“That’s a good enough suggestion, Inspector. But I didn’t see any sign of a powder paper in her room when I searched it; and you remember she came straight downstairs and went out of the house, according to the maid’s evidence. Any other view?”
“Then it must have been administered in the coffee, sir, by either young Hassendean or the maid.”
“The maid? Where would she get hyoscine?”
“From Silverdale, sir. It’s just occurred to me. Silverdale wanted a divorce; but he couldn’t get evidence because his wife was simply playing with young Hassendean and keeping well within the limits. But if she were drugged, then young Hassendean might seize the chance that was offered to him, and if Silverdale was prepared beforehand, he’d have his evidence at the cost of watching them for an hour or two.”
“So Silverdale gave the maid the drug to put in one of the cups of coffee and ordered her to give that cup to Mrs. Silverdale, you think?”
“It’s possible, sir. I don’t put it higher. That maid was a simple creature—look how the doctor pumped her on the pretence of getting medical information that night. She was devoted to Silverdale; he told us that himself. She’d swallow any talk he chose to hand out to her. Suppose he faked up some yarn about Mrs. Silverdale needing a sedative but refusing to take it. The maid would believe that from Silverdale, and she’d put the hyoscine into the cup quite innocently. If the worst came to the worst, and the cups got mixed, then young Hassendean would get the dose instead.”
“It’s asking a bit too much, I’m afraid. Remember it was a heavy overdose that was given.”
“Everybody’s liable to make a mistake, sir.”
“True. And I suppose you’d say that after the murder at the bungalow Silverdale awoke to the fact that the maid’s evidence about the hyoscine would hang him, probably; so he went back and murdered her also.”
“It was someone well known to her who did her in, sir. That’s clear enough.”
“In the meantime, you’ve left aside the possibility that young Hassendean may have administered the stuff. How does that strike you?”
“It’s possible, sir,” the Inspector admitted cautiously. “But there’s no evidence for it.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t like to go so far as that,” Sir Clinton said, chaffingly. “I’ll tell you what evidence there is on the point. There’s Hassendean’s own diary, first of all. Then there’s what we found in young Hassendean’s laboratory notebook.”
“But that was just some stuff about weighing potash-bulbs, whatever they may be.”
“Quite correct. That was what it was.”
“Well, I’m no chemist, sir. It’s off my beat.”
“There’s no chemistry in it. I gave you the key to it at the time. Then there’s other evidence. Young Hassendean was a careless worker. Everyone agreed on that; and his notebook confirmed it. Next, there’s what Miss Hailsham said about hyoscine, which is more or less common knowledge, nowadays, of course. And there’s young Hassendean’s interference in the serving of coffee at Heatherfield, that night. Finally, there’s what the maid said about Mrs. Silverdale’s appearance when she was going out of the house. Put all these points together, and I’ll engage to satisfy a jury that young Hassendean administered the hyoscine to Mrs. Silverdale in her coffee, with a definite purpose—but not murder—in view.”
“I’ll need to think over all that, sir. You seem pretty sure about it.”
“I’m practically certain. Now look at the business from another standpoint. Who had a grudge against the two victims, either separately or together?”
“Silverdale, obviously.”
“Obviously, as you say. That’s if you take them together, of course. Now for a final problem. Who is Mr. Justice? He seems to be in the know, somehow. If we could lay hands on him, we might be near the centre of things. He knew before anyone else that something had happened at the bungalow. He knew about the hyoscine at the Institute—although as Silverdale’s a fairly well-recognised authority on alkaloids, that might have been just a shot aimed on chance. Anyhow, look at it as you choose, Mr. Justice has information, and he seems to have a motive. Who is he, can you guess?”
“Somebody who won’t come out into the open until he’s dragged there, evidently. It might be an unwilling accomplice, sir.”
“That’s possible. Anyone else?”
“It might be Spratton. He’s got an interest in establishing that it was a case of murder and not suicide.”
“Obviously true. Anyone else?”
“I can’t think of anyone else who would fit the case, sir. By the way, I’ve got the originals of these advertisements—the code ones. I sent down to the newspaper offices and got hold of them.”
He produced two sheets of paper from his pocketbook and handed them to the Chief Constable. Sir Clinton glanced over them.
“H’m! The first one—the letters—is built up as usual from telegram forms. The one with the numbers is fitted together from numbers printed in a newspaper; it might have been clipped from one of these lists of the results of drawings of bonds for redemption—Underground Electric Railways, and that kind of thing. These advertisements have columns and columns of figures out of which he’d be able to pick what he wanted easily enough. Now what about this address that he’s put down—the usual guarantee of good faith at the bottom. It’s fictitious, of course?”
“Yes, sir. There’s no such place.”
“It’s in writing. It looks like a girl’s writing. This is a dangerous game for Mr. Justice; but I suppose if he’d put all the advertisement in clipped-out letters the newspaper people might have got suspicious and refused to print it. What about this handwriting, Inspector?”
Flamborough’s expression showed that he felt he had done his work thoroughly.
“I managed to get hold of specimens of the writing of Miss Hailsham and Miss Deepcar. It isn’t either of them. Then I tried to get it recognised—and I succeeded, sir.
