'He didn't need to. While you automatically looked where his finger was pointin', his other hand did the trick. It dropped strychnine into white sugar in the sugar-bowl.
'Mrs. Propper, d'ye see, had put only a very little sugar on. Mrs. Fane likes the stuff sweet.
'He didn't even bother to be subtle about it. For he never even expected strychnine to be thought of, once he'd planted that rusty pin in the bedroom. The one thing that realty surprised him, later, was when we told him it wasn't tetanus but strychnine.
'An ass, Hubert, in a way. For it was suspected. And his victim didn't die.
'I'll pass over his state of mind that same Thursday night, when you saw him walkin' past the window and slapping his hands together like a wild man. He had to let himself go in some way. I'll pass over, to save embarrassment, the other thing he did that night. I mean the play he made at a certain gal, in the lane behind here: the thing he'd been burnin' to do for so long. The thing he wanted to do so much that it had got him involved in murder to begin with.'
Courtney, on the arm of Ann's chair, glanced down at her. Her hands were clasped together, and she regarded them without expression.
'That was Hubert, then?' she asked.
'It was, my wench,' said H.M., 'and I think you knew it. Courtney scared him away, or there might have been real trouble. Pleasant gentleman, Hubert. Dear old gentleman.'
H.M. sniffed.
'So we come to the last act.
'On Sunday afternoon Masters came round to me with his bunch of reports. I was dead certain our man was Hubert by that time, if we could only find a motive.
'Hubert, if you remember, begged us not to ask Mrs. Fane too many questions when we went over to question her. I promised we wouldn't. But—' he studied Vicky—'we did ask you questions. And you gave us the whole story of Arthur and Hubert and Polly Allen. The case was complete at last.
'But, oh, my eye, was it worryin'! For the first time since your illness you were, to all intents and purposes, alone in that house with a murderer. And the nurse, who'd slept in your room, had been dismissed that day.'
Vicky shivered.
And Courtney remembered H.M.'s expression as H.M. had come out to them as they sat under the fruit trees, after his interview with Vicky.
'Masters and I felt the blighter might have another go at you.' He craned round towards the others. 'We persuaded this gal to ask Ann Browning to come and stay the night with her. With somebody in the same room, we didn't think even Hubert would be loony enough to try anything.
'We also jumped for joy when a little informal search of Hubert's room revealed a cache of strychnine powder, an alcohol solution ready for it, and a hypodermic. For the strychnine we sort of substituted salts, and went our way.
'The case wasn't complete. We didn't dare let Hubert know we twigged him yet, in case he claimed the stuff had been planted on him. We warned Mrs. Fane not to let on she'd told us anything, in case he questioned her —'
'As he did,' muttered Vicky.
'But that very evening the case had the tin hat put on it when Agnew reported that Hubert could be identified by an iron-monger in Gloucester as the man who bought the knife. Meantime, Hubert had his last fling.
'Even in his vanity he had the sense to realize he
'Next he made noises downstairs to attract Ann Browning and draw her down. If she hadn't gone… well, I get a bit of gooseflesh to think what might have happened. Hubert nipped up the stairs, administered a hypodermic to a sleeping woman, and ducked down again after she'd returned.
'He was now nicely placed. He'd disconnected the bell and discouraged intrusion. You'll have guessed what he did. He went into the drawin' room here, turned off the light, and sat down. He took an extremely heavy stonework jar, whose surface wouldn't take fingerprints, held it at full arms' length over his own head, and let it go. That was where he made the last, silliest mistake of his life.'
Dr. Rich interrupted.
'Just a moment, Sir Henry! I don't quite understand this. All along you've been referring to him in the past tense. Now you say 'of his life.' Why?'
H.M. peered round. '
'Oh, son! Haven't they told you? Didn't you know?'
'Know what?'
'Hubert died from concussion of the brain early on Monday morning.'
Rich whistled. 'As bad as that?'
'It wouldn't have been for an ordinary person, no. But haven't you, as a medical man, seen his head? Those hollows at the temples? The bone formation? He's one of those blokes who have almost eggshell skulls. A blow which would only knock out you or me would kill him. But he didn't know it. And in all innocence, to prove the phantom outsider knocked him out, he held that lump of stone high over his head, and — killed him-self. Incidentally, for all of you, it's die best thing that could have happened.'
'You mean,' muttered Sharpless, and looked at the floor, 'scandal.'
'Yes. Scandal. I suppose you and madam still are goin' to get married?'
'Are we!' roared Sharpless, and took the hand of a beaming Vicky. 'Are we?'
'Well, son, if Hubert Fane had come to trial, the amount of scandal that'd have been poured out would have kept the newspapers (and your old man, and the War Office) interested for some time. Hubert would’ve seen to that. As it is—'
'As it is?'
'They've already given it out that Arthur Fane was murdered by his late uncle, who was believed to be a good deal of a loony. And that's not far out either. So don't be too precipitate, and you'll be all right.'
The corners of H.M.'s mouth turned down. He flung his cigar across into the fireplace. An expression of all the world in collusion against him weighed him down and pained him.
'That's the bleedin' trouble, all the tune,' he complained. 'Look at me. I'm supposed to be dictatin' a book, an important social and political document. But have I finished it? No! Am I likely to finish it?'
'Yes,' said Courtney.
'No!' said H.M. fiercely. 'And why? I'll tell you. Because all this week, a whole long week, the feller who's supposed to be taking it down has done nothin' but hang about and canoodle with that gal in the chair there. They haven't been apart, either in the figurative or the literal sense, for—'
Again Phil Courtney was utterly at peace with all the world. He reached down and put his arm around Ann, who pressed against him.
'That's a wicked lie!' protested Ann, coloring up.
'So?'
'Yes. But he's' free tomorrow evening, provided you let me come along and listen to the memoirs.'
'Well,' grinned Sharpless, 'the very best of luck, old boy. And you too? Ann.'
'And lots of it,' said Vicky.
'May I too,' said Dr. Rich, 'add my congratulations? I am feeling that this is rather a better world than I believed a fortnight ago, despite Hubert Fane and all his works. With the assistance of Sir Henry, I hope before many months—'
'Thanks,' said Courtney.
'Loads of thanks,' said Ann.
'Hoots!' said Dr. Nithsdale, sternly and implacably.
And so, had you been in the pleasant town of Cheltenham on the mellow September evening following, you might have seen three persons walking abreast in Fitzherbert Avenue, taking the air in the cool of dusk.
