Too Many Cousins, page 5
With a grin that made him look more than ever like that personage, Mr. Tuke took his departure.
CHAPTER VI
MRS. TUKE, who had obtained a few days’ permission to coincide with her husband’s holiday, met him with a slightly worried expression on her charming face when he returned to St. Luke’s Court to lunch.
“I told Cecile,” she said.
“About Cousin Raymond?”
“Yes. I pretended you had just heard of it by chance.”
“How did she take it?”
“I am sure she did not know about it. One could see what a shock it was to her. Harvey, she really is frightened now. I wish you had not asked me to tell her. You will have to do something to clear up this horror, for her sake.”
“I have made a beginning. Wray’s attention has been drawn to the sequence of fatal mishaps in the Shearsby family. Of course it was news to him. Not his department’s fault, actually, but it would never do to say so. Discipline must be maintained. The police are always wrong. Did you suggest to your Gecile that she should leave London?”
“She does not wish to leave London.”
“Oh, doesn’t she?”
Yvette smiled. “You need not be suspicious, Harvey. It is only because there is a man in the background. Or so I have heard. And then there was Gecile’s manner. She looked mulish and self-conscious.”
“Try to find out something about the man, will you?” Mrs. Tuke was looking curiously at her husband when the telephone rang in the hall. A minute later Chichester, the parlourmaid, announced that Mr. Tuke’s office was calling.
“My office? I’m on holiday. I’m in the Kyles of Bute.”
“It’s Mr. Chaffinch, sir,” Chichester said rather crushingly.
Mr. Tuke groaned, and went to the telephone. Chaffinch was his chief clerk, and would not telephone without good reason. When he rejoined his wife, several minutes later, he was smiling sardonically.
“Well, what do you know about that? The answer is, of course, nothing yet, but these Americanisms have a certain expressiveness. Another member of the persecuted Shearsby family is in my office. Mortimer, the chemist. With wife.”
“What do they want?”
“To see me, urgently. He refuses to say why. Very hot and bothered, according to Chaffinch.”
“But why you, Harvey? How does he know about you? I mean, it must be about these deaths.”
“I hope so. Perhaps he has been in touch with Mile Boulanger. She didn’t mention him, I suppose?”
“No, but it was two hours ago when I saw her. I did not stay in the office. I am on leave, too.”
“So you are. I’m sorry, my dear, if the Shearsby family are rather getting in our hair, to use another Americanism—I pick them up from Karnes—but you began it.”
“I was not complaining,” Yvette said. “Only do not allow Cecile and her family desagrements to take up all of my holiday, to say nothing of yours. What are you going to do about this Mr. Shearsby?”
Mr. Tuke smiled affectionately at his wife. “You are becoming quite English in your habit of understatement. Desagrements is good. I told Chaffinch I could spare a quarter of an hour here at half-past two.”
Lunch was over, and the Tukes were in the drawing-room with their coffee, when Chichester entered bearing two visiting cards on a tray.
“How formal they are in the provinces,” Harvey said. “I didn’t know anybody used cards in these days. Bless me, the fellow sticks his honours and awards on them, too. B.A., B.Sc. And his house is called ‘ Aylwynstowe’. I begin to see what Mile Boulanger meant.”
He finished his coffee and made his way to his study, where Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer Shearsby stood at the window, looking out over the chimney-stacks of Westminster. They turned about at Harvey’s entry. Mortimer Shearsby was a tall man with a stoop and a vague and fussy air. According to his cousin Cecile he was only thirty-six, but his greying hair and lined face and spectacles made him appear considerably older. He had a long nose, unkindly reddened at the tip, washed-out grey eyes and a fretful mouth, and only a good forehead redeemed him from insignificance. A light overcoat, though the August weather was dry and warm, and a rolled umbrella beside the hat on Mr. Tuke’s table, completed the picture of a man to whom life was obviously replete with difficulties and forebodings.
He came forward with his hand outstretched.
