The Craig Poisoning Mystery (Musaicum Murder Mysteries). Dorothy Fielding

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ

      "Well, Mr. Craig evidently thought he would be safe, if he could get off with you," Pointer explained. "That being so, it would narrow down the circle of possible suspects here by clearing any who were also great friends of yours. But, since that isn't so, since Mr. Craig would know that by going with you he would get away from everyone down here, it leaves things pretty much as they were. He may have had his suspicions of any one of them."

      "That letter is damned vague," Houghton agreed. "Does it tell you anything at all?"

      "I wouldn't be surprised if the guilty person were someone known to you both, Mr. Houghton," Pointer thought. "At least, that's a fair guess to start with. Evidently he was certain of the real poisoner's identity. Mr. Craig doesn't seem to feel any great amazement, either. Nor does he say that you'll be staggered to learn the name...Of course, he was tired, and very ill...but still, all omission of surprise is rather noticeable."

      "Had he any enemies known to you?" Godolphin asked.

      "Not a soul," Houghton said confidently. "He made a huge fortune about a year ago, or rather, he finished making it then—put all his affairs into gilt-edged securities, left everything in the hands of the Empire Insurance Company to manage for him, and has taken life easily ever since. As far as I know, he made no enemies before retiring. Certainly he couldn't have made any since, and enemies of this kind don't wait a year and more before showing themselves."

      Both Godolphin and Pointer thought this argument reasonable.

      "Have you any idea how his will runs?" Pointer asked next.

      "Pretty well everything was left to me in the last will of which I know anything. It was made a year ago. Of course, he may have made another, but I doubt it, with his marriage so near at hand. The idea was that it was only as a pro tem arrangement—we both thought—which is why, apart from affection, I want the murderer found and hung, chief inspector. It's my plain duty," Houghton finished grimly, half under his breath.

      "Any legacies?" Pointer asked.

      "Several, I think."

      "Can you remember them?"

      Houghton thought a moment. "Five hundred a year to whoever has the Dower House. It was to be made into a sort of fund, of course, but the interest amounted to that. Varying sums to men in various parts of the world who had worked for him. Nothing striking, that I can remember..."

      "Anything to any servants here?"

      "I rather think that Match's wages were to be continued during his life, as an annuity, but I may be wrong. We shall soon know."

      The chief constable was staring at the carpet, however, lost in thought. "That confederate," he murmured, "that confederate inside the house...Nothing to go on there...Damned vague, as you say, Houghton. But, as Craig excepts Match, the butler, it evidently lies among the women."

      "One fact will help," Pointer thought. "This letter reached Mr. Houghton around two. It should be easy to find out when it was written. Was Mr. Craig's manner different, after it, to any member of the household? The answer to that question might give us a lift part of the way. Shall I keep this letter, sir, or will you? I suppose Mr. Houghton has no objection to one of us taking possession of it?"

      Houghton's gesture waved away the idea of any objections on his part to anything the two officials might do.

      "You keep it," Godolphin said. "I shall have to leave the case entirely to you. Last night's fire looks like arson. Together with our preparations for quarter sessions it will keep me fully occupied."

      Houghton initialed the letter and watched the chief inspector put it carefully away.

      "You know," he burst out, "it can't seem such an incredible nightmare to you as it does to me. To me, who know all the people in the house, and would have vouched for all of them. Yet he wasn't murdered from outside, but from inside. And, what's more, he was murdered before he could show me the proof which he had found, which was actually in his hands...I think he was killed because he had got hold of that guilty letter and had written to me to come at once. We weren't to be allowed to meet."

      "By George!" muttered Godolphin, "that's a possibility! That you weren't to meet! Still, the doctors seem sure that he was being poisoned for some time, in small doses..."

      "But he wasn't actually finished off until he had sent me that letter saying that he had hold of a paper, which proved what damnable thing was going on—until he wrote me to come and take him away."

      "One thing is certain, if you're right in thinking that Mr. Craig was killed to prevent a meeting between you," Pointer said thoughtfully: "it would mean that someone knew of the contents of this letter. For, from the wording of it, it doesn't seem likely that he would have shown the paper he had found to anyone else, or even spoken of it." Houghton agreed.

      "Unless Craig was indiscreet when he telephoned you?" suggested Godolphin.

      "I don't think anyone could have guessed—no," Houghton said with certainty as he repeated the words they had exchanged along the wire, "no one could have guessed from overhearing what either of us said. Unless"—his face darkened—"unless they got it out of him afterward. Unless someone overheard enough to make them curious. Someone who suspected that Ronnie might guess what was happening, and was on the watch...In that case, they might have got it out of him afterward, about my coming down here this morning, I mean. Only that much, of course."

      "Would he have been likely to speak of your arrival?"

      "To only one person, he might have. To Countess Jura." Houghton's voice was studiously level; he deliberately would not meet the eyes of either man.

      "How did this letter reach you, and when, exactly?" Godolphin asked him. "According to what Craig writes here, Lindrum was to drop it in your box himself. I see there's no stamp or postmark on it."

      "Someone—Lindrum, evidently—did drop it in my letter-box, and my man brought it in at once."

      "You heard the ring? You know that it really was brought to you instantly?" Godolphin pressed.

      "I do. I was at lunch. Time would be around ten past two. I heard a ring, and Hughes, my man, left me and went to the door, bringing in the letter you have there. And, for extra certainty, I heard the letter drop into the box. Hughes certainly had no time to open the envelope, or do more than see that it was addressed to me."

      "Yet the envelope's been opened." The chief constable pointed to a line of dried gum outside the flap.

      "Opened while it was damp, I think," Pointer added, he was inspecting it through a glass, "and, as you say, sir, stuck down with some fresh gum."

      Houghton gave an exclamation. He, too, peered in his turn, and now noticed, for the first time, the slight wrinkles and waviness.

      "If done while it was wet," Pointer thought, "your cousin might have opened it himself for some last word, or postscript."

      "There's no postscript," Godolphin pointed out. "Might have forgotten the date, of course, and opened it to put it in..."

      He pulled at his mustache for a moment. "This very much backs up your idea, Houghton," he said finally. "We haven't any right—officially—until the finding of the post- mortem, to assume death by poisoning."

      "Don't stop СКАЧАТЬ