In the Teeth of the Evidence

  He had been brooding for ten minutes or so when he heard the town clock chime the quarters and strike eleven. Mechanically he waited, expecting to hear the answering melodious strike of the kitchen clock, but nothing came. Then he remembered that Monk had set the hands twenty minutes forward that morning, so that it must have struck some time since. And then he bounded to his feet with a loud exclamation.

  ‘Heavens! What a fool I am! This morning at seven the town clock struck first, and the kitchen clock immediately after. But last night I never heard the town clock strike at all. The kitchen clock must have been altered somehow or other. Unless – unless – unless, by gosh! I wonder if that could be it. Yes. Yes, it’s possible. Just before that clock struck twelve, Waters stopped snoring.’

  He ran from the room and plunged hastily into No. 8. Like his own room, it was in disorder. Like his own room, it did not appear to have been dusted for weeks. And on the night-table by Waters’s bed, which stood close against the thin partition between the two rooms, there was a mark in the dust, as though some object measuring about three inches by three and a half had stood there during the night.

  Mr Egg darted out of the room and along the corridor. He fell up the two ill-lighted steps with a curse, turned the corner and burst into the bathroom. Its window looked out upon a narrow side-street, communicating at one end with the main road and at the other with a lane that ran between warehouses. Rushing downstairs, Mr Egg caught Inspector Monk just emerging from the coffee-room.

  ‘Hold Cobb!’ panted Mr Egg. ‘I believe I’ve bust his alibi. Where’s Waters gone to? I want to put a call through to him. Quick!’

  ‘Waters said he was catching a train to Sawcaster,’ said Monk, rather astonished.

  ‘Then,’ said Monty, calling upon his professional knowledge, ‘he’ll put up at the Ring o’ Bells, and he’ll visit Hunter’s, Merriman’s and Hackett & Brown’s. We’ll get him at one place or the other.’

  After a hectic half-hour at the telephone, he ran his quarry to earth at one of Sawcaster’s leading confectionery establishments.

  ‘Waters,’ gasped Monty urgently, ‘I want you to answer some questions, old man, and you can ask me why afterwards. Never mind how silly they sound. Do you carry a travelling-clock? You do? What’s it like? Old-fashioned repeater? Yes? About three inches square – squarish? Yes? Stood on your bed-table last night? Does it strike on a coiled spring? It does? Thank heaven for that! Deep, quick, soft note like a church bell? Yes, yes, yes! Now, old boy, think hard. Did you wake up last night and strike that repeater? You did? You’re sure? Good man! At what time? It struck twelve? What time does that mean? Any time between twelve and one o’clock? Then, for God’s sake, Waters, take the next train back to Cuttlesbury, because your dashed clock has nearly made you and me accomplices in a murder. Yes, MURDER . . . Hold on a moment, Inspector Monk wants to speak to you.’

  ‘Well,’ said the Inspector, as he replaced the receiver, ‘your evidence might have landed us in a nice pickle, mightn’t it? It’s a good job you had that brain-wave. Now we’ll go through Mr Dirty Cobb’s luggage and see if he’s got any more juicy photos. I suppose he took ’em along to show Pringle.’

  ‘That’s it. I couldn’t understand how the murderer got into the room. Naturally Pringle would lock his door. But of course he’d left it open for Cobb, who’d promised to slip along later and show him something to make his hair curl – “on the strict q.t.” and all that. It must have given Cobb a shock when Pringle yelled and I knocked at the door. But he was all there, I will say that for him. He’s probably a first-class salesman in his own rotten line. “Don’t let a sudden question rout you, but always keep your wits about you”, as it says in the Handbook.’

  ‘But look here,’ said the Inspector, ‘what did he do with Pringle’s bag?’

  ‘Dropped it out of the bathroom window to the accomplice he had summoned by phone from Tadworthy. Why, dash it all!’ cried Monty, wiping his forehead, ‘I heard the car go by, just after that confounded clock struck twelve.’

  BITTER ALMONDS

  A Montague Egg Story

  ‘Dash it!’ exclaimed Mr Montague Egg, ‘there’s another perfectly good customer gone west.’

  He frowned at his morning paper, which informed him that an inquest would be held that day on the body of Mr Bernard Whipley, a wealthy and rather eccentric old gentleman, to whom the firm of Plummett & Rose had from time to time sold a considerable quantity of their choice vintage wines, fine old matured spirits and liqueurs.

