Not to be Taken (13 page)

Rona had already been told she could stand down, when the Coroner called her back.

‘Miss Brougham, did Mr Waterhouse mention to you during the course of his illness that at some time in the middle of the morning of the third of September he swallowed, not a single dose of the medicine which your brother had sent him, but had drunk off half the contents of the bottle?’

‘No,’ said Rona flatly.

She was dismissed and Glen recalled. The Coroner put exactly the same question to him.

‘Yes,’ said Glen.

‘Did he give any reason?’

‘He said he had had an extra sharp attack of pain, and thought the medicine might relieve it.’

‘The bottle was clearly labelled with the correct instructions?’

‘Oh yes: one tablespoonful to be taken every four hours.’

‘What did you say to Mr Waterhouse when you learned what he had done?’

‘I told him he was a darned fool and that it was lucky there was nothing in the medicine that could hurt him.’

‘You were not alarmed?’

‘Certainly not. It could not have harmed him.’

‘That’s all, thank you, Doctor Brougham.’

A frightened small boy then deposed that he had delivered a wrapped bottle of medicine at Oswald’s Gable at some time before eleven o’clock on the morning of the third of September, and opined that the time must have been nearer half-past ten than eleven.

Then came the moment to which I had not been looking forward in the least.

‘Let me see… Ah yes,’ said the coroner. ‘Mr Douglas Sewell, please.’

International Interlude

My ordeal was, however, not to be just yet. Before I had reached the stand a feverish whispering had broken out among the great ones congregated round the Coroner’s table, one of them leaned forward and whispered to the Coroner, and the result was an adjournment for lunch.

With the stiff faces of those who are unaccustomed to being stared at in public, we pushed our way through the crowd and made for home. Harold had to go the other way, but Glen and Rona walked with us as far as our turning.

‘Well, my friend,’ remarked Rona when we were clear of the throng, ‘that was all very instructive. What do you think of British justice now?’

‘British justice?’

‘They’re trying to pin this thing on an innocent woman.’

‘Oh, I see. Yes, I gather they’re trying to convey to the jury that Angela put the poison in the medicine after it arrived at the house.’

‘Precisely. The only question is whether they’ll succeed. What do you think of the chances, Glen?’

‘Personally,’ said Glen, ‘I don’t think they’ll get the verdict they want. There are some good old scouts on the jury who liked John and wouldn’t want to see his wife accused of his murder – whether they believe she did it or not. But I wouldn’t like to bet on it.’

‘It depends on the other evidence – yours and Frances’, for instance, Douglas.’

‘Rona,’ said Frances, ‘didn’t John really ever say anything to you about having drunk off half the bottle?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Rona calmly. ‘But I don’t draw the line at a bit of perjury to prevent a ghastly miscarriage of justice.’

‘I don’t agree,’ Glen said rather defensively. ‘Best thing is to tell the truth and let them make what they can of it.’

‘I wonder,’ said Frances, and I knew she was thinking of the medicine bottle.

I said suddenly to Rona:

‘You’re quite certain Angela didn’t do it. Well, I suppose we all are. But if she didn’t, who did?’

‘That’s for the police to find out – if they can,’ said Rona. ‘Personally I’m not going to advance any theories, name any names, or indulge in any scandal. Once that sort of thing starts, there’s no saying where it won’t stop.’

‘My dear girl,’ said her brother, ‘do you imagine it hasn’t started already?’

We had reached our turning, and stood for a moment at the corner.

‘In any case,’ said Frances, ‘it’s a question that will have to be answered. Or won’t it?’

‘I don’t know.’ Rona looked troubled. ‘Don’t you think the probability is that there’s a good deal behind all this that we know nothing about?’

‘Come on,’ said her brother. ‘I want my lunch.’

2

After all, my ordeal was not a bad one.

Frances had somehow got separated from me as we reentered the court; and before the proceedings began I saw her surrounded by a group which included Superintendent Timms, the Inspector, the Coroner, a tall, soldierly-looking man whom I recognised as the Chief Constable of the county, not long appointed, and various other officials. They seemed to be talking excitedly to her, and she to them, but I had no idea what it was all about. She took her place beside me just before I was called to the stand, looking very mysterious and important, but shook her head firmly to my whispered request for information.

