Chapter 1

There were crimson roses on the bench; they looked like splashes of
blood.

The judge was an old man; so old, he seemed to have outlived time and
change and death. His parrot-face and parrot-voice were dry, like his
old, heavily-veined hands. His scarlet robe clashed harshly with the
crimson of the roses. He had sat for three days in the stuffy court,
but he showed no sign of fatigue.

He did not look at the prisoner as he gathered his notes into a neat
sheaf and turned to address the jury, but the prisoner looked at him.
Her eyes, like dark smudges under the heavy square brows, seemed
equally without fear and without hope. They waited.

"Members of the jury--"

The patient old eyes seemed to sum them up and take stock of their
united intelligence. Three respectable tradesmen--a tall, argumentative
one, a stout, embarrassed one with a drooping moustache, and an unhappy
one with a bad cold; a director of a large company, anxious not to
waste valuable time; a publican, incongruously cheerful; two youngish
men of the artisan class; a nondescript, elderly man, of educated
appearance, who might have been anything; an artist with a red beard
disguising a weak chin; three women--an elderly spinster, a stout
capable woman who kept a sweet-shop, and a harassed wife and mother
whose thoughts seemed to be continually straying to her abandoned
hearth.

"Members of the jury--you have listened with great patience and
attention to the evidence in this very distressing case, and it is now
my duty to sum up the facts and arguments which have been put before
you by the learned Attorney-General and by the learned Counsel for the
Defence, and to put them in order as clearly as possible, so as to help
you in forming your decision.

"But first of all, perhaps I ought to say a few words with regard to
that decision itself. You know, I am sure, that it is a great principle
of English law that every accused person is held to be innocent unless
and until he is proved otherwise. It is not necessary for him, or her,
to prove innocence; it is, in the modern slang phrase, 'up to' the
Crown to prove guilt, and unless you are quite satisfied that the Crown
has done this beyond all reasonable doubt, it is your duty to return
a verdict of 'Not Guilty.' That does not necessarily mean that the
prisoner has established her innocence by proof; it simply means that
the Crown has failed to produce in your minds an undoubted conviction
of her guilt."

Salcombe Hardy, lifting his drowned-violet eyes for a moment from his
reporter's note-book, scribbled two words on a slip of paper and pushed
them over to Waffles Newton. "Judge hostile." Waffles nodded. They were
old hounds on this blood-trail.

The judge creaked on.

"You may perhaps wish to hear from me exactly what is meant by those
words 'reasonable doubt.' They mean, just so much doubt as you might
have in every-day life about an ordinary matter of business. This is
a case of murder, and it might be natural for you to think that, in
such a case, the words mean more than this. But that is not so. They
do not mean that you must cast about for fantastical solutions of what
seems to you plain and simple. They do not mean those nightmare doubts
which sometimes torment us at four o'clock in the morning when we have
not slept very well. They only mean that the proof must be such as you
would accept about a plain matter of buying and selling, or some such
commonplace transaction. You must not strain your belief in favour of
the prisoner any more, of course, than you must accept proof of her
guilt without the most careful scrutiny.

"Having said just these few words, so that you may not feel too much
overwhelmed by the heavy responsibility laid upon you by your duty to
the State, I will now begin at the beginning and try to place the story
that we have heard, as clearly as possible before you.

"The case for the Crown is that the prisoner, Harriet Vane, murdered
Philip Boyes by poisoning him with arsenic. I need not detain you by
going through the proofs offered by Sir James Lubbock and the other
doctors who have given evidence as to the cause of death. The Crown
say he died of arsenical poisoning, and the defence do not dispute it.
The evidence is, therefore, that the death was due to arsenic, and you
must accept that as a fact. The only question that remains for you is
whether, in fact, that arsenic was deliberately administered by the
prisoner with intent to murder.

"The deceased, Philip Boyes, was, as you have heard, a writer. He was
thirty-six years old, and he had published five novels and a large
number of essays and articles. All these literary works were of what is
sometimes called an 'advanced' type. They preached doctrines which may
seem to some of us immoral or seditious, such as atheism, and anarchy,
and what is known as free love. His private life appears to have been
conducted, for some time at least, in accordance with these doctrines.