  Monty had more than once been invited by Mr Whipley to sample his own goods, sitting in the pleasant study at Cedar Lawn – a bottle of ancient port, carried up carefully from the cellar by Mr Whipley himself, or a liqueur brandy, brought out from the tall mahogany cabinet that stood in the alcove.

  Mr Whipley never allowed anybody but himself to handle anything alcoholic. You never, he said, could trust servants, and he had no fancy for being robbed, or finding the cook with her head under the kitchen dresser.

  So Mr Egg frowned and sighed, and then frowned still more, on seeing that Mr Whipley had been discovered dead, apparently from prussic acid poisoning, after drinking an after-dinner glass of crème de menthe.

  It is not agreeable when customers suddenly die poisoned after partaking of the drinks one has supplied to them, and it is not good for business.

  Mr Egg glanced at his watch. The town where he was at that moment reading the paper was only fifteen miles distant from the late Mr Whipley’s place of residence. Monty decided that it might be just as well to run over and attend the inquest. He was, at any rate, in a position to offer testimony as to the harmless nature of crème de menthe as supplied by Messrs Plummett & Rose.

  Accordingly he drove over there as soon as he had finished his breakfast, and by sending in his card to the coroner, secured for himself a convenient seat in the crowded little schoolroom where the inquest was being held.

  The first witness was the housekeeper, Mrs Minchin, a stout, elderly person of almost exaggerated respectability. She said she had been over twenty years in Mr Whipley’s service. He was nearly eighty years old, but very active and healthy, except that he had to be careful of his heart, as was only to be expected.

  She had always found him an excellent employer. He had been, perhaps, a little close about financial matters and had kept a very sharp eye on the housekeeping, but personally she was not afraid of such, being as careful of his interests as she would be of her own. She had kept house for him ever since his wife’s death.

  ‘He was quite in his usual health on Monday evening,’ Mrs Minchin went on. ‘Mr Raymond Whipley had telephoned in the afternoon to say he would be down for dinner—’

  ‘That is Mr Whipley’s son?’

  ‘Yes – his only child.’ Here Mrs Minchin glanced across at a thin, sallow, young-old man, seated near Mr Egg on the bench reserved for witnesses, and sniffed rather meaningly. ‘Mr and Mrs Cedric were staying in the house. Mr Cedric Whipley is Mr Whipley’s nephew. He had no other relations.’

  Mr Egg identified Mr and Mrs Cedric Whipley as the fashionably dressed young man and woman in black who sat on the other side of Mr Raymond. The witness proceeded.

  ‘Mr Raymond arrived in his car at half-past six, and went in at once to see his father in the study. He came out again when the dressing gong rang for dinner, at a quarter past seven. He passed me in the hall, and I thought he looked rather upset. As Mr Whipley didn’t come out, I went in to him. He was sitting at his writing table, reading something that looked to me like a legal paper.

  ‘I said, “Excuse me, Mr Whipley, sir, but did you hear the gong?” He was sometimes a little hard of hearing, though wonderfully keen in all his faculties, considering his age. He looked up and said, “All right, Mrs Minchin,” and went back to what he was doing. I said to myself, “Mr Raymond’s been putting him out again.” At half-past—’

  ‘One moment. What had you in your mind about Mr Raymond?’

  ‘We
ll, nothing much, only Mr Whipley didn’t always approve of Mr Raymond’s goings-on, and they sometimes had words about it. Mr Whipley disliked Mr Raymond’s business.

  ‘At half-past seven,’ continued the witness, ‘Mr Whipley went upstairs to dress, and he seemed all right then, only his step was tired and heavy. I was waiting in the hall, in case he needed any assistance, and as he passed me he asked me to telephone to Mr Whitehead to ask him to come over the next morning – Mr Whitehead the lawyer. He did not say what it was for. I did as he asked me, and when Mr Whipley came down again, about ten minutes to eight, I told him Mr Whitehead had had the message, and would be with him at ten the next day.’

  ‘Did anybody else hear you say that?’

  ‘Yes. Mr Raymond and Mr and Mrs Cedric were in the hall, having their cocktails. They must all have heard me. Dinner was served at eight—’

  ‘Were you present at dinner?’

