“No,” said the head-clerk. “In my day it was not considered necessary.”
“I can’t make out this outline,” said Miss Murchison. “It looks like ‘give consent to,’ but it may be only ‘give consideration to’—there’s a difference, isn’t there?”
“There certainly is,” said Mr. Pond, drily.
“P’raps I’d better not risk it,” said Miss Murchison. “It’s got to go off this morning. I’d better ask him.”
Mr. Pond snorted—not for the first time—over the carelessness of the female typist.
Miss Murchison walked briskly across the room and opened the inner door without knocking—an informality which left Mr. Pond groaning again.
Mr. Urquhart was standing up with his back to the door, doing something or other at the mantelpiece. He turned round sharply, with an exclamation of annoyance.
“I have told you before, Miss Murchison, that I like you to knock before entering.”
“I am very sorry; I forgot.”
“Don’t let it happen again. What is it?”
He did not return to his desk, but stood leaning against the mantelshelf. His sleek head, outlined against the drab-painted panelling, was a little thrown back, as though—Miss Murchison thought—he were protecting or defying somebody.
“I could not quite make out my shorthand note of your letter to Tewke & Peabody,” said Miss Murchison, “and I thought it better to come and ask you.”
“I wish,” said Mr. Urquhart, fixing a stern eye upon her, “that you would take your notes clearly at the time. If I am going too fast for you, you should tell me so. It would save trouble in the end—wouldn’t it?”
Miss Murchison was reminded of a little set of rules which Lord Peter Wimsey—half in jest and half in earnest—had once prepared for the guidance of “The Cattery.” Of Rule Seven, in particular, which ran: “Always distrust the man who looks you straight in the eyes. He wants to prevent you from seeing something. Look for it.”
She shifted her eyes under her employer’s gaze.
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Urquhart. I won’t let it occur again,” she muttered. There was a curious dark line at the edge of the panelling just behind the solicitor’s head, as though the panel did not quite fit its frame. She had never noticed it before.
“Well, now, what is the trouble?”
Miss Murchison asked her question, got her answer and retired. As she went, she cast a glance over the desk. The will was not there.
She went back and finished her letters. When she took them in to be signed, she seized the opportunity to look at the panelling again. There was no dark line to be seen.
Miss Murchison left the office promptly at half-past four. She had a feeling that it would be unwise to linger about the premises. She walked briskly away through Hand Court, turned to the right along Holborn, dived to the right again through Featherstone Buildings, made a detour through Red Lion Street and debouched into Red Lion Square. Within five minutes she was at her old walk round the square, and up Princeton Street. Presently, from a safe distance, she saw Mr. Pond come out, thin, stiff and stooping, and walk down Bedford Row towards Chancery Lane Station. Before very long, Mr. Urquhart followed. He stood a moment on the threshold, glancing to left and right, then came straight across the street towards her. For a moment she thought he had seen her, and she dived hurriedly behind a van that was standing at the kerb. Under its shelter she withdrew to the corner of the street, where there is a butcher’s shop, and scanned a windowful of New Zealand lamb and chilled beer. Mr. Urquhart came nearer. His steps grew louder—then paused. Miss Murchison glued her eyes on a round of meat marked 4½ lb. 3s. 4d. A voice said: “Good evening, Miss Murchison. Choosing your supper chop?”
“Oh! Good evening, Mr. Urquhart. Yes—I was just wishing that Providence had seen fit to provide more joints suitable for single people.”
“Yes—one gets tired of beef and mutton.”
“And pork is apt to be indigestible.”
“Just so. Well, you should cease to be single, Miss Murchison.”
Miss Murchison giggled.
“But this is so sudden, Mr. Urquhart.”
Mr. Urquhart flushed under his curious freckled skin.
“Good-night,” he said abruptly, and with extreme coldness.
Miss Murchison laughed to herself as he strode off.
“Thought that would settle him. It’s a great mistake to be familiar with your subordinates. They take advantage of you.”
She watched him out of sight on the far side of the Square, then returned along Princeton Street, crossed Bedford Row and re-entered the office building. The charwoman was just coming downstairs.
“Well, Mrs. Hodges, it’s me again! Do you mind letting me in? I’ve lost a pattern of silk. I think I must have left it in my desk, or dropped it on the floor. Have you come across it?”
