Blood From a Stone Read online

  ‘Her will, eh?’ said Dr Mountford dubiously. That sounded complicated. ‘Did she keep her will here, d’you know?’

  Mrs Welbeck shrugged. ‘I don’t know, sir. If she did, it’ll be in the walnut desk in the morning room. That’s where she kept all her papers.’

  Dr Mountford hesitated. He wanted to see the will but his curiosity was tempered by official caution.

  ‘Mrs Paxton always kept the desk locked,’ said Mrs Welbeck. ‘The key’s in her bedside drawer.’

  That settled it. Medical matters were a proper subject for his enquiries but opening a locked desk to hunt for a will, however tempting the prospect, certainly wasn’t. However, fraud was certainly a motive for murder. As to the murderer ...

  He had disliked the languid, long-haired Terence Napier on sight, despite Mrs Paxton’s obvious affection for him. There really wasn’t any doubt in Dr Mountford’s mind that if Mrs Paxton had been murdered, Terence Napier was the guilty party. However, he reminded himself with strict fairness, no matter how affected Terence Napier’s manner was, he wasn’t a magician.

  The locked door wasn’t a problem; it would be easy enough to turn the lock from the outside and slip the key underneath the door but how on earth had he induced Mrs Paxton to drink a whole bottle of her sleeping-tonic?

  Had Napier been in the room? There were no signs of a struggle. Mrs Paxton’s sleeping-draught was, as he well knew, sulphonal. It was one of his favourite prescriptions, especially for elderly patients, as it had no effect on either the heart or lungs.

  Sulphonal was odourless and tasteless and dissolved readily in warm water or alcohol. A teaspoonful in a glass of warm brandy and water, drunk as a nightcap, was a prescription most patients were perfectly happy to take. Looking at Mrs Paxton’s peaceful pose, it looked as if that was exactly what she’d done. Maybe Napier had given her the tonic before she’d gone to bed.

  ‘Mrs Welbeck,’ he asked, ‘when did Mr Napier leave the house?’

  ‘After his quarrel with the mistress, sir, just like I told you.’

  ‘Yes, but when? The time, I mean?’

  Mrs Welbeck screwed up her face in memory. ‘Seven o’clock or so, I’d say.’

  ‘And what time did Mrs Paxton come up to bed?’

  ‘About half past ten.’

  Doctor Mountford clicked his tongue in irritation. Napier had left the house long before Mrs Paxton died. The action of any given drug on any given subject was very idiosyncratic, but if Mrs Paxton had taken a large dose of sulphonal before seven o’clock, she would have been incapable long before half ten.

  He walked across to the bedside table and picked up the brown medicine bottle thoughtfully. He simply couldn’t think how it had been done.

  At that point Dr Mountford’s belief Mrs Paxton had been murdered wavered. Then he looked once more at Mrs Paxton in her chair and his instincts revolted. He knew Mrs Paxton. Suicide was easier to explain than murder, but it was just as incredible.

  ‘Mrs Welbeck,’ he said. ‘Tell me exactly what happened last night when Mrs Paxton came to bed. Did you give her the sleeping-draught?’

  Mrs Welbeck swallowed convulsively. ‘Yes, sir.’ She looked nervously at the body. ‘I didn’t do anything I’ve not done a hundred times before. Mrs Paxton liked the same routine. Old ladies like to have things just so. I turned down the sheets and helped her into her night things. She didn’t get into bed straight away but sat in the fireside chair with that shawl round her. She said she was going to read for a while.’ Her lip quivered. ‘Last night, I stayed for a little longer than usual, thinking she might want to say something about her trip to Paris and Mr Napier going off so sudden, but she didn’t.’ She looked appealingly at the doctor. ‘She was never one for confidences, as you know, sir, unless it might be you, perhaps.’

  ‘I don’t know what she did in Paris,’ said the doctor. ‘I was hoping to learn more this morning. Tell me about the sleeping-draught.’

  Mrs Welbeck gulped. ‘I brought a small glass of brandy and a little jug of hot water upstairs and set it on the tray on the table by her chair. Then I measured out a spoonful from the medicine bottle and stirred it into the glass. She didn’t drink it all right away. That’s what usually happened. Often as not, she’d sip it while sitting in her chair.’ Mrs Welbeck’s mouth quivered once more. ‘You’d told her she might as well enjoy it, poor old thing, and that’s what she did.’

