Ngaio Marsh - Final Curtain

“Hope so,” said Dr. Curtis, stifling a heavy yawn.

“I’d like to ask you, Doctor,” said Fox, “whether you’d expect one fatal dose of arsenic to have that effect.”

“What effect? Oh, the hair. No. I wouldn’t. It’s more often a symptom of chronic poisoning.”

“In for one of those messes, are we?” Fox grumbled. “That will be nice. Fields of suspects opened up wide, with the possibility of Miss O. being framed.”

“There are objections to chronic poisoning, Br’er Fox,” Alleyn said. “He might die when he’d concocted a Will unfavourable to the poisoner. And moreover, you’d expect a progressive loss of hair, not a sudden post-mortem moult. Is that right, Curtis?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, then,” Fox persisted heavily, “how about the embalming process? Would that account for it?”

“Emphatically not,” Mr. Mortimer interjected. “I’ve given the Chief Inspector our own formula. An unusual step, but in the circumstances desirable. No doubt, Doctor, he has made you conversant—”

“Oh, yes,” sighed Dr. Curtis. “Formalin. Glycerine. Boric Acid. Menthol. Potassium nitrate. Sodium citrate. Oil of cloves. Water.”

“Precisely.”

“Hey!” said Fox. “No arsenic!”

“You’re two days late with the news, Br’er Fox. Things have moved while you were at Ancreton. Arsenic went out some time ago, didn’t it, Mr. Mortimer?”

“Formalin,” Mr. Mortimer agreed with hauteur, “is infinitely superior.”

“There now,” Fox rumbled with great satisfaction. “That does clear things up a bit, doesn’t it, Mr. Alleyn? If arsenic’s found it’s got no business to be there. That’s something definite. And what’s more, any individual who banked on its being used by the embalmer made the mistake of his or her life. Nothing for counsel to muddle the jury with, either. Mr. Mortimer’s evidence would settle that. Well.”

Alleyn said: “Mr. Mortimer, had Sir Henry any notion of the method used?”

In a voice so drowsy that it reminded Alleyn of the dormouse’s, Mr. Mortimer said: “It’s very curious, Chief Inspector, that you should ask that question. Oh, very curious. Because, between you and I, the deceased gentleman showed quite an unusual interest. He sent for me and discussed the arrangements for the interment. Two years ago, that was.”

“Good Lord!”

“That is not so unusual in itself. Gentlemen of his position do occasionally give detailed instructions. But the deceased was so very particular. He — well, really,” Mr. Mortimer said, coughing slightly, “he quite read me a little lecture on embalming. He had a little book. Yes,” said Mr. Mortimer, swallowing a yawn, “rather a quaint little book. Very old. It seemed an ancestor of his had been embalmed by the method, quate outdated, I may say, outlined in this tainy tome. Sir Henry wished to ascertain if our method was similar. When I ventured to suggest the book was somewhat démodé, he became — well, so annoyed that it was rather awkward. Very awkward, in fact. He was insistent that we should use the same process on — ah — for — ah — himself. He quate ordered me to do it.”

“But you didn’t consent?”

“I must confess, Chief Inspector, I–I—the situation was most awkward. I feared, he would upset himself seriously. I must confess that I compromaysed. In point of fact, I—”

“You consented?”

“I would have gladly refused the commission altogether but he would take no refusal. He forced me to take the book away with me. I returned it with compliments, and without comment through the registered post. He replied that when the time came I was to understand my instructions. The — ah — the time came and — and—”

“You followed your own method, and said nothing to anybody?”

“It seemed the only thing to do. Anything else was impossible from the point of view of technique. Ridiculous, in fact. Such preposterous ingredients! You can’t imagine.”

“Well,” said Fox, “as long as you can testify there was no arsenic. Eh, Mr. Alleyn?”

“I must say,” said Mr. Mortimer, “I don’t at all care for the idea of giving evidence in an affair of this sort. Ours is a delicate, and you might say exclusive, profession, Chief Inspector. Publicity of this kind is most undesirable.”

“You may not be subpoenaed, after all,” said Alleyn.

“Not? But I understood Inspector Fox to say—”

“You never know. Cheer up, Mr. Mortimer.”

Mr. Mortimer muttered to himself disconsolately and fell into a doze.

“What about the cat?” Fox asked. “And the bottle of medicine?”

“No report yet.”

“We’ve been busy,” Dr. Curtis complained. “You and your cats! The report should be in some time to-day. What’s all this about a cat anyway?”

“Never you mind,” Alleyn grunted, “you do your Marsh-Berzelius tests with a nice open mind. And your Fresenius process later on, I shouldn’t wonder.”

Dr. Curtis paused in the act of lighting his pipe. “ Fresenius process?” he said.

“Yes, and your ammonium chloride and your potassium iodide and your Bunsen flame and your platinum wire. And look for the pretty green line, blast you!”

After a long silence Dr. Curtis said: “It’s like that, is it?” and glanced at Mr. Mortimer.

“It may be like that.”

“Having regard to the general lay-out?”

“That’s the burden of our song.”

Fox said suddenly: “Was he bald when they laid him out?”

“Not he. Mrs. Henry Ancred and Mrs. Kentish were both present. They’d have noticed. Besides, the hair was there, Fox. We collected it while you were ministering to Thomas.”

“Oh!” Fox ruminated for a time and then said loudly: “Mr. Mortimer! Mr. Mortimer!”

«Wha—?”

“Did you notice Sir Henry’s hair when you were working on him?”

“Eh! Oh, yes,” said Mr. Mortimer, hurriedly, but in a voice slurred with sleep. “Yes, indeed. We all remarked on it. A magnificent head of hair.” He yawned hideously. “A magnificent head of hair,” he repeated.

Alleyn looked at Dr. Curtis. “Consistent?” he asked.

“With your green line? Yes.”

“Pardon?” said Mr. Mortimer anxiously.

“All right, Mr. Mortimer. Nothing. We’re in London. You’ll be in bed by daybreak.”

i

At breakfast Alleyn said: “This case of ours is doing the usual snowball business, Troy.”

“Gathering up complications as it goes?”

“A mass of murky stuff in this instance. Grubby stuff, and a lot of it waste matter. Do you want an interim report?”

“Only if you feel like making one. And is there enough time?”

“Actually there’s not. I can answer a crisp question or two, though, if you care to rap them out at me.”

“You know, I expect, what they’ll be.”

“Was Ancred murdered? I think so. Did Sonia Orrincourt do it? I don’t know. I shall know, I believe, when the analyst sends in his report.”

“If he finds the arsenic?”

“If he finds it in one place, then I’m afraid it’s Sonia Orrincourt. If he finds it in three places, it’s Sonia Orrincourt or one other. If he doesn’t find it at all, then I think it’s that other. I’m not positive.”

“And — the one other?”

“I suppose it’s no more unpleasant for you to speculate about one than about several.”

“I’d rather know, if it’s all right to tell me.”

“Very well,” Alleyn said, and told her.

After a long silence she said: “But it seems completely unreal. I can’t possibly believe it.”

“Didn’t everything they did at Ancreton seem a bit unreal?”