VI
The Toxicologist
“The next port of call, Squire, will be Dr. Ardsley’s,” Sir Clinton informed his companion as they seated themselves in the car. “And you can put a bit of hurry into it, if you like.”
Wendover’s appearance had earned him the kindly nickname which the Chief Constable used. He was one of those red-faced, hearty country gentlemen who, on first acquaintance, give an entirely erroneous impression of themselves. Met casually, he might quite easily have appeared to be a slightly fussy person of very limited intellect and even more restricted interests; but behind that façade lived a fairly acute brain which took a certain sly delight in exaggerating the misleading mannerisms. Wendover was anything but a fool, though he liked to pose as one.
“All right,” he said, as the pace of the car increased. “It won’t take long to get there. But what do you know about Ardsley? Never mentioned him to you, so far as I can remember.”
“Well, don’t put off any longer. Tell me something about him now,” suggested Sir Clinton. “All I know is that he’s an expert in poisons or something of that sort.”
Wendover pricked up his ears.
“ ‘Poisons,’ sez you? You don’t think …”
But Sir Clinton was not to be drawn so easily.
“You’re quite right, Squire. I don’t think. I never caught the knack of it, somehow. Just tell me all about Ardsley, will you, and put it in a nutshell, for we haven’t much time.”
“Ardsley?” Wendover ruminated, “Ardsley’s one of these damned vivisectionists. Doesn’t even need to do it for a living, either; just cuts up dogs and cats for pleasure, I suppose, since he’s got a private income. He’s one of these cold-blooded beggars, all brains and no emotions, and that sort of thing. Swarms up mountains for amusement, they say—quite good at it, too. Member of Alpine Club, I believe. He’s a good fisherman; got an eye like a hawk and seems to have the devil’s own luck in clearing the streams round about here. He had a row with Roger Shandon over that, I remember.”
He pondered for a moment.
“That seems all about Ardsley.”
A fresh subject occurred to him.
“Not arresting anybody yet, Clinton? Seems funny to have two murders and no arrests. Aren’t you afraid of letting the fellow slip through your fingers?”
“Not very,” the Chief Constable reassured him. “I’m having Costock shadowed—I gave instructions to the constable about it. The rest of the Whistlefield people can’t budge either, for they’ll be wanted at the inquest to give evidence.”
“But the fellow might bolt in the meanwhile.”
“He may—assuming he’s one of the house crowd. But if he’s one of them, he’ll have to be fairly smart. I’ve got photographs of all the ones who were at the Maze—took them under pretence of needing someone to give the scale in the pictures. A photograph’s better than a description, you know.”
Wendover was silent for a few seconds.
“I suppose you’re going to Ardsley about the poison on the darts?”
“Partly that, partly to gather impressions, if you must know.”
“Oh, well, he ought to be able to spot the thing for you. They say he’s written a book on poisonology or whatever they call it.”
“Toxicology is the word you’re dredging for, I think.”
“Well, toxicology, then. That reminds me, do you think …”
“Never. Quite against my strictest principles. Tomorrow I shall spend a penny on the local paper. I shall read up what the crime expert in it has got to say. Then I shall know all about it. Why should I bother to think?”
Wendover thought that he had surprised the Chief Constable’s subject of speculation. In spite of the hints he had received, he persisted in his probing.
“Then you think that Ardsley may be …”
“There’s a law of libel, Squire; and you’re just twittering on the edge of it at present. I tell you bluntly that I have no definite ideas just now; and you’ll get nothing by all this hydraulic pump business that you’re trying. If I ever get to the bottom of this affair, I promise you I’ll spout like an artesian well of information. Till then, the borings will show no results.”
Wendover accepted the rebuff placidly. Sir Clinton was grateful, and showed it by his next words.
“The fact is, Squire, I’m keeping an open mind and I don’t want to be prejudiced. It’s as clear as print that you dislike this man Ardsley. Hence it wouldn’t pay me to listen to you unconsciously discrediting him beforehand. I tell you what. We’ll discuss the thing tonight when I’ve got my mind cleared up a bit; and then you can say what you like. But I don’t promise to give you much information, remember. I’m paid to keep my mouth shut so long as a quiet tongue is necessary; and I’ve got to earn my pay, you see.”
Wendover’s face cleared when this point of view was put before him.
“You can’t put it fairer than that, Clinton,” he admitted. “I hadn’t looked at it quite in that light, you know.”
He said no more at the time, and soon the car reached the entrance to the toxicologist’s grounds. At the house they learned that Dr. Ardsley was at home; and they were shown into a room. He did not keep them waiting long.
As he came forward to meet them, Sir Clinton saw a man of about fifty. Ardsley’s hair was silvered, and his face showed heavy lines; but his step was light and he was obviously in perfect condition. From below heavy eyebrows his grey eyes seemed to examine the world coldly; and the set of his mouth was sufficient to show more than a little toughness in the disposition which had moulded it.
Sir Clinton rapidly explained the cause of his visit; and producing the box of darts, he handed one of them to the toxicologist.
“I’m not sufficiently ignorant