  Dr Mountford shook his head. There didn’t seem much to go on there. ‘Was there anything out of the ordinary last night? Was there anything unusual about the jug, the bottle or the glass, say?’

  To his intense satisfaction, Mrs Welbeck hesitated. There was something! ‘Go on,’ he encouraged. ‘What was it?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know as you’d call it unusual, particularly, but I did think the bottle was very light. I used the last spoonful.’

  ‘Very light?’ questioned Dr Mountford sharply. He looked at the bottle in his hand. ‘I gave you a new bottle when you came to the surgery last night. This is it.’

  ‘I know, sir,’ said Mrs Welbeck in distress. ‘I was halfway down the stairs when it struck me I had a new bottle, but I didn’t really think about it properly, if you follow me. I suppose, if I thought anything, I must’ve thought that I used the last of the old. I know I put one teaspoonful in her glass and that emptied it.’

  Dr Mountford absently weighed the bottle in his hand. He was badly puzzled. ‘You say the bottle was nearly empty before you gave Mrs Paxton her sleeping-draught?’

  ‘Nearly empty. Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘But what happened to the rest of the medicine? Could Mrs Paxton have spilt it, perhaps?’

  ‘She could have done, I suppose,’ began Mrs Welbeck hesitantly, ‘but ...’ She shook her head vigorously. ‘No, that’s not right. If she’d spilt it, she’d call for me or Florence to clean it up. Very particular, she was. She wouldn’t have done it. I doubt if she could bend to do it and she wouldn’t have the cloths or water to clean it up, nasty sticky stuff as it is.’ Her bewilderment increased. ‘But if it wasn’t spilt, sir, what did happen to it?’

  ‘That’s the question,’ muttered Doctor Mountford. ‘If the bottle was empty, Mrs Paxton couldn’t have added it to her brandy after you’d left the room. So if the sulphonal wasn’t in the bottle, where was it?’

  Mrs Welbeck looked at him blankly.

  ‘It must’ve been in the bottle, the jug or the glass,’ continued Dr Mountford. ‘It wasn’t in the bottle, so that leaves the glass or the jug. Unless she drank it from the bottle before you came into the room,’ he added.

  ‘Drank it from the bottle?’ cried Mrs Welbeck in astonishment. ‘No! She’d never do such a low, common thing. Drink from the bottle, indeed!’

  Dr Mountford glanced at Mrs Paxton. He might be mistaken about her committing suicide but he was certain Mrs Welbeck was right about her not drinking from the bottle. That really was incredible.

  ‘In that case it must have been in the jug or the glass.’

  ‘It most certainly was not,’ said Mrs Welbeck indignantly. ‘I filled that jug with water from the kettle and as for the glass, there was nothing in it but good brandy.’

  Dr Mountford chewed his moustache again. ‘Where’s the brandy kept? In the kitchen?’

  ‘Not the drinking brandy,’ said Mrs Welbeck, bristling. ‘The cooking brandy, yes, that’s there, as you’d expect, but the drinking brandy is most certainly not kept in the kitchen. How can you suggest such a thing, doctor?’ She dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her apron. ‘It’s bad enough with the mistress lying dead without you suggesting that I helped myself to her spirits. In the kitchen, indeed! It’s on the sideboard in the dining room, as you’d expect.’

  ‘There’s no need to upset yourself,’ said Dr Mountford pacifically. ‘I’m just thinking something through. Can you show me the brandy decanter?’

  Mrs Welbeck was only partially mollified. ‘I suppose so, though what you’re going to tell by loo
king at it, I don’t know. If you come with me, I’ll show you exactly where it is. Kept in the kitchen! I’ve never heard the like!’ She stalked out of the room, her shoulders set in a defensive line.

  On the dining-room sideboard was a soda siphon and five cut-glass decanters with silver labels. The whisky, sherry, port and Madeira decanters were half full, but the brandy decanter was nearly empty.

  ‘Was the decanter nearly empty last night?’ asked Dr Mountford.

  ‘Yes, it was, since you ask. I should have filled it this morning, but you can’t blame me for not thinking of it, I’ve been so upset.’ Mrs Welbeck reached out as if to pick it up, and was stopped by a quick exclamation from Dr Mountford.

  ‘Leave it!’

  She turned to him, startled. ‘I’m very glad you didn’t refill the decanter,’ he said. ‘Have you got a key to this room?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘In that case, I think we’d better lock the door and leave things as they are until the police get here.’

