Anthony Berkeley - The Wychford Poisoning Case

‘Oh, no details. Nothing like that. I was only with him for a couple of minutes. He was a dry, precise little man, typical stage solicitor; and he wasn’t giving away if he knew it. Oh, nothing at all. But he didn’t know it, you see, Alexander. He didn’t know it!’

‘What happened, then?’

‘Oh, I told him the same sort of yarn as I told Burgoyne, and asked him point-blank if he could see his way to giving me any information as to whether Mrs Bentley had a complete answer to the charges against her, or not. Of course I had him a bit off his guard, you must remember. It’d be the last thing any solicitor would expect, wouldn’t it? A chap to blow into his office and ask him questions about another client like that. He was a good deal taken aback. In fact he probably thought I was quite mad. In any case, he shut up like a little black oyster, said he regretted he had no information to give me and had me shown out. That’s all that happened .’

‘What do you mean, then? You haven’t found anything out!’

‘Oh, yes, I have,’ Roger returned happily. ‘I’ve found out that we haven’t come down to Wychford in vain. Alec, in spite of his care, that little man gave himself away to me ten times over. There isn’t a shadow of doubt about it—he’s quite sure that Mrs Bentley is guilty!’

FOR a moment Alec looked bewildered. Then he nodded.

‘I see what you’re driving at,’ he said slowly. ‘You mean, if Mrs Bentley’s own solicitor thinks she’s guilty, then her explanation of the evidence can’t be a particularly convincing one?’

‘Exactly.’

‘And according to what you were saying yesterday morning, that makes you yourself still more convinced of her innocence?’

‘Well, don’t put it as strongly as all that. Say that it makes me still more inclined to think she may be innocent.’

‘Contrary to the opinion of everyone else who is most competent to judge. Humph!’ Alec smoked in silence for a minute. ‘Roger, that Layton Court affair hasn’t gone to your head, has it?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, just because you hit on the truth there and nobody else did, you’re not looking on yourself as infallible, are you?’

‘Hit on the truth!’ exclaimed Roger with much pain. ‘After I’d reasoned out every single step in the case and drawn the most brilliant deductions from the most inadequate data! Hit on the truth, indeed!’

‘Well, arrived at the truth, then,’ Alec said patiently. ‘I’m not a word-fancier like you. Anyhow, you haven’t answered my question. You’re not beginning to look on yourself as a story-book detective, and all the rest of the world as the Scotland Yard specimen to match, are you?’

‘No, Alec, I am not,’ Roger replied coldly. ‘The point I made about the unnaturalness of that large quantity of arsenic was a perfectly legitimate one, and I’m only surprised that nobody else seems to have noticed it, instead of promptly drawing the diametrically opposite conclusion. As to whether I’m right or wrong in the explanation I gave you, that remains to be seen; but you’ll kindly remember that I only put it forward as an interesting possibility, not a cast-iron fact, and I merely pointed out that it was just enough to cast a small doubt on the absolute certainty of Mrs Bentley’s guilt.’

‘All right,’ Alec said soothingly. ‘Keep your wool on. What about all that chit-chat about mysterious unknowns?’

Roger affected a slight re-arrangement of his ruffled plumes. ‘There I’m quite ready to admit that I was using my imagination, and plenty of it too. But it was plausible enough for all that. And if Mrs Bentley by any weird chance is innocent it must be true. In any case, isn’t that just what we’re supposed to have come down here to find out?’

‘I suppose it is,’ Alec admitted.

Roger regarded his stolid companion for a moment with a lukewarm eye. Then he broke into a sudden laugh and the plumage was smoothly preened once more.

‘You’re really a bit of an old ass at times, you know, Alec!’

‘So you seem to think,’ Alec agreed, unmoved.

‘Well, aren’t you? Still, never mind that for the moment. The story-book detective has another point to bring forward. It occurred to me while I was thinking over things before you arrived just now. You remember that Mrs Bentley bought those fly-papers they’re making all this fuss about at a local chemist’s here?’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, now, I ask you again—is that natural? Is it natural, if one wants to buy fly-papers for the purpose of extracting the arsenic in order to poison one’s husband, to walk into the local chemist’s where one is perfectly well known and ask for them there? A certain amount of fuss always follows a murder, you know; and nobody realises that better than the would-be murderer. Is it likely that she’d do that, when she could have bought them equally well in London and never have been traced?’

‘That’s a point, certainly. Then you think that she didn’t get them with any—what’s the phrase?—ulterior motive?’

‘To poison her husband with them? Naturally, if she didn’t poison him.’

‘Then what did she get them for?’

‘I don’t know—yet. Would it be too much to suggest that she got them with the idea of killing flies? Anyhow, we must leave that till we’ve discovered her own explanation.’

‘You’re determined to assume her innocence, then?’

‘That, my excellent Alexander,’ said Roger with much patience, ‘is exactly what we have to do. It’s no good even keeping an open mind. If we’re to make any real attempt to do what we’ve come down here for, we’ve got to be prejudiced in favour of Mrs Bentley’s innocence. We’ve got to work on the assumption that she’s being wrongly accused and that somebody else is guilty, and we’ve got to work to bring home the crime to that somebody else. Otherwise our efforts as detectives for the defence are bound to be only half-hearted. You’ve got to lash yourself into a fury of excitement and indignation at the idea of this poor woman, a foreigner and absolutely alone in the country, being unanimously convicted even before her trial when in reality she’s perfectly innocent. That is, if you ever could work up the faintest flicker of excitement about anything, you great fish!’

‘Right-ho!’ Alec returned equably. ‘I’m mad with excitement. I’m bursting with indignation. Let’s go out and kill a policeman.’

‘I admit that it’s a curious position in many ways,’ Roger went on more calmly, ‘but you must agree that it’s a damned interesting one.’

‘I do. That’s why I’m here.’

‘Good. Then we understand each other.’

‘But look here, Roger, ragging aside, there’s one point about the purchase of those fly-papers that I think you’ve overlooked.’

‘Oh? What?’

‘Well—assuming for the moment that she is guilty, did she know that it was going to be recognised as murder? I seem to remember that arsenic poisoning can’t be detected as poisoning, even at a post-mortem, without analysis and all that sort of thing. Wouldn’t she be hoping that the doctors and everybody would think that it was natural death?’

‘Alec,’ Roger said thoughtfully, ‘that’s a jolly cute remark of yours.’

‘Just happened to occur to me,’ said Alec modestly.

‘Well, whether it just happened to occur to you or whether you thought of it, it’s still jolly cute. Yes, you’re perfectly right. Each criminal does think his or her particular crime can’t ever be found out—each deliberate criminal, I mean; and the poisoner is the deliberate criminal par excellence . It’s a very remarkable point in criminal psychology that, and I’m only sorry we haven’t got time now to go into it at the length it deserves—the real conceit (there’s no other word) of the deliberate murderer. One realises it time and time again. Other people have been found out, yes; but he—he’s far too clever! They’ll never bring it home to him . But however conceited they may be, they very seldom behave like complete lunatics before the deed; and that’s what Mrs Bentley certainly would be in this case.’