Mr. Marble was rarely quite drunk. He never tried to be. All he ever attempted was to reach the happy stage—after the grim preliminary period when his imagination had been stimulated—when he was unable to think connectedly, so that he could not work out the long trains of thought that led inevitably to the picturing of detection and the scaffold. He could reach this stage comfortably quite early in the morning before the effects of the previous day’s drinking had worn off, and then he was able to keep like it for the rest of the day by the simple mechanical process of drinking every time he found his thoughts taking an unpleasant line. The system was not the result of careful planning; it was merely the natural consequence of the situation, and for a long time it worked well enough. Comfortably hazy in his thoughts, comfortably seated in his armchair by the sitting-room window, with a new book on his knee to glance at occasionally—publishers’ announcements were almost all the post delivered nowadays, and Mr. Marble bought two books on crime a week on the average—Mr. Marble almost enjoyed his life. His wife meant little to him, save that she was a convenient person to send out, green string bag in hand, to the grocer’s to buy more whisky when his reserve dropped below the amount he had fixed upon—two untouched bottles. Mr. Marble ate little; his wife ate even less; there was little enough work to keep Mrs. Marble employed although she toiled inordinately hard in helpless fashion to keep the house in order. Mrs. Marble spent her days wandering round the house soft-footed, slipshod, touching and fumbling and replacing. Her mind was busy trying to work something out.
It was through the agency of Madame Collins that she found the first clue to what she sought. Madame Collins had called in that evening as was her frequent habit and Mr. Marble had been just a little more sober than usual. In consequence the evening meal had been spent in the sitting-room, and supper—a scratch meal, typical of Mrs. Marble—had been served there. When the time came for Madame Collins to take her departure, Mr. Marble, surprisingly enough, had risen slowly to his feet with the intention of seeing her home. Mrs. Marble raised no objection; that was not what she was worrying about—yet. There had been a brief delay while Mr. Marble was cramming his feet into his boots, soft feet, that for a week had known no greater restraint than that imposed by carpet slippers, and then they were gone. Mrs. Marble remained in the sitting-room. Once alone, her old restlessness reasserted itself. She began to wander round the room, touching, fumbling, replacing. She was seeking something, nothing in particular, just something. Really it was the solution of her problem that she was seeking.
Round the room went Mrs. Marble. She gazed for a space out of the window through which her husband stared so hard all day long, but it was quite dark outside and she could see nothing besides her own reflection. She picked up one or two of the ornaments on the mantelpiece, and put them back again. She ran her finger along the backs of the books that stood on the shelves. They did not interest her. Then she came to the book that lay on the arm of her husband’s chair, the book he had been reading in desultory fashion during the day. Mrs. Marble picked it up and ran the pages through her fingers. It was not an interesting book. She did not even know what the title—somebody or other’s Handbook of Medical Jurisprudence—meant. But at one point the book fell open of its own accord, and the open pages were well thumbed, proving that this portion had received more attention than the rest of the book. It was in the section on Poisons, and the paragraph was headed “Cyanides—Potassium Cyanide, Sodium Cyanide.” A tiny wrinkle appeared between Mrs. Marble’s brows as she read this. She cast her mind back to that morning many months ago now, the morning after Medland’s dramatic arrival. Yes, that was the name on the label of the bottle she had found displayed on Will’s shelves. Potassium Cyanide. She went on to read what the book had to say on the subject.
“Death is practically instantaneous. The patient utters a loud cry and falls heavily. There may be some foam at the lips, and after death the body often retains the appearance of life, the cheeks being red and the expression unaltered.”
The wrinkle