Even to me, nervous as I was, the Coroner’s questioning seemed almost perfunctory. I was asked to describe John’s condition when I went to Oswald’s Gable that evening, which I did to the best of my ability; and some questions were put to me concerning the conversation in the drawing-room on the night we had all dined there. On this point I was able to confirm Glen’s evidence, but to add little to it. I also confirmed Cyril Waterhouse’s account of the finding of the will, and to this I managed to add a word or two indicating Angela’s apparent indifference to its contents. And that was all. Not a word was put to me about the medicine bottle – to my great relief.

I returned to my seat, and Frances’ name was called. ‘Wish me luck,’ she whispered with a somewhat wry little smile as she went.

I followed her with my eyes. She looked very pretty, I thought, in her neat tweeds and a jaunty little hat with a tiny feather in it; but I could see she was nervous.

‘Mrs Sewell,’ the Coroner addressed her in a tone of stern displeasure, ‘you have just made a communication of remarkable importance to the police. I must ask you to repeat it to the jury. Tell us, please, what happened before you returned home after being summoned by Mrs Waterhouse after tea on the afternoon of the third of September.’

I held my breath.

‘On receiving Mrs Waterhouse’s message,’ Frances spoke out bravely, ‘my husband and I went at once to Oswald’s Gable. He joined Mr Waterhouse in the library, while I went upstairs to comfort Mrs Waterhouse, who was much upset over her husband’s sudden illness. I stayed with her till my husband sent for me to telephone to Doctor Brougham, which I did. When Miss Brougham arrived I went back to Mrs Waterhouse and stayed with her except for short intervals till we left. Just before we left I went upstairs to say good night to Mr Waterhouse and say I hoped he would soon be better. I asked him if he had no idea what had made him ill, and he said he hadn’t. He added jokingly that he thought it must have been the medicine Doctor Brougham had sent round, and said something about the remedy being worse than the disease. Mr Waterhouse only said that jokingly, but I wondered whether there might be something in it; because, although Doctor Brougham is a very clever doctor, I knew he did not usually do his own dispensing, and I thought that he might have made some mistake, or mixed up the jars or something. So just in case anything like that had happened, I thought it would be a good thing to take it away from Mr Waterhouse; and…well, I did. I didn’t say anything to Doctor Brougham about having taken it, because I thought he would be hurt at the suggestion that there could be anything wrong with the medicine.’

Frances stopped speaking, a little breathless but quite composed.

There was dead silence in the court-room. It was one of the worst moments of my life; but there was nothing I could do.

‘Let us get this quite straight,’ said the Coroner. ‘You removed a bottle of medicine from Mr Waterhouse’s bedroom on the evening when he was first taken ill, the third of September, at approximately 9.10 p.m.; you kept that bottle in your possession without telling anyone that you had it, until you brought it with you here this afternoon; and you then handed it over in my presence to Superintendent Timms. Is that correct?’

‘Perfectly correct.’

‘Superintendent, just show her the bottle, please… Mrs Sewell, you identify this bottle as the one you removed from Mr Waterhouse’s bedroom?’

‘If it’s the one I just gave the Superintendent, I do.’

‘Have you tampered with it in any way while it has been in your possession?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘Not removed any of the contents? It’s in exactly the same state as when you took possession of it?’

‘Exactly the same.’

The interrogation was broken off while the officials conferred again. There was some byplay with the bottle, which the Superintendent was holding very carefully in his handkerchief, and finally I could see him pouring some of its contents into a smaller bottle, which someone seemed to have brought for the purpose. This smaller bottle was then handed to Sir Francis Harbottle, who hurried out of court with it.

‘Good God!’ I heard Glen mutter with deep feeling while these operations were in progress. ‘She’s a nice one, your wife is.’

I had nothing to answer.

‘He’s going off to analyse it straight away,’ Harold whispered excitedly to Rona as the famous chemist disappeared through the door. He leaned across me. ‘What’s the betting there’s arsenic in it, Glen?’

‘Ah, blah!’ said Glen.

The Coroner was returning to business.

‘And now, Mrs Sewell,’ he said, ‘I must ask you to explain the reason for this extraordinary action. Withholding evidence is a serious matter. Very serious. What is your explanation?’

