Antidote to Venom (14 page)

To those present Rankin's evidence conveyed little which they had not already known or guessed, and George's was the next name called. As he moved forward to the witness chair he reminded himself that he was now in deadly danger, and that if he allowed his growing optimism to make him careless, he might find himself trapped.

The coroner, however, handled him with gentleness and consideration. Under his suave questioning George explained that he had been director of the Zoo for eleven years. Under the Corporation Committee he was in supreme command of all departments and head of the entire staff.

He went on to give the history of the late professor's negotiations with the Committee, leading to the very unusual facilities which had been granted him in connection with his research. The Committee had acceded to the deceased's request, as they appreciated the value to mankind of the discovery which he believed was all but within his grasp. For five years the professor had worked with the snakes, during which time he had shown such care and skill as completely to justify the confidence placed in him. Then his health had deteriorated and he had lost his nerve. He, George, had therefore, with regret, recommended his Committee to withdraw their permission, and this was done. The deceased still spent some time in the snake-house, but never again, so far as George knew, had he personally interfered with the snakes.

Questioned further, George said that in his opinion the escape of the snake was utterly impossible, and that the reptile must have been deliberately withdrawn by someone who had both the keys and the necessary technical knowledge. This led to questions about keys, and with contrition George confessed his own lapse in the matter of the side door.

“What keys had the deceased?” went on the coroner.

“When enjoying his full facilities, he had keys of the side door of the Zoo leading to Calshort Road, of the snake-house and of certain cages, including that of the Russell's vipers. When the facilities were withdrawn, he gave up the keys of the house and cages, but out of regard for his feelings he was allowed to retain that of the side door.”

“Do you happen to know whether the snake which we are to-day discussing was of a type with which the deceased was experimenting?”

George stiffened suddenly as he sensed danger. This was a point he had entirely overlooked. To have made his case water-tight he should have chosen such a variety. For a split second he hesitated, then he hedged.

“I'm afraid,” he said, “I can't answer that question, except in the general way that he was trying all kinds of venom. Whether he was working on that particular variety at the time of his death, I don't know.”

It seemed all right. At all events the coroner did not press the matter, but turned to the question of what other persons might have obtained keys.

This point George had foreseen and replied that it was unlikely in his opinion that anyone outside the staff could have done so, while all of the staff who could were beyond suspicion.

To George's intense relief, this ended his interrogation. After him Milliken was called, and then Nesbit. Both were asked whether other persons could have obtained their keys long enough to take impressions and both strenuously denied the possibility.

Nesbit was the last witness, and when he stood down the coroner shuffled his notes and addressed the jury. Again, as George listened, relief and satisfaction swelled up in his mind. If he himself had been making the speech, it could not have been more to his liking.

“You have, members of the jury,” Finlater said, after a few preliminary remarks, “four distinct questions to answer. First, you must declare, if you can, the identity of the deceased; second, what was the cause of his death; third, was that death due to accident, suicide or murder; and fourth and lastly, was any person to blame, and if so, who?

“With the first and second of these questions I do not think you will have much difficulty. A number of witnesses have identified the remains as those of Professor Matthew Burnaby, and nothing has come out in evidence to throw the slightest doubt on their statements. Secondly, you have had direct medical evidence that death was due to the bite of a snake and to nothing else, and here again no alternative has been suggested. So far the case seems straightforward.

“When, however, you come to the third and fourth points, you are on less firm ground. Let us for a moment consider the issues raised.

“A snake disappeared from the snake-house in the Zoo. The first thing I think you will have to decide is, did that snake escape, or was it deliberately removed? Here you have heard the evidence of three experts, all of whom have told you that escape was impossible. If, then, it was deliberately removed, the further question arises, Who took it out? Now upon this point you may either give your opinion, or you may decide that you have received insufficient evidence to reach one.

“In this connection I think you should consider what motive might exist for removing the snake. You might, for example, think that the deceased himself took it out for experimental purposes in connection with his researches. This would be an act of theft, and you would have to balance the probabilities as to whether a man of the deceased's character would have performed such an act. Here you would take into account what you have heard about the deterioration in the deceased, due to shock and ill-health. You might also consider an alternative: whether, in view of the extremely beneficial results to humanity resulting from a solution of the deceased's problem, he might not have considered that so large an end justified a slight deviation from the path of perfect probity.” The coroner looked faintly pleased with himself as he delivered this alliterative gem. “Further, you have to consider whether a man in the professor's state of health would have been physically able for the deed. You would, of course, bear in mind that if you accept this theory, the difficulty about the keys vanishes, as the deceased could have kept duplicates.

