CHAPTER I

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 says
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 has 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 ‘H.’ 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 10 minutes past 10–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.”