"At any rate, at some time in the year 1927, he became acquainted with
Harriet Vane. They met in some of those artistic and literary circles
where 'advanced' topics are discussed, and after a time they became
very friendly. The prisoner is also a novelist by profession, and it is
very important to remember that she is a writer of so-called 'mystery'
or 'detective' stories, such as deal with various ingenious methods of
committing murder and other crimes.

"You have heard the prisoner in the witness-box, and you have heard
the various people who came forward to give evidence as to her
character. You have been told that she is a young woman of great
ability, brought up on strictly religious principles, who, through no
fault of her own was left, at the age of twenty-three, to make her own
way in the world. Since that time--and she is now twenty-nine years
old--she has worked industriously to keep herself, and it is very
much to her credit that she has, by her own exertions, made herself
independent in a legitimate way, owing nothing to anybody and accepting
help from no one.

"She has told us herself, with great candour, how she became deeply
attached to Philip Boyes, and how, for a considerable time, she held
out against his persuasions to live with him in an irregular manner.
There was, in fact, no reason at all why he should not have married
her honourably; but apparently he represented himself as being
conscientiously opposed to any formal marriage. You have the evidence
of Sylvia Marriott and Eiluned Price that the prisoner was made very
unhappy by this attitude which he chose to take up, and you have heard
also that he was a very handsome and attractive man, whom any woman
might have found it difficult to resist.

"At any rate, in March of 1928, the prisoner, worn out, as she tells
us, by his unceasing importunities, gave in, and consented to live on
terms of intimacy with him, outside the bonds of marriage.

"Now you may feel, and quite properly, that this was a very wrong thing
to do. You may, after making all allowances for this young woman's
unprotected position, still feel that she was a person of unstable
moral character. You will not be led away by the false glamour which
certain writers contrive to throw about 'free love,' into thinking
that this was anything but an ordinary, vulgar act of misbehavior. Sir
Impey Biggs, very rightly using all his great eloquence on behalf of
his client, has painted this action of Harriet Vane's in very rosy
colours; he has spoken of unselfish sacrifice and self-immolation,
and has reminded you that, in such a situation, the woman always has
to pay more heavily than the man. You will not, I am sure, pay too
much attention to this. You know quite well the difference between
right and wrong in such matters, and you may think that, if Harriet
Vane had not become to a certain extent corrupted by the unwholesome
influences among which she lived, she would have shown a truer heroism
by dismissing Philip Boyes from her society.

"But, on the other hand, you must be careful not to attach the wrong
kind of importance to this lapse. It is one thing for a man or woman
to live an immoral life, and quite another thing to commit murder.
You may perhaps think that one step into the path of wrongdoing makes
the next one easier, but you must not give too much weight to that
consideration. You are entitled to take it into account, but you must
not be too much prejudiced."

The judge paused for a moment, and Freddy Arbuthnot jerked an elbow
into the ribs of Lord Peter Wimsey, who appeared to be a prey to gloom.

"I should jolly well hope not. Damn it, if every little game led to
murder, they'd be hanging half of us for doin' in the other half."

"And which half would _you_ be in?" enquired his lordship, fixing him
for a moment with a cold eye and then returning his glance to the dock.

"Victim," said the Hon. Freddy, "victim. Me for the corpse in the
library."

"Philip Boyes and the prisoner lived together in this fashion," went
on the judge, "for nearly a year. Various friends have testified that
they appeared to live on terms of the greatest mutual affection. Miss
Price said that, although Harriet Vane obviously felt her unfortunate
position very acutely--cutting herself off from her family friends and
refusing to thrust herself into company where her social outlawry
might cause embarrassment and so on--yet she was extremely loyal to her
lover and expressed herself proud and happy to be his companion.

"Nevertheless, in February 1929 there was a quarrel, and the couple
separated. It is not denied that the quarrel took place. Mr. and Mrs.
Dyer, who occupy the flat immediately above Philip Boyes', say that
they heard loud talking in angry voices, the man swearing and the woman
crying, and that the next day, Harriet Vane packed up all her things
and left the house for good. The curious feature in the case, and one
which you must consider very carefully, is the reason assigned for the
quarrel. As to this, the only evidence we have is the prisoner's own.
According to Miss Marriott, with whom Harriet Vane took refuge after
the separation, the prisoner steadily refused to give any information
on the subject, saying only that she had been painfully deceived by
Boyes and never wished to hear his name spoken again.

