Death at Breakfast. John Rhode

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      He was still poking about when he was summoned by a loud knocking on the front door. His visitor proved to be the police surgeon, Doctor Bishop.

      ‘Well, Superintendent, what have you got here?’ the latter asked in a business-like tone.

      ‘Come inside,’ Hanslet replied, ‘and I’ll show you.’

      The two went into the sitting-room where the body still lay. Doctor Bishop listened attentively to the superintendent’s account of what had happened.

      ‘Oldland,’ he said. ‘Yes, I know him. Very sound chap. If he said the man died of acute poisoning, you may take it that he did. Your trouble is I suppose, to find out where the poison came from.’

      ‘I’ve a pretty good idea of that already,’ Hanslet replied. ‘Look here, doctor. The man had a cup of tea soon after seven. He had nothing else until he drank a cup of coffee about half an hour later. Immediately after taking the coffee he was violently ill. No amount of poison in the coffee would act so quickly as that, would it?’

      ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Doctor Bishop thoughtfully. ‘It would seem more reasonable to suspect the tea.’

      ‘That’s just what I thought. Now then, doctor, if you’ll be good enough to come upstairs I’ll show you the whole outfit still untouched.’

      They went up to Harleston’s bedroom. Dr Bishop removed the lid of the teapot and sniffed its contents.

      ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed, ‘I shouldn’t care to drink that tea. Here, smell it for yourself.’

      Hanslet followed his example.

      ‘It smells to me more like rank tobacco than tea,’ he said.

      ‘Yes,’ replied Dr Bishop. ‘And that’s the characteristic odour of nicotine, a most virulent poison of which two or three drops would probably be fatal. I don’t think you need look much further for the cause of this man’s death. But what I can’t understand is how he came to drink the decoction which smells like this. And it probably tastes even filthier than it smells, but I shouldn’t advise you to try. I’ll take the contents of the teapot and the dregs in the cup and send them to the Home Office for analysis.’

      ‘We’d better look round and see if there’s any more nicotine about the place, I suppose,’ he said. ‘Just to make sure.’

      They searched the house, but without any further results. The coffee on the dining-room table had no suspicious smell, but Dr Bishop decided to send this for analysis just as a matter of precaution. The food in the kitchen and larder appeared to be equally free from nicotine. And then it occurred to Hanslet that if Janet Harleston had administered the poison, the most likely place to look for it was in her room. They went upstairs again. Conspicuous in the centre of Janet’s dressing table was a bottle labelled ‘eau-de-Cologne’ and containing a liquid of a dark brown colour. Dr Bishop looked at this suspiciously.

      ‘I’ve never seen eau-de-Cologne that colour before,’ he said.

      He took the stopper from the bottle and applied his nose to it. ‘There you are,’ he said, ‘a most remarkable odour which seems to be a blend of eau-de-Cologne and nicotine. This liquid is a strong solution of the latter in the former, I’ll be bound. This bottle must go with the rest for analysis.’

      There seemed to be little more to be done for the present. The case was clear as daylight. Harleston had been poisoned by nicotine administered in his early tea, and his sister was the only person who could have administered it. Well, Hanslet thought, she was in safe keeping till she was wanted, anyhow.

      Dr Bishop went off with the material for analysis. A few minutes after his departure the ambulance men arrived and the body was taken away to the mortuary. Hanslet remained alone in possession of the house.

      It seemed, on the face of it, as though there was nothing more to be done in Matfield Street. And yet Hanslet could not tear himself away. He had an uncomfortable feeling that the house possessed some secret which he had not yet succeeded in penetrating. Everything hitherto had been too simple, too obvious. Why should the girl have left that most compromising bottle on her dressing-table when she had had every opportunity of removing it? Why had she not cleared away the tea-tray before summoning Dr Oldland? And yet, unless Harleston had himself put the nicotine in his tea, her guilt was manifest.

      Once more Hanslet began to prowl restlessly about the house. His wanderings took him into the bathroom. Here there were abundant signs of Harleston’s toilet. The bath had recently been used and had been cleaned. On a ledge beside the wash basin was an array of shaving materials. A safety razor, rinsed and not dried. A stick of shaving soap, and a shaving brush. Rather to Hanslet’s surprise he found that the brush was already dry. Yet Harleston had undoubtedly shaved himself that morning. The smoothness of his cheeks was sufficient evidence of that. And he had cut himself while doing it.

      He had certainly cut himself. There were two or three drops of blood on the edge of the basin. A roll of sticking plaster and a pair of scissors lay beside the shaving brush. The only towel in the room was a rough bath towel, and curiously enough, there were no traces of blood on this.

      However, there was nothing here to throw any light upon Harleston’s death. Hanslet, remembering the bureau which he had seen in the dining-room, went downstairs once more. The bureau stood as Oldland had noticed it, with the key in the lock. Hanslet opened it. Immediately inside were a few sheets of headed notepaper. He removed these and made a further search. Harleston appeared to have used the desk to contain his private papers and accounts. There was nothing else of interest in it.

      Hanslet glanced at the sheets of headed paper. They bore the inscription of Novoshave Ltd. with an address in Oxford Street. He wondered idly how they came to be in Harleston’s possession. He put them back where he had found them, locked up the desk and put the bunch of keys in his pocket.

      There was a second bureau in the sitting-room, and Hanslet thought that it might be as well to examine this. He found it locked, but the lock was a very flimsy affair, and he had no difficulty in breaking it open. Inside was an untidy mass of letters and household bills. It was easy to guess that Janet was the user of this bureau. Hanslet picked up the letters and glanced through them. One, signed Philip, caught his eye. It bore the address, Hart’s Farm, Lassingford, and was dated on the previous Friday. Its contents were brief and to the point.

      ‘DEAR JANET. I will come up on Sunday afternoon and put forward the proposition I mentioned to you before. Victor, I suppose, will make himself unpleasant about it, as usual. If only you could get him out of the way there would be no difficulty.

      Cheerio, Yours, PHILIP.’

      Hanslet smiled grimly as he read this last sentence. Get him out of the way! He was pretty effectually out of the way now, at all events. And what was this proposition that brother and sister had between them?

      Hanslet tore himself away from the house at last, still not quite satisfied in his mind. His immediate problem was, how to deal with Janet Harleston. Should he arrest her on the evidence he had already obtained? On the whole he thought better not. Let her remain at large for the present until the case was complete. It would, for instance, be necessary to ascertain the source of the nicotine.

      3

      Junior Station-Inspector James Waghorn, familiarly known to his associates at Scotland Yard as ‘Jimmy’ had made considerable progress СКАЧАТЬ