The Search Warrant
The consciousness of the horrid notoriety that had already attached
itself to us was brought home to me once more when the taxi drew up at
the house in Hilborough Square. I stepped out first to pay the driver,
and Barbara following, with the latch-key ready in her hand, walked
swiftly to the door, looking neither to the right nor left, opened it
and disappeared into the hall; while the other two, lurking in the cab
until the door was open, then darted across the pavement, entered and
disappeared also. Nor was their hasty retreat unjustified. Lingering
doggedly and looking about me with a sort of resentful defiance, I
found myself a focus of observation. In the adjoining houses, not a
window appeared to be unoccupied. The usually vacant foot-way was
populous with loiterers whose interest in me and in the ill-omened
house was undissembled; while raucous voices, strange to those quiet
precincts, told me that the astute news-vendors had scented and
exploited a likely market.
With ill-assumed indifference I entered the house and shut the
door—perhaps rather noisily; and was about to enter the dining-room
when I heard hurried steps descending the stairs and paused to look
up. It was the woman—the cook’s sister, I think—who had been left to
take care of the house while the servants were absent; and something
of eagerness and excitement in her manner caused me to walk to the
foot of the stairs to meet her.
“Is anything amiss?” I asked in a low voice as she neared the bottom
of the flight.
She held up a warning finger, and coming close to me, whispered
hoarsely:
“There’s two gentlemen upstairs, Sir, leastways they look like
gentlemen, but they are really policemen.”
“What are they doing upstairs?” I asked.
“Just walking through the rooms and looking about. They came about a
quarter of an hour ago, and when I let them in they said they were
police officers and that they had come to search the premises.”
“Did they say anything about a warrant?”
“Oh, yes, Sir. I forgot about that. One of them showed me a paper and
said it was a search warrant. So of course I couldn’t do anything. And
then they started going through the house with their note-books like
auctioneers getting ready for a sale.”
“I will go up and see them,” said I; “and meanwhile you had better let
Mrs. Monkhouse know. Where did you leave them?”
“In the large back bedroom on the first floor,” she replied. “I think
it was Mr. Monkhouse’s.”
On this I began quickly to ascend the stairs, struggling to control a
feeling of resentment which, though natural enough, I knew to be quite
unreasonable. Making my way direct to the dead man’s room, I entered
and found two tall men standing before an open cupboard. They turned
on hearing me enter and the elder of them drew a large wallet from his
pocket.
“Mr. Mayfield, I think, Sir,” said he. “I am Detective Superintendent
Miller and this is Detective-Sergeant Cope. Here is my card and this
is the search warrant, if you wish to see it.”
I glanced at the document and returning it to him asked: “Wouldn’t it
have been more in order if you had waited to show the warrant to Mrs.
Monkhouse before beginning your search?”
“That is what we have done,” he replied, suavely. “We have disturbed
nothing yet. We have just been making a preliminary inspection. Of
course,” he continued, “I understand how unpleasant this search is for
Mrs. Monkhouse and the rest of your friends, but you, Sir, as a lawyer
will realize the position. That poor gentleman was poisoned with
arsenic in this house. Somebody in this house had arsenic in his or
her possession and we have got to see if any traces of it are left.
After all, you know, Sir, we are acting in the interests of everybody
but the murderer.”
This was so obviously true that it left me nothing to say. Nor was
there any opportunity, for, as the superintendent concluded, Barbara
entered the room. I looked at her a little anxiously as I briefly
explained the situation. But there was no occasion. Pale and sombre of
face, she was nevertheless perfectly calm and self-possessed and
greeted the two officers without a trace of resentment; indeed, when
the superintendent was disposed to be apologetic, she cut him short by
exclaiming energetically: “But, surely, who should be more anxious to
assist you than I? It is true that I find it incredible that this
horrible crime could have been perpetrated by any member of my
household. But it was perpetrated by somebody. And if, either here or
elsewhere, I can help you in any way to drag that wretch out into the
light of day, I am at your service, no matter who the criminal may be.
