The 12.30 from Croydon (17 page)

Both Charles and Mrs Shearman preferred the masterpieces of Nature to the handiwork of men. They therefore cut the visit to the city and took instead excursions to its surroundings for the whole three days of their stay. On the first they made the ascent of Vesuvius and wandered through wonderful Pompeii; on the second they visited Capri, touching for a short time at Sorrento on the way back, and the third they spent along the coast to the north of Naples, at Pozzuoli and Baiae. It was on this third day that another of those trifling incidents occurred which so greatly worried Charles.

They had gone to see the Solfatara, a dreadful place which might well have given ideas to Dante. The Solfatara is the crater of a volcano, which, though it has not been in eruption for seven hundred years, is by no means completely extinct. The crater is now floored by a lake of solidified mud, entirely infertile and destitute of vegetation. Only an extraordinarily thin crust can be solidified, for every here and there are holes or mouths in the ground, filled only four or five feet down with hot liquid mud which occasionally seethes as it reaches the boiling-point. The floor of the lake sounds hollow, and one has the impression that it shakes when one steps on it. The ground everywhere is hot and the whole place is like an evil dream.

It was while they were crossing the mud floor that Mrs Shearman made the remark which so upset Charles.

‘My goodness,’ she said, ‘what a place! If I wanted to commit a murder, this is where I should do it. I should offer my victim a drink of some drugged wine, and when he was partly helpless I should give him a push into one of those holes! How would you commit a murder, Mr Swinburn?’

Once again it was not the words, but the possible intention which lay behind them that gave Charles a cold shock. In spite of himself he glanced at her. Were the words as innocent as they sounded? Was she testing – suspicions?

He did not see any signs of it in her manner or appearance. But, then, you never can tell. Women were the deuce. Born actresses, every one of them. With a man you would know where you were. But with women…

However, whether she was testing suspicions or not, she must not receive any confirmation. It took all Charles’s resolution, but he made a joke. He changed the subject with a joke, and she made no attempt to return to it. She had, he felt sure, meant nothing.

Still there was the terribly disquieting fact that at the mere mention of murder or police or Scotland Yard, he was seized with a feeling of panic which, if not curbed, must inevitably sooner or later give him away. For the thousandth time he told himself that he
must
get over this disastrous tendency.

How he wished the thing would happen! The suspense he was now experiencing was nerve-racking. He couldn’t, he felt, stand it for long. If only the thing were over and he knew where he was! And yet he needn’t worry. His plan was perfect and he was as safe as if he had already been acquitted of the crime.

That last evening of the stay in Naples Charles felt the same anxiety, almost pain, gripping his heart as they returned to the
Jupiter.
This time, however, he forced himself not to hurry for his letters. He stayed on deck for quite five minutes, chatting to some people who had that day done the Capri trip. Then he went below.

It was there! A radiogram was handed to him. He thanked the officer and turned away. He would read it in the solitude of his cabin.

When he reached it his hands were shaking so that he could scarcely tear the flimsy envelope. Ah!—

– Peter.

Charles took his flask and poured himself out a couple of fingers of brandy. He drank it neat.

On journey to Paris! Whatever could that mean? What could have taken his uncle away from The Moat? Now Charles saw that the message had been sent from Beauvais. Beauvais! Beauvais wasn’t on the way to Paris. What could have happened?

However, for the moment none of these questions mattered. Here at last was need for action. The dreadful waiting was over. He rang for his steward.

‘Just got a wire that I have to leave you,’ he said. ‘A relative has died in France. I wish you’d shove my things into those suit-cases while I go and arrange matters with the purser.’

The man, scenting a fat tip, was anxious to oblige. ‘You’ll have to hurry, sir,’ he advised. ‘We’re due to sail almost at once.’

Charles hurried. By a stroke of luck he found the purser in his cabin.

‘You’re just in time, Mr Swinburn, if you look sharp. Are your things ready?’

‘The steward’s packing them.’

‘Well, he’d better look slippy. I’ll let the captain know.’ He telephoned to the bridge, then rapidly turned over some books. ‘There are a few extras,’ he went on. ‘You’d better square them now and then apply to the office for a part refund.’