  ‘No. I have my meals in my own room. Dinner was over about a quarter to nine, and the parlour-maid took coffee into the drawing-room for Mr and Mrs Cedric, and into the study for Mr Whipley and Mr Raymond. I was alone in my room till 9 o’clock, when Mr and Mrs Cedric came in to have a little chat. We were all together till just before half-past nine, when we heard the study door slam violently, and a few minutes later, Mr Raymond came in, looking very queer. He had his hat and coat on.

  ‘Mr Cedric said: “Hullo, Ray!” He took no notice, and said to me, “I shan’t be staying the night, after all, Mrs Minchin. I’m going back to Town at once.” I said, “Very good, Mr Raymond. Does Mr Whipley know of your change of plans?” He laughed in a funny way, and said: “Oh yes. He knows all about it.” He went out again and Mr Cedric followed him and, I think, said something like, “Don’t lose your hair, old man.” Mrs Cedric said to me, she was afraid Mr Raymond might have had a quarrel with the old gentleman.

  ‘About ten minutes later, I heard the two young gentlemen coming downstairs, and went out to see that Mr Raymond had left nothing behind him, as he was apt to be forgetful. He was just going out of the front door with Mr Cedric. I ran after him with his scarf, which he had left on the hall-stand. He drove away in his car very quickly and I came back into the house with Mr Cedric.

  ‘As we passed the study door, Mr Cedric said, “I wonder whether my uncle –” and then he stopped, and said, “No, better let him alone till tomorrow.” We went back to my room where Mrs Cedric was waiting for us. She said, “What’s the matter, Cedric?” and he answered, “Uncle Henry’s found out about Ella. I told Ray he’d better be careful.” She said, “Oh dear!” and after that we changed the conversation.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Cedric sat with me till about eleven-thirty, when they left me to go up to bed. I put my room in order and then came out to make my usual round of the house. When I put out the light in the hall, I noticed that the light was still on in Mr Whipley’s study. It was unusual for him to be up so late, so I went to see if he had fallen asleep over a book.

  ‘I got no answer when I knocked, so I went in, and there he was, lying back in his chair, dead. There were two empty coffee-cups and two empty liqueur glasses on the table and a half-empty flask of crème de menthe. I called Mr Cedric at once, and he told me to leave everything exactly as it was, and to telephone to Dr Baker.’

  The next witness was the parlour-maid, who had waited at table. She said that nothing unusual had happened during the dinner, except that Mr Whipley and his son both seemed rather silent and preoccupied.

  At the end of the meal, Mr Raymond had said, ‘Look here, father, we can’t leave it like this.’ Mr Whipley had said, ‘If you have changed your mind you had better tell me at once,’ and had ordered coffee to be sent into the study. Mr Raymond said, ‘I can’t change my mind, but if you would only listen –’ Mr Whipley did not reply.

  On going into the study with the coffee and the liqueur glasses, the parlour-maid saw Mr Raymond seated at the table. Mr Whipley was standing at the cabinet, with his back turned to his son, apparently getting out the liqueurs.

  He said to Mr Raymond, ‘What will you have?’ Mr Raymond replied, ‘Crème de menthe.’ Mr Whipley said, ‘You would – that’s a woman’s drink.’ The parlour-maid then went out and did not see either gentleman again.

  Mr Egg smiled to himself as he listened. He could hear old Mr Whipley saying it.

  Then he composed his chubby face to a more serious expression, as the coroner proceeded to call Mr Cedric Whipley.

  Mr Cedric corroborated the housekeeper’s story. He said he was aged thirty-six, and was a junior partner in the publishing firm of Freeman & Toplady. He was acquainted with the circumstance of Mr Whipley’s quarrel with his son. Mr Whipley had, in fact, asked him and his wife to the house in order that he might discuss the situation with them. The trouble had to do with Raymond’s engagement to a certain lady.

  Mr Whipley had talked rather impulsively about altering his will, but he (Cedric) had urged him to think the matter over calmly. He had accompanied Raymond upstairs on the night of the tragedy and had understood from him that Mr Whipley had threatened to cut his son off with the proverbial shilling. He had told Raymond to take things easy and the old man would ‘simmer down’. Raymond had taken his interference in bad part.

