John Rhode - Mystery at Olympia

‘Oh, yes,’ exclaimed Doctor Formby impatiently. ‘I’ve never attended Mr Pershore, nor so far as I know has any other doctor in this town. But he’s always struck me as a man of at least average health. Yet you say he has died suddenly from some unascertained cause. Two or three hours ago that girl on the sofa, who’s at least as healthy as Mr Pershore, was taken suddenly ill. Queer, isn’t it?’

‘What you would call a remarkable coincidence, sir,’ replied the sergeant. ‘Is it anything serious that’s the matter with Jessie Twyford?’

‘That I’ll tell you later,’ said Doctor Formby. He went up to the housekeeper, who was sitting motionless in her chair. ‘You’ll be all right if we leave you, Mrs Markle? I’ll have a nurse round here in less than an hour.’

His voice seemed to galvanise her into life. ‘I shall be all right, doctor,’ she replied. ‘You can trust me to see that Jessie is properly looked after.’

The doctor and the policeman left the house. Mrs Markle, after seeing that her patient was properly wrapped up, went into the kitchen and asked Mrs Rugg to make her a cup of tea. Then she returned to the servants’ hall, and drew up a chair to the sofa.

But her thoughts were not of Jessie, who now appeared to be sleeping peacefully. Her brain was wrestling with the sergeant’s words, which refused to crystallise themselves into any credible fact. The idea of death and the idea of Mr Pershore were like drops of oil and vinegar, refusing to mingle. In her efforts to make herself realise that her employer was dead, everything else became of secondary importance. Even Jessie’s illness, Doctor Formby’s extraordinary suggestion that she had swallowed arsenic, seemed the merest trifles.

As she sipped the hot, strong tea, the central fact, though remaining incomprehensible, became fixed in her brain. Mr Pershore was dead. It was her obvious duty to inform his relatives without delay.

Nahum Pershore had been the youngest of three. Nancy Markle hardly remembered his two sisters. They had been much older than Nahum, had been out in the world when he was still a child playing in his father’s yard. But she knew all about them. Rebecca, the eldest, had married young Bryant, who worked in the office of the local solicitor. A pushing young fellow, was Bryant. He had passed all his examinations, and become a solicitor himself. Then he had gone into partnership in London. The Bryants had an only child, Philip, who had adopted his father’s profession, and was now a partner in the firm of Capes, Bryant and Capes, of Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Rebecca Bryant and her husband had both died many years ago. But Philip was very much alive. It was only the day before that he had spent the afternoon and evening at Firlands.

Then there was Prudence, or as she was more generally known, Betty Rissington, Mr Pershore’s niece. She was the daughter of his other sister, Naomi. Miss Betty must be told, of course. But, unfortunately, Mrs Markle did not know where to find her. She had been staying at Firlands for the past fortnight, and had only left that very morning. But where she had gone Mrs Markle didn’t know. She was a very independent young lady, was Miss Betty. Liked going about on her own. But perhaps Mr Philip would know where to find her. Or Mr Philip’s wife, though it was Mrs Markle’s private opinion that the two ladies didn’t take to one another much.

The housekeeper finished her tea, then, after calling in Mrs Rugg to keep an eye on Jessie, went upstairs to the telephone. She called up the office of Messrs Capes, Bryant and Capes, and asked to speak to Mr Philip Bryant upon a personal matter. She was put through and heard Philip’s voice, ‘Well, Mrs Markle, what is it?’

It seemed to her that there was a tinge of anticipation in his tone, almost as though he expected to hear bad news of his uncle. But she dismissed the idea, as having its sole origin in her fancy. Clearly and concisely she told Philip of Sergeant Draper’s visit to Firlands, and of the news which he had brought.

So long a pause ensued after she had finished speaking, that she thought she had been cut off. But at last came Philip’s voice again, high-pitched and irresolute. ‘I can’t understand it. My uncle died suddenly? And at the Motor Show? It’s most extraordinary. I must have further details. I’ll go round to Olympia now, at once. I think that will be best. Then I’ll come down to Firlands as soon as I can.’

‘Very well, Mr Philip. Excuse me, but do you know where I can find Miss Betty?’

‘Betty? Isn’t she staying with you? She was when I was there yesterday.’

‘Yes, Mr Philip. But she left this morning. I thought you might know where she was.’

‘I’ve no idea. It doesn’t matter. We’ll talk about that when I see you. Good-bye, Mrs Markle.’ And he rang off.

Meanwhile Doctor Formby and Sergeant Draper had left the house together. ‘You’d better come along to my surgery,’ the doctor had said. ‘I’ll give you a lift in my car. Jump in. You’ll find you’ve got another job in front of you this afternoon, unless I’m greatly mistaken.’

They drove to the surgery together, where the doctor told Draper to sit down and watch. He produced some chemical apparatus from a cupboard, and into it put some of the contents of the sealed jar, and then some fragments of zinc and acid. The mixture frothed and bubbled, evolving a gas which escaped through a narrow tube. Doctor Formby put his nose to the end of the tube and sniffed. ‘Ah, I thought so!’ he exclaimed. ‘Come here, Draper. Do you smell anything?’

The sergeant inhaled deeply. ‘Yes, that I do, sir. Smells to me like garlic, same as them Eyetalian chaps do use.’

Doctor Formby nodded. ‘Smells like it, but it isn’t,’ he said. ‘It’s arsenic.’

‘Arsenic, sir,’ exclaimed Draper, hurriedly withdrawing from the vicinity of the apparatus.

‘Yes, arsenic. That’s what we call Marsh’s Test. And that smell of garlic that you noticed means that Jessie Twyford has been swallowing arsenic. Fortunately for her, she was very sick, or she would have been a dead woman by now.’

‘Why, wherever did she get the stuff from, sir?’

‘That nobody seems to know. Perhaps she’ll be able to tell us when she’s feeling a bit better. Now, look here, Draper, it seems to me that there’s something devilish queer going on. Mr Pershore dies suddenly from some unexplained cause, and on the same afternoon his parlourmaid is found suffering from acute arsenical poisoning.’

A malignant look came into the sergeant’s face. ‘You don’t think, do you, sir …’ he began. But he seemed unable to finish the sentence.

‘Think what?’ the doctor asked.

‘Why, that there was anything—anything between Mr Pershore and Jessie?’

‘That’s a question you can’t possibly expect me to answer. If I were you, I’d get along to the police station and report the facts at once. You can say that I was called to Firlands by Mrs Markle, and found Jessie suffering from arsenical poisoning. That test you have just seen me do was rough, but conclusive. If further tests are required, I’ve plenty more material in this jar, which I’ll seal up in your presence, I consider it most important that these facts should be made known to the coroner who conducts the inquest upon Mr Pershore.’

‘Very good, sir,’ replied Sergeant Draper. ‘I’ll see to it at once.’

It was due to Sergeant Draper’s report, and to the action taken upon it by his superiors, that Philip Bryant found a stranger installed at Firlands upon his arrival there that evening. This stranger, a heavily built man with searching eyes, introduced himself as Superintendent Hanslet, of the Criminal Investigation Department.