“Mr. Harvey Tuke? This is indeed kind of you, Mr. Tuke.” His loose and rather moist hand enfolded Harvey’s. “They told me at your office that you were on holiday. I would not have dreamt of troubling you, but—well, the fact is, Mr. Tuke, I am seriously perturbed. Very seriously. Mrs. Shearsby and I have made a special journey to London —I obtained permission, with some difficulty, to desert my post for the day—our branch of Imperial Sansil, as no doubt you know, is engaged on work of the greatest national importance—but I said to Mrs.‘Shearsby—yes, yes, my dear? What is it? Eh? . . .Yes, yes, of course. This is Mr. Harvey Tuke, my dear,” said Mr. Shearsby, firmly underlining the obvious. “My wife, Mr. Tuke. . . . ”
Mr. Tuke, having rubbed his hand on his trouser, was studying Mrs. Mortimer Shearsby as she joined her husband and nudged him with her elbow to remind him of her presence. Though the shorter of the two, it was only by a few inches, for she was a tall woman. Harvey’s first impression of her was that she was also a handsome one. She had the good looks of well cut features—a short nose and upper lip, fine arched eyebrows, a pointed and determined chin. But her complexion, if left alone, would have been pasty, and her carefully waved hair was a nondescript brown. Art had been called in to enliven nature, and a lock over her forehead was bleached yellow. Behind rimless pince-nez pale grey eyes flitted about with quick little movements, like the eyes of a mouse or a bird. Unlike her husband, who wore a baggy tweed suit under his overcoat, Mrs. Shearsby was a thought overdressed. Her green coat and skirt, tailored to reveal a good figure, were set off by too many clips and bracelets, her little green hat was an exaggeration of a current mode, and her high-heeled shoes of patent leather were too smart for the costume and the occasion. Under her arm she carried an enormous green bag.
Her small gloved hand gripped Harvey’s more firmly than the chemist’s large one. Her quick eyes ran over him as he indicated chairs and offered a box of cigarettes. She took one with a little pouncing gesture and a faint giggle. Mortimer Shearsby shook his head.
“Thank you, I do not smoke. To return to the point,
Mr. Tuke, we are inflicting ourselves upon you——”
“One moment,” Harvey was holding a match for Mrs. Shearsby. “I can guess why you are here, Mr. Shearsby,” he went on, returning to his chair, “so we can save a lot of talk. But why come to me?”
Mortimer Shearsby did not appear to relish this summary procedure. He coughed and blinked behind his spectacles.
“Of course, I know your reputation, Mr. Tuke. I followed with the greatest interest the case of those big insurance frauds a few years ago. A scandalous affair. It opened my eyes, I can assure you. Your name was mentioned——”
“Yes, yes,” Mr. Tuke said impatiently. “I got into the wrong sort of papers in the wrong way, as my chief is always reminding me. But that sort of thing is not really my job, as you must know perfectly well. I am an official of a government department, not a detective. If you want help or advice about the recent events in which your family has been implicated, go to the police, or to a solicitor.”
The chemist blinked again, and cast a harassed glance at his wife. Mrs. Shearsby made no effort to help him. She drew in a delicate manner at her cigarette, her eyes flitting between her husband and Mr. Tuke. They were shrewd eyes, the latter thought, though her pince-nez, flashing with every movement, baffled his scrutiny.
“But—but you gave my cousin advice,” the chemist said. “Cecile Boulanger, I mean. It was Gecile who suggested that I should call on you.”
“It was to see Mile Boulanger that you came to London?”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Tuke. I had a letter from her yesterday which greatly perturbed me—I may say alarmed me. She told me of a deliberate attempt on her life.”
“Well, that is one view of the incident. Anyway, I suppose it recalled do your mind other misfortunes among your cousins?”
Mortimer Shearsby nodded vehemently. “I trust I am not a fanciful man, but Cecile’s news opened my eyes to most disturbing possibilities.” Mr. Shearsby, whose eyes seemed so often to be opened by the wickedness of the world, now wagged his head over this latest instance as vigorously as he had nodded it. “That was why I felt I must .see Cecile. It was most desirable that we should have a consultation. Mrs. Shearsby counselled reflection, but I had made up my mind. Once I have made up my mind, I am——”
“Pig-headed,” said his wife unexpectedly, with her little giggle. Her eyes met Mr. Tuke’s through their baffling lenses, and flickered away again.
