Strong Poison · Chapter 10 (2/2)

Wimsey explained that he was interested in the Vane poisoning trial, and that he had the authority of Messrs. Crofts & Cooper to come and bother Mr. Urquhart with questions, adding, as usual, that he was afraid he was being a nuisance.

“Not at all, Lord Peter, not at all. I’m only too delighted to help you in any way, though really I’m afraid you have heard all I know. Naturally, I was very much taken aback by the result of the autopsy, and rather relieved, I must admit, to find that no suspicion was likely to be thrown on me, under the rather peculiar circumstances.”

“Frightfully tryin’ for you,” agreed Wimsey. “But you seem to have taken the most admirable precautions at the time.”

“Well, you know, I suppose we lawyers get into a habit of taking precautions. Not that I had any idea of poison at the time⁠—or, needless to say, I should have insisted on an enquiry then and there. What was in my mind was more in the nature of some kind of food poisoning; not botulism, the symptoms were all wrong for that, but some contamination from cooking utensils or from some bacillus in the food itself. I am glad it turned out not to be that, though the reality was infinitely worse in one way. I suppose, really, in all cases of sudden and unaccountable illness, an analysis of the secretions ought to be made as a routine part of the business, but Dr. Weare appeared perfectly satisfied, and I trusted entirely to his judgment.”

“Obviously,” said Wimsey. “One doesn’t naturally jump to the idea that people are bein’ murdered⁠—though I dare say it happens more often than one is apt to suppose.”

“It probably does, and if I’d ever had the handling of a criminal case, the suspicion might have occurred to me, but my work is almost entirely conveyancing and that sort of business⁠—and probate and divorce and so on.”

“Talkin’ of probate,” said Wimsey, carelessly, “had Mr. Boyes any sort of financial expectations?”

“None at all that I know of. His father is by no means well off⁠—the usual country parson with a small stipend and a huge Vicarage and tumbledown Church. In fact, the whole family belongs to the unfortunate professional middle-class⁠—overtaxed and with very little financial stamina. I shouldn’t think there were more than a few hundred pounds to come to Philip Boyes, even if he had outlived the lot of them.”

“I had an idea there was a rich aunt somewhere.”

“Oh, no⁠—unless you’re thinking of old Cremorna Garden. She’s a great aunt, on the mother’s side. But she hasn’t had anything to do with them for very many years.”

At this moment Lord Peter had one of those bursts of illumination which come suddenly when two unrelated facts make contact in the mind. In the excitement of hearing Parker’s news about the white paper packet, he had paid insufficient attention to Bunter’s account of the tea party with Hannah Westlock and Mrs. Pettican, but now he remembered something about an actress, with a name like “ ’Yde Park or something of that.” The readjustment made itself so smoothly and mechanically in his mind that his next question followed almost without a pause.

“Isn’t that Mrs. Wrayburn of Windle in Westmorland?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Urquhart. “I’ve just been up to see her, as a matter of fact. Of course, yes, you wrote to me there. She’s been quite childish, poor old lady, for the last five years or so. A wretched life⁠—dragging on like that, a misery to herself and everybody else. It always seems to me a cruel thing that one may not put these poor old people out of the way, as one would a favourite animal⁠—but the law will not let us be so merciful.”

“Yes, we’d be hauled over the coals by the N.S.P.C.A. if we let a cat linger on in misery,” said Wimsey. “Silly, isn’t it? But it’s all of a piece with the people who write to the papers about keepin’ dogs in draughty kennels and don’t give a hoot⁠—or a penny⁠—to stop landlords allowin’ a family of thirteen to sleep in an undrained cellar with no glass in the windows and no windows to put it in. It really makes me quite cross, sometimes, though I’m a peaceful sort of idiot as a rule. Poor old Cremorna Garden⁠—she might be gettin’ on now, though. Surely she can’t last much longer.”

“As a matter of fact, we all thought she’d gone the other day: Her heart is giving out⁠—she’s over ninety, poor soul, amazing vitality in some of these ancient ladies.”

“I suppose you’re about her only living relation now.”

“I suppose I am, except for an uncle of mine in Australia.” Mr. Urquhart accepted the fact of the relationship without enquiring how Wimsey came to know about it. “Not that my being there can do her any good. But I’m her man of business, too, so it’s just as well I should be on the spot when anything happens.”

“Oh, quite, quite. And being her man of business, of course you know how she has left her money.”

“Well, yes, of course. Though I don’t quite see, if you’ll forgive my saying so, what that has to do with the present problem.”

“Why, don’t you see,” said Wimsey, “it just occurred to me that Philip Boyes might have got himself into some kind of financial mess up⁠—it happens to the best of men⁠—and have, well, taken the short way out of it. But, if he had any expectations from Mrs. Wrayburn, and the old girl, I mean, the poor old lady, was so near shuffling off this mortal thingummy, why, then, don’t you know, he would have waited, or raised the wind on the strength of a post-obit or something or the other. You get my meaning, what?”

“Oh, I see⁠—you are trying to make out a case for suicide. Well, I agree with you that it’s the most hopeful defense for Miss Vane’s friends to put up, and as far as that goes, I can support you. Inasmuch, that is, as Mrs. Wrayburn did not leave Philip anything. Nor, so far as I know, had he the smallest reason to suppose she would do so.”

