c7

"Suicide, you mean? Abernethie wasn't a suicidal type."

 

"I see. You can assure me, medically speaking, that such a suggestion is impossible."

 

The doctor stirred uneasily.

 

"I wouldn't use the word impossible. After his son's death life no longer held the interest for Abernethie that it had done. I certainly don't feel that suicide is likely - but I can't say that it's impossible."

 

"You are speaking from the psychological angle. When I said medically, I really meant: do the circumstances of his death make such a suggestion impossible?"

 

"No, oh no. No, I can't say that. He died in his sleep, as people often do. There was no reason to suspect suicide, no evidence of his state of mind. If one were to demand an autopsy every time a man who is seriously ill died in his sleep -"

 

The doctor's face was getting redder and redder. Mr Entwhistle hastened to interpose.

 

"Of course. Of course. But if there had been evidence - evidence of which you yourself were not aware? If, for instance, he had said something to someone -"

 

"Indicating that he was contemplating suicide? Did he? I must say it surprises me."

 

"But if it were so - my case is purely hypothetical - could you rule out the possibility?"

 

Dr Larraby said slowly:

 

"No - no - I could not do that. But I say again, I should be very much surprised."

 

Mr Entwhistle hastened to follow up his advantage.

 

"If, then, we assume that his death was not natural - all this is purely hypothetical - what could have caused it? What kind of a drug, I mean?"

 

"Several. Some kind of a narcotic would be indicated. There was no sign of cyanosis, the attitude was quite peaceful."

 

"He had sleeping draughts or pills? Something of that kind."

 

"Yes. I had prescribed Slumberyl - a very safe and dependable hypnotic. He did not take it every night. And he only had a small bottle of tablets at a time. Three or even four times the prescribed dose would not have caused death. In fact, I remember seeing the bottle on his wash-stand after his death still nearly full."

 

"What else had you prescribed for him?"

 

"Various things - a medicine containing a small quantity of morphia to be taken when he had an attack of pain. Some vitamin capsules. An indigestion mixture."

 

Mr Entwhistle interrupted.

 

"Vitamin capsules? I think I was once prescribed a course of those. Small round capsules of gelatine."

 

"Yes. Containing adexoline."

 

"Could anything else have been introduced into - say - one of those capsules?"

 

"Something lethal, you mean?" The doctor was looking more and more surprised. "But surely no man would ever - look here, Entwhistle, what are you getting at? My God, man, are you suggesting murder?"

 

"I don't quite know what I'm suggesting... I just want to know what would be possible."

 

"But what evidence have you for even suggesting such a thing?"

 

"I haven't any evidence," said Mr Entwhistle in a tired voice. "Mr Abernethie is dead - and the person to whom he spoke is also dead. The whole thing is rumour - vague, unsatisfactory rumour, and I want to scotch it if I can. If you tell me that no one could possibly have poisoned Abernethie in any way whatsoever, I'll be delighted! It would be a big weight off my mind, I can assure you."

 

Dr Larraby got up and walked up and down.

 

"I can't tell you what you want me to tell you," he said at last. "I wish I could. Of course it could have been done. Anybody could have extracted the oil from a capsule and replaced it with - say - pure nicotine or half a dozen other things. Or something could have been put in his food or drink? Isn't that more likely?"

 

"Possibly. But you see, there were only the servants in the house when he died - and I don't think it was any of them - in fact I'm quite sure it wasn't. So I'm looking for some delayed action possibility. There's no drug, I suppose, that you can administer and then the person dies weeks later?"

 

"A convenient idea - but untenable, I'm afraid," said the doctor dryly. "I know you're a responsible person, Entwhistle, but who is making this suggestion? It seems to me wildly far fetched."

 

"Abernethie never said anything to you? Never hinted that one of his relations might be wanting him out of the way?"

 

The doctor looked at him curiously.

 

"No, he never said anything to me. Are you sure, Entwhistle, that somebody hasn't been - well, playing up the sensational? Some hysterical subjects can give an appearance of being quite reasonable and normal, you know."

 

"I hope it was like that. It might well be."

 

"Let me understand. Someone claims that Abernethie told her - it was a woman, I suppose?"

 

"Oh yes, it was a woman."

 

"-told her that someone was trying to kill him?"

 

Cornered, Mr Entwhistle reluctantly told the tale of Cora's remark at the funeral. Dr Larraby's face lightened.

 

"My dear fellow. I shouldn't pay any attention! The explanation is quite simple. The woman's at a certain time of life - craving for sensation, unbalanced, unreliable - might say anything. They do, you know."

 

Mr Entwhistle resented the doctor's easy assumption. He himself had had to deal with plenty of sensation-hunting and hysterical women.

 

"You may be quite right," he said, rising. "Unfortunately we can't tackle her on the subject, as she's been murdered herself."

 

"What's that - murdered?" Dr Larraby looked as though he had grave suspicions of Mr Entwhistle's own stability of mind.

 

"You've probably read about it in the paper. Mrs Lanquenet at Lytchett St Mary in Berkshire."

 

"Of course - I'd no idea she was a relation of Richard Abernethie's!" Dr Larraby was looking quite shaken.

 

Feeling that he had revenged himself for the doctor's professional superiority, and unhappily conscious that his own suspicions had not been assuaged as a result of the visit, Mr Entwhistle took his leave.

 

II

 

Back at Enderby, Mr Entwhistle decided to talk to Lanscombe.

 

He started by asking the old butler what his plans were.

 

"Mrs Leo has asked me to stay on here until the house is sold, sir, and I'm sure I shall be very pleased to oblige her. We are all very fond of Mrs Leo." He sighed. "I feel it very much, sir, if you will excuse me mentioning it, that the house has to be sold. I've known it for so very many years, and seen all the young ladies and gentlemen grow up in it. I always thought that Mr Mortimer would come after his father and perhaps bring up a family here, too. It was arranged, sir, that I should go to the North Lodge when I got past doing my work here. A very nice little place, the North Lodge - and I looked forward to having it very spick and span. But I suppose that's all over now."

 

"I'm afraid so, Lanscombe. The estate will all have to be sold together. But with your legacy -"

 

"Oh I'm not complaining, sir, and I'm very sensible of Mr Abernethie's generosity. I'm well provided for, but it's not so easy to find a little place to buy nowadays and though my married niece has asked me to

 

make my home with them, well, it won't be quite the same thing as living on the estate."

 

"I know," said Mr Entwhistle. "It's a hard new world for us old fellows. I wish I'd seen more of my old friend before he went. How did he seem those last few months?"

 

"Well, he wasn't himself, sir. Not since Mr Mortimer's death."

 

"No, it broke him up. And then he was a sick man - sick men have strange fancies sometimes. I imagine Mr Abernethie suffered from that sort of thing in his last days. He spoke of enemies sometimes, of somebody wishing to do him harm - perhaps? He may even have thought his food was being tampered with?"

 

Old Lanscombe looked surprised - surprised and offended.

 

"I cannot recall anything of that kind, sir."

 

Entwhistle looked at him keenly.