Crooked Wreath (14 page)

Dr. Philip March had, similarly, had no opportunity to visit the lodge before or after dinner. There remained Lady March, the widow, Miss Peta March, and–er–he scurried over the name, Mrs. Ellen March. Lady March and Miss Peta had visited the lodge for half an hour before dinner; for that time they gave each other an alibi. It would appear impossible to have introduced any-poison onto Sir Richard's food (which had been prepared by Mrs. Featherstone, who, he thought the jury would agree, seemed to have no interest whatsoever in Sir Richard's life or death)–to introduce any poison into the food before it was uncovered on Sir Richard's desk, and he began his meal. From that time on, Miss Peta attested that Lady March had sat on a window sill some six feet from the tray, talking to Sir Richard; and that, in the brief moment that she, Miss March, was out of the room, Lady March's voice had continued steadily and with no suggestion that she had moved, even for a second, from her place. As for Miss March, she was similarly proved by Lady March to have had no possible opportunity of placing coramine on Sir Richard's food. There was a suggestion, which must be looked into, that she might have introduced the drug into the glass in the kitchen, knowing that Sir Richard would later take the glass down and drink from it, not noticing, as he filled it with water, that there was already a little fluid in it. Coramine, the Coroner thought he was right in saying, was a colourless liquid like water, and the dose would have been not more than a dessert-spoonful. The glass was later found on Sir Richard's desk and with traces of coramine in it. However, it did seem a physical fact that Miss Peta could not have touched that glass. Her fingerprints were not on it, and as it was placed so high that she could only have reached it by standing on her toes, it followed that she could not have poured anything into it, except by taking it down. Mr. Bateman thought that if the jury gave this matter their consideration they would see that this very simple fact did indeed rule out the chance of her having interfered with the glass. There was nothing in the kitchen with which she might have wiped off her fingerprints, and she could not even have polished the glass on her–er–bathing-dress, because there was evidence that when she wiped her fingers on it, it was still so damp that woolly bits came off on her hands. All these matters were subject to investigation, but he thought Inspector Cockrill would have commented upon it, if any of them had been untrue. Cockie, turning the bowler hat round and round in nervous fingers, scowled hideously at this tribute. He was there to gather information, not to supply it, and this was not at all the way he had intended things to go. Old Bateman was taking matters far too much into his own hands, the overstuffed old hippopotamus, and the Lord knew what was going to happen now that Billock had hit upon that business of Ellen March.

Mr. Bateman noted the scowl and shivered, for Inspector Cockrill had an acid tongue and laid about him right lustily when upset, and his was a name to conjure with in North Kent. However, the jury must be headed off any verdict but an open one. The Coroner took a deep breath and came to Ellen.

He thought the jury would not be unduly swayed by the fact that Mrs. March had been the last to see the deceased alive. If he understood it aright, said Mr. Bateman, kindly making matters clear for those of the jury who had not yet arrived at a conclusion, their foreman had propounded a theory that the coramine might have been carried down to the lodge in the green fountain pen, and–Mr. Billock would correct him if he overstated the case–used as a syringe to inject the poison. Well, now, that was a very ingenious notion, a very ingenious notion indeed; but he felt sure the jury would ask themselves if in fact such a thing would be possible; if it would be possible to introduce the nib into the skin–by a sharp jab, perhaps, he could not help elaborating, warming a little to the theory himself, and pressing the plunger which would–er–squirt the liquid possibly into a vein. It sounded very unlikely and silly when he put it into words and he apologized for his own momentary enthusiasm but repeating that he supposed that the jury would consider it unlikely in the extreme that such a thing could have been done. And yet, medically speaking, he supposed it was just possible. He dithered and havered, and Cockrill's brow grew steadily more black. Mr. Bateman noted it and became all at once perfectly convinced that the thing would have been impossible–im
poss
ible. He felt sure the jury would perfectly agree with him, and suddenly grew tired of the whole thing and closed his speech with a rather peremptory instruction that they should bring in a verdict of murder by person or persons unknown.