"Now it might be supposed from this that Boyes had given the prisoner
cause for grievance against him, by unfaithfulness, or unkindness, or
simply by a continued refusal to regularise the situation in the eyes
of the world. But the prisoner absolutely denies this. According to
her statement--and on this point her evidence is confirmed by a letter
which Philip Boyes wrote to his father--Boyes did at length offer her
legal marriage, and this was the cause of the quarrel. You may think
this a very remarkable statement to make, but that is the prisoner's
evidence on oath.

"It would be natural for you to think that this proposal of marriage
takes away any suggestion that the prisoner had a cause of grievance
against Boyes. Anyone would say that, under such circumstances, she
could have no motive for wishing to murder this young man, but rather
the contrary. Still, there is the fact of the quarrel, and the prisoner
herself states that this honourable, though belated, proposal was
unwelcome to her. She does not say--as she might very reasonably
say, and as her counsel has most forcefully and impressively said for
her, that this marriage-offer completely does away with any pretext
for enmity on her part towards Philip Boyes. Sir Impey Biggs says so,
but that is not what the prisoner says. She says--and you must try
to put yourselves in her place and understand her point of view if
you can--that she was angry with Boyes because, after persuading her
against her will to adopt his principles of conduct, he then renounced
those principles and so, as she says, 'made a fool of her.'

"Well, that is for you to consider: whether the offer which was in fact
made could reasonably be construed into a motive for murder. I must
impress upon you that no other motive has been suggested in evidence."

At this point the elderly spinster on the jury was seen to be making a
note--a vigorous note, to judge from the action of her pencil on the
paper. Lord Peter Wimsey shook his head slowly two or three times and
muttered something under his breath.

"After this," said the judge, "nothing particular seems to have
happened to these two people for three months or so, except that
Harriet Vane left Miss Marriott's house and took a small flat of her
own in Doughty Street, while Philip Boyes, on the contrary, finding
his solitary life depressing, accepted the invitation of his cousin,
Mr. Norman Urquhart, to stay at the latter's house in Woburn Square.
Although living in the same quarter of London, Boyes and the accused
do not seem to have met very often after the separation. Once or twice
there was an accidental encounter at the house of a friend. The dates
of these occasions cannot be ascertained with any certainty--they were
informal parties--but there is some evidence that there was a meeting
towards the end of March, another in the second week in April, and a
third some time in May. These times are worth noting, though, as the
exact day is left doubtful, you must not attach too much importance to
them.

"However, we now come to a date of the very greatest importance. On
April 10th, a young woman, who has been identified as Harriet Vane,
entered the chemist's shop kept by Mr. Brown in Southampton Row, and
purchased two ounces of commercial arsenic, saying that she needed it
to destroy rats. She signed the poison-book in the name of Mary Slater,
and the handwriting has been identified as that of the prisoner.
Moreover, the prisoner herself admits having made this purchase,
for certain reasons of her own. For this reason it is comparatively
unimportant--but you may think it worth noting--that the housekeeper
of the flats where Harriet Vane lives has come here and told you that
there are no rats on the premises, and never have been in the whole
time of her residence there.

"On May 5th. we have another purchase of arsenic. The prisoner, as she
herself states, this time procured a tin of arsenical weed-killer, of
the same brand that was mentioned in the Kidwelly poisoning case. This
time she gave the name of Edith Waters. There is no garden attached to
the flats where she lives, nor could there be any conceivable use for
weed-killer on the premises.

"On various occasions also, during the period from the middle of
March to the beginning of May, the prisoner purchased other poisons,
including prussic acid (ostensibly for photographic purposes) and
strychnine. There was also an attempt to obtain aconitine, which was
not successful. A different shop was approached and a different name
given in each case. The arsenic is the only poison which directly
concerns this case, but these other purchases are of some importance,
as throwing light on the prisoner's activities at this time.

