“Of course, of course. I knew I knew your face. Mr. Munting, the
novelist. Delighted to make your acquaintance under more pleasant
auspices.”
“I don’t know that they are much more pleasant,” said Waters. “As a
matter of fact, it’s the Harrison case we wanted to see you about.”
“Really? Has something fresh turned up? You know, the other day I had a
letter from the man’s son. Rather an odd letter. He seemed to have got
the idea that there was more in the case than met the eye. Hinted that
we might have found something else—strychnine or something. Quite
ridiculous, of course. There wasn’t the faintest doubt about the cause
of death. Muscarine poisoning. Perfectly straightforward.”
“Just so. By the way, Lubbock, did it by any chance occur to you to give
that muscarine the once-over with the polariscope?”
“With the polariscope? Good heavens, no. Why should it? That wouldn’t
tell one anything. You know all about muscarine. Dextro-rotatory.
Nothing abstruse about it.”
“Oh, quite. But we’ve been having a little discussion, and—as a matter
of fact, Lubbock, it would relieve Mr. Munting’s mind—and
mine—considerably, if you would just check up on that point.”
“Well, if you insist, there’s nothing easier. But what’s the mystery?”
“Nothing at all, probably. Just an extra bit of collateral evidence,
that’s all.”
“You’ve something at the back of your mind, Waters. Can’t I be allowed
to know?”
“I’ll tell you after you’ve done it.”
Sir James Lubbock shook his handsome grey head.
“That’s Waters all over. He’s like Sherlock Holmes. Never can resist a
touch of the dramatic.”
“No,” said Waters. “It’s just native caution. Don’t want to commit
myself and be made to look foolish.”
“Oh, well, come along and we’ll get it over.”
“Aren’t we interrupting your work?” I said. I hope this question was
prompted by politeness, but I think I spoke in a vain hope of delaying
the crisis.
“Not a bit. I’d just finished—was packing up, in fact, when I got your
message.”
We traversed some more corridors and eventually came out into a large
laboratory, faintly lit by a single electric bulb. An attendant was just
locking a cupboard. He turned as he saw us.
“It’s all right, Denis. I’ll see to things. You can trot away home.”
“Very well. Good night, Sir James.”
“Good night.”
Sir James switched on some more lights, flooding the gaunt room with
what Poe has called somewhere a “ghastly and inappropriate splendour.”
Stepping across to a tall cupboard labelled with his name, he unlocked
it with a key that hung upon his watch-chain.
“Here’s my bluebeard’s chamber,” he said, smiling. “Relics of all kinds
of crimes and tragedies. Bottled murders. Bottled suicides. Plenty of
plots for novels here, Mr. Munting.”