“No, miss, I ain’t done your office yet.”
“Then I’ll have to hunt round for it. I want to get up to Bourne’s before half-past six. It’s such a nuisance.”
“Yes, miss, and such a crowd always with the buses and things. Here you are, miss.”
She opened the door, and Miss Murchison darted in.
“Shall I ’elp you to look for it, miss?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Hodges, please don’t bother. I don’t expect it’s far off.”
Mrs. Hodges took up a pail and went to fill it at a tap in the back yard. As soon as her heavy steps had ascended again to the first floor, Miss Murchison made for the inner office.
“I must and will see what’s behind that panelling.”
The houses in Bedford Row are Hogarthian in type, tall, symmetrical, with the glamour of better days upon them. The panels in Mr. Urquhart’s room, though defaced by many coats of paint, were handsomely designed, and over the mantelpiece ran a festoon of flowers and fruit, rather florid for the period, with a ribbon and basket in the centre. If the panel was controlled by a concealed spring, the boss that moved it was probably to be found among this decorative work. Pulling a chair to the fireplace, Miss Murchison ran her fingers quickly over the festoon, pushing and pressing with both hands, while keeping her ear cocked for intruders.
This kind of investigation is easy for experts, but Miss Murchison’s knowledge of secret hiding places was only culled from sensational literature; she could not find the trick of the thing. After nearly a quarter of an hour, she began to despair.
Thump—thump—thump—Mrs. Hodges was coming downstairs.
Miss Murchison sprang away from the panelling so hastily that the chair slipped, and she had to thrust hard at the wall to save herself. She jumped down, restored the chair to its place, glanced up—and saw the panel standing wide open.
At first she thought it was a miracle, but soon realised that in slipping she had thrust sideways at the frame of the panel. A small square of woodwork had slipped away sideways, and exposed an inner panel with a keyhole in the middle.
She heard Mrs. Hodges in the outer room, but she was too excited to bother about what Mrs. Hodges might be thinking. She pushed a heavy chair across the door, so that nobody could enter without noise and difficulty. In a moment Blindfold Bill’s keys were in her hand—how fortunate that she had not returned them! How fortunate, too, that Mr. Urquhart had relied on the secrecy of the panel, and had not thought it worth while to fit his cache with a patent lock!
A few moments’ quick work, with the keys, and the lock turned. She pulled the little door open.
Inside was a bundle of papers. Miss Murchison ran them over—at first quickly—then again, with a puzzled face. Receipts for securities—Share certificates—Megatherium Trust—surely the names of those investments were familiar—where had she… ?
Suddenly Miss Murchison sat down, feeling quite faint, the bundle of papers in her hand.
She realised now what had happened to Mrs. Wrayburn’s money, which Norman Urquhart had been handling under that confiding Deed of Trust, and why the matter of the will was so im
portant. Her head whirled. She picked up a sheet of paper from the desk and began jotting down in hurried shorthand the particulars of the various transactions of which these documents were the evidence.
Somebody bumped at the door.
“Are you in here, miss?”
“Just a moment, Mrs. Hodges. I think I must have dropped it on the floor in here.”
She gave the big chair a sharp push, effectually closing the door.
She must hurry. Anyway she had got down enough to convince Lord Peter that Mr. Urquhart’s affairs needed looking into. She put the papers back into the cupboard, in the exact place from which she had taken them. The will was there, too, she noticed, laid on one side by itself. She peered in. There was something else, tucked away at the back. She thrust her hand in and pulled the mysterious object out. It was a white paper packet, labelled with the name of a foreign chemist. The end had been opened and tucked in again. She pulled the paper apart, and saw that the packet contained about two ounces of a fine white powder.
Next to hidden treasure and mysterious documents, nothing is more full of sensational suggestion than a packet of anonymous white powder. Miss Murchison caught up another sheet of clean paper, tipped a thimbleful of the powder into it, replaced the packet at the back of the cupboard and re-locked the door with the skeleton key. With trembling fingers she pushed the panel back into place, takmg care to shut it completely, so as to show no betraying dark line.
She rolled the chair away from the door and cried out gaily:
“I’ve got it, Mrs. Hodges!”