"The prisoner has given an explanation of these purchases which you
must consider for what it is worth. She says that she was engaged at
that time in writing a novel about poisoning, and that she bought the
drugs in order to prove by experiment how easy it was for an ordinary
person to get hold of deadly poisons. In proof of this, her publisher,
Mr. Trufoot, has produced the manuscript of the book. You have had it
in your hands, and you will be given it again, if you like, when I have
finished my summing-up, to look at in your own room. Passages were read
out to you, showing that the subject of the book was murder by arsenic,
and there is a description in it of a young woman going to a chemist's
shop and buying a considerable quantity of this deadly substance. And I
must mention here what I should have mentioned before, namely, that the
arsenic purchased from Mr. Brown was the ordinary commercial arsenic,
which is coloured with charcoal or indigo, as the law requires, in
order that it may not be mistaken for sugar or any other innocent
substance."

Salcombe Hardy groaned: "How long, O Lord, how long shall we have to
listen to all this tripe about commercial arsenic? Murderers learn it
now at their mother's knee."

"I particularly want you to remember those dates--I will give them to
you again--the 10th. April and the 5th. May." (The Jury wrote them
down. Lord Peter Wimsey murmured: "They all wrote down on their slates,
'She doesn't believe there's an atom of meaning in it.'" The Hon.
Freddy said "What? What?" and the judge turned over another page of his
notes.)

"About this time, Philip Boyes began to suffer from renewed attacks of
a gastric trouble to which he had been subject from time to time during
his life. You have read the evidence of Dr. Green, who attended him
for something of the sort during his University career. That is some
time ago; but there is also Dr. Weare, who, in 1925 prescribed for a
similar attack. Not grave illnesses, but painful and exhausting, with
sickness and so on, and aching in the limbs. Plenty of people have such
troubles from time to time. Still, there is a coincidence of dates here
which may be significant. We get these attacks--noted in Dr. Weare's
case-book--one on the 31st. of March, one on the 15th. of April and one
on the 12th. of May. Three sets of coincidences--as you may perhaps
think them to be--Harriet Vane and Philip Boyes meet 'towards the end
of March,' and he has an attack of gastritis on March 31st; on 10th.
April Harriet Vane purchases two ounces of arsenic--they meet again
'in the second week in April,' and on April 15th, he has another
attack; on 5th. May, there is the purchase of weed-killer--'some time
in May' there is another meeting, and on the 12th. May he is taken
ill for the third time. You may think that is rather curious, but you
must not forget that the Crown have failed to prove any purchase of
arsenic before the meeting in March. You must bear that in mind when
considering this point.

"After the third attack--the one in May--the doctor advises Boyes to
go away for a change, and he selects the north-west corner of Wales.
He goes to Harlech, and spends a very pleasant time there and is much
better. But he has a friend to accompany him, Mr. Ryland Vaughan, whom
you have seen, and this friend says that 'Philip was not happy'. In
fact, Mr. Vaughan formed the opinion that he was fretting after Harriet
Vane. His bodily health improved, but he grew mentally depressed. And
so on June 16th, we find him writing a letter to Miss Vane. Now that is
an important letter, so I will read it to you once more:

'Dear Harriet,

Life is an utter mess-up. I can't stick it out here any longer.
I've decided to cut adrift and take a trip out West. But before I
go, I want to see you once again and find out if it isn't possible
to put things straight again. You must do as you like, of course,
but I still cannot understand the attitude you take up. If I can't
make you see the thing in the right perspective this time I'll
chuck it for good. I shall be in town on the 20th. Let me have a
line to say when I can come round.

Yours,
P.'

"Now that, as you have realised, is a most ambiguous letter. Sir
Impey Biggs, with arguments of great weight, has suggested that by
the expressions 'cut adrift and take a trip out west,' 'I can't stick
it out here,' and 'chuck it for good,' the writer was expressing
his intention to make away with himself if he could not effect a
reconciliation with the accused. He points out that 'to go west'
is a well-known metaphor for dying, and that, of course, may be
convincing to you. But Mr. Urquhart, when examined on the subject by
the Attorney-General, said that he supposed the letter to refer to a
project which he himself had suggested to the deceased, of taking a
voyage across the Atlantic to Barbados, by way of change of scene.
And the learned Attorney-General makes this other point that when the
writer says, 'I can't stick it out _here_ any longer,' he means, here
in Britain, or perhaps merely 'here at Harlech,' and that if the phrase
had reference to suicide it would read simply, 'I can't stick it out
any longer.'

"No doubt you have formed your own opinion on this point. It is
important to note that the deceased asks for an appointment on the
20th. The reply to this letter is before us; it reads:

'Dear Phil,

You can come round at 9.30 on the 20th. if you like, but you
certainly will not make me change my mind.'

"And it is signed simply 'M.' A very cold letter, you may think--almost
hostile in tone. And yet the appointment is made for 9.30.

"I shall not have to keep your attention very much longer, but I do ask
for it at this point, specially--though you have been attending most
patiently and industriously all the time--because we now come to the
actual day of the death itself."

The old man clasped his hands one over the other upon the sheaf of
notes and leaned a little forward. He had it all in his head, though
he had known nothing of it until the last three days. He had not
reached the time to babble of green fields and childhood ways; he still
had firm hold of the present; he held it pinned down flat under his
wrinkled fingers with their grey, chalky nails.

"Philip Boyes and Mr. Vaughan came back to town together on the evening
of the 19th, and there would seem to be no doubt at all that Boyes was
then in the best of health. Boyes spent the night with Mr. Vaughan, and
they breakfasted together in the usual way upon bacon and eggs, toast,
marmalade and coffee. At 11 o'clock Boyes had a Guinness, observing
that, according to the advertisements it was 'Good for you.' At 1
o'clock he ate a hearty lunch at his club, and in the afternoon he
played several sets at tennis with Mr. Vaughan and some other friends.
During the game the remark was made by one of the players that Harlech
had done Boyes good, and he replied that he was feeling fitter than he
had done for many months.

"At half-past seven he went round to have dinner with his cousin, Mr.
Norman Urquhart. Nothing at all unusual in his manner or appearance was
noticed, either by Mr. Urquhart or by the maid who waited at table.
Dinner was served at 8 o'clock exactly, and I think it would be a good
thing if you were to write down that time (if you have not already done
so) and also the list of things eaten and drunk.

"The two cousins dined alone together, and first, by way of cocktail,
each had a glass of sherry. The wine was a fine Oleroso of 1847,
and the maid decanted it from a fresh bottle and poured it into the
glasses as they sat in the library. Mr. Urquhart retains the dignified
old-fashioned custom of having the maid in attendance throughout the
meal, so that we have here the advantage of two witnesses during this
part of the evening. You saw the maid, Hannah Westlock, in the box, and
I think you will say she gave the impression of being a sensible and
observant witness.

"Well, there was the sherry. Then came a cup of cold bouillon, served
by Hannah Westlock from the tureen on the sideboard. It was very
strong, good soup, set to a clear jelly. Both men had some, and, after
dinner, the bouillon was finished by the cook and Miss Westlock in the
kitchen.

"After the soup came a piece of turbot with sauce. The portions were
again carved at the sideboard, the sauce-boat was handed to each in
turn, and the dish was then sent out to be finished in the kitchen.

"Then came a _poulet en casserole_--that is, chicken cut up and stewed
slowly with vegetables in a fireproof cooking utensil. Both men had
some of this, and the maids finished the dish.

"The final course was a sweet omelette, which was made at the table
in a chafing-dish by Philip Boyes himself. Both Mr. Urquhart and his
cousin were very particular about eating an omelette the moment it came
from the pan--and a very good rule it is, and I advise you all to treat
omelettes in the same way and never to allow them to stand, or they
will get tough. Four eggs were brought to the table in their shells,
and Mr. Urquhart broke them one by one into a bowl, adding sugar from
a sifter. Then he handed the bowl to Mr. Boyes, saying: 'You're the
real dab at omelettes, Philip--I'll leave this to you'. Philip Boyes
then beat the eggs and sugar together, cooked the omelette in the
chafing-dish, filled it with hot jam, which was brought in by Hannah
Westlock, and then himself divided it into two portions, giving one to
Mr. Urquhart and taking the remainder himself.

"I have been a little careful to remind you of all these things, to
show that we have good proof that every dish served at dinner was
partaken of by two people at least, and in most cases by four. The
omelette--the only dish which did not go out to the kitchen--was
prepared by Philip Boyes himself and shared by his cousin. Neither
Mr. Urquhart, Miss Westlock nor the cook, Mrs. Pettican, felt any
ill-effects from this meal.

"I should mention also that there was one article of diet which was
partaken of by Philip Boyes alone, and that was a bottle of Burgundy.
It was a fine old Corton, and was brought to the table in its original
bottle. Mr. Urquhart drew the cork and then handed the bottle intact to
Philip Boyes, saying that he himself would not take any--he had been
advised not to drink at mealtimes. Philip Boyes drank two glassfuls
and the remainder of the bottle was fortunately preserved. As you
have already heard, the wine was later analysed and found to be quite
harmless.

"This brings us to 9 o'clock. After dinner, coffee is offered, but
Boyes excuses himself on the ground that he does not care for Turkish
coffee, and moreover will probably be given coffee by Harriet Vane. At
9.15 Boyes leaves Mr. Urquhart's house in Woburn Square, and is driven
in a taxi to the house where Miss Vane has her flat, No. 100 Doughty
Street--a distance of about half a mile. We have it from Harriet Vane
herself, from Mrs. Bright, a resident in the ground floor flat, and
from Police Constable D.1234 who was passing along the street at the
time, that he was standing on the doorstep, ringing the prisoner's
bell, at 25 minutes past 9. She was on the look-out for him and let him
in immediately.

"Now, as the interview was naturally a private one, we have no account
of it to go upon but that of the prisoner. She has told us that as soon
as he came in, she offered him 'a cup of coffee which was standing
ready upon the gas-ring.' Now, when the learned Attorney-General
heard the prisoner say that, he immediately asked what the coffee was
standing ready in. The prisoner, apparently not quite understanding the
purport of the question, replied 'in the fender, to keep hot.' When
the question was repeated more clearly, she explained that the coffee
was made in a saucepan, and that it was this which was placed upon the
gas-ring in the fender. The Attorney-General then drew the prisoner's
attention to her previous statement made to the police, in which
this expression appeared: 'I had a cup of coffee ready for him on his
arrival.' You will see at once the importance of this. If the cups of
coffee were prepared and poured out separately before the arrival of
the deceased, there was every opportunity to place poison in one of the
cups beforehand and offer the prepared cup to Philip Boyes; but if the
coffee was poured out from the saucepan in the deceased's presence,
the opportunity would be rather less, though of course the thing might
easily be done while Boyes' attention was momentarily distracted. The
prisoner explained that in her statement she used the phrase 'a cup
of coffee' merely as denoting 'a certain quantity of coffee.' You
yourselves will be able to judge whether that is a usual and natural
form of expression. The deceased is said by her to have taken no milk
or sugar in his coffee, and you have the testimony of Mr. Urquhart
and Mr. Vaughan that it was his usual habit to drink his after-dinner
coffee black and unsweetened.

"According to the prisoner's evidence, the interview was not a
satisfactory one. Reproaches were uttered on both sides, and at 10
o'clock or thereabouts, the deceased expressed his intention of leaving
her. She says that he appeared uneasy and remarked that he was not
feeling well, adding that her behaviour had greatly upset him.

"At ten minutes past ten--and I want you to note these times very
carefully, the taxi-driver Burke, who was standing on the rank in
Guilford Street, was approached by Philip Boyes and told to take him
to Woburn Square. He says that Boyes spoke in a hurried and abrupt
tone, like that of a person in distress of mind or body. When the taxi
stopped before Mr. Urquhart's house, Boyes did not get out, and Burke
opened the door to see what was the matter. He found the deceased
huddled in a corner with his hand pressed over his stomach and his
face pale and covered with perspiration. He asked him whether he was
ill, and the deceased replied: 'Yes, rotten.' Burke helped him out
and rang the bell, supporting him with one arm as they stood on the
doorstep. Hannah Westlock opened the door. Philip Boyes seemed hardly
able to walk; his body was bent almost double, and he sank groaning
into a hall-chair and asked for brandy. She brought him a stiff
brandy-and-soda from the dining-room, and after drinking this, Boyes
recovered sufficiently to take money from his pocket and pay for the
taxi.

"As he still seemed very ill, Hannah Westlock summoned Mr. Urquhart
from the library. He said to Boyes, 'Hullo, old man--what's the matter
with you?' Boyes replied, 'God knows! I feel awful. It can't have
been the chicken.' Mr. Urquhart said he hoped not, he hadn't noticed
anything wrong with it, and Boyes answered, No, he supposed it was one
of his usual attacks, but he'd never felt anything like this before. He
was taken upstairs to bed, and Dr. Grainger was summoned by telephone,
as being the nearest physician available.

"Before the doctor's arrival, the patient vomited violently, and
thereafter continued to vomit persistently. Dr. Grainger diagnosed the
trouble as acute gastritis. There was a high temperature and rapid
pulse, and the patient's abdomen was acutely painful to pressure, but
the doctor found nothing indicative of any trouble in the nature of
appendicitis or peritonitis. He therefore went back to his surgery,
and made up a soothing medicine to control the vomiting--a mixture of
bicarbonate of potash, tincture of oranges, and chloroform--no other
drugs.

"Next day the vomiting still persisted, and Dr. Weare was called in to
consult with Dr. Grainger, as he was well acquainted with the patient's
constitution."

Here the judge paused and glanced at the clock.

"Time is getting on, and as the medical evidence has still to be passed
in review, I will adjourn the Court now for lunch."

"He would," said the Hon. Freddy, "just at the beastliest moment when
everybody's appetite is thoroughly taken away. Come on, Wimsey, let's
go and fold a chop into the system, shall we?--Hullo!"

Wimsey had pushed past without heeding him, and was making his way down
into the body of the court, where Sir Impey Biggs stood conferring with
his juniors.

"Seems to be in a bit of a stew," said Mr. Arbuthnot, meditatively.
"Gone to put an alternative theory of some kind, I expect. Wonder why
I came to this bally show. Tedious, don't you know, and the girl's not
even pretty. Don't think I'll come back after grub."

He struggled out, and found himself face to face with the Dowager
Duchess of Denver.

"Come and have lunch, Duchess," said Freddy, hopefully. He liked the
Dowager.

"I'm waiting for Peter, thanks, Freddy. Such an interesting case and
interesting people, too, don't you think, though what the jury make of
it I don't know, with faces like hams most of them, except the artist,
who wouldn't have any features at all if it wasn't for that dreadful
tie and his beard, looking like Christ, only not really Christ but one
of those Italian ones in a pink frock and blue top thing. Isn't that
Peter's Miss Climpson on the jury, how does she get there, I wonder?"

"He's put her into a house somewhere round about, I fancy," said
Freddy, "with a typewriting office to look after and live over the shop
and run those comic charity stunts of his. Funny old soul, isn't she?
Stepped out of a magazine of the 'nineties. But she seems to suit his
work all right and all that."

"Yes--such a good thing too, answering all those shady advertisements
and then getting the people shown up and so courageous too, some of
them the horridest oily people, and murderers I shouldn't wonder with
automatic thingummies and life-preservers in every pocket, and very
likely a gas-oven full of bones like Landru, so clever, wasn't he? And
really _such_ women--born murderees as somebody says--quite pig-faced
but not of course deserving it and possibly the photographs don't do
them justice, poor things."

The Duchess was even more rambling than usual, thought Freddy, and as
she spoke her eyes wandered to her son with a kind of anxiety unusual
in her.

"Top-hole to see old Wimsey back, isn't it?" he said, with simple
kindliness. "Wonderful how keen he is on this sort of thing, don't you
know. Rampages off the minute he gets home like the jolly old war-horse
sniffing the T.N.T. Regularly up to the eyes in it."

"Well, it's one of Chief-Inspector Parker's cases, and they're such
great friends, you know, quite like David and Beersheba--or do I mean
Daniel?"

Wimsey joined them at this complicated moment, and tucked his mother's
arm affectionately in his own.

"Frightfully sorry to keep you waiting, Mater, but I had to say a word
to Biggy. He's having a rotten time, and that old Jeffreys of a judge
looks as though he was getting measured for a black cap. I'm going home
to burn my books. Dangerous to know too much about poisons, don't you
think? Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape
the old Bailey."

"The young woman doesn't seem to have tried that recipe, does she?"
remarked Freddy.

"You ought to be on the jury," retorted Wimsey, with unusual acidity,
"I bet that's what they're all saying at this moment. I'm convinced
that that foreman is a teetotaller--I saw ginger-beer going into the
jury-room, and I only hope it explodes and blows his inside through the
top of his skull."

"All right, all right," returned Mr. Arbuthnot, soothingly, "what you
want is a drink."