nephew’s death at about three o’clock. In less than half-an-hour Loudham
left the house and going to the station took a return ticket to Euston.
He went by the 3.41 and was back in St Abbots at 5.43. That would give
him barely an hour in town for whatever business he transacted. What was
that business?
“The chemist next door supplied the information that although bhurine
only occurs in nature in this one form, it can be isolated from the
other constituents of the fungus and dealt with like any other liquid
poison. But it was a very exceptional commodity, having no commercial
uses and probably not half-a-dozen retail chemists in London had it on
their shelves. He himself had never stocked it and never been asked for
it.
“With this suggestive but by no means convincing evidence,” continued Mr
Carlyle, “the young journalist went to the editor of _The Morning
Indicator_, to which he acted as St Abbots correspondent, and asked him
whether he cared to take up the inquiry as a ‘scoop.’ The local trio had
carried it as far as they were able. The editor of the _Indicator_
decided to look into it and asked me to go on with the case. This is how
my connection with it arose.”
“Oh, that’s how newspapers get to know things?” commented Mrs Bellmark.
“I often wondered.”
“It is one way,” assented her uncle.
“An American development,” contributed Carrados. “It is a little
overdone there.”
“It must be awful,” said the hostess. “And the police methods! In the
plays that come from the States----” The entrance of the friendly
handmaiden, bringing tea, was responsible for this platitudinous wave.
The conversation, in deference to Mr Carlyle’s scruples, marked time
until the door closed on her departure.
“My first business,” continued the inquiry agent, after making himself
useful at the table, “was naturally to discover among the chemists in
London whether a sale of bhurine coincided with Philip Loudham’s hasty
visit. If this line failed, the very foundation of the edifice of
hypothetical guilt gave way; if it succeeded.... Well, it did succeed.
In a street off Caistor Square, Tottenham Court Road--Trenion Street--we
found a man called Lightcraft, who at once remembered making such a
sale. As bhurine is a specified poison, the transaction would have to be
entered, and Lightcraft’s book contained this unassailable piece of
evidence. On Wednesday, the sixth of this month, a man signing his name
as ‘J. D. Williams,’ and giving ‘25 Chalcott Place’ as the address,
purchased four drachms of bhurine. Lightcraft fixed the time as about
half-past four. I went to 25 Chalcott Place and found it to be a small
boarding-house. No one of the name of Williams was known there.”
If Mr Carlyle’s tone of finality went for anything, Philip Loudham was
as good as pinioned. Mrs Bellmark supplied the expected note of
admiration.
“Just fancy!” was the form it took.
“Under the Act the purchaser must be known to the chemist?” suggested
Carrados.
“Yes,” agreed Mr Carlyle; “and there our friend Lightcraft may have let
himself in for a little trouble. But, as he says--and we must admit that
there is something in it--who is to define what ‘known to’ actually
means? A hundred people are known to him as regular or occasional
customers and he has never heard their names; a score of names and
addresses represent to him regular or occasional customers whom he has
never seen. This ‘J. D. Williams’ came in with an easy air and appeared
at all events to know Lightcraft. The face seemed not unfamiliar and
Lightcraft was perhaps a little too facile in assuming that he _did_
know him. Well, well, Max, I can understand the circumstances.
Competition is keen--especially against the private chemist--and one may
give offence and lose a customer. We must all live.”
“Except Charlie Winpole,” occurred to Max Carrados, but he left the
retort unspoken. “Did you happen to come across any inquiry for bhurine
at other shops?” he asked instead.
“No,” replied Carlyle, “no, I did not. It would have been an indication
then, of course, but after finding the actual place the others would
have no significance. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, nothing. Only don’t you think that he was rather lucky to get it
first shot if our St Abbots authority was right?”
“Yes, yes; perhaps he was. But that is of no interest to us now. The
great thing is that a peculiarly sinister and deliberate murder is
brought home to its perpetrator. When you consider the circumstances,
upon my soul, I don’t know that I have ever unmasked a more ingenious
and cold-blooded ruffian.”
“Then he has confessed, uncle?”
“Confessed, my dear Elsie,” said Mr Carlyle, with a tolerant smile, “no,
he has not confessed--men of that type never do. On the contrary, he
asserted his outraged innocence with a considerable show of indignation.