“There, now!” said Mrs. Hodges, appearing in the doorway.
“Just fancy!” said Miss Murchison. “I was looking through my patterns when Mr. Urquhart rang, and this one must have stuck to my frock and dropped on the floor in here.”
She held up a small piece of silk triumphantly. She had torn it from the lining of her bag in the course of the afternoon—a proof, if any were needed, of her devotion to her work, for the bag was a good one.
“Dearie me,” said Mrs. Hodges. “What a good thing you found it, wasn’t it, miss?”
“I nearly didn’t,” said Miss Murchison, “it was right in this dark corner. Well, I must fly to get there before the shop shuts. Good-night, Mrs. Hodges.”
But long before the accommodating Messrs. Bourne & Hollingsworth had closed their doors, Miss Murchison was ringing the second floor bell at 110A, Piccadilly.
* * *
She found a council in progress. There was the Hon. Freddy Arbuthnot, looking amiable, Chief-Inspector Parker, looking worried, Lord Peter, looking somnolent, and Bunter, who, having introduced her, retired to a position on the fringe of the assembly and hovered there looking correct.
“Have you brought us news, Miss Murchison? If so, you have come at the exact right moment to find the eagles gathered together. Mr. Arbuthnot, Chief-Inspector Parker, Miss Murchison. Now let’s all sit down and be happy together. Have you had tea? or will you absorb a spot of something?”
Miss Murchison declined refreshment.
“H’m!” said Wimsey. “The patient refuses food. Her eyes glitter wildly. The expression is anxious. The lips are parted. The fingers fumble with the clasp of the bag. The symptoms point to an acute attack of communicativeness. Tell us the worst, Miss Murchison.”
Miss Murchison needed no urging. She told her adventures, and had the pleasure of holding her audience enthralled from the first word to the last. When she finally produced the screw of paper containing the white powder, the sentiments of the company expressed themselves in a round of applause, in which Bunter joined discreetly.
“Are you convinced, Charles?” asked Wimsey.
“I admit that I am heavily shaken,” said Parker. “Of course, the powder must be analysed—”
“It shall, embodied caution,” said Wimsey. “Bunter, make ready the rack and thumbscrew. Bunter has been taking lessons in Marsh’s test, and performs it to admiration. You know all about it too, Charles, don’t you?”
“Enough for a rough test.”
“Carry on then, my children. In the meanwhile, let us sum up our findings.”
Bunter went out and Parker, who had been making entries in a note-book, cleared his throat.
“Well,” he said, “the matter stands, I take it, like this. You say that Miss Vane is innocent, and you undertake to prove this by bringing a convincing accusation against Norman Urquhart. So far, your evidence against him is almost entirely concerned with motive, bolstered up by proofs of intent to mislead enquiry. You say that your investigations have brought the case against Urquhart to a point at which the police can, and ought to, take it up, and I am inclined to agree with you. I warn you, however, that you still have to establish evidence as to means and opportunity.”
“I know that. Tell us a new one.”
“All right, as long as you know it. Very well. Now Philip Boyes and Norman Urquhart are the only surviving relations of Mrs. Wrayburn, or Cremorna Garden, who is rich, and has money to leave. A number of years ago, Mrs. Wrayburn put all her affairs into the hands of Urquhart’s father, the only member of the family with whom she remained on friendly terms. On his father’s death, Norman Urquhart took over those affairs himself, and in 1920, Mrs. Wrayburn executed a Deed of Trust, giving him sole authority to handle her property. She also made a will, dividing her property unequally between her two great-nephews. Philip Boyes got all the real estate and £50,000 while Norman Urquhart took whatever was left and was also sole executor. Norman Urquhart when questioned about this Will, deliberately told you an untruth, saying that the bulk of the money was left to him, and even went so far as to produce a document purporting to be a draft of such a will. The pretended date of this draft is subsequent to that of the Will discovered by Miss Climpson, but there is no doubt that the draft itself was drawn out by Urquhart, certainly within the last three years and probably within the last few days. Moreover, the fact that the actual Will, though lying in a place accessible to Urquhart, was not destroyed by him, suggests that it was not, in fact, superseded by any subsequent testamentary disposition. By the way Wimsey, why didn’t he simply take the will and destroy it? As the sole surviving heir, he would then inherit without dispute.”