The chemist smiled dutifully. “Your phrase, my dear,” he said. “Perhaps we mean the same thing. Anyhow, Mr. Tuke, I made the necessary arrangements—did I say I am engaged on work of the greatest national importance?——”
“You did. The sequence of deaths among your relatives had not perturbed you before?”
“No. No. I regarded them as sad and shocking coincidences. Nothing more.”
“Then yesterday you heard of Mile Boulanger’s alarming experience. That has caused you to change your mind about these coincidences. Your eyes are opened. Well, I have told you what you should do. Go to your lawyer, anyway. Because the police will come to you.”
“To me?” said the chemist in a horrified tone.
“Yes. Their attention has also been drawn to this halving of your cousinry in six months. Inquiries will naturally be first addressed to the survivors who benefit by these deaths.”
“Good heavens!” said Mortimer Shearsby, blinking and looking rather wildly at his wife.
Mrs. Shearsby was sitting very upright in her chair. She ground out her cigarette in an ashtray. Her pale eyes for once were still behind her pince-nez as they met Mr. Tuke’s.
“Well, I can tell the police a thing or two,” she said. “I can tell them where to look. . . . ”
His black brows raised a little, Harvey waited with interest for more, but the chemist turned on his wife with an unexpected exercise of authority.
“Be more careful what you say, Lilian! I warned you before. I will not have you making these random accusations. They may get about. Think of my position. If you are prepared to face an action for slander, I am not.”
Lilian Shearsby met his frown mutinously. Patches of colour burnt beneath her make-up. Her hands, from which she had stripped her gloves, disclosing a number of rings, were clenched on her lap till the knuckles whitened. The pince-nez glittered as she glanced quickly at Harvey. Her emotions, whatever their cause, hardened and altered her features; and, like her husband, she seemed suddenly less commonplace. Mortimer Shearsby, his head thrust forward, his lower lip drawn in to show his teeth, looked indeed rather like an angry sheep, but his dominating tone was very different from his earlier fussy pomposities. There was a revealing quality in both these displays of temper which the cynically interested onlooker found most instructive.
“Oh, very well,” Mrs. Shearsby said, rather sulkily.
“This is a serious matter,” the chemist went on, more persuasively. “We must be discreet, my dear.”
She shrugged. She was still ruffled and petulant. Mr. Tuke was glancing at his watch.
“Let us have a few facts,” he said. “What do you know about your sister’s death, Mr. Shearsby?”
“A most inexplicable affair,” Mortimer Shearsby replied, resuming his normal style. “I was informed at once, on the Tuesday after the Bank Holiday. I attended the inquest, as next of kin. A painful ordeal.” He blinked rapidly. “How such a calamity can have come about, I cannot imagine. My sister was forgetful and untidy, but to confuse chemicals with kitchen condiments. . . . However, somehow it happened. There was a woman who came daily, and it was natural to suspect some carelessness on her part, but she was very definite she never meddled with the chemicals, and the coroner——”
“There were other chemicals in the house, then?”
“It is a bungalow. Yes, my sister’s husband had been science master at a boys’ preparatory school, and Blanche had a small science class.”
“There was no suggestion of suicide?”
“The point was raised, Mr. Tuke. But why should Blanche do such a thing? She was in excellent health and spirits when I saw her last, only two months ago.”
“And with your inheritance in view, she had every reason to live? Well, now tell me something about sodium nitrite, Mr. Shearsby. Don’t you use it in your work?”
The chemist sat up as if slightly stung. He gave Mr. Tuke a pained look.
“It is used largely in the manufacture of dye-stuffs,” he said. “But in justice to myself, Mr. Tuke, I should make it clear that the delicate and confidential work upon which I am now engaged—we are, as you will appreciate, practically a branch of the Ministry of Supply—this work has no connection with dye-stuffs as such, and for many months I have had no occasion to handle sodium nitrite.”
“It appears to be highly poisonous.”
Mr. Shearsby sniffed in a superior manner. “So are many of the alkaline metal compounds. Sodium nitrite is one of the most common in commercial use. It can be prepared, I may add, in any elementary laboratory. NaNO3 + SO2 + CaSO4,” he chanted, getting into his stride, “equals NaNO2 + CaSO4. In simple language, if you mix a concentrated solution of sodium nitrite with quicklime, insoluble calcium sulphate is formed, and sodium nitrite, the NaNO2, remains in solution. Another method of preparation is to add lead to fused sodium nitrate—NaNO3 + Pb,—add the fused mass to water——”
“H2O,” said Mr. Tuke. “I know that one. I am told, by the way, that there has been at least one previous case of fatal poisoning by sodium nitrite.”
