Unnatural death
in white bandages. I put out my hand and felt for the electric switch,
but she called out:
“‘No light, please—it hurts me.’”
“How did she see you put your hand to the switch?”
“Well,” said Mr. Trigg, “that was an odd thing. She didn’t speak, as a
matter of fact, till I had actually clicked the switch down. But nothing
happened. The light didn’t come on.”
“Really?”
“No. I supposed that the bulb had been taken away or had gone phut.
However, I said nothing, and came up to the bed. She said in a sort of
half-whisper, ‘Is that the lawyer?’
“I said, ‘Yes,’ and asked what I could do for her.
“She said, ‘I have had a terrible accident. I can’t live. I want to make
my will quickly.’ I asked whether there was nobody with her. ‘Yes, yes,’
she said in a hurried way, ‘my servant will be back in a moment. She has
gone to look for a doctor.’ ‘But,’ I said, ‘couldn’t she have rung up?
You are not fit to be left alone.’ ‘We couldn’t get through to one,’ she
replied, ‘it’s all right. She will be here soon. Don’t waste time. I
must make my will.’ She spoke in a dreadful, gasping way, and I felt
that the best thing would be to do what she wanted, for fear of
agitating her. I drew a chair to the table where the lamp was, got out
my fountain pen and a printed will-form with which I had provided
myself, and expressed myself ready to receive her instructions.
“Before beginning, she asked me to give her a little brandy and water
from a decanter which stood on the table. I did so, and she took a small
sip, which seemed to revive her. I placed the glass near her hand, and
at her suggestion mixed another glass for myself. I was very glad of it,
for, as I said, it was a beast of a night, and the room was cold. I
looked round for some extra coals to put on the fire, but could see
none.”
“That,” said Parker, “is extremely interesting and suggestive.”
“I thought it queer at the time. But the whole thing was queer. Anyway,
I then said I was ready to begin. She said, ‘You may think I am a little
mad, because my head has been so hurt. But I am quite sane. But he
shan’t have a penny of the money.’ I asked her if someone had attacked
her. She replied, ‘My husband. He thinks he has killed me. But I am
going to live long enough to will the money away.’ She then said that
her name was Mrs. Marion Mead, and proceeded to make a will, leaving her
estate, which amounted to about £10,000, among various legatees,
including a daughter and three or four sisters. It was rather a
complicated will, as it included various devices for tying up the
daughter’s money in a trust, so as to prevent her from ever handing over
any of it to the father.”
“Did you make a note of the names and addresses of the people involved?”
“I did, but, as you will see later on, I could make no use of them. The
testatrix was certainly clear-headed enough about the provisions of the
will, though she seemed terribly weak, and her voice never rose above a
whisper after that one time when she had called to me not to turn on the
light.
“At length I finished my notes of the will, and started to draft it out
on to the proper form. There were no signs of the servant’s return, and
I began to be really anxious. Also the extreme cold—or something
else—added to the fact that it was now long past my bed-time, was making
me appallingly sleepy. I poured out another stiff little dose of the
brandy to warm me up, and went on writing out the will.
“When I had finished I said:
“‘How about signing this? We need another witness to make it legal.’
“She said, ‘My servant must be here in a minute or two. I can’t think
what has happened to her.’
“‘I expect she has missed her way in the fog,’ I said. ‘However, I will
wait a little longer. I can’t go and leave you like this.’
“She thanked me feebly, and we sat for some time in silence. As time
went on, I began to feel the situation to be increasingly uncanny. The
sick woman breathed heavily, and moaned from time to time. The desire
for sleep overpowered me more and more. I could not understand it.
“Presently it occurred to me, stupefied though I felt, that the most
sensible thing would be to get the taxi-man—if he was still there—to
come in and witness the will with me, and then to go myself to find a
doctor. I sat, sleepily revolving this in my mind, and trying to summon
energy to speak. I felt as though a great weight of inertia was pressing
down upon me. Exertion of any kind seemed almost beyond my powers.
“Suddenly something happened which brought me back to myself. Mrs. Mead
turned a little over upon the couch and peered at me intently, as it
seemed, in the lamp-light. To support herself, she put both her hands on
the edge of the table. I noticed, with a vague sense of something
unexpected, that the left hand bore no wedding-ring. And then I noticed
something else.
“Across the back of the fingers of the right hand went a curious scar—as
though a chisel or some such thing had slipped and cut them.”
Parker sat upright in his chair.
“Yes,” said Mr. Trigg, “that interests you. It startled me. Or rather,
startled isn’t quite the word. In my oppressed state, it affected me
like some kind of nightmare. I struggled upright in my chair, and the
woman sank back upon her pillows.
“At that moment there came a violent ring at the bell.”
“The servant?”
“No—thank Heaven it was my taxi-driver, who had become tired of waiting.
I thought—I don’t quite know what I thought—but I was alarmed. I gave
some kind of shout or groan, and the man came straight in. Happily, I
had left the door open as I had found it.
“I pulled myself together sufficiently to ask him to witness the will. I
must have looked queer and spoken in a strange way, for I remember how
he looked from me to the brandy-bottle. However, he signed the paper
after Mrs. Mead, who wrote her name in a weak, straggling hand as she
lay on her back.