Frances smiled sweetly. ‘I’m so very sorry. I had no idea I was withholding evidence. As a matter of fact I’d forgotten all about the bottle in the upset and confusion over Mr Waterhouse’s death. Then when I heard you asking about it this morning, I remembered I still had it and thought the police might like it, so I brought it with me this afternoon and gave it to the Superintendent.’

‘Humph!’ The Coroner stroked his chin and gazed fixedly at her. As Frances showed no signs of wilting, he gave it up. ‘Well, I won’t say anything more about the matter here, though no doubt you will be hearing something from other quarters. Now let me see…’

The rest of Frances’ evidence was a distinct anti-climax. She merely had to corroborate what Glen and I had already told about the after-dinner conversation and the little attack of indigestion on John’s part which had led up to it; but since it had now been so definitely stated that the poisoning must have been acute and not chronic, I could not see why any further importance need be attached to that episode.

The eyes of everyone in the room followed her back to her seat. I did my best to look as if I thought that nothing of importance had occurred, but I don’t suppose anyone looked at me in any case. In fact I was so busy looking unconcerned that I quite failed to realise that Harold was not called next, as might have been expected.

‘Eileen Pritchard,’ summoned the Coroner.

A faint jog from Frances’ elbow was followed by the whispered words: ‘Tell you about it afterwards.’ I nodded slightly and fixed my attention with a great show of interest on Angela’s parlourmaid, almost unrecognisable in a neatly cut coat and skirt and smart hat which even I instantly recognised as something in which I had not long ago seen Angela herself.

Pritchard gave her evidence with an air of self-righteous importance. When the Coroner questioned her about the search of the house which she had helped Cyril Waterhouse to carry out, she gave us to understand that it had not been a matter of mere obedience to orders but the co-operation of two upright persons against an evildoer: for that Pritchard considered her mistress to be an evildoer was to be heard between every two words she uttered. I could have cheerfully smacked the girl for the smugness with which she identified each bottle and jar that was held up before her, and named the places from which they had been taken.

As for the intercepted letter, Pritchard plainly expected the thanks not merely of the court but of every decent person for her action. I was glad to notice that the Coroner dealt with her in a severely impersonal way, with no hint either of praise or blame.

Toward the end of her evidence Pritchard broke fresh ground.

It was important in a case of this nature, the Coroner had remarked, to try to trace the movements of the deceased as closely as possible before he was taken ill. He therefore put to the parlourmaid a series of questions designed to show just what John had done that morning ever since he got up. From Pritchard’s replies a fairly clear idea could be gained, though, as the Coroner was the first to comment, there were gaps.

He had come down to breakfast as usual, then, at half-past eight and had it, again as usual, alone with Mitzi Bergmann. Angela always breakfasted in bed. Pritchard had served porridge, kippers, and eggs and bacon, with the ordinary coffee, toast and marmalade. So far as she saw from the state of the dishes afterwards, John had eaten a normal breakfast: that is to say, a fairly large one. Not having been in the room, she had no idea whether John and Mitzi had talked, but she thought it was Mr Waterhouse’s habit to read the newspaper at breakfast and not say much.

At about half-past nine, after his usual matutinal visit to his wife, Pritchard had seen him from her pantry cross the stable yard, presumably to visit the building operations which were taking place near there. Three men were employed on the building, a mason and two labourers. She had not seen Mr Waterhouse come back into the house, but it had not been a nice sort of day, and he might have come back at any time. In any case, when the parcel post came not long after ten (pressed, she thought it would be about ten minutes past) and she took a package which had come by it into the library, Mr Waterhouse was in there, reading his newspaper by the fire.

The Coroner made a pause here to ask a few questions about this package. In answer Pritchard described it as not very big and not very small. Pinned down, she thought it would be about eight inches long by three or four wide and deep.

‘Well, I dare say you could have got a medicine bottle into it,’ she explained, evidently choosing the first example that came into her mind. (I glanced surreptitiously at Frances and saw that she was having the grace to blush.)

Pritchard did not wait while the package was unwrapped, and she had no idea what it contained. The wrapper had been in the waste-paper basket the next morning, but it had gone with all the other rubbish into the refuse destructor, and she had not had the curiosity to examine it – why should she? The Coroner did his best to prod her memory, and she gave a tentative opinion that the name and address had been written in ink and not typed as if it had come from a shop, and though neat enough the package had not that air of having been born a package and nothing else which a shop’s packer is able to produce at will and no amateur can ever achieve.