Peter Lovesey - Mad Hatter

‘Could we find out if he purchased any of the stuff, Sarge?’

‘That wouldn’t help overmuch. A doctor might be expected to have some. It’s recommended as an ointment for use in rheumatism and neuralgia.’

‘Good Lord!’ said Thackeray, his hand going rapidly to the small of his back.

‘I’d stick to red flannel, if I were you,’ said Cribb. ‘Well, Constable. It’s time we made our way back to Brighton, unless you fancy one for the road. The sherry of the house has quite a kick, I understand.’

‘Takes your breath away,’ said Thackeray, grinning widely.

But there were no grins at Scotland Yard later in the week when Thackeray found Cribb reading the post mortem report. ‘I can’t understand it,’ the sergeant said at intervals, as his eyes travelled over the several sheets of finely-written hand-writing. At last he swept the report aside. ‘Not a trace, Constable. Not aconitine, nor any other poison known to science. Nothing in the food, the drink or the contents of the stomach. They carried out the most exhaustive tests, injected frogs and mice with extracts, tried the effects of all the substances on the tongue and produced not one positive result. It’s unbelievable.’

‘You said it would be difficult to identify the poison, Sarge.’

‘Yes, but a man was convicted last March on the evidence of less than a twentieth of a grain and our theory was that Guy was given a heavier dose. They were looking for it, Thackeray. Two of the leading pathologists in the land have signed that report.’

‘Well, what did they report as the cause of death, Sarge?’

‘Respiratory failure. The lungs were found to be uncommonly inflated. Constriction of the bronchial muscles, you see. Some retention of fluid in the lungs. Small haemorrhages on the underside of the diaphragm and in the viscera. I’ve read my medical books in the last few days, Constable. There’s nothing there that ain’t consistent with death from asthma.’

‘It looks as though we’re beaten, then.’

‘Beaten?’ said Cribb. ‘We’re on our own, Constable. That’s the situation. We’ve got to think again. Get down the file with all the statements we took at Brighton. We’ll start from the beginning again. We might never get Prothero into court, but I’m damned if I’ll leave this case until I know how he did it.’

Albert Moscrop had been back in London almost a week when Sergeant Cribb and Constable Thackeray called at the shop. For a moment he failed to recognise them; in his mind they were so firmly connected with his recent short vacation in Brighton that it was as preposterous as if the bathing-machine woman or the bicycle-boy had appeared in Oxford Street. Quite understandably he looked up from a lens he was polishing and simply saw two gentlemen customers. In his professional way he was deciding from their manner and appearance which counter was most appropriate to greet them from, the sporting or the astronomical, when Cribb’s brisk salutation jolted him into realisation.

‘Ah, Mr. Moscrop. Good to see you.’

He nodded vigorously. ‘You too, Sergeant. And the constable, of course.’

‘Smart shop,’ said Cribb. ‘Carpeted, too.’

‘Thank you. Did you-er-’

‘-wish to see you in private? If you please,’ said Cribb.

They passed through a baize door into the rear of the shop. Instruments of every description were ranged about the small room. They had to move a large brass telescope before there was room to sit down on three stools.

‘A most unexpected pleasure, Sergeant.’

‘What was that?’ said Cribb. ‘Oh, our visit. Strictly business, Mr. Moscrop, strictly business. Possibly you heard of the-er-decease of young Guy Prothero.’

‘At Horsham. Yes, I had got to hear of it. What a beastly tragedy for the family! An attack of asthma was responsible, I understand.’

‘So we’re told, sir, so we’re told.’

‘The boy was certainly a sufferer from periodic attacks of asthma. His mother told me so. I think that was why they tolerated his unsociable behaviour. I am sure that they were most solicitous about his health. He did disobey his father and indulge in secret bathing, of course, which might have upset him in some way, but there is a school of thought which says that nothing but good can come from sea-bathing. Now that I am back in London, I rather regret not having swum from the beach myself. I did take the plunge at Brill’s, as I believe I told you.’

‘You did, sir. There was something else you told me, another thing that Mrs. Prothero mentioned to you, I believe, and I want to ask you once again if you’re quite sure about it.’

‘Certainly, Sergeant. It must be something important if you have come here to verify it.’

‘Could be very important, sir. When you made your first state- ment in Brighton you told me the period of time the Protheros were proposing to spend there. D’you remember, sir?’

‘Indeed I do. Zena told me when we first met. She said they had escaped from the practice at Dorking for three weeks. I distinctly remember remarking that I was planning to stay for the same length of time. Our holidays did not quite coincide, however, as they had already spent a week in Brighton before I arrived.’

‘Three weeks,’ said Cribb. ‘Yet the doctor and the boy stayed for four.’

‘Come to think of it, they must have. They were still in Brighton during my third week. What a singular thing. Perhaps the tragic passing of their servant delayed them. There are things one is obliged to attend to on occasions like that.’

Cribb shook his head. ‘Everything could have been settled in a week, yet they stayed for fifteen days after Bridget’s death. My investigation was going on all the while. Seems unlikely they were having such a jolly time that they couldn’t bear to leave.’

‘A week would represent a sizeable sacrifice of income for a doctor in practice,’ said Moscrop.

‘Good point. And so far as we know, the locum was standing in for three weeks, not four. But for some reason the doctor and his son extended their holiday by another week. When they did leave, it was a full two weeks after Mrs. Prothero and Jason. Important things must have kept them in Brighton.’

‘But, Sergeant, I was observing Dr. Prothero almost without interruption. His daily routine continued unchanged, except for the day when he met his wife at the Dyke. The fourth week was a repetition of the others. There was no social function that he attended and the only appointments he had were with Miss Floyd-Whittingham.’

‘ She wasn’t his reason for staying,’ said Cribb, more to himself than Moscrop. ‘He had more important things on his mind-principally Guy. The boy was liable to be arrested any time. Yet they stayed for another week, and Prothero did nothing and saw no one except his lady-friend. That’s hard to account for. Then, at the end of the week, the boy conveniently died. Not at Dorking, you notice; that would open all sorts of sinister possibilities. At a hotel they’d never visited before, in the presence of an independent witness. “Asthma” on the death certificate and Dr. Prothero’s problems were neatly solved. The question I have to answer-if I choose to feel suspicious, that is-is why it didn’t happen a week before. And I think I’ll take my question to Harley Street.’

Thackeray jerked up from his notes. ‘Harley Street, Sarge?’

‘That’s our next call, Thackeray. I’ve made an appointment with one of London’s foremost specialists in asthma. We’re grateful for your help, Mr. Moscrop. If ever the Yard decides to equip its officers with telescopes, I’ll put a word in, depend upon it.’

His mind reeling with the implications of what Cribb had said, Moscrop escorted the detectives through the shop to their cab.