What else was he to do? Then he was asked to account for his movements
between 4.15 and 5 o’clock on that afternoon. Egad, the fellow was so
cocksure of the safety of his plans that he hadn’t even taken the
trouble to think that out. First he denied that he had been away from St
Abbots at all. Then he remembered. He had run down to town in the
afternoon for a few things.--What things?--Well, chiefly
stationery.--Where had he bought it?--At a shop in Oxford Street; he did
not know the name.--Would he be able to point it out?--He thought
so.--Could he identify the attendant?--No, he could not remember him in
the least.--Had he the bill?--No, he never kept small bills.--How much
was the amount?--About three or four shillings.--And the return fare to
Euston was three-and-eight-pence. Was it not rather an extravagant
journey?--He could only say that he did so.--Three or four shillings’
worth of stationery would be a moderate parcel. Did he have it
sent?--No, he took it with him.--Three or four shillings’ worth of
stationery in his pocket?--No, it was in a parcel.--Too large to go in
his pocket?--Yes.--Two independent witnesses would testify that he
carried no parcel. They were townsmen of St Abbots who had travelled
down in the same carriage with him. Did he still persist that he had
been engaged in buying stationery? Then he declined to say anything
further--about the best thing he could do.”
“And Lightcraft identifies him?”
“Um, well, not quite so positively as we might wish. You see, a
fortnight has elapsed. The man who bought the poison wore a
moustache--put on, of course--but Lightcraft will say that there is a
resemblance and the type of the two men the same.”
“I foresee that Mr Lightcraft’s accommodating memory for faces will come
in for rather severe handling in cross-examination,” said Carrados, as
though he rather enjoyed the prospect.
“It will balance Mr Philip Loudham’s unfortunate forgetfulness for
localities, Max,” rejoined Mr Carlyle, delivering the thrust with his
own inimitable aplomb.
Carrados rose with smiling acquiescence to the shrewdness of the
riposte.
“I will be quite generous, Mrs Bellmark,” he observed. “I will take him
away now, with the memory of that lingering in your ears--all my
crushing retorts unspoken.”
“Five-thirty, egad!” exclaimed Mr Carlyle, displaying his imposing gold
watch. “We must--or, at all events, I must. You can think of them in the
car, Max.”
“I do hope you won’t come to blows,” murmured the lady. Then she added:
“When will the real trial come on, Uncle Louis?”
“The Sessions? Oh, early in January.”
“I must remember to look out for it.” Possibly she had some faint idea
of Uncle Louis taking a leading part in the proceedings. At any rate Mr
Carlyle looked pleased, but when adieux had been taken and the door was
closed Mrs Bellmark was left wondering what the enigma of Max Carrados’s
departing smile had been.
Before they had covered many furlongs Mr Carlyle suddenly remembered the
suspected mushrooms and demanded to see them. A very moderate collection
was produced for his inspection. He turned them over sceptically.
“The gills are too pale for true mushrooms, Max,” he declared sapiently.
“Don’t take any risk. Let me drop them out of the window?”
“No.” Carrados’s hand quietly arrested the threatened action. “No; I
have a use for them, Louis, but it is not culinary. You are quite right;
they are rank poison. I only want to study them for ... a case I am
interested in.”
“A case! You don’t mean to say that there is another mushroom poisoner
going?”
“No; it is the same.”
“But--but you said----”
“That I did not know all about it? Quite true. Nor do I yet. But I know
rather more than I did then.”
“Do you mean that Scotland Yard----”
“No, Louis.” Mr Carrados appeared to find something rather amusing in
the situation. “I am for the other side.”
“The other side! And you let me babble out the whole case for the
prosecution! Well, really, Max!”
“But you are out of it now? The Public Prosecutor has taken it up?”
“True, true. But, for all that, I feel devilishly bad.”
“Then I will give you the whole case for the defence and so we shall be
quits. In fact I am relying on you to help me with it.”
“With the defence? I--after supplying the evidence that the Public
Prosecutor is acting on?”
“Why not? You don’t want to hang Philip Loudham--especially if he
happens to be innocent--do you?”
“I don’t want to hang anyone,” protested Mr Carlyle. “At least--not--as
a private individual.”
“Quite so. Well, suppose you and I between ourselves find out the actual
facts of the case and decide what is to be done. The more usual course
is for the prosecution to exaggerate all that tells against the accused
and to contradict everything in his favour; for the defence to advance
fictitious evidence of innocence and to lie roundly on everything that
endangers his client; while on both sides witnesses are piled up to
bemuse the jury into accepting the desired version. That does not always
make for impartiality or for justice.... Now you and I are two
reasonable men, Louis----”
“I hope so,” admitted Mr Carlyle. “I hope so.”