The jury, without retiring, brought in a verdict of murder–against Mrs. Ellen March.

9

I
F
C
OCKRILL
'
S BOWLER
were really not his own, the owner was in for a shock. He stood twisting it ruthlessly between his nicotined fingers, facing the stricken family in the fast-emptying courtroom, the Coroner having apologetically scribbled out a warrant for Ellen's arrest and bound over the witnesses. “She'll have to appear before the magistrate's court tomorrow or the next day,” said Cockrill. “I'll arrange it as soon as I can. Meanwhile, I'm afraid …”

Ellen stood helplessly, staring at him. “You're not going to take me to
prison?
”

“It isn't like prison exactly,” said Cockie gruffly, looking down into the hat. “Just the police station at Heronsford. You'll be quite comfortable. It won't be too bad.”

They all stood looking at Ellen, speechless, dumbfounded by the suddenness of the blow. Bella said at last: “Inspector, can't you
do
something? Can't you stop this–this awful mistake? You can't really let her be taken away. She–it's all too horrible, it's impossible. I can't believe it's
happening
.” She ran to Ellen and put her arms round her. “Ellen, my dear, my poor child, it's too dreadful, it's the most ghastly mistake …”

Ellen seemed hardly to hear. She looked over Bella's shoulder to Philip and for a moment all her brave jauntiness was gone. Claire said into the silence: “Oh,
God
, this is too awful!”

Peta went to Ellen, gently disengaging Bella's clinging arms. “Don't worry Nell just now, Bella darling. She'd rather be left alone.” To Ellen she said: “Don't think that we believe one word of this, not for a moment; it's all just a stupid and fantastic mistake. But if they insist on taking you to this frightful place for a little while, look, darling, I'll cope with Antonia for you; I'll look after her every
minute
of the day, I promise you she shall be all right …”

Ellen thought of those long, fluttering, incompetent hands doing their loving best for her baby; but she summoned all her courage to smile and say, “Thank you, Peta, I know you will and I'll try not to worry. Stick to her diet and don't–don't drop her in the bath, darling! She's so slippery, it's like trying to wash a poached egg.”

Philip had pulled himself together and was rushing between Cockrill and the departing Mr. Bateman, imploring them to see some sense, to realize the utter absurdity of this decision, to take his word for it as a doctor that such an injection could not possibly have been given, to
do
something, to
undo
something, well, for God's sake, only to
say
something then. Mr. Bateman was frightened and, being frightened, became pompous and noncommittal; he could do nothing to reverse the verdict of a jury, and he regretted that important affairs, urgent affairs, impelled him to hurry away … Cockrill merely stood staring at Ellen, twisting his hat. “I'm sorry, Dr. March; there's nothing to be done about it. Except for–for being alone, she'll be all right.”

Except for being alone; shut up alone in a cage, put there by the stupidity of men, with the cold fear in her heart that all men might be as stupid, that a net was closing about her which all reason, all truth, all innocence could not destroy. Philip shivered. He started forward to go to her, as she stood pathetically a little apart, as though cut off from them already, by invisible bars; to go to her with comforting promises that he would look after things, that all would be well; with reassurance, with love. She saw the movement. She glanced from him to Claire, standing by watching his face, watching with agony the return, in pain, of his tenderness, and she lifted one eyebrow in her cynical way and once more was the Ellen he had come to believe in: indomitable, self-sufficient, unresponsive, cool. Claire lowered her lovely head into her hands and wept; Philip turned away with a hurt and angry frown; and Ellen nodded cheerfully to Cockrill and the two policemen who waited behind her and turned and went with them.

Claire slept in Ellen's room that night, with the baby, Philip having moved temporarily into hers. Peta had protested violently against this arrangement. “I promised Ellen that
I
would look after Antonia; I promised her, I
promised
her … Bella, do tell Claire that I can have the baby tonight, do tell her not to butt in …” To Claire she said viciously that anyway it was jolly indecent, considering about her and Philip, and the last thing Ellen would have wanted. “Philip, I think you ought to put a stop to this. You know Ellen wouldn't want Claire to be the one to sleep in her room with the baby, considering everything …”

Philip sat wearily at the dinner table, his head in his hands. “Oh, do shut up, Peta; what does it matter who sleeps with the kid as long as it's someone responsible? Ellen wouldn't care two hoots.”