Do you wish any one to attend you in your search?”
“I think, Madam, it would be well if you were present, and perhaps Mr.
Mayfield. If we want any of the others, we can send for them. Where
are they now?”
“Miss Norris and Mr. Wallingford are in the dining room. The servants
have just come in and I think have gone to the kitchen or their
sitting room.”
“Then,” said Miller, “we had better begin with the dining room.”
We went down the stairs, preceded by Barbara, who opened the dining
room door and introduced the visitors to the two inmates in tones as
quiet and matter-of-fact as if she were announcing the arrival of the
gas-fitter or the upholsterer. I was sorry that the other two had not
been warned, for the announcement took them both by surprise and they
were in no condition for surprises of this rather alarming kind. At
the word “search,” Madeline started up with a smothered exclamation
and then sat down again, trembling and pale as death; while as for
Wallingford, if the two officers had come to pinion him and lead him
forth to the gallows, he could not have looked more appalled.
Our visitors were scrupulously polite, but they were also keenly
observant and I could see that each had made a mental note of the
effect of their arrival. But, of course, they made no outward sign of
interest in any of us but proceeded stolidly with their business; and
I noticed that, before proceeding to a detailed inspection, they
opened their note-books and glanced through what was probably a rough
inventory, to see that nothing had been moved in the interval since
their preliminary inspection.
The examination of the dining room was, however, rather perfunctory.
It contained nothing that appeared to interest them, and after going
through the contents of the sideboard cupboards methodically, the
superintendent turned a leaf of his note-book and said:
“I think that will do, Madam. Perhaps we had better take the library
next. Who keeps the keys of the bureau and the cupboard?”
“Mr. Wallingford has charge of the library,” replied Barbara. “Will
you give the superintendent your keys, Tony?”
“There’s no need for that,” said Miller. “If Mr. Wallingford will come
with us, he can unlock the drawers and cupboard and tell us anything
that we want to know about the contents.”
Wallingford rose with a certain alacrity and followed us into the
library, which adjoined the dining room. Here the two officers again
consulted their note-books, and having satisfied themselves that the
room was as they had left it, began a detailed survey, watched closely
and with evident anxiety by Wallingford. They began with a cupboard,
or small armoire, which formed the upper member of a large,
old-fashioned bureau. Complying with Miller’s polite request that it
might be unlocked, Wallingford produced a bunch of keys, and,
selecting from it, after much nervous fumbling, a small key,
endeavoured to insert it into the keyhole; but his hand was in such a
palsied condition that he was unable to introduce it.
“Shall I have a try, Sir?” the superintendent suggested, patiently,
adding with a smile, “I don’t smoke quite so many cigarettes as you
seem to.”
His efforts, however, also failed, for the evident reason that it was
the wrong key. Thereupon he looked quickly through the bunch, picked
out another key and had the cupboard open in a twinkling, revealing a
set of shelves crammed with a disorderly litter of cardboard boxes,
empty ink-bottles, bundles of letters and papers and the miscellaneous
rubbish that accumulates in the receptacles of a thoroughly untidy
man. The superintendent went through the collection methodically,
emptying the shelves, one at a time, on to the flap of the bureau,
where he and the sergeant sorted the various articles and examining
each, returned it to the shelf. It was a tedious proceeding and, so
far as I could judge, unproductive, for, when all the shelves had been
looked through and every article separately inspected, nothing was
brought to light save an empty foolscap envelope which had apparently
once contained a small box and was addressed to Wallingford, and two
pieces of what looked like chemist’s wrapping-paper, the creases in
which showed that they had been small packets. These were not returned
to the shelves, but, without comment, enclosed in a large envelope on
which the superintendent scribbled a few words with a pencil and which
was then consigned to a large handbag that the sergeant had brought in
with him from the hall.