“But before you could accept this theory, you would have to satisfy yourselves that it is in accordance with the remainder of the evidence. If the deceased took the snake, what did he do with it? Did he put it in one of the boxes we have heard of? If so, what happened? Did it escape? Did he grip it and drop it into the barrel outside his study?

“If you reject this hypothesis, you must consider who else might have abstracted the snake, and for what purpose? And, of course, again you must explain how the deceased came to be bitten and the snake to be drowned.

“All this will lead you to the third question you have to answer. Was the death due to accident, suicide or murder?

“Of these, I think you will probably dismiss suicide. If the deceased had wished for death he would surely have committed the deed in the snake-house. Why should he go to the trouble of carrying off the snake, when all he had to do was to put his hand into the cage? Further, the evidence of Mrs. Pertwee as to the deceased's frame of mind and of his intention to go to Mr. Leet's, you will probably consider tells strongly against suicide.

“The possibility of murder you will weigh carefully. Could anyone have stolen the snake and so arranged matters that it would have bitten the deceased as he left, or was about to leave his house? This person, you will remember, must not only have had keys of the Zoo, but also of the deceased's house, and he must have known intimately the internal arrangements of both. What person or persons in this case had all that knowledge?

“Further, if you support the theory of murder, you must find someone who had a motive for the deceased's death. I do not think evidence of that kind was put before you.

“You will probably then come to the conclusion that there is no evidence for murder, and if so, it leaves accident as the only possibility. You must settle, then, in your own minds whether the theory of accident harmonises with all the other facts that you have learnt.

“Lastly, if you were satisfied that anyone was to blame for the accident or suicide or murder, you should say so. You must understand that you need not go out of your way to find a culprit. You need only mention any person if he or she seems to you obviously guilty.

“Now, if there is no question you wish to put to me, you will please retire and consider your verdict.”

The jury were not long in reaching a decision. Fifteen minutes after they had trooped out, they trooped in again, and they gave the verdict which after the coroner's address had seemed inevitable. They found that Professor Matthew Burnaby had met his death accidentally while handling a dangerous snake, and that no blame attached to any other person.

Chapter XIV

Venom: In the Mind

George found his relief and satisfaction almost overwhelming as he walked back to his office after the inquest. The knowledge that the affair was over and done with, and that no terrible consequences would follow, intoxicated him. He wanted to dance and sing and treat everyone he met to drinks. But sternly he took himself to task. Though the danger was apparently over, it remained latent, ready to spring into vigorous life on the slightest inadvertance on his part. Never again could he completely relax.

At the same time he should show a certain pleasure at the rehabilitation of the Zoo management in the public mind. The fact that Burnaby had stolen the snake—for so the man in the street interpreted the finding—showed not only that the Zoo was not responsible for the affair, but that the danger of a repetition was non-existant. George allowed himself a distinctly cheery bearing as he congratulated his staff.

A couple of days of his ordinary routine convinced him, if further proof were needed, that he personally was not under suspicion. Everyone spoke to him normally and he was sure that no unhealthy interest was being taken in his movements.

On the evening of that second day he hired, he hoped for the last time, the N.J. Gnat, and drove with his rope up to the Orlop Hill. It was a fine night, lighter indeed than he could have wished. Anyone could have seen him, had anyone been there to look, but few people were about at such a time and he felt reasonably secure. From another point of view the light was an advantage, as the rocks in the craggy canyon in which he wanted to hide his embarrassing trophy were dangerous for climbers.

He carried out his plan without difficulty, dropping the rope into a practically inaccessible gully. He had been careful to undo all the knots, and after a couple of wettings there would be nothing to suggest the rope had been used for any purpose but rock climbing. Nor if by some miracle it were found, would there be anything to connect it with himself.

Greatly eased in mind at having destroyed the one remaining piece of compromising evidence, George returned home with the intention of settling down to a normal and blameless life.

He was completely puzzled by the whole affair: quite as much, he thought with a grim smile, as the police. What, he asked himself again and again, had Capper done? Obviously he must have had a second snake, because both Marr and Blaney-Heaton were satisfied Burnaby had died from its bite. Where could he have got it? Such creatures were pretty difficult to obtain, even by the authorised representative of a Zoo, and for a solicitor in the Midlands to buy one through the ordinary channels would be approaching the impossible. He must, George supposed, have had some oriental friend who had managed the matter for him, and this fact doubtless suggested the entire scheme.