  Despite her evident bewilderment, he refused to say what was in his mind. Mrs Welbeck was notoriously close-lipped, but she was a woman after all. He didn’t want the slightest chance of his suspicions being bruited abroad until they could be proved.

  Terence Napier had left the house after a quarrel concerning fraud. It would be easy enough for Napier to have slipped upstairs, taken the sulphonal, put it in the brandy decanter then replace the bottle in her bedroom and leave the house without anyone being any the wiser. It would, thought the doctor, be a very easy way to commit a murder.

  The image of Constable Upton occurred to him once more and he quailed. This was way beyond Upton. Who did he know? He suddenly thought of the chief constable, Major-General Flint.

  Of course! Flint was a bit of a martinet and had rather too great an idea of his own self-importance to be a genuinely likeable soul, but at least he wouldn’t boggle at the idea of murder. Suddenly cheered, he turned to Mrs Welbeck with a reassuring smile.

  ‘Now don’t distress yourself, my good woman. Florence went to put the kettle on, didn’t she? It should’ve boiled by now. Why don’t you go and make yourself a nice cup of tea? I have to make a few telephone calls.’

  ‘There’s no telephone in the house, doctor,’ said Mrs Welbeck.

  ‘I know that. I’ll go back to the Surgery and telephone from there. I’ll see everything’s sorted out.’

  It was an hour and a half later. The chief constable, Major-General Flint, Inspector Sutton and Dr Mountford were in the morning room of The Larches. Mrs Welbeck, who had been dispatched to bring the key to the walnut cabinet, obviously wanted to linger in the room, but was curtly dismissed by General Flint.

  ‘There is a will in here, sir,’ said Inspector Sutton, opening the desk and rifling quickly through the neatly arranged pigeon-holed contents.

  ‘Is there, by George!’ said the general in satisfaction.

  ‘In fact,’ said Inspector Sutton, looking at the collection of stiff cardboard envelopes he had spread out on the lid of the desk, ‘there seem to be three.’

  ‘Three?’ barked General Flint in astonishment. ‘Let me see those.’

  Sutton stood out of the way as the chief constable picked up the envelopes. ‘Why on earth would she keep all her previous wills?’

  ‘A lot of people don’t like to destroy official documents, sir,’ said Sutton with a shrug.

  ‘I suppose so,’ said general Flint absently. ‘All three wills are written on printed will forms. Did she have anyone to look after her legal affairs?’ he asked, turning to Dr Mountford.

  ‘I really don’t know,’ replied the doctor. ‘She certainly didn’t use the local man. She was badly off in her younger days, so she may not have had a solicitor at all.’

  ‘I see,’ said the general, slipping the first will out of the envelope. ‘What have we got here?’ He adjusted a pair of spectacles on his nose. ‘Last Will and Testament of Constance Agnes Paxton. Eighth of March, 1913. It all seems fairly clear. She leaves everything to her son, Alexander Robert Paxton, with the exception of the sapphire necklace and sapphire drops, currently in the safe-keeping of the Provincial and Counties Bank, Leadenhall Street, London EC1. They go to Francis Leigh of Breagan Grange, Madlow Regis, Sussex. She names the bank as the executor.’ He looked over the top of his spectacles. ‘Francis Leigh? Bless my soul! I know Mr Leigh!’

  ‘She was related to the Leighs,’ put in Dr Mountford.

  ‘Well, well, well. Was she, by Jove! What’s this second will? Last Will and Testament of Constance Agnes Paxton, Second of January 1917.’

  He read it through, muttering to himself. ‘The bank’s the executor again, but there’s no mention of her son or Francis Leigh. I wonder why not?’

  ‘As I understand it, she didn’t get on with the Leighs,’ said the doctor. ‘And, of course, by 1917 she thought her son was dead. She believed he’d died on the Somme. It was only later she discovered he was still alive.’

  ‘It’s handy to be thought dead if you’re a deserter,’ said the general dryly. He turned his attention to the will once more. ‘Apart from a bequest to the Red Cross, she leaves her entire property to a Mrs Evangeline Farley of Eleven, Rawling Road, Kensington. In acknowledgement of my gratitude and an expression of fellow-feeling and sympathy for the grievous loss she has suffered in the war.’ He looked at the doctor enquiringly. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve any idea who this Mrs Farley is, have you?’