The large drawers of the bureau were next examined. Like the shelves,
they were filled with a horrible accumulation of odds and ends which
had evidently been stuffed into them to get them out of the way. From
this collection nothing was obtained which interested the officers,
who next turned their attention to the small drawers and pigeonholes
at the back of the flap. These, however, contained nothing but
stationery and a number of letters, bills and other papers, which the
two officers glanced through and replaced. When all the small drawers
and pigeonholes had been examined, the superintendent stood up, fixing
a thoughtful glance at the middle of the range of drawers; and I
waited expectantly for the next development. Like many old bureaus,
this one had as a central feature a nest of four very small drawers
enclosed by a door. I knew the arrangement very well, and so,
apparently, did the superintendent; for, once more opening the top
drawer, he pulled it right out and laid it on the writing flap. Then,
producing from his pocket a folding foot-rule, he thrust it into one
of the pigeonholes, showing a depth of eight and a half inches, and
then into the case of the little drawer, which proved to be only a
fraction over five inches deep.
“There is something more here than meets the eye,” he remarked
pleasantly. “Do you know what is at the back of those drawers, Mr.
Wallingford?”
The unfortunate secretary, who had been watching the officer’s
proceedings with a look of consternation, did not reply for a few
moments, but remained staring wildly at the aperture from which the
drawer had been taken out.
“At the back?” he stammered, at length. “No, I can’t say that I do. It
isn’t my bureau, you know. I only had the use of it.”
“I see,” said Miller. “Well, I expect we can soon find out.”
He drew out a second drawer and, grasping the partition between the
two, gave a gentle pull, when the whole nest slid easily forward and
came right out of its case. Miller laid it on the writing flap, and,
turning it round, displayed a sliding lid at the back, which he drew
up; when there came into view a set of four little drawers similar to
those in front but furnished with leather tabs instead of handles.
Miller drew out the top drawer and a sudden change in the expression
on his face told me that he had lighted on something that seemed to
him significant.
“Now I wonder what this is?” said he, taking from the drawer a small
white-paper packet. “Feels like some sort of powder. You say you don’t
know anything about it, Mr. Wallingford?”
Wallingford shook his head but made no further reply, whereupon the
superintendent laid the packet on the flap and very carefully unfolded
the ends—it had already been opened—when it was seen that the contents
consisted of some two or three teaspoonfuls of a fine, white powder.
“Well,” said Miller, “we shall have to find out what it is. Will you
pass me that bit of sealing-wax, Sergeant?”
He reclosed the packet with the greatest care and having sealed both
the ends with his signet-ring, enclosed it in an envelope and put it
into his inside breast pocket. Then he returned to the little nest of
drawers. The second drawer was empty, but on pulling out the third, he
uttered an exclamation.
“Well, now! Look at that! Somebody seems to have been fond of physic.
And there’s no doubt as to what this is. Morphine hydrochlor, a
quarter of a grain.”
As he spoke, he took out of the drawer a little bottle filled with
tiny white discs or tablets and bearing on the label the inscription
which the superintendent had read out. Wallingford gazed at it with a
foolish expression of surprise as Miller held it up for our—and
particularly Wallingford’s—inspection; and Barbara, I noticed, cast at
the latter a side-long, inscrutable glance which I sought in vain to
interpret.
“Morphine doesn’t seem much to the point,” Miller remarked as he
wrapped the little bottle in paper and bestowed it in his inner
pocket, “but, of course, we have only got the evidence of the label.
It may turn out to be something else, when the chemical gentlemen come
to test it.”
With this he grasped the tab of the bottom drawer and drew the latter
out; and in a moment his face hardened. Very deliberately, he picked
out a small, oblong envelope, which appeared once to have contained a
box or hard packet, but was now empty. It had evidently come through
the post and was addressed in a legible business hand to “A.
Wallingford Esq., 16 Hilborough Square.” Silently the superintendent
held it out for us all to see, as he fixed a stern look on
Wallingford. “You observe, Sir,” he said, at length, “that the
post-mark is dated the 20th of August; only about a month ago. What
have you to say about it?”
