Mad Hatter's Holiday (15 page)

‘Wait a moment!’ said Cribb. ‘What about the others—Mrs. Prothero and her servant problem, Guy in prospect of being a papa and Dr. Prothero undergoing blackmail? Do we forget about them just because Moscrop had a strong motive?’

Thackeray frowned. ‘But they couldn’t possibly have done it. They all had alibis. Mrs. Prothero was drugged with chloral and asleep, Guy was in the hotel, watching the fireworks from the balcony, and the doctor was at the ball all evening, except for half an hour in Steine Gardens which he spent with Miss Floyd-Whittingham. If you want to be quite sure, we could see if Moscrop’s got a criminal record. A man like that could very well have been in trouble before.’

Cribb opened the drawer of the desk in front of him and took out a sheet of paper. ‘All right. How’s this for a record? “August, 1881, Hove, criminal assault upon a minor, one Matthew Hawkins, not brought to court. December, 1881, Eastbourne, indecent assault upon a servant-girl of 17 years, Jane Brett, not brought to court. June, 1882, Eastbourne, attempted murder of Jane Brett by strangulation, not brought to court.”‘

‘Really, Sarge?’ said Thackeray. ‘We’ve got him this time for sure, then. “Not brought to court”, indeed! Makes you wonder what the local force was up to. We’d better get along to Montpelier Parade and clap the darbies on him quick before he adds to the list.’

‘Montpelier Parade?’

‘The address of Moscrop’s lodgings,’ pointed out Thackeray, not altogether suppressing his surprise at Cribb’s obtuseness.

‘Ah. Now that wouldn’t do.’

‘Why not, Sarge?’

‘Because it ain’t Moscrop’s record. So far as I’ve been able to check, he’s never put a foot wrong in his life. You couldn’t really call this a record at all, come to that, could you? Three cases, none of ’em brought to court. I put it together myself, from information received, as they say. It’s more of a school record than a criminal one, since all the information comes from headmasters. There’s nothing like a small private school for hushing up a scandal, paying reparation to the victim and pushing the offender on to some other place of learning. Sometimes it’s the masters that go, and sometimes the boys. Boy in this case.’

‘Do you mean Guy?’ Thackeray was open-mouthed.

Cribb nodded. ‘Well, you had him on your list, so don’t be too despondent.’

‘But he had an alibi. He was in the hotel all evening with his mother. Moscrop saw him on the balcony.’

‘His mother was asleep, if you remember. Once we established that, Guy had no alibi. The game of cribbage had to be pure invention. Oh, yes, he was seen on the balcony, but it was while Bridget was with Moscrop. After that, she went back to the hotel suite and out with Guy to see the fireworks, having borrowed Mrs. Prothero’s jacket to add a little spice to the escapade.’

‘But there’s nothing to suggest she went back to the Albemarle, Sarge. She still had the chemist’s report with her when she died.’

‘Do you think she would have left it lying about up there? Her Mistress was out to the world until next morning. There was only Prothero himself to see it if she left it in the bedroom. She didn’t want that so she took it with her. Besides, she
must
have gone back to put on the sealskin jacket. She wasn’t wearing it when she met Moscrop.’

‘He didn’t say so, it’s true, but—‘ ‘He wouldn’t have come to us suggesting Zena Prothero was dead if he’d seen Bridget wearing the jacket that night, now would he? He’s an observant man, Constable.’

There was an interval while Thackeray rearranged his thoughts.

‘When did you discover all this, Sarge?’

‘About Guy? On the day I went to Dorking. I missed Zena Prothero, unfortunately, but I was able to get the names of Guy’s schools from the servants. The local police extracted the information I wanted from the headmasters at Hove and Eastbourne. There’s quite a history of violence—torturing pet animals, bullying younger children and so on, leading up to a vicious attack on the boy Hawkins at Hove, but Guy is now of an age when he’s turning his attention to women. The girl Jane Brett is fortunate to be alive. If there’s such a thing as a born killer I would stake my reputation that Guy Prothero is it.’

‘A madman, Sarge?’

‘Sane in most respects, but with a lust for violence that makes him uncontrollable in certain situations.’

