Miss Murchison extracted the envelope and freed it from the enclosure. Bunter, receiving it respectfully on a developing dish, cut it into small pieces which he dropped into the flask. The water bubbled brightly, but the little tubes still remained stainless from end to end.
“Does something begin to happen soon?” enquired Mr. Arbuthnot. “Because I feel this show’s a bit lackin’ in pep, what?”
“If you don’t sit still I shall take you out,” retorted Wimsey. “Carry on, Bunter. We’ll pass the envelope.”
Bunter accordingly opened the second envelope, and delicately dropped the white powder into the wide mouth of the flask. All five heads bent eagerly over the apparatus. And presently, definitely, magically, a thin silver stain began to form in the tube where the flame impinged upon it. Second by second it spread and darkened to a deep brownish black ring with a shining metallic centre.
“Oh, lovely, lovely,” said Parker, with professional delight.
“Your lamp’s smoking or something,” said Freddy.
“Is that arsenic?” breathed Miss Murchison, gently.
“I hope so,” said Wimsey, gently detaching the tube and holding it up to the light “It’s either arsenic or antimony.”
“Allow me, my lord. The addition of a small quantity of solute chlorinated lime should decide the question beyond reach of cavil.”
He performed this further test amid an anxious silence. The stain dissolved out and vanished under the bleaching solution.
“Then it is arsenic,” said Parker.
“Oh, yes,” said Wimsey, nonchalantly, “of course it is arsenic. Didn’t I tell you?” His voice wavered a little with suppressed triumph.
“Is that all?” inquired Freddy, disappointed.
“Isn’t it enough?” said Miss Murchison.
“Not quite,” said Parker, “but it’s a long way towards it. It proves that Urquhart has arsenic in his possession, and by making an official enquiry in France, we can probably find out whether this packet was already in his possession last June. I notice, by the way, that it is ordinary white arsenious acid, without any mixture of charcoal or indigo, which agrees with what was found at the postmortem. That’s satisfactory, but it would be even more satisfactory if we could provide an opportunity for Urquhart to have administered it. So far, all we have done is to demonstrate clearly that he couldn’t have given it to Boyes either before, during or after dinner, during the period required for the symptoms to develop. I agree that an impossibility so bolstered up by testimony is suspicious in itself, but, to convince a jury, I should prefer something better than a credo quia impossibile.”
“Riddle-me-right, and riddle-me-ree,” said Wimsey, imperturbably. “We’ve overlooked something, that’s all. Probably something quite obvious. Give me the statutory dressing gown and ounce of shag, and I will undertake to dispose of this little difficulty for you in a brace of shakes. In the meantime, you will no doubt take steps to secure, in an official and laborious manner, the evidence which our kind friends here have already so ably gathered in by unconventional methods, and will stand by to arrest the right man when the time comes?”
“I will,” said Parker, “gladly. Apart from all personal considerations, I’d far rather see that oily haired fellow in the dock than any woman, and if the Force has made a mistake, the sooner it’s put right the better for all concerned.”
Wimsey sat late that night in the black and primrose library, with the tall folios looking down at him. They represented the world’s accumulated hoard of mellow wisdom and poetical beauty, to say nothing of thousands of pounds in cash. But all these counsellors sat mute upon their shelves. Strewn on tables and chairs lay the bright scarlet volumes of the Notable British Trials—Palmer, Pritchard, Maybrick, Seddon, Armstrong, Madeleine Smith—the great practitioners in arsenic—huddled together with the chief authorities on Forensic Medicine and Toxicology.
The theatregoing crowds surged home in saloon and taxi, the lights shone over the empty width of Piccadilly, the heavy night lorries rumbled slow and seldom over the black tarmac, the long night waned and the reluctant winter dawn struggled wanly over the tiled roofs of London. Bunter, silent and anxious, sat in his kitchen, brewing coffee on the stove and reading the same page of the British Journal of Photography over and over again.
At half past eight the library bell rang.
“My lord?”
“My bath, Bunter.”
“Very good, my lord.”
“And some coffee.”
“Immediately, my lord.”
“And put back all the books except these.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“I know now how it was done.”
“Indeed, my lord? Permit me to offer my respectful congratulations.”
“I’ve still got to prove it.”
“A secondary consideration, my lord.”
Wimsey yawned. When Bunter returned a minute or two later with the coffee, he was asleep.
Bunter put the books quietly away, and looked with some curiosity at the chosen few left open on the table. They were: The Trial of Florence Maybrick; Dixon Mann’s Forensic Medicine and Toxicology; a book with a German title which Bunter could not read; and A. E. Housman’s A Shropshire Lad.
Bunter studied these for a few moments, and then slapped his thigh softly.
“Why, of course!” he said under his breath, “why, what a mutton headed set of chumps we’ve all been!” He touched his master lightly on the shoulder,
“Your coffee, my lord.”
XXI
“Then you won’t marry me?” said Lord Peter.
The prisoner shook her head.
“No. It wouldn’t be fair to you. And besides—”
“Well?”
“I’m frightened of it. One couldn’t get away. I’ll live with you, if you like, but I won’t marry you.”
Her tone was so unutterably dreary that Wimsey could feel no enthusiasm for this handsome offer.
“But that sort of thing doesn’t always work,” he expostulated. “Dash it all, you ought to know—forgive my alluding to it and all that—but it’s frightfully inconvenient, and one has just as many rows as if one was married.”
“I know that. But you could cut loose any time you wanted to.”
“But I shouldn’t want to.”
“Oh, yes, you would. You’ve got a family and traditions, you know. Caesar’s wife and that sort of thing.”
“Blast Caesar’s wife! And