“Nothing,” was the sullen reply. “What comes to me by post is my
affair. I am not accountable to you or anybody else.”
For a moment, the superintendent’s face took on a very ugly
expression. But he seemed to be a wise man and not unkindly, for he
quickly controlled his irritation and rejoined without a trace of
anger, though gravely enough:
“Be advised by me, Mr. Wallingford, and don’t make trouble for
yourself. Let me remind you what the position is. In this house a man
has died from arsenic poisoning. The police will have to find out how
that happened and if any one is open to the suspicion of having
poisoned him. I have come here to-day for that purpose with full
authority to search this house. In the course of my search I have
asked you for certain information, and you have made a number of false
statements. Believe me, Sir, that is a very dangerous thing to do. It
inevitably raises the question why those false statements should have
been made. Now, I am going to ask you one or two questions. You are
not bound to answer them, but you will be well advised to hold nothing
back, and, above all, to say nothing that is not true. To begin with
that packet of powder. What do you say that packet contains?”
Wallingford, who characteristically, was now completely cowed by the
superintendent’s thinly-veiled threats, hung his head for a moment and
then replied, almost inaudibly, “Cocaine.”
“What were you going to do with cocaine?” Miller asked.
“I was going to take a little of it for my health.”
The superintendent smiled faintly as he demanded:
“And the morphine tablets?”
“I had thought of taking one of them occasionally to—er—to steady my
nerves.”
Miller nodded, and casting a swift glance at the sergeant, asked:
“And the packet that was in this envelope: what did that contain?”
Wallingford hesitated and was so obviously searching for a plausible
lie that Miller interposed, persuasively: “Better tell the truth and
not make trouble”; whereupon Wallingford replied in a barely audible
mumble that the packet had contained a very small quantity of cocaine.
“What has become of that cocaine?” the superintendent asked.
“I took part of it; the rest got spilt and lost.”
Miller nodded rather dubiously at this reply and then asked:
“Where did you get this cocaine and the morphine?”
Wallingford hesitated for some time and at length, plucking up a
little courage again, replied:
“I would rather not answer that question. It really has nothing to do
with your search. You are looking for arsenic.”
Miller reflected for a few moments and then rejoined, quietly:
“That isn’t quite correct, Mr. Wallingford. I am looking for anything
that may throw light on the death of Mr. Monkhouse. But I don’t want
to press you unduly, only I would point out that you could not have
come by these drugs lawfully. You are not a doctor or a chemist.
Whoever supplied you with them was acting illegally and you have been
a party to an illegal transaction in obtaining them. However, if you
refuse to disclose the names of the persons who supplied them, we will
let the matter pass, at least for the present; but I remind you that
you have had these drugs in your possession and that you may be, and
probably will be compelled to give an account of the way in which you
obtained them.”
With that he pocketed the envelope, closed the drawers and turned to
make a survey of the room. There was very little in it, however, for
the bureau and its surmounting cupboard were the only receptacles in
which anything could be concealed, the whole of the walls being
occupied by open book-shelves about seven feet high. But even these
the superintendent was not prepared to take at their face value.
First, he stood on a chair and ran his eye slowly along the tops of
all the shelves; then he made a leisurely tour of the room, closely
inspecting each row of books, now and again taking one out or pushing
one in against the back of the shelves. A set of box-files was
examined in detail, each one being opened to ascertain that it
contained nothing but papers, and even one or two obvious portfolios
were taken out and inspected. Nothing noteworthy, however, was brought
to light by this rigorous search until the tour of inspection was
nearly completed. The superintendent was, in fact, approaching the
door when his attention was attracted by a row of books which seemed
to be unduly near the front edge of the shelf. Opposite this he halted
and began pushing the books back, one at a time. Suddenly I noticed
that one of the books, on being pushed, slid back about half an inch
and stopped as if there were something behind it. And there was. When
the superintendent grasped the book and drew it out, there came into
view, standing against the back of the shelf, a smallish bottle,
apparently empty, and bearing a white label.