They held the
Jupiter
five minutes to let Charles get ashore and he had to leave without bidding good-bye to his fellow-travellers. He wasn’t sorry to see the last of the ship. For all its luxury and its pleasant companionship, he had loathed it.

At the station he found that he was too late to get through to Rome by the direct line that evening, so he took a train by the old route, which crawled about the country during the entire night, arriving in the capital about half-past six the following morning. Fortunately it had sleeping coaches and he was able to get a berth.

In the train he had an opportunity of considering the news he had received. Nothing that he could think of could account for his uncle’s journey, and he presently gave up the attempt as hopeless. But there was another matter which, though equally incomprehensible, seemed amazingly good news for himself.

If Peter were taking the body home, did it not follow that no suspicion that the death was otherwise than natural could have arisen? Charles knew nothing about French law, but he felt sure that in cases of doubt some inquiry would be held corresponding to an English coroner’s inquest.

If he were correct, it was infinitely more than he could have hoped for. He had never imagined that the question of poison could be avoided. The most he had hoped was that suicide might be assumed, and of this he had been far from sanguine. Could Andrew really have died from natural causes after all and the deadly pill still be reposing in the bottle? Oh, how utterly splendid that would be! That his own conscience should be clear of murder! That he would be safe,
really
safe from arrest! For though Charles continued telling himself that he
was
safe, in his heart of hearts he never fully believed it.

If this amazing piece of good fortune really had befallen him, it must be his first care to get hold of and destroy that deadly bottle. Then nothing could come out and the whole hideous episode would be blotted out for ever.

Charles left Rome by the ‘luxe’ at 11.10. The train followed the coast route, and had he been capable of thinking of anything but his own affairs he would have enjoyed the scenery. After passing Pisa and Spezia they ran along the coast of the Ligurian Riviera, past Rapallo, where he had already been. Charming, the views snatched between the numerous tunnels along that picturesque and rocky shore. By the time they reached Genoa it was dark, and shortly afterwards Charles turned in. When he got up they were down on the plains of France near Amberieu, having passed through the Alps during the night.

At Laroche Charles was able to get the Paris morning papers and at once he received the shock which he had been half expecting since he left Naples. The poison had been discovered! He wasn’t going to get off in the easy way he had hoped. The case had been handed over to the English police for investigation!

There was only a paragraph, giving just this information and no more. Charles rallied himself. It was only what he had expected. There was no reason to imagine that things from his point of view were not all right.

When he reached Paris the last day service to London had already left and he decided to wait where he was till the next day. He reminded himself that he was going home, not to learn the result of his dreadful scheme, but to pay his last respects to his uncle. To travel without a break from Naples to Yorkshire would therefore be not only unnecessary, but actually indiscreet.

He left next morning by the 8.25, and travelling in a sort of dream, duly reached London. He drove across town and caught the 5.30 express from King’s Cross to the north. At York, where he changed into the branch train, he bought a local evening paper. At once he saw that things had been moving.

Under the caption, ‘The Death of Mr. Andrew Crowther’, appeared the following paragraph:

‘This afternoon at Cold Pickerby Dr W. J. Emerson, coroner for the district and sitting with a jury, opened an inquest on the body of Mr Andrew Crowther, The Moat, Cold Pickerby. Mr Crowther will be remembered as one of the founders of the Crowther Electromotor Works of that town. The deceased gentleman died on the 7th inst. in an aeroplane while on a journey from London to Paris, and it was suggested from France that the cause of death might be potassium cyanide poisoning. After a formal identification of the remains by Mr Peter Morley, son-in-law, and the reading of the French depositions, Dr Emerson adjourned the proceedings till the 2nd prox.’

Charles reached home by ten o’clock and drove direct to The Moat. He found Peter there, looking very worried.

‘I’m glad you’re back, Charles,’ Peter greeted him, ‘though it was hard lines having to break up your holiday like that. An unexpected affair this! I should have said Andrew Crowther was the last man in the world to have committed suicide.’