‘His parents must have been at their wits’ end when they got those reports from the schools,’ said Thackeray.

‘Prothero was inclined to disbelieve them, thinking the schools were exaggerating, until the attack on Jane Brett at Eastbourne. He was asked to take the boy away from school at once, and the headmaster urged his committal to an institution for the mentally deranged. As a medical man, Prothero was bound to consider the suggestion, unpalatable as it must have been. I don’t believe he told his wife about the nature of the boy’s outbursts at school—the “unspeakable thing” she mentioned to Moscrop was the disgrace of a second expulsion from school. If she’d known that Guy had attacked a servant-girl she certainly wouldn’t have countenanced his going off to swim with Bridget.’

‘Yet Prothero himself was quite agreeable to Guy swimming with the girl. You told me that yourself, Sarge. “A bit of spooning under the waves,” he called it.’

Cribb nodded. ‘That was his attitude
after
Bridget’s death. He knew his son to be a murderer by then. By posturing as a “forward thinker” he was trying to remove suspicion from Guy. It became clear that he’d changed his attitude when I interviewed Mrs. Prothero. She was thoroughly alarmed at the prospect of his finding out about the bathing with Bridget. “He would have stopped it at once,” she said. “I had my instructions, but I was not equal to them.” Prothero had strictly forbidden any such thing. He knew what the consequences might be. Afterwards it was smarter to suggest that he knew exactly what was going on and didn’t disapprove.’

‘He was protecting the boy all along, then?’

‘Protecting his own reputation too. Yes, he lied, of course, when he told me that his wife had returned to Dorking with Jason and Bridget. I repeated the question to be quite sure about it.’

‘Was that what first made you suspect Guy, Sarge?’

‘Well, it was obvious enough that the Protheros were lying. Their stories were full of inconsistencies. I suppose they hadn’t had time to think the thing out and rehearse what they were going to say. There was one point when Prothero was ready to say that his wife was asleep on the night of the murder and Guy was trying to convince me she was awake. There wasn’t the trust between the members of the family that a strong united alibi demands. They were all suspicious of each other in their various ways. Prothero was determined not to let Guy know what he was planning for
him
when the holiday was over.’

‘An asylum, Sarge?’

‘Something of the sort, I suspect. But Zena Prothero knew nothing of this. I’m convinced that the doctor regarded the boy as his responsibility—he wasn’t Zena’s child, after all—and was determined that she should not become involved. Possibly Guy confessed to him, or he caught the boy coming home in the small hours. At any rate, Prothero knew by Sunday morning that Guy had murdered Bridget. He arranged at once for Zena to return to Dorking—probably dosed Jason with something to make him feverish—telling her that Bridget was unaccountably missing. Later she must have read in the newspaper about the human remains found on the beach, and the sealskin jacket. She believed—and still believes—that Bridget went out that night wearing her jacket and was killed by some stranger. She telegraphed Prothero from Dorking saying she must meet him urgently at the Devil’s Dyke. She wanted to tell him what she feared, you see. He met her, listened to her story, and gave her the knapsack containing some of Bridget’s clothes to carry away, impressing upon her that if it were known that
their
servant had been murdered, the Dorking practice would be in ruins. The Worthing police picked up the knapsack this morning. It contained a pair of shoes, stays, stockings, a camisole and a bonnet—the missing clothes Bridget was wearing when she was murdered, complete with fish-scales adhering to ’em.’

‘From the arch where the body was dismembered? Did Prothero do that, do you think?’

‘Difficult to say. It didn’t look like a doctor’s handiwork, but then Prothero ain’t fool enough to give himself away like that. I’m inclined to think he must have supervised the disposing of the body. We’re examining their clothes for bloodstains, of course.’

Thackeray started in surprise. ‘Do you mean that you’ve got their clothes already, Sarge? Is the boy in custody?’

‘The answer to your first question is yes. To your second, no. Guy and his father left Brighton this morning on horseback. It’s all right, Constable! No panic! The police all the way from here to Dorking have been alerted and there’s a plain-clothes man following them. They left a trunk at the Albemarle to be called for, and Inspector Pink and his men have very obligingly picked it up. It surprises me that Prothero stayed so long in Brighton. It was two weeks yesterday that Bridget was killed. It’s a cool customer that can sit it out as long as that when an investigation’s afoot. Ah!’