“You can give away the case for the prosecution and I will expose the
weakness of the defence, so, between us, we may arrive at the truth.”
“It strikes me as a deuced irregular proceeding. But I am curious to
hear the defence all the same.”
“You are welcome to all of it that there yet is. An alibi, of course.”
“Ah!” commented Mr Carlyle with expression.
“So recently as yesterday a lady came hurriedly, and with a certain
amount of secrecy, to see me. She came on the strength of the
introduction afforded by a mutual acquaintanceship with Fromow, the
Greek professor. When we were alone she asked me, besought me, in fact,
to tell her what to do. A few hours before Mrs Dupreen had rushed across
London to her with the tale of young Loudham’s arrest. Then out came the
whole story. This woman--well, her name is Guestling, Louis--lives a
little way down in Surrey and is married. Her husband, according to her
own account--and I have certainly heard a hint about it elsewhere--leads
her a studiedly outrageous existence; an admired silken-mannered
gentleman in society, a tolerable pole-cat at home, one infers. About a
year ago Mrs Guestling made the acquaintance of Loudham, who was staying
in that neighbourhood painting his pretty unsaleable country lanes and
golden sunsets. The inevitable, or, to accept the lady’s protestations,
half the inevitable, followed. Guestling, who adds an insatiable
jealousy to his other domestic virtues, vetoed the new acquaintance and
thenceforward the two met hurriedly and furtively in town. Had either of
them any money they might have snatched their destinies from the hands
of Fate and gone off together, but she has nothing and he has nothing
and both, I suppose, are poor weak mortals when it comes to doing
anything courageous and outright in this censorious world. So they
drifted, drifting but not yet wholly wrecked.”
“A formidable incentive for a weak and desperate man to secure a fortune
by hook or crook, Max,” said Carlyle drily.
“That is the motive that I wish to make you a present of. But, as you
will insist on your side, it is also a motive for a weak and foolish
couple to steal every brief opportunity of a secret meeting. On
Wednesday, the sixth, the lady was returning home from a visit to some
friends in the Midlands. She saw in the occasion an opportunity, and on
the morning of the sixth a message appeared in the personal column of
_The Daily Telegraph_--their usual channel of communication--making an
assignation. That much can be established by the irrefutable evidence of
the newspaper. Philip Loudham kept the appointment and for half-an-hour
this miserably happy pair sat holding each other’s hands in a dreary
deserted waiting-room of Bishop’s Road Station. That half-hour was from
4.15 to 4.45. Then Loudham saw Mrs Guestling into Praed Street Station
for Victoria, returned to Euston and just caught the 5.7 St Abbots.”
“Can this be corroborated--especially as regards the precise time they
were together?”
“Not a word of it. They chose the waiting-room at Bishop’s Road for
seclusion and apparently they got it. Not a soul even looked in while
they were there.”
“Then, by Jupiter, Max,” exclaimed Mr Carlyle with emotion, “you have
hanged your client!”
Carrados could not restrain a smile at his friend’s tragic note of
triumph.
“Well, let us examine the rope,” he said with his usual
imperturbability.
“Here it is.” It was a trivial enough shred of evidence that the inquiry
agent took from his pocket-book and put into the expectant hand; in
point of fact, the salmon-coloured ticket of a “London General” motor
omnibus.
“Royal Oak--the stage nearest Paddington--to Tottenham Court Road--the
point nearest Trenion Street,” he added significantly.
“Yes,” acquiesced Carrados, taking it.
“The man who bought the bhurine dropped that ticket on the floor of the
shop. He left the door open and Lightcraft followed him to close it.
That is how he came to pick the ticket up, and he remembers that it was
not there before. Then he threw it into a waste-paper basket underneath
the counter, and that is where we found it when I called on him.”
“Mr Lightcraft’s memory fascinates me, Louis,” was the blind man’s
unruffled comment. “Let us drop in and have a chat with him?”
“Do you really think that there is anything more to be got in that
quarter?” queried Carlyle dubiously. “I have turned him inside out, you
may be sure.”
“True; but we approach Mr Lightcraft from different angles. You were
looking for evidence to prove young Loudham guilty. I am looking for
evidence to prove him innocent.”