“‘Wot next, guv’nor?’ asked the man, when this was done.
“I was feeling dreadfully ill by now. I could only say, ‘Take me home.’
“He looked at Mrs. Mead and then at me, and said, ‘Ain’t there nobody to
see to the lady, sir?’
“I said, ‘Fetch a doctor. But take me home first.’
“I stumbled out of the house on his arm. I heard him muttering something
about its being a rum start. I don’t remember the drive home. When I
came back to life, I was in my own bed, and one of the local doctors was
standing over me.
“I’m afraid this story is getting very long and tedious. To cut matters
short, it seems the taxi-driver, who was a very decent, intelligent
fellow, had found me completely insensible at the end of the drive. He
didn’t know who I was, but he hunted in my pocket and found my visiting
card and my latch-key. He took me home, got me upstairs and, deciding
that if I was drunk, I was a worse drunk that he had ever encountered in
his experience, humanely went round and fetched a doctor.
“The doctor’s opinion was that I had been heavily drugged with veronal
or something of that kind. Fortunately, if the idea was to murder me,
the dose had been very much under-estimated. We went into the matter
thoroughly, and the upshot was that I must have taken about 30 grains of
the stuff. It appears that it is a difficult drug to trace by analysis,
but that was the conclusion the doctor came to, looking at the matter
all round. Undoubtedly the brandy had been doped.
“Of course, we went round to look at the house next day. It was all shut
up, and the local milkman informed us that the occupiers had been away
for a week and were not expected home for another ten days. We got into
communication with them, but they appeared to be perfectly genuine,
ordinary people, and they declared they knew nothing whatever about it.
They were accustomed to go away every so often, just shutting the house
and not bothering about a caretaker or anything. The man came along at
once, naturally, to investigate matters, but couldn’t find that anything
had been stolen or disturbed, except that a pair of sheets and some
pillows showed signs of use, and a scuttle of coal had been used in the
sitting-room. The coal-cellar, which also contained the electric meter,
had been left locked and the meter turned off before the family
left—they apparently had a few grains of sense—which accounts for the
chill darkness of the house when I entered it. The visitor had
apparently slipped back the catch of the pantry window—one of the usual
gimcrack affairs—with a knife or something, and had brought her own
lamp, siphon and brandy. Daring, but not really difficult.
“No Mrs. Mead or Miss Grant was to be heard of anywhere, as I needn’t
tell you. The tenants of the house were not keen to start expensive
inquiries—after all, they’d lost nothing but a shilling’s worth of
coals—and on consideration, and seeing that I hadn’t actually been
murdered or anything, I thought it best to let the matter slide. It was
a most unpleasant adventure.”
“I’m sure it was. Did you ever hear from Miss Grant again?”
“Why, yes. She rang me up twice—once, after three months, and again only
a fortnight ago, asking for an appointment. You may think me cowardly,
Mr. Parker, but each time I put her off. I didn’t quite know what might
happen. As a matter of fact, the opinion I formed in my own mind was
that I had been entrapped into that house with the idea of making me
spend the night there and afterwards blackmailing me. That was the only
explanation I could think of which would account for the
sleeping-draught. I thought discretion was the better part of valour,
and gave my clerks and my housekeeper instructions that if Miss Grant
should call at any time I was out and not expected back.”
“H’m. Do you suppose she knew you had recognised the scar on her hand?”
“I’m sure she didn’t. Otherwise she would hardly have made advances to
me in her own name again.”
“No. I think you are right. Well, Mr. Trigg, I am much obliged to you
for this information, which may turn out to be very valuable. And if
Miss Grant should ring you up again—where did she call from, by the
way?”
“From call-boxes, each time. I know that, because the operator always
tells one when the call is from a public box. I didn’t have the calls
traced.”
“No, of course not. Well, if she does it again, will you please make an
appointment with her, and then let me know about it at once? A call to
Scotland Yard will always find me.”
Mr. Trigg promised that he would do this, and Parker took his leave.
“And now we know,” thought Parker as he returned home, “that somebody—an
odd unscrupulous somebody—was making inquiries about great-nieces in
1925. A word to Miss Climpson, I fancy, is indicated—just to find out
whether Mary Whittaker has a scar on her right hand, or whether I’ve got
to hunt up any more solicitors.”
The hot streets seemed less oppressively oven-like than before. In fact,
Parker was so cheered by his interview that he actually bestowed a
cigarette-card upon the next urchin who accosted him.
Part III
THE MEDICO-LEGAL PROBLEM
“_There’s not a crime
But takes its proper change out still in crime
If once rung on the counter of this world._”
E. B. Browning, _Aurora Leigh_
CHAPTER XIX
Gone Away
“_There is nothing good or evil save in the will._”
Epictetus
“You will not, I imagine, deny,” observed Lord Peter, “that very odd
things seem to happen to the people who are in a position to give
information about the last days of Agatha Dawson. Bertha Gotobed dies
suddenly, under suspicious circumstances; her sister thinks she sees