George's curiosity grew more and more overpowering, till at last he could bear it no longer. A couple of days later he rang up Capper from a call-box, asking for a meeting. Capper was against it, but finally said he was going to Bath on the following Saturday, and if George would be at a certain country road crossing at three o'clock, he could drive with him for part of the way.

George went by train to the nearest station, walked to the rendezvous, and was duly picked up. Capper at once turned on him for forcing the meeting. “Why on earth,” he asked bitterly, “couldn't you let well alone? If anyone sees us together it may start a train of thought. The thing's been all right so far: why try and spoil it now?”

Somewhat taken aback, George explained his curiosity. It made Capper absolutely foam at the mouth.

“Of course you don't know how it was done!” he repeated, angrily. “You complete fool, isn't that what you want? I told you before that ignorance was more convincing if it was genuine. Be thankful you don't know, and stay that way.”

George was annoyed also, but he could not but recognise that the man was right. “You're not suspected?” he asked, weakly.

This completed Capper's exasperation. “How the hell do I know?” he asked furiously. “Weren't you at the inquest? Don't you know as much about it as I? For heaven's sake, don't lose your wits.”

George retorted in somewhat similar vein, then went on to a question of immense, though secondary importance. “When am I going to get any money?”

He expected this would have produced a further outburst, but it had quite the opposite effect. Capper quieted down and replied in his normal tones. “I've been thinking about that. I've already raised a couple of thousand on my expectations, and I want to hand over a thousand to you. But I'm hanged if I know how to do it.”

George had also been considering the problem and hadn't discovered any great difficulty. “I was hoping that with your legal knowledge you would have seen a way,” he returned, with sarcasm.

Capper made a gesture of impatience. “I see a way all right, but I'm not satisfied that it would be safe. I can't give you a cheque, you know.”

“What about notes?”

“If I could get a thousand singles I would hand them to you. But how in hades could I get them without rousing suspicion?”

“Why not tenners?”

“No good. They're traceable.”

“I didn't know that.”

“Well, it's the fact. The bank records the number of every fiver or over they give out, and who they give it to.”

“Then what's your plan?”

Capper shrugged. “I admit I don't like it, but I think the only way is to do the thing openly. You write to me saying you would like to raise some money on your expectations, and asking can I arrange anything. I'll say I can advance up to a thousand and you'll close with my offer.”

George didn't like it either. He had hoped to have received notes which no one but he or Capper would have known anything about. So far
nothing
had connected him with the affair, but this would go a long way towards supplying the missing link if there was at any time a recovery of documents. No, he didn't like it at all.

“What's the biggest sum you could give me in singles?” he asked after a pause.

Capper considered. “Not enough to be any good to you,” he said at last. “Forty or fifty pounds, I dare say.”

This time it was George who did the considering. “A week?” he said at last.

Capper looked startled. “A week?” he repeated, doubtfully.

“Fifty pounds a week in singles,” George answered firmly. “It isn't much, but I can make it do. Perhaps fifty this week and forty after that.”

For the first time a faint look of admiration showed in Capper's eyes. But he swore he couldn't do it. To increase his expenditure so greatly would make the bank people suspicious.

“Nonsense,” said George, who was slowly regaining his confidence. “With all that legacy coming in it would be stranger still if you didn't spend more.”

“Yes,” Capper grumbled, “if I spent it on anything visible. If I bought a new house or a new car it would be all right, because anyone could see where the money was going. But that's very different from spending money and living in the same way.”

“Well,” retorted George, “you can draw fifty extra a week and send me forty and make a splash with the other ten. Don't tell me you can't find a way, Capper: you're no fool, you know. And I must have the money.”

In the end they compromised. On the following Monday Capper would send to George through the post fifty single notes, and every subsequent week twenty-five more.

George felt extremely disappointed as he tramped to another railway station on his way back to Birmington. Twenty-five pounds a week was a totally different thing from the lump sum of a thousand to which he had been looking forward. He could not now pay off his debts as he had hoped. He could not get the cars for Clarissa and Nancy. He could not buy the title deeds of “Rose Cottage” and get clear of those wretched moneylenders.

Then he saw that he was wrong to grumble. This hitch was entirely for the best. Until probate was granted on his aunt's money no one would expect him to be flush of cash. It was just as well to wait to pay off his larger creditors. The small debts, which really worried him more, could gradually be settled. This would be satisfactory enough and would avoid giving any cause for suspicion.