“You’re positive of that?”

“Quite. As a matter of fact,” Mr. Urquhart hesitated, “well, I may as well tell you that he asked me about it one day, and I was obliged to tell him that he hadn’t the least chance of getting anything from her.”

“Oh⁠—he did actually ask?”

“Well, yes, he did.”

“That’s rather a point, isn’t it? How long ago would that be?”

“Oh⁠—about eighteen months ago, I fancy. I couldn’t be sure.”

“And as Mrs. Wrayburn is now childish, I suppose he couldn’t entertain any hope that she would ever alter the will?”

“Not the slightest.”

“No, I see. Well, I think we might make something of that. Great disappointment, of course⁠—one would make out that he had counted a good deal upon it. Is it much, by the way?”

“Pretty fair⁠—about seventy or eighty thousand.”

“Very sickening, to think of all that good stuff going west and not getting a look in one’s self. By the way, how about you? Don’t you get anything? I beg your pardon, fearfully inquisitive and all that, but I mean to say, considering you’ve been looking after her for years and are her only available relation so to speak, it would be a trifle thick, what?”

The solicitor frowned, and Wimsey apologised.

“I know, I know⁠—I’ve been fearfully impudent. It’s a failing of mine. And anyhow, it’ll all be in the papers when the old lady does pop off, so I don’t know why I should be so anxious to pump you. Wash it out⁠—I’m sorry.”

“There’s no real reason why you shouldn’t know,” said Mr. Urquhart, slowly, “though one’s professional instinct is to avoid disclosing one’s clients’ affairs. As a matter of fact, I am the legatee myself.”

“Oh?” said Wimsey, in a disappointed voice. “But in that case⁠—that rather weakens the story, doesn’t it? I mean to say, your cousin might very well have felt, in that case, that he could look to you for⁠—that is⁠—of course I don’t know what your ideas might have been⁠—”

Mr. Urquhart shook his head.

“I see what you are driving at, and it is a very natural thought. But actually, such a disposal of the money would have been directly contrary to the expressed wish of the testatrix. Even if I could legally have made it over, I should have been morally bound not to do so, and I had to make that clear to Philip. I might, of course, have assisted him with casual gifts of money from time to time, but, to tell the truth, I should hardly have cared to do so. In my opinion, the only hope of salvation for Philip would have been to make his way by his own work. He was a little inclined⁠—though I don’t like speaking ill of the dead⁠—to⁠—to rely too much on other people.”

“Ah, quite. No doubt that was Mrs. Wrayburn’s idea also?”

“Not exactly. No. It went rather deeper than that. She considered that she had been badly treated by her family. In short, well, as we have gone so far, I don’t mind giving you her ipsissima verba.”

He rang a bell on his desk.

“I haven’t got the will itself here, but I have the draft. Oh, Miss Murchison, would you kindly bring me in the deed box labelled ‘Wrayburn’? Mr. Pond will show it to you. It isn’t heavy.”

The lady from the “Cattery” departed silently in quest of the box.

“This is all rather irregular, Lord Peter,” went on Mr. Urquhart, “but there are times when too much discretion is as bad as too little, and I should like you to see exactly why I was forced to take up this rather uncompromising attitude towards my cousin. Ah, thank you, Miss Murchison.”

He opened the deed box with a key attached to a bunch which he took from his trousers’ pocket, and turned over a quantity of papers. Wimsey watched him with the expression of a rather foolish terrier who expects a titbit.

“Dear, dear,” ejaculated the solicitor, “it doesn’t seem to be⁠—oh! of course, how forgetful of me. I’m so sorry, it’s in my safe at home. I got it out for reference last June, when the previous alarm occurred about Mrs. Wrayburn’s illness, and in the confusion which followed on my cousin’s death I quite forgot to bring it back. However, the gist of it was⁠—”

“Never mind,” said Wimsey, “there’s no hurry. If I called at your house tomorrow, perhaps I could see it then.”

“By all means, if you think it important. I do apologise for my carelessness. In the meantime, is there anything else I can tell you about the matter?”

Wimsey asked a few questions, covering the ground already traversed by Bunter in his investigations, and took his departure. Miss Murchison was again at work in the outer office. She did not look up as he passed.

“Curious,” mused Wimsey, as he pattered along Bedford Row, “everybody is so remarkably helpful about this case. They cheerfully answer questions which one has no right to ask and burst into explanations in the most unnecessary manner. None of them seem to have anything to conceal. It’s quite astonishing. Perhaps the fellow really did commit suicide. I hope he did. I wish I could question him, I’d put him through it, blast him. I’ve got about fifteen different analyses of his character already⁠—all different⁠ ⁠… It’s very ungentlemanly to commit suicide without leaving a note to say you’ve done it⁠—gets people into trouble. When I blow my brains out⁠—”

He stopped.

“I hope I shan’t want to,” he said. “I hope I shan’t need to want to. Mother wouldn’t like it, and it’s messy. But I’m beginning to dislike this job of getting people hanged. It’s damnable for their friends.⁠ ⁠… I won’t think about hanging. It’s unnerving.”