Again the chemist sat up with a startled jerk. He looked unhappily at Mr. Tuke, and then at his wife.
“I told you,” Lilian Shearsby said, “that if you would drag all this into the daylight, that story was bound to come out. You had nothing to do with it, anyway.”
Her husband brightened a little. “True, true. You are referring, no doubt, Mr. Tuke, to the fatality at Bedford last year. But though the man was employed by Imperial Sansil, he was not in my department. I did not even know him. But you will appreciate,” said Mr. Shearsby, beginning to recover his aplomb, “that knowledge of this previous case confirmed my natural supposition that my sister’s death was accidental.”
“It must also have influenced the Guildford coroner.” The chemist coughed. “Ahem. The point was not raised.” Mr. Tuke’s eyebrows were. “Not even by you?”
“No, Mr. Tuke.” Having no doubt foreseen that this little awkwardness must arise sooner or later, Mortimer Shearsby dealt with it firmly. “I acted for the best. There was not the slightest connection between the two cases. But in the earlier one Imperial Sansil was indirectly involved. At the time there was some ill-natured talk in Bedford. Accusations of carelessness were flung about. As a senior and trusted servant of the firm, I am in a responsible position. We are engaged on confidential work of the highest priority, and I felt it would be most injudicious to revive this old story. It would be aiding the enemy. An act of moral sabotage,” said Mr. Shearsby, rolling his words. “Had I been asked about it, I would have given all the information in my power. But I was not asked. As a man of the world, Mr. Tuke, you will appreciate my motives in letting sleeping dogs lie.”
“The police ought to have known about the other case,” Lilian Shearsby added. “There was enough about it in the papers, and Guildford isn’t in Australia.” Her tone grew more tart. “Anyway, if they come badgering us now,
we can tell them of someone else who did know——”
Her husband turned on her again. “Lilian!”
She shrugged irritably, but subsided. Her pince-nez flashed as she shot her swift little glances between the two men. Harvey, after a moment, turned to the chemist.
“Now tell me something about your cousin Raymond. I know his stories.”
“Ah, Raymond,” said Mortimer Shearsby, with an air of relief. “Yes, yes. Poor fellow. I confess I have not read any of his writings. I have little time for reading. My work, my garden—I am in a small way a landscape gardener, Mr. Tuke, and my little plot is, I think, tastefully arranged, with a pool, and here and there a stone gnome or frog——”
“About Raymond Shearsby,” Mr. Tuke reminded him, repressing a shudder at this libel on landscape gardening.
“Ah, Raymond,” said the innocent offender again. “Well, really, we have seen very little of him, though he lived within twenty miles of us. He came to see us when he got back from France—before that, he and I had not met since we were children—but somehow the—the reunion never ripened. He never visited ‘ Aylwynstowe ’ again, but a few months ago Mrs. Shearsby and I made a Sunday jaunt to see him in his retreat. It was a pleasant outing, at any rate,” said Mr. Shearsby, with the air of making the best of a poor business. He wagged his head. “Raymond was a queer fellow. Solitary, a little cynical, perhaps. How little I foresaw then——”
“Yes, let us get on to his accident.”
A third • start was made. Kept firmly to the point, the chemist described how he had been summqned to the earlier inquest at the Hertfordshire village of Stocking. It was only through finding an old postcard of his that the local police had known how to notify the family, for Raymond Shearsby had dropped out of the ken of his other cousins. The evidence at the inquiry showed that on the evening of the 28th of July the writer left the village inn at a quarter past seven. He was not seen again alive. His body was found next morning in a stream called the Gat Ditch, under a bridge which carried the lane leading to the cottage he occupied. He was very short-sighted, and it was supposed he had gone for a walk down the lane after dark—there was no moon, and July had ended with clouds and rain— and had blundered through a gap between the hedge and the parapet of the bridge. He had received a severe blow on the head, presumably in falling against the stonework. Stunned by this, he had fallen unconscious into the stream.