The interruption was from P.C. Thomas, bearing a telegram.

‘As I expected,’ said Cribb. ‘They stopped at Horsham for lunch.
The Fortune of War.
I suggest that we—Good God!’ He put the telegram down and pressed his hand to his forehead.

‘What is it, Sarge? What on earth’s the matter?’

‘The matter is, Constable,’ said Cribb in a strange voice, ‘that I’ve made a fatal error of judgement. According to this telegram, our suspect died shortly after one o’clock.’

‘Died?’
repeated Thackeray. ‘It must be a mistake, Sarge. They mean “dined”.’

‘I’d believe you,’ said Cribb, ‘if it didn’t go on to ask for my instructions regarding the post mortem.’

CHAPTER
15

THE DRIVE TO HORSHAM by police-van was distinguished by a total absence of conversation, Cribb hunched in the corner seat, eyes fixed on the window but seeing nothing of the passing countryside, Thackeray busying himself wiping his forehead with his handkerchief, straightening his necktie and retying his boot-laces. After a little over an hour the driver reined outside
The Fortune of War,
a small hotel on the Guildford Road, some three-quarters of a mile beyond the town. Cribb’s brown study came to a decisive end. ‘Come, Thackeray! We’re late enough on the scene as it is.’

The constable on duty in the foyer, not having seen the police-van’s arrival, raised a cautionary hand, which snaked resourcefully into a salute as Thackeray muttered, ‘The Yard,’ and Cribb stalked past. Ahead, a white card was suspended from the door-knob of one of the two lounges. It announced with apologies that patrons were temporarily requested to refrain from using the room. Cribb advanced on the door as if this were an invitation, opened it, and found a police inspector, a manifestly disconcerted hotel manager and Dr. Prothero.

‘Scotland Yard?’ echoed the inspector, after Cribb had explained who he was. ‘It was you that asked us to have men available, then. A notable feat of anticipation, Sergeant. I only wish that you had warned us to expect something as sanguinary as this. Had we known—‘ ‘Had
I
known, I’d have prevented the boy from leaving Brighton,’ said Cribb. ‘You’ve established the circumstances surrounding his death, I expect, sir?’

‘I have indeed. The facts are these, Sergeant. This gentleman, Dr. Prothero, and his son arrived here at about ten minutes after twelve o’clock and arranged for their horses to be watered. They then ordered lunch and had glasses of sherry in the ante-room while it was being prepared. At a quarter to one they took their places in the dining-room, which was otherwise empty. They were served the following—and I shall now refer to my notebook, because the details may well be important— tomato soup, followed by roast beef, with roast potatoes, buttered parsnips, Brussels sprouts, Yorkshire pudding, gravy and horse-radish sauce, followed by apple charlotte with cream, followed by coffee. It was some twenty minutes after the coffee was served that the boy displayed symptoms of unease—not indigestion, as one might suppose after a substantial meal, but shortness of breath. This seemed at first to be the consequence of an over-enthusiastic inhalation of snuff, but it soon became apparent that something much worse was the matter. Within ten minutes he was dead. There was nothing that Dr. Prothero or Mr. Wood, here, the manager, could do to save him. The doctor, I think, can best describe the nature of the collapse—if that is not too distressing, sir.’

Certainly the strain of a severe shock showed in Prothero’s face. He looked at no one, and addressed his account of his son’s death to the back of his hand, which he turned in several positions as he was talking, as if it held some clue to the tragedy. ‘Guy died of an acute attack of asthma. The onset was very sudden: a short period of restlessness, then accelerated breathing accompanied by coughing and retching. We supported him and loosened his clothing and endeavoured to calm him, but the respiration became progressively slower and more laboured, with severe broncho-spasms. Within minutes there were several convulsions and he stopped breathing.’

There was a pause before Cribb asked, ‘Were the first symptoms you described consistent with other attacks of asthma Guy had experienced?’