So that was the suspicion! Splendid, if it were generally accepted! Charles shook his head, expressing very genuine bewilderment.

‘I should say so!’ he exclaimed. ‘The whole thing is absolutely incomprehensible to me. First that journey to Paris, and by air of all ways! Then his death, and now the suspicion of suicide! I declare, Peter, I can’t imagine a bigger puzzle.’

‘Of course Charles hasn’t heard anything,’ Mrs Pollifex remarked. ‘Tell him, Peter.’

‘It’s all very simple,’ Peter returned, ‘except the last extraordinary item. Elsie went over to Paris to stay with some American friends, whom she hadn’t seen for years. Then late one evening we got a wire to say she had been knocked down in the street and was unconscious. I, of course, wanted to go at once, and then the old man said he would come with me. I tried to dissuade him: that sort of hurried travelling is no joke for a man of his health and years. But he would come. He was always pretty fond of Elsie, you know.’

‘I know,’ said Charles. ‘It’s not surprising. His only child and she’s always been pretty decent to him.’

‘Well, he insisted on coming. But your aunt and I were determined he should be examined first, so we asked Dr Gregory to come in and look him over. Gregory was satisfied he would stand the journey. There’s some question about the height in a plane affecting the heart, you know. Well, that was all right. We decided that Weatherup should come to look after him. I also went over and brought Rose; she was staying with some friends near Thirsk. You see, we didn’t know how badly Elsie might be hurt. She might have wanted to see Rose. Hugh we couldn’t get. He was staying with a school friend at Northallerton.’

‘Hard lines on you, Peter. It must have been a bad time.’

‘It was a bad time till we got to the air station at Victoria. I had arranged for a message to be sent there, and it said Elsie was not badly hurt. However, when we had gone so far, we went on. And then it happened.’

‘How?’ Charles asked in a low voice.

‘We don’t know. We had lunch over the Channel, and the old man took a good lunch – as good as usual, Weatherup says. Weatherup was sitting beside him and Rose and I were behind. Then after lunch he seemed to go to sleep. He was leaning back in the corner of his seat with his head up against the wall of the car. I thought he was asleep and so did Weatherup, but when we landed at Beauvais we saw he was dead. I got Rose out of the plane and we sent for a doctor. He took a longer time to make his examination than seemed reasonable, and then we learned the reason. He suspected poison. It was horrible, Charles. The police were called in and there were endless formalities. However, the matter was finally handed over to the English police. An officer was sent for and Inspector Appleby of the local force here came across. I had been allowed to have a coffin made, and everything was ready when Appleby arrived. There was a day to spare while he was getting over – Beauvais is the devil of a place to get to from England; and I took Rose up to Paris and we saw Elsie. Thank God, she was little the worse, and I’m going over shortly to bring her home.’

‘I’m glad of that, Peter.’

‘I’m sure you are. Well, Appleby arrived in the evening and next day we brought the remains to London; we couldn’t get on the same day. But the next day, that was to-day, we arrived here by an early train, and this afternoon the inquest was opened. You saw that it had been adjourned?’

‘Yes, I saw that.’

‘Well, that’s all. The poison, I understand, was potassium cyanide. We don’t know how he got it or why he took it. He seemed all right all that morning and was interested in the flying: he’d never been in a plane before.’

‘Could the height have had anything to do with it?’ Charles asked. ‘Upset him or anything?’

‘I don’t know; it’s a complete puzzle to me.’

‘Had he been depressed before starting?’

Peter looked at Mrs Pollifex and she answered, ‘Well, latterly he had been a little depressed and he certainly was so before leaving. But I don’t think more than recently.’

‘If he had the poison with him, it looks as if he had had the idea of suicide in his mind for some time.’

Peter nodded. ‘I thought of that, Charles, it does. But what an extraordinary time to take it, just when he was looking forward to seeing Elsie! That seems to me the most puzzling point of all.’

Charles nodded in his turn. ‘It’s inexplicable, the entire affair,’ he declared. ‘How on earth could he have got the poison, to take one point only?’