“Queer place to keep a bottle,” Miller remarked, adding, with a smile,
“unless it were a whiskey bottle, which it isn’t.” He drew it out, and
after looking at it suspiciously and holding it up to the light, took
out the cork and sniffed at it. “Well,” he continued, “it is an empty
bottle and it is labelled ‘Benzine.’ Do you know anything about it,
Mr. Wallingford?”
“No, I don’t,” was the reply. “I don’t use benzine, and if I did I
should not keep it on a book-shelf. But I don’t see that it matters
much. There isn’t any harm in benzine, is there?”
“Probably not,” said Miller; “but, you see, the label doesn’t agree
with the smell. What do you say, Mrs. Monkhouse?”
He once more drew out the cork and held the bottle towards her. She
took it from him and having smelled at it, replied promptly:
“It smells to me like lavender. Possibly the bottle has had lavender
water in it, though I shouldn’t, myself, have chosen a benzine bottle
to keep a perfume in.”
“I don’t think it was lavender water,” said the superintendent. “That,
I think, is nearly colourless. But the liquid that was in this bottle
was red. As I hold it up to the light, you can see a little ring of
red round the edge of the bottom. I daresay the chemists will be able
to tell us what was in the bottle, but the question now is, who put it
there? You are sure you can’t tell us anything about it, Mr.
Wallingford?”
“I have never seen it before, I assure you,” the latter protested
almost tearfully. “I know nothing about it, whatsoever. That is the
truth, Superintendent; I swear to God it is.”
“Very well, Sir,” said Miller, writing a brief note on the label and
making an entry in his note-book. “Perhaps it is of no importance
after all. But we shall see. I think we have finished this room.
Perhaps, Sergeant, you might take a look at the drawing room while I
go through Mr. Monkhouse’s room. It will save time. And I needn’t
trouble you any more just at present, Mr. Wallingford.”
The secretary retired, somewhat reluctantly, to the dining room while
Barbara led the way to the first floor. As we entered the room in
which that unwitnessed tragedy had been enacted in the dead of the
night, I looked about me with a sort of shuddering interest. The bed
had been stripped, but otherwise nothing seemed to be changed since I
had seen the room but a few days ago when it was still occupied by its
dread tenant. The bedside table still bore its pathetic furnishings;
the water-bottle, the little decanter, the books, the candle-box, the
burnt-out lamp, the watch—though that ticked no longer, but seemed,
with its motionless hands, to echo the awesome stillness that pervaded
that ill-omened room.
As the superintendent carried out his methodical search, joined
presently by the sergeant, Barbara came and stood by me with her eyes
fixed gloomily on the table.
“Were you thinking of him, Rupert?” she whispered. “Were you thinking
of that awful night when he lay here, dying, all alone, and I— Oh! the
thought of it will haunt me every day of my life until my time comes,
too, however far off that may be.”
I was about to make some reply, as consolatory as might be, when the
superintendent announced that he had finished and asked that
Wallingford might be sent for to be present at the examination of his
room. I went down to deliver the message, and, as it would have
appeared intrusive for me to accompany him, I stayed in the dining
room with Madeline, who, though she had recovered from the shock of
the detectives’ arrival, was still pale and agitated.
“Poor Tony seemed dreadfully upset when he came back just now,” she
said. “What was it that happened in the library?”
“Nothing very much,” I answered. “The superintendent unearthed his
little stock of dope; which, of course, was unpleasant for him, but it
would not have mattered if he had not been fool enough to lie about
it. That was a fatal thing to do, under the circumstances.”