Prothero replied in the same automatic way, without a glance in Cribb’s direction. ‘Generally similar, yes. There had been nothing so severe before. On previous occasions I have injected atropine to prevent constriction of the bronchioles, but on this occasion I had none of my equipment with me.’

‘How do you account for so sudden an attack?’

‘There
is
no accounting for asthma,’ said Prothero. ‘We in the profession are only too conscious of the limitations in our knowledge. A hundred different things might have provoked the attack. The most negligible, intangible things—animal emanations, for example. The late Dr. Hyde Salter, the author of the standard work on the subject, was himself asthmatic and established a definite relationship between his own asthma and the presence of a cat.’

‘Our cats are never allowed in the lounges,’ protested the manager at once.

‘That was merely an example,’ said Prothero wearily. ‘There may be a hundred other agents of the complaint. Pollen, for instance, is known to induce hay-fever.’

The inspector looked up with the suddenness indicative of an inspiration. ‘Do you think that the horses—‘

‘He has ridden horses since he was a small child,’ said Prothero, ‘and never suffered a reaction. Nor is there likely to be any connection with the meal which you have recorded so slavishly in your pocket-book. Asthma is a respiratory disorder, not a digestive one.’

‘Are you quite sure, Doctor, that your son’s death was due to asthma?’ asked Cribb.

‘Haven’t I indicated that already? I know what I am talking about, Sergeant. I have written a dozen monographs on the subject. Examine the boy’s body and you will find the classic indications of asthmatic death: the slightly bluish tinge to the colouring, the clammy feel of the skin arising from the heavy perspiration and the quick drop in temperature, and the characteristic clenching of the hands.’

Cribb went to the ottoman, lifted the sheet that had been draped over Guy’s body and verified everything Prothero had said.

‘I shall therefore make out a death certificate indicating that he died from natural causes,’ said Prothero.

‘And I shall ask the coroner for authority for a post mortem examination,’ said Cribb. ‘The circumstances warrant it, sir, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate. And in the meantime I shall be obliged if you will advise me of all your movements so that I may keep in touch with you.’

‘I propose to return to Dorking,’ said Prothero, ‘and I shall be there until further notice.’ And he added in a lower tone, ‘With your permission, of course, Sergeant Cribb.’

After Prothero had left the room, with the manager in tow, probably mindful of the unpaid bill, the inspector asked Cribb, ‘What do you expect to get from a post mortem? It’s a clear case of asthma.’

‘Looks like that, sir.’

‘Surely you don’t expect to prove that it was induced in some way? You’d never convince a jury of that, Sergeant.’

‘No, sir.’

‘Well in that case I’m damned if I can see the point of going to the trouble of a post mortem examination.’

‘That’s where we differ, then, sir. I suppose I see it from another point of view. Today I was ready to arrest Guy Prothero for the Brighton beach murder. The boy was a homicidal maniac. I should have arrested him a week ago if I hadn’t had to grope my way through a welter of false statements invented by his family. Quite apart from any protective sentiments the Protheros had towards him, their own livelihood was at stake, you see. Respectable general practice in a country town—imagine the effect of a sensational murder trial on that. Now in my experience people of their station in life generally have a way of dealing with the member of the family who threatens to create a scandal; there’s private institutions that cater for almost any human aberration you can think of if someone’s prepared to pay. Guy Prothero would probably have been committed to some asylum for the well-to-do if he hadn’t gone as far as murder. That altered things. When it gets as serious as that, the law can’t be bought off, you see. Justice has to run its course. Oh, they wriggled and squirmed and tried to avoid it, but I was closing in day by day. And, as I tell you, I was ready to make the arrest today. What happens? The boy suffers a fatal attack of asthma on the way home. If that sounds like pure chance to you, sir, you’re entitled to believe it. If you tell me asthmatic death can’t be induced, I’ll take your word for it, but that won’t stop me from using every means at my disposal to ascertain whether it
was
asthma that killed Guy Prothero.’

Inspector Wood frowned. ‘You’ll find it difficult to get round those symptoms, Sergeant. The manager was there as a witness. I questioned him closely before I interviewed Dr. Prothero. He described it all in a layman’s terms, of course, but his statement bears out everything you heard the doctor say. It’s a singular thing to have happened, as you imply, but I think we have to reconcile ourselves to the fact that the boy died from natural causes.’