“Very well, Max,” acquiesced his companion. “Only don’t blame me if it
turns out as deuced awkward for your man as Mrs G. has done. Shall I
tell you what a counsel may be expected to put to the jury as the
explanation of that lady’s evidence?”
“No, thanks,” said Carrados half sleepily from his corner. “I know. I
told her so.”
“Oh, very well. I needn’t inform you, then,” and debarred of that
satisfaction Mr Carlyle withdrew himself into his own corner, where he
nursed an indulgent annoyance against the occasional perversity of Max
Carrados until the stopping of the car and the variegated attractions
displayed in a shop window told him where they were.
Mr Lightcraft made no pretence of being glad to see his visitors. For
some time he declined to open his mouth at all on the subject that had
brought them there, repeating with parrot-like obstinacy to every remark
on their part, “The matter is _sub judice_. I am unable to say anything
further,” until Mr Carlyle longed to box his ears and bring him to his
senses. The ears happened to be rather prominent, for they glowed with
sensitiveness, and the chemist was otherwise a lank and pallid man,
whose transparent ivory skin and well-defined moustache gave him
something of the appearance of a waxwork.
“At all events,” interposed Carrados, when his friend turned from the
maddening reiteration in despair, “you don’t mind telling me a few
things about bhurine--apart from this particular connection?”
“I am very busy,” and Mr Lightcraft, with his back towards the shop, did
something superfluous among the bottles on a shelf.
“I imagine that the time of Mr Max Carrados, of whom even you may
possibly have heard, is as valuable as yours, my good friend,” put in Mr
Carlyle with scandalised dignity.
“Mr Carrados?” Lightcraft turned and regarded the blind man with
interest. “I did not know. But you must recognise the unenviable
position in which I am put by this gentleman’s interference.”
“It is his profession, you know,” said Carrados mildly, “and, in any
case, it would certainly have been someone. Why not help me to get you
out of the position?”
“How is that possible?”
“If the case against Philip Loudham breaks down and he is discharged at
the next hearing you would not be called upon further.”
“That would certainly be a mitigation. But why should it break down?”
“Suppose you let me try the taste of bhurine,” suggested Carrados. “You
have some left?”
“Max, Max!” cried Mr Carlyle’s warning voice, “aren’t you aware that the
stuff is a deadly poison? One-fifth of a grain----”
“Mr Lightcraft will know how to administer it.”
Apparently Mr Lightcraft did. He filled a graduated measure with cold
water, dipped a slender glass rod into a bottle that was not kept on the
shelves, and with it stirred the water. Then into another vessel of
water he dropped a single spot of the dilution.
“One in a hundred and twenty-five thousand, Mr Carrados,” he said,
offering him the mixture.
Carrados just touched the liquid with his lips, considered the
impression and then wiped his mouth.
“Now for the smell.”
The unstoppered bottle was handed to him and he took in its exhalation.
“Stewed mushrooms!” was his comment. “What is it used for, Mr
Lightcraft?”
“Nothing that I know of.”
“But your customer must have stated an application.”
The pallid chemist flushed a little at the recollection of that
incident.
“Yes,” he conceded. “There is a good deal about the whole business that
is still a mystery to me. The man came in shortly after I had lit up and
nodded familiarly as he said: ‘Good-evening, Mr Lightcraft.’ I naturally
assumed that he was someone whom I could not quite place. ‘I want
another half-pound of nitre,’ he said, and I served him. Had he bought
nitre before, I have since tried to recall and I cannot. It is a common
enough article and I sell it every day. I have a poor memory for faces I
am willing to admit. It has hampered me in business many a time. We
chatted about nothing in particular as I did up the parcel. After he had
paid and turned to go he looked back again. ‘By the way, do you happen
to have any bhurine?’ he inquired. Unfortunately I had a few ounces. ‘Of
course you know its nature?’ I cautioned him. ‘May I ask what you
require it for?’ He nodded and held up the parcel of nitre he had in his
hand. ‘The same thing,’ he replied, ‘taxidermy.’ Then I supplied him
with half-an-ounce.”
“As a matter of fact, is it used in taxidermy?”
“It does not seem to be. I have made inquiry and no one knows of it.
Nitre is largely used, and some of the dangerous poisons--arsenic and
mercuric chloride, for instance--but not this. No, it was a subterfuge.”
“Now the poison book, if you please.”
Mr Lightcraft produced it without demur and the blind man ran his finger
along the indicated line.
“Yes; this is quite satisfactory. Is it a fact, Mr Lightcraft, that not
half-a-dozen chemists in London stock this particular substance? We are
told that.”