As Wallingford seemed not to have said anything about the bottle, I
made no reference to it, but endeavoured to distract her attention
from what was going on in the house by talking of other matters. Nor
was it at all difficult; for the truth is that we all, with one
accord, avoided any reference to the horrible fact which was staring
us in the face, and of which we must all have been fully conscious. So
we continued a somewhat banal conversation, punctuated by pauses in
which our thoughts stole secretly back to the hideous realities,
until, at length, Wallingford returned, pale and scowling, and flung
himself into an arm-chair. Madeline looked at him inquiringly, but as
he offered no remark but sat in gloomy silence, smoking furiously, she
asked him no questions, nor did I.
A minute or two later, Barbara came into the room, quietly and with an
air of calm self-possession that was quite soothing in the midst of
the general emotional tension.
“Do you mind coming up, Madeline?” she said. “They are examining your
room and they want you to unlock the cupboard. You have your keys
about you, I suppose?”
“Yes,” Madeline replied, rising and taking from her pocket a little
key-wallet. “That is the key. Will you take it up to them?”
“I think you had better come up yourself,” Barbara replied. “It is
very unpleasant but, of course, they have to go through the
formalities, and we must not appear unwilling to help them.”
“No, of course,” said Madeline. “Then I will come with you, but I
should like Rupert to come, too, if he doesn’t mind. Will you?” she
asked, looking at me appealingly. “Those policemen make me feel so
nervous.”
Of course, I assented at once; and as Wallingford, muttering “Damned
impertinence! Infernal indignity!” rose to open the door for us, we
passed out and took our way upstairs.
“I am sorry to trouble you, Miss Norris,” said Miller, in a suave
tone, as we entered, “but we must see everything if only to be able to
say that we have. Would you be so kind as to unlock this cupboard?”
He indicated a narrow cupboard which occupied one of the recesses by
the chimney-breast, and Madeline at once inserted the key and threw
open the door. The interior was then seen to be occupied by shelves,
of which the lower ones were filled, tidily enough, with an assortment
of miscellaneous articles—shoes, shoe-trees, brushes, leather bags,
cardboard boxes, note-books and other “oddments”—while the top shelf
seemed to have been used as a repository for jars, pots and bottles,
of which several appeared to be empty. It was this shelf which seemed
to attract the superintendent’s attention and he began operations by
handing out its various contents to the sergeant, who set them down on
a table in orderly rows. When they were all set out and the
superintendent had inspected narrowly and swept his hand over the
empty shelf, the examination of the jars and bottles began.
The procedure was very methodical and thorough. First, the sergeant
picked up a bottle or jar, looked it over carefully read the label if
there was one, uncovered or uncorked it, smelled it and passed it to
the superintendent, who, when he had made a similar inspection, put it
down at the opposite end of the table.
“Can you tell us what this is?” Miller asked, holding out a bottle
filled with a thickish, nearly black liquid.
“That is caramel,” Madeline replied. “I use it in my cookery classes
and for cooking at home, too.”
The superintendent regarded the bottle a little dubiously but set it
down at the end of the table without comment. Presently he received
from the sergeant a glass jar filled with a brownish powder.
“There is no label on this,” he remarked, exhibiting it to Madeline.
“No,” she replied. “It is turmeric. That also is used in my classes;
and that other is powdered saffron.”
“I wonder you don’t label them,” said Miller. “It would be easy for a
mistake to occur with all these unlabelled bottles.”
“Yes,” she admitted, “they ought to be labelled. But I know what each
of them is, and they are all pretty harmless. Most of them are
materials that are used in cookery demonstrations, but that one that
you have now is French chalk, and the one the sergeant has is
pumice-powder.”
“H’m,” grunted Miller, dipping his finger into the former and rubbing
it on his thumb; “what would happen if you thickened a soup with
French chalk or pumice-powder? Not very good for the digestion, I
should think.”
“No, I suppose not,” Madeline agreed, with the ghost of a smile on her
pale face. “I must label them in future.”