Bella could see that Claire was working up for a scene; it had been a terrible day and she felt she could bear no more. “Peta, dear, let it be as we've arranged it. Claire's a very light sleeper, and you know, darling, that nothing will wake you once you've gone off …”

“I'd wake if the baby cried.”

“You wouldn't,” said Claire.

“I would.”

“The thing is, really,” said Edward, speaking in his slow, half-pitiful, half-humourous way, “that Claire's room is nearer mine than yours, Peta, and Philip has to be near me in case I go barmy in the night and come and try and kill any of you. I mean, it's quite true what Philip said to the Coroner about me today, but we're not sure yet that I'm
always
acting. I may really be quite batty for all we know.”

Bella gave Peta a miserable half-nod. “Well, all right,” said Peta, ungraciously. To Stephen, as they stood together on the front terrace after his evening visit, she repeated: “All the same, I think Ellen'll be furious when she comes back. Fortunately I don't think that can be long, Stephen; do you?”

“Well, I can't promise that,” said Stephen. “She's been committed on a Coroner's warrant, you see.”

“Yes, but, Stephen, surely you … I mean, surely it's just a question of the magistrates or whoever it is next, saying that it's all too silly and letting her go!”

“Not quite,” said Stephen.

“But, good Lord,
you
think it's silly, don't you?
You
don't think anyone could give an injection with a fountain pen? Though I must admit that Philip says it could just
poss
ibly be possible.”

“And there was some ink on your grandfather's desk, Peta; the pen could have been brought down there with anything in it, and refilled with ink afterwards.”

“Yes, but …”

“You see, there's no witness to what Ellen did, is there? You had Bella there with you, but Ellen didn't. No, I don't say for a minute that she did kill your grandfather, but it isn't all so utterly fantastic as you want to think, and I'm looking ahead to what the magistrates may say–and beyond that. You see it is true that Ellen
could
have got the glass down for your grandfather, from the shelf; she
could
have polished off her fingermarks in the sitting-room behind his back, or even gone into the bathroom and done it there; she could have polished the telephone for some reason–which would account for your fingerprints not being on it, though you were the last to use it. I don't say that Ellen did it, but I have to face the fact that she
could
have done it. She was admittedly the last to see Sir Richard alive.”

Peta looked at him, biting her lip. “I just want not to believe it. I just want Ellen to be free!” She took his arm, walking down the broad, shallow front steps with him and along the curving drive; leaning her weight a little against him, confidingly, more nearly loving and friendly than she had been since that ugly moment when he had insisted upon sending for Cockrill–a hundred aeons of hell ago. The lodge lay before them, small and pretty and white in the gentle evening sun. And suddenly she stopped, clutching at his arm. “She couldn't! Ellen couldn't have killed Grandfather! Someone was in the lodge after her; when Ellen left the lodge the curtain was pulled across the window–but when Claire saw it in the morning, it had been pulled back! Who pulled that curtain back?”

Stephen looked at her, miserable at having to prick the bubble of her naïve triumph. “Well, I suppose your grandfather pulled it back.”

“But then he couldn't have been injected with coramine from the green fountain pen, because he pulled it back after Ellen left the lodge.”

“Nobody supposes for a moment that he was injected with poison from the pen,” said Stephen, “except that old fool, Billock, I suppose, and his chums. But Ellen could have put the poison in the glass, Peta; she could have left the glass beside your grandfather–possibly he asked her to get it for him; we don't know. And after she left the lodge, hours afterwards, if you like, he may have drunk from the glass and died. Death from over-stimulation of the heart isn't a violent affair, it seems. He could have a little spasm or two perhaps, but it would be largely a matter of coma, gradually coming on. He might easily have just sat on at his desk, simply falling against it as he lost consciousness. He may have been all by himself when he died.”