  After Raymond’s departure he had thought it better to leave the old man to himself. On leaving Mrs Minchin’s room with his wife, he had gone straight upstairs without entering the study. He thought it would be about a quarter of an hour after that, that he had come down in answer to Mrs Minchin’s call, to find his uncle dead.

  He had bent over the body to examine it, and had then thought he detected a faint smell of almonds about the lips. He had smelt the liqueur glasses, but without touching them and, fancying that one of them also smelt of almonds, had instructed Mrs Minchin to leave everything exactly as it was. He had then formed the impression that his uncle might have committed suicide.

  There was a rustle in the little court when Mr Raymond Whipley took his place at the coroner’s table. He was a lean, effeminate and rather unwholesome-looking person of anything between thirty and forty years of age.

  He said that he was ‘a photographic artist’ by profession. He had a studio in Bond Street. His ‘expressionist studies’ of well-known men and women had gained considerable notice in the West End. His father had not approved of his activities. He had old-fashioned prejudices.

  ‘I understand,’ said the coroner, ‘that prussic acid is frequently used in photography.’

  Mr Raymond Whipley smiled winningly at this ominous question.

  ‘Cyanide of potassium,’ he said. ‘Oh, dear, yes. Quite frequently.’

  ‘You are acquainted with its use for photography?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I don’t use it often. But I have some by me, if that’s what you want to know.’

  ‘Thank you. Now can you tell me about this alleged difference of opinion with your father?’

  ‘Yes. He found out that I was engaged to marry a lady connected with the stage. I don’t know who told him. Probably my cousin Cedric. He’ll deny it, of course, but I expect it was jolly old Cedric. My father sent for me and really cut up quite rough about it. Full of diehard prejudices, you know. We had quite a little rumpus before dinner. After dinner, I asked to see him again – thought I could talk him round. But he was really very offensive. I couldn’t stand it. It upset me. So I barged off back to Town.’

  ‘Did he say anything about sending for Mr Whitehead?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Said if I married Ella, he’d cut me out of his will. Quite the stern parent and all that. I said, cut away, then.’

  ‘Did he say in whose favour he thought of making his new will?’

  ‘No, he didn’t say. I expect Cedric would have come in for something. He’s the only other relation, of course.’

  ‘Will you describe very carefully what happened in the study after dinner?’

  ‘We went in, and I sat down at the table near the fire. My father went to the cabinet where he keeps
his spirits and liqueurs and asked me what I would have. I said I would have a crème de menthe, and he sneered at me in his usual pleasant way. He fetched out the flask and told me to help myself, when the girl brought in the glasses, I did so. I had coffee and crème de menthe. He did not drink anything while I was there. He was rather excited and walked up and down, threatening me with this and that.

  ‘After a bit I said, “Your coffee’s getting cold, father.” Then he told me to go to hell, and I said, “Right you are.” He added a very disagreeable remark about my fiancée. I am afraid I then lost my temper and used some – shall we say, unfilial expressions. I went out and banged the door. When I left him he was standing up behind the table, facing me.

  ‘I went to tell Mrs Minchin that I was going back to Town. Cedric started to butt in, but I told him I knew who it was I had to thank for all this trouble, and if he wanted the old man’s money he was welcome to it. That’s all I know about it.’

  ‘If your father drank nothing while you were with him, how do you explain the fact that both the liqueur glasses and both the coffee-cups had been used?’

  ‘I suppose he used his after I had gone. He certainly did not drink anything before I went.’

  ‘And he was alive when you left the study?’

  ‘Very much so.’

  Mr Whitehead, the lawyer, explained the terms of the deceased’s man’s will. It left an income of two thousand a year to Cedric Whipley, with reversion to Raymond, who was the residuary legatee.

  ‘Did deceased ever express an intention of altering his will?’

  ‘He did. On the day before his death he said that he was very much dissatisfied with his son’s conduct, and that unless he could get him to see reason, he would cut him off with an annuity of a thousand a year, and leave the rest of the estate to Mr Cedric Whipley. He disliked Mr Raymond’s fiancée and said he would not have that woman’s children coming in for his money. I tried to dissuade him, but I think he supposed that when the lady heard of his intentions she would break off the engagement. When Mrs Minchin rang me up on the night in question I was convinced in my own mind that he intended to execute a new will.’