During this colloquy I had been rapidly casting my eye over the
collection that still awaited examination, and my attention had been
almost at once arrested by an empty bottle near the end of the row. It
looked to me like the exact counterpart of the bottle which had been
found in the library; a cylindrical bottle of about the capacity of
half a pint, or rather less, and like the other, labelled in printed
characters “Benzine.”
But mine was not the only eye that had observed it. Presently, I saw
the sergeant pick it up—out of its turn—scrutinize it suspiciously,
hold it up to the light, take out the cork and smell both it and the
bottle, and then, directing the latter, telescope-fashion, towards the
window, inspect the bottom by peering in through the mouth. Finally,
he clapped in the cork with some emphasis, and with a glance full of
meaning handed the bottle to the superintendent.
The latter repeated the procedure in even more detail. When he had
finished, he turned to Madeline with a distinctly inquisitorial air.
“This bottle, Miss Norris,” said he, “is labelled ‘Benzine.’ But it
was not benzine that it contained. Will you kindly smell it and tell
me what you think it did contain. Or perhaps you can say off-hand.”
“I am afraid I can’t,” she replied. “I have no recollection of having
had any benzine and I don’t remember this bottle at all. As it is in
my cupboard I suppose I must have put it there, but I don’t remember
having ever seen it before. I can’t tell you anything about it.”
“Well, will you kindly smell it and tell me what you think it
contained?” the superintendent persisted, handing her the open bottle.
She took it from him apprehensively, and, holding it to her nose, took
a deep sniff; and instantly her already pale face became dead white to
the very lips.
“It smells of lavender,” she said in a faint voice.
“So I thought,” said Miller. “And now, Miss Norris, if you will look
in at the mouth of the bottle against the light you will see a faint
red ring round the bottom. Apparently, the liquid that the bottle
contained was a red liquid. Moreover, if you hold the bottle against
the light and look through the label, you can see the remains of
another label under it. There is only a tiny scrap of it left, but it
is enough for us to see that it was a red label. So it would seem that
the liquid was a poisonous liquid—poisonous enough to require a red
poison label. And then you notice that this red poison label seems to
have been scraped off and the benzine label stuck on over the place
where it had been, although, as the lavender smell and the red stain
clearly show, the bottle never had any benzine in it at all. Now, Miss
Norris, bearing those facts in mind, I ask you if you can tell me what
was in that bottle.”
“I have told you,” Madeline replied with unexpected firmness, “that I
know nothing about this bottle. I have no recollection of ever having
seen it before. I do not believe that it ever belonged to me. It may
have been in the cupboard when I first began to use it. At any rate, I
am not able to tell you anything about it.”
The superintendent continued to look at her keenly, still holding the
bottle. After a few moments’ silence he persisted:
“A red, poisonous liquid which smells of lavender. Can you not form
any idea as to what it was?”
I was about to enter a protest—for the question was really not
admissible—when Madeline, now thoroughly angry and quite
self-possessed, replied, stiffly: “I don’t know what you mean. I have
told you that I know nothing about this bottle. Are you suggesting
that I should try to guess what it contained?”
“No,” he rejoined hastily; “certainly not. A guess wouldn’t help us at
all. If you really do not know anything about the bottle, we must
leave it at that. You always keep this cupboard locked, I suppose?”
“Usually. But I am not very particular about it. There is nothing of
value in the cupboard, as you see, and the servants are quite
trustworthy. I sometimes leave the key in the door, but I don’t
imagine that anybody ever meddles with it.”
The superintendent took the key out of the lock and regarded it
attentively. Then he examined the lock itself, and I also took the
opportunity of inspecting it. Both the lock and the key were of the
simplest kind, just ordinary builder’s fittings, which, so far as any
real security was concerned, could not be taken seriously. In the
absence of the key, a stiff wire or a bent hair-pin would probably
have shot the little bolt quite easily, as I took occasion to remark
to the superintendent, who frankly agreed with me.
