Patricia Wentworth: The Case of William Smith

‘A shocking fatality has occurred. I am speaking from 176 Selby Street. Miss Emily Salt has just entered the house and dropped down dead. I suspect cyanide.’

Sne heard him whistle at the other end of the line.

‘Suicide?’

‘I did not say so. The person who was to be watched – is there any information from that quarter?’

‘Yes – let me see – Donald reported that she had returned to town at midday yesterday.’

‘I already knew that.’

‘He followed her to her flat. You always know everything, but I just wonder whether you know that she has been living there as Mrs. Woods.’

Miss Silver coughed.

‘I have been suspecting it for the last half-hour. It supplies the link for which I have been looking.’

As she hung up the receiver her mind was working rapidly. The indispensable link had been established. Mavis Jones had been for fifteen years a confidential secretary. It appeared that she was now Mrs. Cyril Eversley, but that for a good many years out of the fifteen she had occupied a very comfortable flat as Mrs. Woods. And Mrs. Woods was Mary Salt’s daughter and Emily Salt’s niece, May. She stood there thinking of Emily Salt’s abnormal mentality, her crazy devotion to this new-found niece, its fading – and its recurrence about two months ago.

About two months ago – when William Smith had paid a visit to Eversleys and been recognized by the old clerk. About two months ago – when Mr. Tattlecombe had been struck down and Mr. Yates had heard the casualty in the bed next to him mutter something that might have been ‘Joan’ or ‘Jones’, and then, ‘She pushed me.’ That was the beginning of it – death of Mr. Davies – accident to Mr. Tattlecombe. Attacks on William Smith – the tampering with his car – that was how it went on. And now the death of Emily Salt. Was that the end?

Emily Salt was dead – thought focused on that. Why? She thought Emily had been an instrument, and that the instrument had been discarded. When do you discard an instrument? The answer appeared in a very bright light. When it has done its work – when it might be dangerous to keep it. But the work for which this instrument had been required was the destruction of William Smith.

An instrument is only discarded when its work is done and it would be dangerous to keep it.

What work?

The destruction of William Smith.

How?

Into that very bright light in her mind there came a single word. It was the word with which she had accounted to Abigail for the death of Emily Salt.

Cyanide.

Perhaps concealed in the stick of chocolate still clasped in her hand. Cyanide can be concealed in other things beside chocolate. Quick and clear came the picture of Abigail Salt telling her about the pot of apple honey. ‘A pot of my apple honey which I had set aside all ready to leave at my brother’s for William Smith and his wife.’

She turned upon Abigail.

‘Mrs. Salt, you missed a pot of apple honey.’

There was a look of surprise, a slight start. The words seemed so irrelevant, the occasion so trifling.

‘Yes.’

‘You told me that you had put it aside. Did you mean that it was packed up?’

‘Yes, I had done it up all ready to take.’

‘Was there any message enclosed?’

‘Just a line, “With kind regards – Abigail Salt.” Miss Silver – ’

Miss Silver was opening her bag. She took out a notebook, consulted it, found the telephone number she required, and dialled with steady fingers. When she heard the receiver lifted at the other end of the line she spoke. Her voice was steady too,

‘Mrs. Eversley?’

No one but herself was to know with what a feeling of thankfulness she heard Katharine’s voice say, ‘Yes.’

Sudden death has its own dreadful routine. Those who serve it came into Abigail Salt’s house and went about their business there without reference to her – Detective Sergeant Abbott, a police surgeon, a police photographer, a fingerprint man. Miss Silver sat with Abigail in the upstairs parlour whilst they were at their work. Presently Katharine joined them there. William was making a statement downstairs. They had put an outer covering right over the pot of apple honey and its contents and brought it with them. They had brought the little cut-glass dish heaped up with amber jelly, the two dead flies still lying on it.

Katharine was very white and still. She went over to Abigail Salt and took her hand.

‘I’m so sorry, Mrs. Salt – so dreadfully sorry. She couldn’t have known what she was doing.’

Abigail looked at her.

‘I put it out all ready to take round when I went to see Abel tomorrow. She must have taken it last night when I was at chapel. But I never thought – ’

‘You mean the apple honey? It was very good of you.’ An uncontrollable shudder went over her. She let go of Abigail’s hand, looked round for a chair, and sat down.

Abigail Salt said in a steady, expressionless voice,

‘I don’t suppose any of us will ever fancy it again.’

Katharine’s ungloved hands took hold of one another. She said very low,

‘William was late. I was vexed because he was so late, but it saved his life. We were going to have the apple honey for tea – I had put it out in a little glass dish. Then William came, and we talked. I saw there was a dead fly on the honey. Then we saw another one come down and settle.’ The shudder came back. ‘It just fell over dead. Then Miss Silver rang.’

Miss Silver coughed briskly.

‘A most providential escape, dear Mrs. Eversley. Let us be thankful for it.’

At this moment the door opened and Sergeant Abbott looked in. He caught Miss Silver’s eye and beckoned her. She went out.

‘Look here,’ he said, ‘the doctor seems pretty sure about its being cyanide. I gather that you know about this pot of apple honey the Eversleys have brought along. It seems to have killed two flies, and was probably intended to kill them. Emily Salt’s fingerprints are all over the wrappings and the pot. I don’t suppose there’s much doubt that she conveyed the parcel to Rasselas Mews. William Eversley says they found it on the doorstep on Sunday night when they got back from Ledstow. But there was a message from Mrs. Salt inside – ’ He paused and looked at Miss Silver.

She said in her firmest voice,

‘Yes, she was intending to leave it at the Toy Bazaar for them. She was having tea there with her brother tomorrow. It was all ready packed up.“

Frank lookedat her with his faint quizzical smile. ‘What a mine of information you are! But here is something that I can tell you, and I think you’ll be interested. I told you Donald was shadowing Miss Jones. You did a very good bit of work there, getting the Chief to agree to it.“

Miss Silver coughed.

‘I considered it of the very first importance.’

‘I think you were right. She went off down to Evendon with Cyril Eversley on Saturday afternoon. The village fairly buzzed with the news that they were married. Donald put up at the Duck and heard all about it. General verdict that Cyril had made a fool of himself. Sunday morning Donald hung about – saw the William Eversleys arrive – didn’t of course know who they were. Saw another young couple roll up. Cyril’s daughter and her husband, William tells me, though Donald wasn’t to know that either. And then in a brace of shakes out comes Mrs. Cyril Eversley in her brand new car, and Donald grabs his motor-bike and follows her all the way to her flat. That’s when he finds out that she’s been living there as Mrs. Woods. Well, he rings up and reports. Evans goes along to relieve him at about four o’clock. The lady hasn’t shown up, but it looks as if she’s going out again, because her car is still outside. She comes out about six and drives off. Evans follows her. She pulls up in Morden Road, just round the corner from Selby Street. A woman comes along with a parcel and gets in. Evans hears her say, “I’ve got it.” They drive off together, and Evans follows them to a cul-de-sac behind Rasselas Mews – only of course he’s not thinking about the Mews, because he’s been put on to watch Mrs. Cyril Eversley.’