The Mystery Deepens
There were four people in the garden when Armourer left the
bedroom--the Sikh, with Professor Standen, Trevor and Abu-Samar.
He went out to meet them.
“Hullo, professor! I’m afraid I’ve rather an unpleasant job for you.”
He turned to the black doctor. “Are you Abu-Samar?”
Samar bowed.
“Well, you’d better go straight into that room where you see the door
open. You will find Mr. Vance there with an English lady who has
fainted. I want you to do all you can for her.”
He waited until the other had gone up, then drew Standen into the
shade.
“There’s a dead man up there,” he began. “It’s Moberly--the planter
about whom I spoke to you yesterday. You remember your red butterfly?
Well, I fancy you have reason to be thankful that you didn’t catch it.
I believe it killed Dick Moberly.”
The professor blinked at him.
“Killed Mr. Moberly!” he ejaculated. “Surely you’re not in earnest?”
“Very much so, I’m afraid. If you hadn’t told me about that butterfly,
I shouldn’t have known what to think. But both the time when you saw
it and the peculiar mark on the poor chap’s face seem to point to the
fact that Moberly was stung by it and died from the poison it exuded.”
“There’s a mark, eh? What sort of mark?”
The magistrate led the way to the verandah.
“Come up and see for yourself. The doctor’s away and I’ve no
alternative than to place the matter entirely in your hands.”
As the professor bent over the chair, Armourer swept the trinkets from
the table and passed them over to Trevor. The letter he had already
tucked away in a pocket.
“That is Moberly’s property,” he said in a low voice; “you’d better
take charge of it and put it with the rest of his effects. If you miss
anything,” he added meaningly, “talk to Vance about it--afterwards.”
The first assistant came out at that moment.
“Mrs. Battiscombe’s come round all right,” he announced, “but she
seems in a pretty bad way. We’d better get Jimmie over here.”
Armourer set his jaw firmly.
“No. We’ll have her carried to my place and advise him from there.
Miss Standen can look after her and I’ll get the professor to certify
she’s too ill to be moved. There are one or two questions I want to
ask her as soon as she’s fit to answer them. Get some men and a
_pikul_, and, if you can spare him, I’d like Trevor to see her safely
over. You’re a medical man, of course, professor?”
Standen glanced over his shoulder.
“What’s that?”
The magistrate repeated his question.
“Oh, yes; I’m a doctor right enough.”
He stripped off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and ripped open the
dead man’s tunic.
“I tell you what, Armourer, I’m not leaving Borneo until I have
secured a specimen of that particular type of insect. It’s most
providential I was on the spot when this occurred. We are undoubtedly
on the verge of a great discovery. A poisonous butterfly! People at
home would laugh at us, wouldn’t they? But a venomous, vindictive
insect, charged with poison-cells from wing-tip to wing-tip! It sounds
incredible, impossible--and yet we have undeniable evidence.”
The little man was becoming quite excited, and with every fresh
exertion his face became a deeper red. His experienced fingers
travelled all over the corpse, now pressing a muscle, now lifting an
eye-lid. Peculiar little grunts escaped him at intervals, until in a
grim sort of way he reminded Armourer of one of his terriers out after
rats. Moberly, whom they had all known and liked, had, as far as the
professor was concerned, become an interesting subject.
The magistrate could hardly have expected it to be otherwise, but it
struck him as a ghoulish sort of performance all the same.
He saw Abu-Samar in the doorway.
“Well, doctor, and how’s your patient?”
“She is delirious,” he replied. “She keeps asking for a certain
article of jewellery which, it appears, she has lost. It might help
matters to give it her.”
Armourer looked hard at Trevor.
“Oh, yes!” he returned easily. “What sort of ornament, Dr. Samar?”
“A ruby ornament on a gold chain--with emerald eyes,” said Samar
without turning a hair. “Have either of you gentlemen seen it?”
Armourer shook his head.
“Not I.”
“Nor I,” added Vance quickly.
Trevor glanced from one to the other before replying.
“A ruby ornament with emerald eyes! Good Lord, no. I haven’t got it.”
He felt inordinately guilty as he spoke, but Samar did not appear to
notice.
He looked at his watch.
“I am going away now. I propose looking back this evening to see if
there is any improvement. She will be all right until then.”
Armourer smiled pleasantly.
“You needn’t bother, Dr. Samar. Mr. Battiscombe will be over shortly
and I expect he will want to send for his own medical man. I’m afraid
I was responsible for troubling you in this case and you’d better
apply to me for your fee.”
“Not at all,” interrupted the first assistant. “This is an estate
affair, and we’ll settle it.”
“On second thoughts,” corrected Armourer, “it seems to me that it’s
outside Bukit-Serang altogether, and the person who’s primarily
responsible for his wife’s health is Mr. James Battiscombe. Good
afternoon, Dr. Samar. Thanks very much. You’ll send that _chit_ to me,
won’t you?”
They carried the planter between them to his own room, and Trevor
accompanied Mrs. Battiscombe to the magistrate’s bungalow.
It was five o’clock when the three remaining Englishmen sat in
consultation round the table upon which the trinkets had once reposed.
“Poisoned by some insect--the exact nature of which is unknown,” said
the professor suddenly, as if he had been turning the phrase over in
his mind for some time.
The magistrate looked up.
“You would give a certificate to that effect?”
Standen spread out his hands.
“Most certainly. What else could one say?”
“Nothing, of course. I was only interested to learn how you would put
it.”
Armourer caught Vance’s eye.
“Well, that’s settled. I’m awfully obliged to you, professor. Vance,
old son, you can’t do any good moping about here. Come over and have
dinner with us. We’ll meet Trevor and make him join us.”
The planter pressed a moist hand to his forehead.
“I don’t like the idea of leaving the place.”
Armourer dropped a hand on to his shoulder.
“It’ll do you all the good in the world to get away from things. Stick
a couple of watchmen on guard outside.”
“All right,” said the other gloomily. “I’ll come.”
They rode through the trees, the professor mounted on Mrs.
Battiscombe’s pony. They were within a quarter of a mile of Armourer’s
house when Standen wheeled round on the path.
“What’s the matter?” asked the magistrate.
The professor frowned deeply.
“If you young men will excuse me, I’ll go back and have another look
at Mr. Moberly. I don’t expect to be more than half an hour.”
“I’ll come with you,” suggested Vance.
Standen shook his head.
“I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.”
“Just as you like, of course. You’d better explain to Gholam-Singh
that you have my permission to go in.”
They were sitting on the verandah when the professor returned.
Joyce had just come from her room, where Mrs. Battiscombe now lay, and
Trevor was talking to her.
The professor beckoned to Vance.
“Are you quite sure of your men?” he demanded.
The planter started.
“Yes, I suppose so. Why?”
“Because I feel convinced that somebody had been in Moberly’s room
between the time that we left and when I got back there. The body was
not in the same position, there was a peculiar pungent odour hanging
everywhere--and the mark on the face had entirely vanished!”