Things certainly were working out admirably. And yet nothing surprised George so much as the realisation which gradually forced itself into his mind, that, in spite of it all, he was not happy. Beneath the satisfaction of having overcome his immediate difficulties, he was conscious of a fundamental unrest and disquietude of spirit. He was obtaining the material advantage he had sought, but he had got with it an intangible load which seemed to bear him down like an actual weight. He did not realise what this was till a small incident revealed it to him.

One day after lunch he met Burnaby's solicitor, Horace Hamilton, at the club. They began to chat, and their talk presently turned on the deceased professor.

“He was an amazingly kind old chap,” Hamilton declared. “I always knew he was liberal, but till I began to go through his papers I had no idea how many people he was helping. He had a good deal of money, of course, and he was using it to boost lame dogs over stiles. There'll be a lot of pretty genuine sorrow for his death.”

George murmured something non-committal.

“One fellow in particular I have in mind,” Hamilton continued reminiscently. “He'd been a chauffeur and he'd made a break which had lost him his job and a testimonial. Burnaby got in touch with him somehow when he was absolutely down and out, and he was going to set him up with a small van so that he could go round and clean cars and do running repairs at people's own homes. He thought he could build up a little trade that way and make enough to live on. You should just hear that fellow now when his hopes have gone west. And that's only one case of many.”

“Perhaps Burnaby's heir may carry out the professor's intentions.”

Hamilton shrugged. “He may,” he said drily.

It was when George was lying awake that night that he suddenly got a vision from a new angle of what he had done. This harmless, kindly old man was the man that he, George, had killed! These people whom Burnaby was helping were losing their help and their hope through what he, George, had done. And he had done what he had done, not because he was faced with ruin and despair like them—he had no real material needs at all—but because he wanted to amuse himself with a mistress. That, he now saw in its uncompromising nakedness, was the real reason why Burnaby had lost his life, for Capper could scarcely have carried out his plan without George's help. It was for this, George knew, that he had become a murderer. It was for this that he had lost his peace of mind and taken on his shoulders a load from which he never could be rid.

George at last realised the nature of the weight which was pressing him down. It was this knowledge of what he had done, and of why he had done it. He wondered whether he had gained or lost over the venture. He had obtained money, but had he lost the power to enjoy it? He could still meet Nancy, but had he forfeited the joy of her presence? He had arranged the cottage, but had he jeopardised his home? In short, he saw that he had exchanged financial worry for a moral burden. He felt that to all he did there would now be this gnawing background of distress.

Then his mood changed. He told himself that these thoughts of conscience were only unreasoning fear: old wives' tales, nonsense retained in the mind from the false teaching of childhood. In this world, if you wanted anything you had to take it. He needn't be regretful about what he had done. He had only to banish these morbid imaginings from his mind, and he would be once again sane and happy.

But though George sought to convince himself, all the time he knew that the load was there and would be till the day of his death.…

He was worried, too, about Clarissa. He could not make her out during these last weeks. Her manner towards him had changed. She was colder than before; indeed, she had become icily aloof. She made no pretence of interest in his comings or goings, treating him as a stranger whose unwelcome presence had perforce to be endured. At times he feared that she must somehow have learnt about Nancy; then he felt sure that if she had she would have spoken about it, and he breathed more freely again.

As a matter of fact, Clarissa knew no more than she had gathered from Harriet Corrin's malicious hints. She had dropped the idea of the detective, deciding that unless some new development took place she would let matters take their course without interference. George, she knew, was only doing what thousands of other husbands did, and so long as there was no public scandal she thought she might as well keep her home and outward position. No doubt he would tire of his infatuation, and though her marriage could now never be more to her than a mere business association, she could probably rub along as well as did so many others in a like unhappy state.

George's material outlook, however, now began to improve. On the Tuesday morning after his interview with Capper, an envelope marked “Personal” was lying on his desk. From it he transferred fifty one-pound notes to his wallet. This first fruits of his adventure filled him with satisfaction. Fifty pounds wasn't much; still, it would let him settle one or two of his most pressing accounts, and—splendid thought—there would be more to follow!

The longing to see Nancy had returned, and he wondered whether it would be yet safe to call at “Rose Cottage.” He would not, he decided, hire the car any more; that could be too easily traced. His expedition with Capper had given him an idea. There were railway stations within one, two and three miles, respectively, of the cottage. He would use these in turn, walking the rest of the way. From a call office he rang up Nancy and said he would go out the next afternoon.

But this meeting proved less satisfactory than any previously. In fact, Nancy unwittingly gave him a very unpleasant shock.