Dorothy Sayers - The Documents in the Case

I took up the candle and went out into the little yard at the back of the house, where there was the usual primitive country convenience. It occurred to me, as I pursued my sordid investigations, that the lot of coroners’ officers, policemen, doctors and detectives was much more disagreeable than sensational fiction would lead one to suppose. I soon had enough of the yard and came in again.

After that — the bedroom, I supposed. And whisky, of course. Pain and exhaustion would call for spirits. Well, I knew where I had found the whisky and the tumbler. Then more sickness — by that time he had been too bad to move. Then — I did not like the look of the broken bedstead. How did one die of fungus-poisoning? Not peacefully, I supposed. There was no peace in that twisted body and face. How long had the agony of delirium and convulsion lasted. It must be a damnable thing to die in so much pain, absolutely alone.

I did not like these ideas. I took a sheet from the other bed, and laid it gently over Harrison’s body, being careful to disturb nothing. Then I went back and sat by the fire.

At about half-past two, I heard voices outside, and opened the door to Lathom, a police-sergeant, and a man who was introduced as Dr Hughes of Bovey Tracey. He was a brisk and confident middle-aged man, and brought an atmosphere of reassurance along with him.

‘Oh dear, yes,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid he’s quite dead. Been dead for seven or eight hours, if not more. How very unfortunate!’ He drew a pair of forceps from his pocket and rolled up the dead eyelids delicately. ‘Mmm! The pupils are slightly contracted — looks as if your diagnosis might be correct, Mr Lathom. Poisoning of some kind seems indicated. No tablets? Glasses? Anything of that sort?’

I produced the tumbler from under the bedclothes, and explained about the whisky-bottle.

‘Oh, yes. Here, Sergeant — you’d better take charge of these.’

‘The whisky is all right,’ I volunteered. ‘At least, we both had some about three or four hours ago, without any ill effects.’

‘That was rash of you,’ said Dr Hughes, with a sort of grim smile. ‘We’ll have to impound it, all the same.’

‘The mushrooms are in here, doctor,’ said Lathom, anxiously.

‘Just a moment. I’ll finish here first.’ He felt and flexed the body, and looked it over carefully. ‘Was this bed like this when you left him? No. Broken in a convulsion, probably. Yes. All right, Sergeant, you can carry on here. I shall want the body and these bedclothes taken down to the mortuary, just as they are. And any other utensils—’

Lathom pulled my arm. ‘Let’s clear out of this,’ he urged. I stood my ground. Something — either inquisitiveness or the novelist’s greed for copy — impelled me to hang about and get in the way.

The doctor finished his investigations and covered the body up again.

‘Now then,’ he said, ‘that’s about all I can do for the moment. Where’s this saucepan you were telling me about? Oh, yes. Fungus of some sort, obviously, but I can’t say what by looking at it. That will all have to go to London, Sergeant. When the Superintendent comes he’ll see the things packed up. I’ll give you the address they’re to go to. Sir James Lubbock, the Home Office Analyst — here you are, and you’ll see they telephone him to expect them, won’t you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What will you do, Sergeant? Hold the fort here till they send down to relieve you?’

‘Yes, sir. The Superintendent will be here very soon, sir, I expect. They’ve called him up.’

‘Very well. Now I’d better be off. I’m wanted for a baby case. You’ll find me at Forbes’s place if you want me. Lucky I hadn’t started. I don’t for a moment suppose anything will happen for hours, but it’s her first, and they’re naturally fidgety. If I don’t get there pronto, it’ll be B.B.A., out of pure cussedness, and I shall never hear the last of it. Well, good-night. Sorry I can’t give anybody a lift, but I’m going out in the opposite direction.’

He hastened out, and we heard his car chug away down the lane. The sergeant observed that it was a bad business all round, and suggested that he should take down notes of what Lathom and I could tell him. I found some logs in an outhouse and piled them on the fire till it roared up the chimney. More and more I began to feel this was a scene from a book; it was like nothing in life at all. It was — hang it — it was almost cosy. I should have ended, I think, by almost enjoying it — the policeman’s voice cooing like the note of a fat wood-pigeon, the ruddy blaze on his round face, the thick thumb that turned the pages of his notebook, the pink tongue licking the stubby pencil, and Lathom, talking, answering, explaining so lucidly (he had got over his nervousness and was childishly eager to tell his story) — I could have enjoyed it, if it had not been for a fear in the back of my mind.

The sun . .

You do not want a description of that stiff, cold sunrise. I was facing the window, and saw it — first a whiteness, then a hardening of the skyline — then a bluish reflection on the ceiling — then an uncertain gleam under the blanket of cloud. The weather was going to change.

I got up and wandered out across the fields. The stream, far off, was the only voice in the silence, and that was impersonal. It had no blood nor life behind its chatter.

I wandered to the edge of the slope, where the valley plunged down, gorse and heath and bracken all jumbled among the grey boulders, and looked across to where the huge tors humped their granite shoulders over the heights of Lustleigh Cleave. They looked grim enough.

What I was wondering was just this: Had Harrison ever guessed about his wife and Lathom? What had Lathom said to him in those long, solitary days? Had Harrison decided that his best way out was to clear out from the place where he was not wanted? I knew that, for all his irritating mannerisms, the man had a sterling unselfishness in him — and it would have been so easy for him — with his knowledge — to make a mistake on purpose when he was gathering fungi.

Would anyone choose a death so painful? Well — a man only the other day had committed suicide by pouring petrol over his clothes and setting himself on fire. And nothing could be made to appear more natural than this poison-death of Harrison’s. Why had Lathom been so anxious for me to come down with him? Had he had doubts about his reception? Had he expected something? Had Harrison — possibly — agreed, promised, even hinted that Lathom might return to find the way clear? Or had Lathom spoken some shattering word — shown irrefutable evidence — and left the facts to do their bitter work?

A cock crew in the valley. A sheep said ‘Baa!’ just behind me, so that I started and laughed. This kind of thing was morbid, and Harrison was the very last man to lay violent hands on himself. He clear meekly out to make way for a rival? Not likely!

I hurried back to the shack. The sergeant was dozing, his belt off and his tunic unbuttoned. Lathom was staring into the fire with his chin on his hands.

‘Hullo, you two!’ I said with unnecessary heartiness. The policeman jerked awake. ‘Lor’ bless me,’ he muttered apologetically. ‘I must ’a’ dropped off.’

‘Why not?’ said I. ‘Best way to pass the time. Look here, there’s a pound of sausages in our kit that we brought down last night. How about a bit of grub?’

We did not care about using any of the pots and pans in that place, so whittled a stick to a point, and toasted the sausages on that. They tasted none the worse.

2

Analysis

46. Margaret Harrison to Harwood Lathom

15, Whittington Terrace, Bayswater 20.10.29

Oh, Petra, my dear, my own dear at last!