“Perhaps it didn’t occur to him. Or there might even be other relatives surviving. How about that uncle in Australia?”
“True. At any rate he didn’t destroy it. In 1925 Mrs. Wrayburn became completely paralysed and imbecile, so that there was no possibility of her ever enquiring into the disposition of her estate or making another will.
“About this time, as we know from Mr. Arbuthnot, Urquhart took the dangerous step of plunging into speculation. He made mistakes, lost money, plunged more deeply to recover himself, and was involved to a large extent in the great crash of Megatherium Trust, Ltd. He certainly lost far more than he could possibly afford, and we now find, from Miss Murchison’s discoveries—of which I must say that I should hate to have to take official notice—that he had been consistently abusing his position as Trustee and employing Mrs. Wrayburn’s money for his private speculations. He deposited her holdings as security for large loans, and embarked the money thus raised in Megatherium and other wild-cat schemes.
“As long as Mrs. Wrayburn lived, he was fairly safe, for he only had to pay to her the sums necessary to keep up her house and establishment. In fact, all the household bills and so on were settled by him as her man of affairs under Power of Attorney, all salaries were paid by him, and so long as he did this, it was nobody’s business to ask what he had done with the capital. But as soon as Mrs. Wrayburn died, he would have to account to the other heir, Philip Boyes, for the capital which he had misappropriated.
“Now in 1929, just about the time that Philip Boyes quarrelled with Miss Vane, Mrs. Wrayburn had a serious attack of illness and very nearly died. The danger passed, but might recur at any moment. Almost immediately afterwards we find him becoming friendly with Philip Boyes and inviting him to stay at his hou
se. While living with Urquhart, Boyes has three attacks of illness, attributed by his doctor to gastritis, but equally consistent with arsenical poisoning. In June 1929, Philip Boyes goes away to Wales and his health improves.
“While Philip Boyes is absent, Mrs. Wrayburn has another alarming attack, and Urquhart hastens up to Windle, possibly with the idea of destroying the will in case the worst happens. It does not happen, and he comes back to London, just in time to receive Boyes on his return from Wales. That night, Boyes is taken ill with symptoms similar to those of the previous spring, but much more violent. After three days he dies.
“Urquhart is now perfectly safe. As residuary legatee, he will receive, at Mrs. Wrayburn’s death, all the money bequeathed to Philip Boyes. That is, he will not get it, because he has already taken it and lost it, but he will no longer be called upon to produce it and his fraudulent dealings will not be exposed.
“So far, the evidence as to motive is extremely cogent, and far more convincing than the evidence against Miss Vane.
“But here is your snag, Wimsey. When and how was the poison administered? We know that Miss Vane possessed arsenic and that she could easily have given it to him without witnesses. But Urquhart’s only opportunity was at the dinner he shared with Boyes, and if anything in this case is certain, it is that the poison was not administered at that dinner. Everything which Boyes ate or drank was equally eaten and drunk by Urquhart and/or the servants, with the single exception of the Burgundy, which was preserved and analysed and found to be harmless.”
“I know,” said Wimsey, “but that is what is so suspicious. Did you ever hear of a meal hedged round with such precautions? It’s not natural, Charles. There’s the sherry, poured out by the maid from the original bottle, the soup, fish and casseroled chicken—so impossible to poison in one portion without poisoning the whole—the omelette, so ostentatiously prepared at the table by the hands of the victim—the wine, sealed up and marked—the remnants consumed in the kitchen—you would think the man had gone out of his way to construct a suspicion-proof meal. The wine is the final touch which makes the thing incredible. Do you tell me that at that earliest moment when everybody supposes the illness to be a natural one, and when the affectionate cousin ought to be overwhelmed with anxiety for the sick man, it is natural or believable that an innocent person’s mind should fly to accusations of poisoning? If he was innocent himself, then he suspected something. If he did suspect, why didn’t he tell the doctor and have the patient’s secretions and so on analysed? Why should he ever have thought of protecting himself against accusation when no accusation had been made, unless he knew that an accusation would be well-founded? And then there’s the business about the nurse.”