  Dr Mountford shook his head, reaching out his hand for the will. ‘I’ve never heard of her, but it sounds as if she might be a bereaved mother or a war widow,’ he ventured. ‘Mrs Paxton lived in a succession of boarding houses before she came into her money. She might be a friend from those days. It’s witnessed by the Pollucks,’ he added with a fleeting smile. ‘I remember the Pollucks. They had the bakers-and-confectioners’ shop on Shaw Street.’

  ‘Hello!’ said General Flint, taking the third will from its envelope. ‘Listen to this! Last Will and Testament of Constance Agnes Paxton, Twenty-third of June 1925.’

  ‘That’s only a couple of weeks ago!’ said the doctor, startled.

  General Flint read the will through and turned to Dr Mountford with a curious expression. ‘The bank’s the executor again, but would you like to guess at who is named as the chief beneficiary? In fact,’ he added, ‘the only beneficiary?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue. Mrs Paxton never consulted me about her will.’

  ‘Would it surprise you to learn she leaves everything to Terence Napier?’

  ‘It most certainly would!’ exclaimed Dr Mountford.

  He took the will from General Flint’s outstretched hand and read it through quickly. ‘That’s extraordinary. She was convinced her son was alive. I’m not surprised she drew up a new will, but surely she’d leave everything to him.’

  Inspector Sutton coughed. ‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised, sir, if that will turned out to be a forgery.’

  ‘It looks all right,’ began Dr Mountford doubtfully, then stopped. ‘Dash it, no it’s not! Look who’s witnessed it. Albert Polluck, baker, and Jessie Polluck, married woman, exactly the same as the previous will. Dammit, that’s impossible!’

  Inspector Sutton looked gratified at this support but as puzzled as Major-General Flint.

  ‘Would you care to explain yourself, Mountford?’ asked the general.

  ‘I most certainly would. Albert Polluck’s been dead these last three years and Jessie died last March! I should know. Both of them were my patients.’

  general Flint snatched back the two wills and examined them closely. ‘By George, I think you’re right,’ he muttered after a few moments’ intense study. ‘These signatures aren’t bad likenesses of the originals, but they’re too carefully done, if you know what I mean. I think they’ve been traced.’ He looked up triumphantly. ‘I’d say these signatures are definitely forgeries.’

  As the witnesses had been dead before they apparently signed the will, it didn’t
need much reflection to conclude they were false, thought Dr Mountford, but he let Major-General Flint have his moment of self-congratulation.

  The general put the will down on the desk and rubbed his hands together. ‘There we are. Motive, suspect and, if your suspicions about the brandy decanter prove to be correct, doctor, the method as well.’

  At the end of a very busy day, Major-General Flint put down the telephone in the tiny front room of Constable Upton’s house that was Topfordham’s police station.

  Constable Upton, evicted by his superiors – not only Inspector Sutton from Lewes but the chief constable himself – was in the kitchen, feeling disgruntled and, at the same time, relieved, that the only major crime ever to have occurred in the living memory of Topfordham had been so imperiously taken out of his hands.

  The chief constable turned to Dr Mountford with a satisfied expression. ‘That telephone call was the result of the analysis. You were right. There was sulphonal in the brandy decanter.’

  Dr Mountford couldn’t help but breath a sigh of relief. ‘So it was murder, then?’

  ‘No doubt about it,’ said the chief constable decisively. ‘Granted that Napier quarrelled with his aunt on their return from Paris, he had to act quickly. The only problem, as I see it, was that the bedroom door was locked and the key inside the room.’

  Sutton shook his head. ‘I reckon Napier waited outside the house, then sneaked back in, locked the door and pushed the key under the door.’

  ‘To come back in the house seems quite a risk.’

  Sutton shrugged. ‘Not really, sir, and it did make it look like suicide. If Napier had been seen, it would have been awkward but he could have explained it easily enough. He could have left something, say, and wanted to get it back without disturbing the house – that sort of thing. He was at a big advantage from knowing the household routine. The outdoor man sleeps over the old stables, the housemaid was off out and Mrs Welbeck was in the housekeeper’s room, listening to the radio. Who’s going to stop him? After all,’ he added, with a grudging acknowledgement of credit where it was due, ‘it was only because Dr Mountford felt so certain Mrs Paxton wasn’t the type to kill herself he went looking for another explanation.’