The bottle having been carefully wrapped up and deposited in the
sergeant’s hand-bag, the examination was resumed; but nothing further
of an interesting or suspicious character was discovered among the
bottles or jars. Nor did the sorting-out of the miscellaneous contents
of the lower shelves yield anything remarkable with a single
exception. When the objects on the lowest shelf had been all taken
out, a small piece of white paper was seen at the back, and on this
Miller pounced with some eagerness. As he brought it out I could see
that it was a chemist’s powder paper, about six inches square (when
Miller had carefully straightened it out), and the creases which
marked the places where it had been folded showed that it had
contained a mass of about the bulk of a dessert-spoonful. But what
attracted my attention—and the superintendent’s—was the corner of a
red label which adhered to a torn edge in company with a larger
fragment of a white label on which the name or description of the
contents had presumably been written or printed. Miller held it out
towards Madeline, who looked at it with a puzzled frown.
“Do you remember what was in this paper, Miss Norris?” the former
asked.
“I am afraid I don’t,” she replied.
“H’m,” grunted Miller; “I should have thought you would. It seems to
have been a good-sized powder and it had a poison label in addition to
the descriptive label. I should have thought that would have recalled
it to your memory.”
“So should I,” said Madeline. “But I don’t remember having bought any
powder that would be labelled ‘poison.’ It is very odd; and it is odd
that the paper should be there. I don’t usually put waste paper into
my cupboard.”
“Well, there it is,” said Miller; “but if you can’t remember anything
about it, we must see if the analysts can find out what was in it.”
With which he folded it and having put it into an envelope, bestowed
it in his pocket in company with his other treasures.
This was the last of the discoveries. When they had finished their
inspection of Madeline’s room the officers went on to Barbara’s, which
they examined with the same minute care as they had bestowed on the
others, but without bringing anything of interest to light. Then they
inspected the servants’ bedrooms and finally the kitchen and the other
premises appertaining to it, but still without result. It was a
tedious affair and we were all relieved when, at last, it came to an
end. Barbara and I escorted the two detectives to the street door, at
which the superintendent paused to make a few polite acknowledgments.
“I must thank you, Madam,” said he, “for the help you have given us
and for the kind and reasonable spirit in which you have accepted a
disagreeable necessity. I assure you that we do not usually meet with
so much consideration. A search of this kind is always an unpleasant
duty to carry out and it is not made any more pleasant by a hostile
attitude on the part of the persons concerned.”
“I can understand that,” replied Barbara; “but really the thanks are
due from me for the very courteous and considerate way in which you
have discharged what I am sure must be a most disagreeable duty. And
of course, it had to be; and I am glad that it has been done so
thoroughly. I never supposed that you would find what you are seeking
in this house. But it was necessary that the search should be made
here if only to prove that you must look for it somewhere else.”
“Quite so, Madam,” the superintendent returned, a little drily; “and
now I will wish you good afternoon and hope that we shall have no
further occasion to trouble you.”
As I closed the street door and turned back along the hall, the dining
room door—apparently already ajar—opened and Madeline and Wallingford
stepped out; and I could not help reflecting, as I noted their pale,
anxious faces and shaken bearing, how little their appearance
supported the confident, optimistic tone of Barbara’s last remarks.
But, at any rate, they were intensely relieved that the ordeal was
over, and Wallingford even showed signs of returning truculence.
Whatever he was going to say, however, was cut short by Barbara, who,
passing the door and moving towards the staircase, addressed me over
her shoulder.
“Do you mind coming up to my den, Rupert? I want to ask your advice
about one or two things.”
The request seemed a little inopportune; but it was uttered as a
command and I had no choice but to obey. Accordingly, I followed
Barbara up the stairs, leaving the other two in the hall, evidently
rather disconcerted by this sudden retreat. At the turn of the stairs
I looked down on the two pale faces. In Madeline’s I seemed to read a
new apprehensiveness, tinged with suspicion; on Wallingford’s a scowl
of furious anger which I had no patience to seek to interpret.