! I feel awful. It can’t have been the chicken.’ Mr. Urquhart said he hoped not, he hadn’t noticed anything wrong with it, and Boyes answered, No, he supposed it was one of his usual attacks, but he’d never felt anything like this before. He was taken upstairs to bed, and Dr. Grainger was summoned by telephone, as being the nearest physician available.
“Before the doctor’s arrival, the patient vomited violently, and thereafter continued to vomit persistently. Dr. Grainger diagnosed the trouble as acute gastritis. There was a high temperature and rapid pulse, and the patient’s abdomen was acutely painful to pressure, but the doctor found nothing indicative of any trouble in the nature of appendicitis or peritonitis. He therefore went back to his surgery, and made up a soothing medicine to control the vomiting—a mixture of bicarbonate of potash, tincture of oranges, and chloroform—no other drugs.
“Next day the vomiting still persisted, and Dr. Weare was called in to consult with Dr. Grainger, as he was well acquainted with the patient’s constitution.”
Here the judge paused and glanced at the clock.
“Time is getting on, and as the medical evidence has still to be passed in review, I will adjourn the Court now for lunch.”
“He would,” said the Hon. Freddy, “just at the beastliest moment when everybody’s appetite is thoroughly taken away. Come on, Wimsey, let’s go and fold a chop into the system, shall we?—Hullo!”
Wimsey had pushed past without heeding him, and was making his way into the body of the court, where Sir Impey Biggs stood conferring with his juniors.
“Seems to be in a bit of a stew,” said Mr. Arbuthnot, meditatively. “Gone to put an alternative theory of some kind, I expect. Wonder why I came to this bally show. Tedious, don’t you know, and the girl’s not even pretty. Don’t think I’ll come back after grub.”
He struggled out, and found himself face to face with the Dowager Duchess of Denver.
“Come and have lunch, Duchess,” said Freddy, hopefully. He liked the Dowager.
“I’m waiting for Peter, thanks, Freddy. Such an interesting case and interesting people, too, don’t you think, though what the jury make of it I don’t know, with faces like hams most of them, except the artist, who wouldn’t have any features at all if it wasn’t for that dreadful tie and his beard, looking like Christ, only not really Christ but one of those Italian ones in a pink frock and blue top thing. Isn’t that Peter’s Miss Climpson on the jury, how does she get there, I wonder?”
“He’s put her into a house somewhere round about, I fancy,” said Freddy, “with a typewriting office to look after and live over the shop and run those comic charity stunts of his. Funny old soul, isn’t she? Stepped out of a magazine of the ’nineties. But she seems to suit his work all right and all that.”
“Yes—such a good thing too, answering all those shady advertisements and then getting the people shown up and so courageous too, some of them the horridest oily people, and murderers I shouldn’t wonder with automatic thingummies and life-preservers in every pocket, and very likely a gas-oven full of bones like Landru, so clever, wasn’t he? And really such women—born murderesses as somebody says—quite pig-faced but not of course deserving it and possibly the photographs don’t do them justice, poor things.”
The Duchess was even more rambling than usual, thought Freddy, and as s
he spoke her eyes wandered to her son with a kind of anxiety unusual in her.
“Top-hole to see old Wimsey back, isn’t it?” he said, with simple kindliness. “Wonderful how keen he is on this sort of thing, don’t you know. Rampages off the minute he gets home like the jolly old war-horse sniffing the T.N.T. Regularly up to the eyes in it.”
“Well, it’s one of Chief-Inspector Parker’s cases, and they’re such great friends, you know, quite like David and Beersheba—or do I mean Daniel?”
Wimsey joined them at this complicated moment, and tucked his mother’s arm affectionately in his own.
“Frightfully sorry to keep you waiting, Mater, but I had to say a word to Biggy. He’s having a rotten time, and that old Jeffreys of a judge looks as though he was getting measured for a black cap. I’m going home to burn my books. Dangerous to know too much about poisons, don’t you think? Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape the old Bailey.”
“The young woman doesn’t seem to have tried that recipe, does she?” remarked Freddy.
“You ought to be on the jury,” retorted Wimsey, with unusual acidity, “I bet that’s what they’re all saying at this moment. I’m convinced that that foreman is a teetotaller—I saw ginger-beer going into the jury-room, and I only hope it explodes and blows his inside through the top of his skull.”
“All right, all right,” returned Mr. Arbuthnot, soothingly, “what you want is a drink.”
Chapter II
THE scramble for places subsided; the jury returned; the prisoner reappeared in the dock suddenly, like a jack-in-the-box; the judge resumed his seat. Some petals had spilt from the roses. The old voice took up its tale where it had left off.
“Members of the jury—there is no need, I think, for me to recall the course of Philip Boyes’ illness in great detail. The nurse was called in on June 21st, and during that day the doctors visited the patient three times. His condition grew steadily worse. There was persistent vomiting and diarrhoea, and he could not keep any food or medicine down at all. On the day after, the 22nd, he was worse still—in great pain, the pulse growing weaker, and the skin about the mouth getting dry and peeling off. The doctors gave him every attention, but could do nothing for him. His father was summoned, and when he arrived he found his son conscious, but unable to lift himself. He was able to speak, however, and in the presence of his father and Nurse Williams he made the remark, ‘I’m going out, Dad, and I’m glad to be through with it. Harriet’ll be rid of me now—I didn’t know she hated me quite so much.’ Now that was a very remarkable speech, and we have heard two very different interpretations put upon it. It is for you to say whether, in your opinion, he meant: ‘She has succeeded in getting rid of me; I didn’t know she hated me enough to poison me,’ or whether he meant, ‘When I realised she hated me so much, I decided I did not want to live any longer’—or whether, perhaps, he meant neither of these things. When people are ill, they sometimes get fantastic ideas, sometimes they wander in their minds; perhaps you may feel that it is not profitable to take too much for granted. Still, those words are part of the evidence, and you are entitled to take them into account.
