will write in for an appointment, I shall be pleased to see him.’
‘Good man,’ said Sir Herbert cheerfully. ‘But we don’t want any of this red-tape business about writing in. He’s in my office now. I’ll send him over. He’s particularly anxious to have a word with you about this Brock Park case. Goodbye.’
Mercer replaced the telephone carefully. He knew that if he had replaced it as he felt like replacing it, the entire instrument would have been smashed. For a moment or two he sat quite still. Then, suddenly, he snatched the telephone up again.
‘Inspector Cleat, please.’ He waited. ‘Is that you, Cleat?… Is the Commissioner in? … I see. Well, you might ask him as soon as he comes in if he could spare me a minute or two. It’s urgent. Right.’
He hung up again, feeling a little better. If Sir Herbert could have words with the Commissioner, so could he. The old man could be a devil, but he wouldn’t stand for his subordinatesbeing humiliated, insulted and – yes, that was the word – blackmailed by pettifogging politicians. Meanwhile, however, this precious Dr Czissar wanted to talk about the Brock Park case. Right! Let him! He wouldn’t be able to pull
that
to pieces. It was absolutely watertight. He picked up the file on the case. Yes, absolutely watertight.
Three years previously Thomas Medley, a widower of sixty with two adult children, had married Helena Murlin, a woman of forty-two. The four had since lived together in a large house in the London suburb of Brock Park. Medley, who had amassed a comfortable fortune on the Baltic Exchange, had retired from business shortly before his second marriage and had devoted most of his time since to his hobby, gardening. Helena Murlin was an artist, a landscape painter, and in Brock Park it was whispered that her pictures sold for large sums. She dressed both fashionably and smartly, and was disliked by her neighbours. Harold Medley, the son, aged twenty-five, was a medical student at a London hospital. His sister, Janet, was three years younger, and as dowdy as her stepmother was smart.
In the early October of that year, and as a result of an extra-heavy meal, Thomas Medley had retired to bed with a bilious attack. Such attacks had not been unusual. He had had an enlarged liver and had been normally dyspeptic. His doctor had prescribed in the usual way. On his third day in bed the patient had been considerably better. On the fourth day, however, at about four in the afternoon, he had been seized with violent abdominal pains, persistent vomiting, and severe cramps in the muscles of his legs.
These symptoms had persisted for three days, on the last of which there had been tetanic convulsions. He had died that night. The doctor had certified the death as being due to gastroenteritis. The dead man’s estate had amounted to roughly £110,000. Half of it went to his wife. The remainder was divided equally between his two children.
A week after the funeral the police had received an anonymous letter suggesting that Medley had been poisoned. Subsequently they had received two further letters. Information had then reached them that several residents in Brock Park had received similar letters and that the matter was the subject ofgossip. Medley’s doctor had been approached later. He had reasserted that the death had been due to gastroenteritis, but confessed that the possibility of the condition having been brought about by the wilful administration of poison had not occurred to him. The body had been exhumed by licence of the Home Secretary and an autopsy performed. No traces of poison had been found in the stomach; but in the liver, kidneys, and spleen a total of 1.751 grains of arsenic had been found.
Inquiries had established that on the day on which the poisoning symptoms had appeared, the deceased had had a small luncheon consisting of breast of chicken, spinach (tinned), and one potato.
The cook had partaken of spinach from the same tin
‘Good man,’ said Sir Herbert cheerfully. ‘But we don’t want any of this red-tape business about writing in. He’s in my office now. I’ll send him over. He’s particularly anxious to have a word with you about this Brock Park case. Goodbye.’
Mercer replaced the telephone carefully. He knew that if he had replaced it as he felt like replacing it, the entire instrument would have been smashed. For a moment or two he sat quite still. Then, suddenly, he snatched the telephone up again.
‘Inspector Cleat, please.’ He waited. ‘Is that you, Cleat?… Is the Commissioner in? … I see. Well, you might ask him as soon as he comes in if he could spare me a minute or two. It’s urgent. Right.’
He hung up again, feeling a little better. If Sir Herbert could have words with the Commissioner, so could he. The old man could be a devil, but he wouldn’t stand for his subordinatesbeing humiliated, insulted and – yes, that was the word – blackmailed by pettifogging politicians. Meanwhile, however, this precious Dr Czissar wanted to talk about the Brock Park case. Right! Let him! He wouldn’t be able to pull
that
to pieces. It was absolutely watertight. He picked up the file on the case. Yes, absolutely watertight.
Three years previously Thomas Medley, a widower of sixty with two adult children, had married Helena Murlin, a woman of forty-two. The four had since lived together in a large house in the London suburb of Brock Park. Medley, who had amassed a comfortable fortune on the Baltic Exchange, had retired from business shortly before his second marriage and had devoted most of his time since to his hobby, gardening. Helena Murlin was an artist, a landscape painter, and in Brock Park it was whispered that her pictures sold for large sums. She dressed both fashionably and smartly, and was disliked by her neighbours. Harold Medley, the son, aged twenty-five, was a medical student at a London hospital. His sister, Janet, was three years younger, and as dowdy as her stepmother was smart.
In the early October of that year, and as a result of an extra-heavy meal, Thomas Medley had retired to bed with a bilious attack. Such attacks had not been unusual. He had had an enlarged liver and had been normally dyspeptic. His doctor had prescribed in the usual way. On his third day in bed the patient had been considerably better. On the fourth day, however, at about four in the afternoon, he had been seized with violent abdominal pains, persistent vomiting, and severe cramps in the muscles of his legs.
These symptoms had persisted for three days, on the last of which there had been tetanic convulsions. He had died that night. The doctor had certified the death as being due to gastroenteritis. The dead man’s estate had amounted to roughly £110,000. Half of it went to his wife. The remainder was divided equally between his two children.
A week after the funeral the police had received an anonymous letter suggesting that Medley had been poisoned. Subsequently they had received two further letters. Information had then reached them that several residents in Brock Park had received similar letters and that the matter was the subject ofgossip. Medley’s doctor had been approached later. He had reasserted that the death had been due to gastroenteritis, but confessed that the possibility of the condition having been brought about by the wilful administration of poison had not occurred to him. The body had been exhumed by licence of the Home Secretary and an autopsy performed. No traces of poison had been found in the stomach; but in the liver, kidneys, and spleen a total of 1.751 grains of arsenic had been found.
Inquiries had established that on the day on which the poisoning symptoms had appeared, the deceased had had a small luncheon consisting of breast of chicken, spinach (tinned), and one potato.
The cook had partaken of spinach from the same tin
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