He paused and glanced at the General.
“I think that that is all I’ve got to say, except that I propose to carry on with further experiments to see if I can isolate this poison. But I confess that I’m not hopeful. If I was able to obtain some of the liquid neat I should be more confident, but I can only try my best.”
“Thank you very much, Sir John,” answered the soldier. “Now, Stockton, you see the position. It seems pretty clear, as I said before, that Gaunt has solved one difficulty, by perfecting the stuff: has he solved the other as to the means of distribution? A syringe such as Sir John suggests may be deadly against an individual in a room: used by an army in the field anything of that sort would be useless; just as after the first surprise in the war, flammenwerfer were useless. Until we know that second point, therefore, the less said about this matter the better. And so we come to what you are going to say. It will be distasteful to you, for Gaunt was your friend, but it is your plain and obvious duty. We are faced with the necessity of inventing a plausible explanation, and the Inspector has suggested the following as filling the bill.”
And then he put forward the theory to which I have already alluded. He admitted that he didn’t believe in it himself: he went so far as to say that he wished to Heaven he could.
“It will, of course, be unnecessary and undesirable for you to advance this theory yourself,” he concluded. “All that is required of you is that you should keep your mouth shut when it is advanced. Because the devil of it is, Stockton, that the signs of struggle on the Australian preclude any idea of accident and subsequent loss of head on the part of Gaunt.”
For a time I sat in silence whilst they all stared at me. To deliberately allow one’s pal to be branded as a murderer is not pleasant. But it was clear that there were bigger issues at stake than that, and at length I rose. What had to be, had to be.
“I quite understand, sir,” I said. “And I will get in touch with Sinclair at once, and see that he says nothing.”
“Good,” said the General, holding out his hand. “I knew I could rely on you.”
“Inquest tomorrow,” put in MacIver. “I’ll notify you as to time and place.”
And with that I left and went in search of Toby Sinclair. I found him in his rooms consuming breakfast, whilst, seated in an easy-chair with his feet on the mantelpiece, was a vast man whom I had never seen before. It was my first meeting with Drummond.
“Hullo! old man: take a pew,” cried Toby, waving half an impaled sausage at a chair. “That little fellow sitting opposite you is Drummond. I think I mentioned him to you last night.”
“Morning,” said Drummond, uncoiling himself and standing up. We shook hands, and I wished we hadn’t. “Hear you had some fun and games last night.”
“I’ve been telling him, Stockton, about our little effort,” said Sinclair, lighting a cigarette.
“Well, don’t tell anyone else,” I remarked. “I’ve just come from the War Office, and they’re somewhat on the buzz. In fact, they regard the matter devilish seriously. It’s bound to come out, of course, that a new and deadly form of poison was in action last night, but it’s got to rest at that.”
I ran briefly over what General Darton and Sir John had said, and they both listened without interruption. And though it did not strike me particularly at the time, one small fact made a subconscious impression on my mind which subsequent knowledge of Drummond was to confirm. As I say, they both listened without interruption, but Drummond listened without movement. From the moment I started speaking till I’d finished he sat motionless in his chair, with his eyes fixed on me, and I don’t believe he even blinked.
“What do you think of it, Hugh?” said Sinclair, after I’d finished.
“This beer ain’t fit to drink, Toby. That’s what I think.” He rose and strolled over to the window. “Absolutely not fit to drink.”
“Very interesting,” I remarked sarcastically. “The point is doubtless of paramount importance, but may I ask you to be good enough to promise me that what you’ve heard goes no farther. The matter is somewhat serious.”
“The matter of this foul ale is a deuced sight more serious,” he answered genially. “Toby, old lad, something will have to be done about it. In fact, something is going to be done about it now.”
He strolled out of the room, and I looked at Sinclair in blank amazement.
“What on earth is the man up to?” I said angrily. “Does he think this thing is a jest?”
Toby Sinclair was looking a bit surprised himself.
“You can never tell what old Hugh thinks,” he began apologetically, only to break off as a loud squealing noise was heard on the stairs. And the next moment Drummond entered holding a small and very frightened man by the ear.
“Foul beer, Toby,” he remarked. “Almost foul enough for this little lump of intelligence to be made to drink as a punishment.
