Dorothy Sayers - Strong Poison

He considered a little, and then said:

“And there’s suicide, of course, which is what I’m really rather inclined to believe in. Aarsenic is tomfool stuff to commit suicide with, but it has been done. There was the Duc de Praslin, for instance – if his was suicide. Only, where’s the bottle?”

“The bottle?”

“Well, he must have carried it in something. It might be in a paper, if he took the powdered form, though that would be awkward. Did anybody look for a bottle or paper?”

“Where would they look for it?” asked Miss Climpson.

“That’s the rub. If it wasn’t on him, it would be anywhere round about Doughty Street, and it’s going to be a job looking for a bottle or paper that was chucked away six months ago. I do loathe suicides – they’re so difficult to prove. Oh, well, faint heart never won so much as a scrap of paper. Now look here, Miss Climpson. We’ve got about a month to work this out in. The Michaelmas Term ends on the 21st; this is the 15th. They can’t very well bring it up before then, and the Hilary term starts on January 12th. They’ll probably take it early, unless we can show reason for delay. Four weeks to get fresh evidence. Will you reserve the best efforts of yourself and the staff? I don’t know yet what I shall want, but I shall probably want something done.”

“Of course I will, Lord Peter. You know that it is only too great a pleasure to do anything for you – even if the whole office were not your own property, which it is. Only let me know, at any minute of the night or day, and I will do my very best to help you.”

Wimsey thanked her, made a few enquiries about the work of the bureau and departed. He hailed a taxi and was immediately driven to Scotland Yard.

Chief-Inspector Parker was, as usual, delighted to see Lord Peter, but there was a worried expression on his plain though pleasant face as he greeted his visitor.

“What is it, Peter? The Vane case again? ”

“Yes. You’ve come a mucker over this, old man, you really have.”

“Well, I don’t know. It looked pretty straightforward to us.”

“Charles, acushla, distrust the straightforward case, the man who looks you straight in the eyes, and the tip straight from the horse’s mouth. Only the most guileful deceiver can afford to be so aggressively straight. Even the path of the light is curved – or so they tell us. For God’s sake, old man, do what you can to put the thing right before next assizes. If you don’t, I’ll never forgive you. Damn it, you don’t want to hang the wrong person, do you? – especially a woman and all that.”

“Have a fag,” said Parker. “You’re looking quite wild about the eyes. What have you been doing with yourself? I’m sorry if we’ve got the wrong pig by the ear, but it’s the defence’s business to point out where we’re wrong, and I can’t say they put up a very convincing show.”

“No, confound them. Biggy did his best, but that fool and beast Crofts gave him no materials at all. Blast his ugly eyes! I know the brute thinks she did it. I hope he will fry in hell and be served up with cayenne pepper on a red hot dish!”

“What eloquence!” said Parker, unimpressed. “Anybody would think you’d gone goopy over the girl.”

“That’s a damned friendly way to talk,” said Wimsey, bitterly. “When you went off the deep end about my sister, I may have been unsympathetic – I daresay I was – but I swear I didn’t dance on your tenderest feelings and call your manly devotion ‘going goopy over a girl.’ I don’t know where you pick up such expressions, as the clergyman’s wife said to the parrot. ‘Goopy,’ indeed! I never heard anything so vulgar!”

“Good lord,” exclaimed Parker, “you don’t seriously say -”

“Oh, no!” retorted Wimsey, bitterly. “I’m not expected to be serious. A buffoon, that’s what I am. I now know exactly what Jack Point feels like. I used to think the ‘Yeomen’ sentimental tosh, but it is all too true. Would you like to see me dance in motley?”

“I’m sorry,” said Parker, taking his cue rather from the tone than the words. “If it’s like that, I’m damned sorry, old man. But what can I do?”

“Now you’re talking. Look here – the most likely thing is that this unsavoury blighter Boyes committed suicide. The unspeakable defence haven’t been able to trace any arsenic to his possession – but then they probably couldn’t trace a herd of black cattle over a snow-bound field in broad noonday with a microscope. I want your people to take it up.”

“Boyes – query arsenic,” said Parker, making a note on a pad. “Anything else?”

“Yes. Find out if Boyes visited any pub in the neighbourhood of Doughty Street between, say, 9.50 and 10.10 on the night of June 20th – if he met anybody, and what he took to drink.”

“It shall be done. Boyes – query pub.” Parker made another note. “Yes?”

“Thirdly, if any bottle or paper that might have contained arsenic was picked up in that district.”

“Oh, indeed? And would you like me to trace the ’bus ticket dropped by Mrs. Brown outside Selfridge’s in the last Christmas rush? No use making it too easy.”

“A bottle is more likely than a paper,” went on Wimsey, ignoring him, “because I think the arsenic must have been taken in liquid form to work so quickly.”

Parker made no further protest, but noted down “Boyes – Doughty Street – query bottle,” and paused expectantly.

“Yes?”

“That’s all for the moment. By the way, I should try the garden in Mecklenburgh Square. A thing might lie quite a long time under those bushes.”

“Very well. I’ll do my best. And if you find out anything which really proves that we’ve been on the wrong tack, you’ll let us know, won’t you? We don’t want to make large and ignominious public mistakes.”

“Well – I’ve just earnestly promised the defence that I’ll do no such thing. But if I spot the criminal, I’ll let you arrest him.”

“Thanks for small mercies. Well, good luck! Funny for you and me to be on opposite sides, isn’t it?”

“Very,” said Wimsey. “I’m sorry about it, but it’s your own fault.”

“You shouldn’t have been out of England. By the way -”

“Yes?”

“You realise that probably all our young friend did during those missing ten minutes was to stand about in Theobalds Road or somewhere, looking for a stray taxi.”

“Oh, shut up!” said Wimsey, crossly, and went out.

The next day dawned bright and fair, and Wimsey felt a certain exhilaration as he purred down to Tweedling Parva. “Mrs. Merdle” the car, so called because, like that celebrated lady, she was averse to “row,” was sparking merrily on all twelve cylinders, and there was a touch of frost in the air. These things conduce to high spirits.

Wimsey reached his destination about 10 o’clock, and was directed to the vicarage, one of those large, rambling and unnecessary structures which swallow the incumbent’s income during his life and land his survivors with a heavy bill for dilapidations as soon as he is dead.

The Rev. Arthur Boyes was at home, and would be happy to see Lord Peter Wimsey.

The clergyman was a tall, faded man, with lines of worry deeply engraved upon his face, and mild blue eyes a little bewildered by the disappointing difficulty of things in general. His black coat was old, and hung in depressed folds from his stooping, narrow shoulders. He gave Wimsey a thin hand and begged him to be seated.

Lord Peter found it a little difficult to explain his errand. His name evidently aroused no associations in the mind of this gentle and unworldly parson. He decided not to mention his hobby of criminal investigation, but to represent himself, with equal truth, as a friend of the prisoner’s. That might be painful, but it would be at least intelligible. Accordingly, he began, with some hesitation: