Chapter 2

Miching Mallecho

“_By the pricking of my thumbs_
_Something evil this way comes._”
_Macbeth_

The April night was clear and chilly, and a brisk wood fire burned in a
welcoming manner on the hearth. The bookcases which lined the walls were
filled with rich old calf bindings, mellow and glowing in the
lamp-light. There was a grand piano, open, a huge chesterfield piled
deep with cushions and two arm-chairs of the build that invites one to
wallow. The port was brought in by an impressive man-servant and placed
on a very beautiful little Chippendale table. Some big bowls of scarlet
and yellow parrot tulips beckoned, banner-like, from dark corners.

The doctor had just written his new acquaintance down as an æsthete with
a literary turn, looking for the ingredients of a human drama, when the
man-servant re-entered.

“Inspector Sugg rang up, my lord, and left this message, and said would
you be good enough to give him a call as soon as you came in.”

“Oh, did he?—well, just get him for me, would you? This is the
Worplesham business, Charles. Sugg’s mucked it up as usual. The baker
has an alibi—naturally—he would have. Oh, thanks. . . . Hullo! that you,
Inspector? What did I tell you?—Oh, routine be hanged. Now, look here.
You get hold of that gamekeeper fellow, and find out from him what he
saw in the sand-pit. . . . No, I know, but I fancy if you ask him
impressively enough he will come across with it. No, of course not—if
you ask if he was there, he’ll say no. Say you know he was there and
what did he see—and, look here! if he hums and haws about it, say you’re
sending a gang down to have the stream diverted. . . . All right. Not at
all. Let me know if anything comes of it.”

He put the receiver down.

“Excuse me, doctor. A little matter of business. Now go on with your
story. The old lady was dead, eh? Died in her sleep, I suppose. Passed
away in the most innocent manner possible. Everything all ship-shape and
Bristol-fashion. No struggle, no wounds, hæmorrhages, or obvious
symptoms, naturally, what?”

“Exactly. She had taken some nourishment at 6 o’clock—a little broth and
some milk pudding. At eight, the nurse gave her a morphine injection and
then went straight out to put some bowls of flowers on the little table
on the landing for the night. The maid came to speak to her about some
arrangements for the next day, and while they were talking, Miss . . .
that is, the niece—came up and went into her aunt’s room. She had only
been there a moment or two when she cried out, ‘Nurse! Nurse!’ The nurse
rushed in, and found the patient dead.

“Of course, my first idea was that by some accident a double dose of
morphine had been administered—”

“Surely that wouldn’t have acted so promptly.”

“No—but I thought that a deep coma might have been mistaken for death.
However, the nurse assured me that this was not the case, and, as a
matter of fact, the possibility was completely disproved, as we were
able to count the ampullæ of morphine and found them all satisfactorily
accounted for. There were no signs of the patient having tried to move
or strain herself, or of her having knocked against anything. The little
night-table was pushed aside, but that had been done by the niece when
she came in and was struck by her aunt’s alarmingly lifeless
appearance.”

“How about the broth and the milk pudding?”

“That occurred to me, also—not in any sinister way, but to wonder
whether she’d been having too much—distended stomach—pressure on the
heart, and that sort of thing. However, when I came to look into it, it
seemed very unlikely. The quantity was so small, and on the face of it,
two hours were sufficient for digestion—if it had been that, death would
have taken place earlier. I was completely puzzled, and so was the
nurse. Indeed, she was very much upset.”

“And the niece?”

“The niece could say nothing but ‘I told you so, I told you so—I knew
she was worse than you thought.’ Well, to cut a long story short, I was
so bothered with my pet patient going off like that, that next morning,
after I had thought the matter over, I asked for a post-mortem.”

“Any difficulty?”

“Not the slightest. A little natural distaste, of course, but no sort of
opposition. I explained that I felt sure there must be some obscure
morbid condition which I had failed to diagnose and that I should feel
more satisfied if I might make an investigation. The only thing which
seemed to trouble the niece was the thought of an inquest. I said—rather
unwisely, I suppose, according to general rules—that I didn’t think an
inquest would be necessary.”

“You mean you offered to perform the post-mortem yourself.”

“Yes—I made no doubt that I should find a sufficient cause of death to
enable me to give a certificate. I had one bit of luck, and that was
that the old lady had at some time or the other expressed in a general
way an opinion in favour of cremation, and the niece wished this to be
carried out. This meant getting a man with special qualifications to
sign the certificate with me, so I persuaded this other doctor to come
and help me to do the autopsy.”

“And did you find anything?”

“Not a thing. The other man, of course, said I was a fool to kick up a
fuss. He thought that as the old lady was certainly dying in any case,
it would be quite enough to put in, Cause of death, cancer; immediate
cause, heart failure, and leave it at that. But I was a damned
conscientious ass, and said I wasn’t satisfied. There was absolutely
nothing about the body to explain the death naturally, and I insisted on
an analysis.”

“Did you actually suspect—?”

“Well, no, not exactly. But—well, I wasn’t satisfied. By the way, it was
very clear at the autopsy that the morphine had nothing to do with it.
Death had occurred so soon after the injection that the drug had only
partially dispersed from the arm. Now I think it over, I suppose it must
have been shock, somehow.”

“Was the analysis privately made?”

“Yes; but of course the funeral was held up and things got round. The
coroner heard about it and started to make inquiries, and the nurse, who
got it into her head that I was accusing her of neglect or something,
behaved in a very unprofessional way and created a lot of talk and
trouble.”

“And nothing came of it?”

“Nothing. There was no trace of poison or anything of that sort, and the
analysis left us exactly where we were. Naturally, I began to think I
had made a ghastly exhibition of myself. Rather against my own
professional judgment, I signed the certificate—heart failure following
on shock, and my patient was finally got into her grave after a week of
worry, without an inquest.”

“Grave?”

“Oh, yes. That was another scandal. The crematorium authorities, who are
pretty particular, heard about the fuss and refused to act in the
matter, so the body is filed in the church-yard for reference if
necessary. There was a huge attendance at the funeral and a great deal
of sympathy for the niece. The next day I got a note from one of my most
influential patients, saying that my professional services would no
longer be required. The day after that, I was avoided in the street by
the Mayor’s wife. Presently I found my practice dropping away from me,
and discovered I was getting known as ‘the man who practically accused
that charming Miss So-and-so of murder.’ Sometimes it was the niece I
was supposed to be accusing. Sometimes it was ‘that nice Nurse—not the
flighty one who was dismissed, the other one, you know.’ Another version
was, that I had tried to get the nurse into trouble because I resented
the dismissal of my fiancée. Finally, I heard a rumour that the patient
had discovered me ‘canoodling’—that was the beastly word—with my
fiancée, instead of doing my job, and had done away with the old lady
myself out of revenge—though why, in that case, I should have refused a
certificate, my scandal-mongers didn’t trouble to explain.

“I stuck it out for a year, but my position became intolerable. The
practice dwindled to practically nothing, so I sold it, took a holiday
to get the taste out of my mouth—and here I am, looking for another
opening. So that’s that—and the moral is, Don’t be officious about
public duties.”

The doctor gave an irritated laugh, and flung himself back in his chair.

“I don’t care,” he added, combatantly, “the cats! Confusion to ’em!” and
he drained his glass.

“Hear, hear!” agreed his host. He sat for a few moments looking
thoughtfully into the fire.

“Do you know,” he said, suddenly, “I’m feeling rather interested by this
case. I have a sensation of internal gloating which assures me that
there is something to be investigated. That feeling has never failed me
yet—I trust it never will. It warned me the other day to look into my
income-tax assessment, and I discovered that I had been paying about
£900 too much for the last three years. It urged me only last week to
ask a bloke who was preparing to drive me over the Horseshoe Pass
whether he had any petrol in the tank, and he discovered he had just
about a pint—enough to get us nicely half-way round. It’s a very lonely
spot. Of course, I knew the man, so it wasn’t _all_ intuition. Still, I
always make it a rule to investigate anything I feel like investigating.
I believe,” he added, in a reminiscent tone, “I was a terror in my
nursery days. Anyhow, curious cases are rather a hobby of mine. In fact,
I’m not just being the perfect listener. I have deceived you. I have an
ulterior motive, said he, throwing off his side-whiskers and disclosing
the well-known hollow jaws of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

“I was beginning to have my suspicions,” said the doctor, after a short
pause. “I think you must be Lord Peter Wimsey. I wondered why your face
was so familiar, but of course it was in all the papers a few years ago
when you disentangled the Riddlesdale Mystery.”

“Quite right. It’s a silly kind of face, of course, but rather
disarming, don’t you think? I don’t know that I’d have chosen it, but I
do my best with it. I do hope it isn’t contracting a sleuth-like
expression, or anything unpleasant. This is the real sleuth—my friend
Detective-Inspector Parker of Scotland Yard. He’s the one who really
does the work. I make imbecile suggestions and he does the work of
elaborately disproving them. Then, by a process of elimination, we find
the right explanation, and the world says, ‘My god, what intuition that
young man has!’ Well, look here—if you don’t mind, I’d like to have a go
at this. If you’ll entrust me with your name and address and the names
of the parties concerned, I’d like very much to have a shot at looking
into it.”

The doctor considered a moment, then shook his head.

“It’s very good of you, but I think I’d rather not. I’ve got into enough
bothers already. Anyway, it isn’t professional to talk, and if I stirred
up any more fuss, I should probably have to chuck this country
altogether and end up as one of those drunken ship’s doctors in the
South Seas or somewhere, who are always telling their life-history to
people and delivering awful warnings. Better to let sleeping dogs lie.
Thanks very much, all the same.”

“As you like,” said Wimsey. “But I’ll think it over, and if any useful
suggestion occurs to me, I’ll let you know.”

“It’s very good of you,” replied the visitor, absently, taking his hat
and stick from the man-servant, who had answered Wimsey’s ring. “Well,
good night, and many thanks for hearing me so patiently. By the way,
though,” he added, turning suddenly at the door, “how do you propose to
let me know when you haven’t got my name and address?”

Lord Peter laughed.

“I’m Hawkshaw, the detective,” he answered, “and you shall hear from me
anyhow before the end of the week.”