As if not one word of the inspector’s had percolated into his thoughts, Cribb asked, ‘What happened to the plates they ate from?’

‘Fortunately they hadn’t been washed when I arrived,’ said the inspector. ‘I had them put aside with the sherry glasses and the coffee cups as a matter of routine. One never knows, in cases of sudden death.’

‘Good,’ said Cribb, the gleam at last returning to his eye.

‘I’d like everything analysed by the best man available. As a matter of routine, sir,’ he added. ‘One never knows.’

Over a pint of half and half that evening, when all the arrangements had been made and every possible scrap of evidence removed to be examined by experts, Thackeray was sufficiently encouraged by Cribb’s more buoyant mood to observe, ‘You’ve worked out how Prothero could have arranged it, haven’t you, Sarge? It’s something the boy was given to eat or drink, something that could bring on an attack like that.’

Cribb gazed contemplatively into the beer-glass. ‘Just an idea, Thackeray. A memory of something I read. D’you remember the Wimbledon poisoning case last spring?’

‘That doctor?’

‘Yes. Lamson. Hanged at Wandsworth Prison for murdering his young brother-in-law. It interested me at the time because of the poison he employed—none of your conventional arsenic or strychnine. No, it was a doctor’s choice of poison, so rarely used that the lawyers could find only one other case to quote during the trial, and again the poisoner was a doctor. Aconitine, Thackeray. People grow it in their gardens and call it wolf’s-bane. The leaf is not unlike parsley, and the roots, if I remember correct, bear a close resemblance to horse-radish.’

‘Horse-radish! Blimey, Sarge! Horse-radish sauce!’

‘But let’s not leap to conclusions, Constable. Lamson’s victim took nearly four hours to die. Guy was dead within an hour of eating his lunch.’

‘A strong dose, Sarge?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Cribb. ‘We’ll need to find out more about it from the experts. The symptoms, so far as I recall, begin a few minutes after the poison is taken—a numbing of the mouth and throat, obstructing the victim’s breathing. Stomach pains, vomiting and convulsions. Breathing becomes progressively feebler, and eventually death is due to asphyxia or shock. Close enough to Guy’s symptoms to make it worth investigating, anyway.’

‘Worth investigating, Sarge? I should think you’ve got it! He finally decided that he couldn’t save his son from the gallows, so he saved his own reputation instead by slipping him the aconitine, knowing everyone would think it was asthma the boy had died of. It’s a good thing you was there today or there wouldn’t have been no post mortem at all!’

Cribb accepted this heart-felt tribute with a small shrug and added deprecatingly, ‘The pity of it is that there’s no chemical test for identifying aconitine in the human body. It’s about the most difficult of all poisons to base a prosecution on. There are just two ways of identifying it: by taste and by administering it to animals. It’s going to take more than a few dead mice to build a case against Prothero.’

‘Could we find out if he purchased any of the stuff, Sarge?’

‘That wouldn’t help overmuch. A doctor might be expected to have some. It’s recommended as an ointment for use in rheumatism and neuralgia.’

‘Good Lord!’ said Thackeray, his hand going rapidly to the small of his back.

‘I’d stick to red flannel, if I were you,’ said Cribb. ‘Well, Constable. It’s time we made our way back to Brighton, unless you fancy one for the road. The sherry of the house has quite a kick, I understand.’

‘Takes your breath away,’ said Thackeray, grinning widely.

‘You said it would be difficult to identify the poison, Sarge.’

‘Yes, but a man was convicted last March on the evidence of less than a twentieth of a grain and our theory was that Guy was given a heavier dose. They were
looking
for it, Thackeray. Two of the leading pathologists in the land have signed that report.’

‘Well, what
did
they report as the cause of death, Sarge?’

‘Respiratory failure. The lungs were found to be uncommonly inflated. Constriction of the bronchial muscles, you see. Some retention of fluid in the lungs. Small haemorrhages on the underside of the diaphragm and in the viscera. I’ve read my medical books in the last few days, Constable. There’s nothing there that ain’t consistent with death from asthma.’