“I can quite believe it. I certainly don’t know of another.”
“Strangely enough, your customer of the sixth seems to have come
straight here. Do you issue a price-list?”
“Only a localised one of certain photographic goods. Bhurine is not
included.”
“You can suggest no reason why Mr Phillip Loudham should be inspired to
presume that he would be able to procure this unusual drug from you? You
have never corresponded with him nor come across his name or address
before?”
“No. As far as I can recollect, I know nothing whatever of him.”
“Then as yet you must assume that it was pure chance. By the way, Mr
Lightcraft, how does it come that _you_ stock this rare poison, which
has no commercial use and for which there is no demand?”
The chemist permitted himself to smile at the blunt terms of the
inquiry.
“In the ordinary way I don’t stock it,” he replied. “This is a small
quantity which I had over from my own use.”
“Your own use? Oh, then it has a use after all?”
“No, scarcely that. Some time ago it leaked out in a corner of the
photographic world that a great revolution in colour photography was on
the point of realisation by the use of bhurine in one of the processes.
I, among others, at once took it up. Unfortunately it was another
instance of a discovery that is correct in theory breaking down in
practice. Nothing came of it.”
“Dear, dear me,” said Carrados softly, with sympathetic understanding in
his voice; “what a pity. You are interested in photography, Mr
Lightcraft?”
“It is the hobby of my life, sir. Of course most chemists dabble in it
as a part of their business, but I devote all my spare time to
experimenting. Colour photography in particular.”
“Colour photography; yes. It has a great future. This bhurine process--I
suppose it would have been of considerable financial value if it had
worked?”
Mr Lightcraft laughed quietly and rubbed his hands together. For the
moment he had forgotten Loudham and the annoying case and lived in his
enthusiasm.
“I should rather say it would, Mr Carrados,” he replied. “It would have
been the most epoch-marking thing since Gaudin produced the first dry
plate in ’54. Consider it--the elaborate processes of Dyndale, Eiloff
and Jupp reduced to the simplicity of a single contact print giving the
entire range of chromatic variation. Financially it will scarcely bear
thinking about by artificial light.”
“Was it widely taken up?” asked Carrados.
“The bhurine idea?”
“Yes. You spoke of the secret leaking out. Were many in the know?”
“Not at all. The group of initiates was only a small one and I should
imagine that, on reflection, every man kept it to himself. It certainly
never became public. Then when the theory was definitely exploded, of
course no one took any further interest in it.”
“Were all who were working on the same lines known to you, Mr
Lightcraft?”
“Well, yes; more or less I suppose they would be,” said the chemist
thoughtfully. “You see, the man who stumbled on the formula was a member
of the Iris--a society of those interested in this subject, of which I
was the secretary--and I don’t think it ever got beyond the committee.”
“How long ago was this?”
“A year--eighteen months. It led to unpleasantness and broke up the
society.”
“Suppose it happened to come to your knowledge that one of the original
circle was quietly pursuing his experiments on the same lines with
bhurine--what should you infer from it?”
Mr Lightcraft considered. Then he regarded Carrados with a sharp, almost
a startled, glance and then he fell to biting his nails in perplexed
uncertainty.
“It would depend on who it was,” he replied.
“Was there by any chance one who was unknown to you by sight but whose
address you were familiar with?”
“Paulden!” exclaimed Mr Lightcraft. “Paulden, by heaven! I do believe
you’re right. He was the ablest of the lot and he never came to the
meetings--a corresponding member. Southem, the original man who struck
the idea, knew Paulden and told him of it. Southem was an impractical
genius who would never be able to make anything work. Paulden--yes,
Paulden it was who finally persuaded Southem that there was nothing in
it. He sent a report to the same effect to be read at one of the
meetings. So Paulden is taking up bhurine again----”
“Where does he live?” inquired Carrados.
“Ivor House, Wilmington Lane, Enstead. As secretary I have written there
a score of times.”
“It is on the Great Western--Paddington,” commented the blind man.
“Still, can you get out the addresses of the others in the know, Mr
Lightcraft?”
“Certainly, certainly. I have the book of membership. But I am convinced
now that Paulden was the man. I believe that I did actually see him once
some years ago, but he has grown a moustache since.”
“If you had been convinced of that a few days ago it would have saved us
some awkwardness,” volunteered Mr Carlyle with a little dignified
asperity.