“Don’t be childish!” Harvey said sharply. “We couldn’t help hearing you. Or her. And I happen to know something about this case. More than you realise, perhaps. For instance, with regard to Mrs. Mortimer Shearsby and the Stocking murder, if you care to listen, Inspector, I think I can show you how she could have done it.”
CHAPTER XXIV
SOON after six o’clock on Thursday evening, the last day of August, a month which, in a wider sphere than that of a lawyer’s holiday, had not been uneventful, Mr. Tuke paid another visit to the Sheridan Club. Rather more than a fortnight had passed since his fellow member, Parmiter, had there introduced him to the Shearsby case. In the lounge Mr. Tuke noted the obituarist himself, seated with a group of other men. Parmiter looked up and waved. A few minutes later he left his companions and crossed the big room to where Harvey lay extended in a chair with a glass of Amontillado and a cigar.
“Well met,” Parmiter said. “I have been wondering when I should see you again.”
“Are you feeling like a game, if we can get a table?” The obituarist hesitated. For once billiards did not seem to appeal to him. He pulled a chair beside Harvey’s.
“Shall we try later?” he said. “The fact is, Tuke, I am devoured by curiosity.”
“Indeed? What can I do about it?”
“You remember what we talked about the last time we met here?”
“Certainly I do.”
“Did you ever do anything about the story I told you?” There was unusual animation in Parmiter’s rather melancholy face, but Mr. Tuke merely raised his black eyebrows with an air of innocent surprise.
“I? I recall remarking at the time that if there was anything behind your story, it was a case for the police.”
“Oh, why fence?” Parmiter exclaimed. Then he smiled. “Cautious devil, aren’t you? Anyway, if you have been on holiday—yes, I know that—I suppose you read the papers?”
“Only The Times and The Law Journal.”
“I’m referring to a report, which did appear in The Times, of an inquest opened and adjourned at Kensington the day before yesterday. It was on the body of a man named Joseph Eady. I am not interested in him professionally. He is unknown to my files, and therefore to fame. I shall not write his obituary. But,” said Parmiter, leaning forward, his eyes on Mr. Tuke’s inscrutable face, “what did interest me was the cause of death. Sodium nitrite. It struck a chord.”
“It would, of course,” Mr. Tuke agreed.
“Then,” Parmiter went on, “there was an announcement in the papers this morning that in connection with the inquiry a woman has been detained. No name was given. But at lunch in Fleet Street to-day I met a reporter I know who is covering the case for his paper. He said it was obvious at the inquest that the police were keeping a lot up their sleeves. The dead man’s wife gave evidence of identification, but when she tried to say more she was firmly dealt with by the coroner. The affair was over in ten minutes. But my journalist friend told me another thing. The woman who has been detained is a Mrs. Lilian Shearsby.”
Mr. Tuke drew on his cigar and looked politely interested. Parmiter, watching him from under his heavy lids, moved impatiently.
“Oh, come!” he said. “What is happening? I’m sure you know something, Tuke. Your indifference is too studied. And, after all, I drew your attention to the fatalities in this family. Three are dead, and now, in connection with a second case of poisoning by sodium nitrite, a woman bearing the same name has been detained. Do you wonder I’m interested?”
“Not at all,” said Mr. Tuke. “You have made up your mind, I see, that you were correct in linking the three fatalities.” Parmiter pulled at his straggling grey moustache.
“I have been rather taking it for granted,” he agreed. “What with their names and their ages, there were strong indications that they were cousins. And now this new development—the same uncommon name——”
“Have you made any inquiries on your own account since we met?”
“No, I have made no further inquiries,” Parihiter said. Mr. Tuke looked at him for a moment. Then he glanced round the lounge, which, as usual at this time in the evening, was almost empty. He turned to the obituarist again.
“Well, I’ll tell you a story in return for yours,” he said. “The sequel, in fact. For you were quite right, of course, in connecting those three deaths. But understand this, Parmiter—what I am going to tell you is only a story. An assumption, a piece of fiction. At the same time, you must treat it as strictly confidential. No passing it on to your Fleet Street friends. Not a word of it. They couldn’t use it, while the case is still sub judice, but I want this embargo clearly understood.”
“/ am not a reporter,” Parmiter said a trifle stiffly. “I am a specialist. But I give you my word I will not repeat anything you tell me.”
Mr. Tuke nodded as if satisfied. “I can begin,” he said, “by adding an item of news to the reports you mentioned. Mrs. Lilian Shearsby was charged to-day with the murder of her husband’s cousin Raymond.”
The obituarist relaxed his intent attitude. He closed his eyes and gave a little sigh.
“Indeed?” was all he said.
Mr. Tuke finished his sherry and recrossed his long legs. Parmiter had sunk back in his seat, and as the deep leather chairs were touching the two could keep their voices low.
“Well, now for my story,” Mr. Tuke said. He smiled to himself as he added: “It will be quite appropriate to begin with a phrase made popular, as I now remember, by the poet Southey. Once upon a time . . . ”
He was not looking at Parmiter: his eyes narrowed as he arranged his material in orderly sequence while he talked, he stared before him through recurring clouds of cigar smoke. In a few
