“Tell you I told you so.” Reggie sank into a chair. “That’s all. Arsenic. Large dose. The customary arsenic trioxide. As from rat - killer, weed - killer, or what not.”
“That’s all very well,” Lomas frowned. “But I never had a case like this - a constable poisoned out on his beat.”
“No. Circumstances of case rare and bafflin’.”
“I suppose it might have been suicide?”
“Possible theory. Not an attractive theory. Not likely a man arrangin’ to poison himself should choose the hours he was walkin’ his regular night beat to do the job. However. Try every hypothesis. Any reason to suspect suicide?”
“No, there isn’t,” said Bell, with some vehemence. “Underwood was just saying Mills’s record is first class. Not brainy, but an honest ox of a man. They know him inside out at Langdon. He’d been there most of his time. Almost due for pension. Widower these ten years. No children. Lodged with an old woman who keeps house for her son, a jobbing gardener. The three of ‘em all had the same meal yesterday evening before Mills went out on night duty - meat pie and tea, and the old girl and her son are fit and well. Besides, they’re well known and respectable, and all they get by his death is losing their lodger. After he went out, I haven’t found anybody who saw him. When do you reckon he had the poison, Mr. Fortune?”
“No certainty. Probably before midnight. Probably not many hours before. I should say he had it after goin’ on duty. That’s the medical evidence. Apply the higher intelligence, Lomas. What are you going to do about it?”
“What the devil can we do?” Lomas snapped. “There’s nothing to work from. If he’d been knocked on the head, we could put it down to a burglar he’d come up against. But you don’t ask me to believe in criminals who go round carrying arsenic and persuade the innocent constable to eat it out of their hands.”
“I don’t know so much,” said Bell. “You’re making it sound ridiculous, sir. It needn’t be, though. Say there was a job planned and Mills had to be got out of the way, so one of the gang stood him a drink with a dose in it. That’s all right.”
“Haven’t heard of any job, have we?” Lomas shrugged. “And it’s a big job that’s worth a preliminary murder.”
“It might be coming,” said Bell stubbornly. “Suppose Mills had got on to something that would give it away?”
“Judging by his record, he never got on to anything. And if he did he’d have run to his sergeant. This is mare’s nesting, Bell. You can’t make the case rational however you take it. The most probable explanation is, the poor devil was sick of life. You get that when men are just due to retire.”
“Yes. It could be,” Reggie murmured. “But not probable. As aforesaid. Other possibilities worth considering. Private possibilities. The deceased was the old - style constable. Kind of constable who is popular with the female servant, what? At home in many hospitable kitchens. Not a grave offence. Bell, what?”
Bell shook his disciplined head. “I wouldn’t say. It all depends. He didn’t ought to have gone into a kitchen, if that’s what you mean. But, of course, constables do.”
“I don’t know whether he went indoors,” Reggie sighed. “I have my limitations. But I think somebody gave him a little homely meal. Say cake and cocoa. Includin’ arsenic trioxide.”
Bell and Underwood stared at him. “Ah. That’s getting us somewhere,” said Bell.
“Is it?” Lomas exclaimed. “Damme, what does it come to? A wicked cook poisoned the man - because he was carrying on with the cook next door, I suppose. And what then? Are we to make a house - to - house visitation of Mills’s beat to find out what cooks loved him?”
“No. Not necessary. No. We can narrow it down,” Reggie murmured. “Underwood - is the widow lady Mills lodges with a Londoner?”
“Yes, sir. Thoroughbred Cockney.”
“Good. That simplifies things. If you can find a house on Mills’s beat where they’re west - country people, I think we might get on.”
“The devil you do!” said Lomas. “What’s this theory, Reginald?”
“Not a theory. Rational inference. The late Constable Mills had been eating saffron cake. The last thing he did eat. The arsenic was in that. Saffron cake isn’t a common confection. But much cherished in the western counties. This had cream and currants in it. What they call revel cake, or revel buns, in Devonshire. Because it’s the stuff to give the company at a wake, funeral feast, or revel. Constable Mills had some revel cake for his own funeral. However. That may be an unintended irony. The inference stands - he was fed on poison from a house that knew something about west - country cooking.”
“My oath!” Bell muttered, and looked reverently at his Mr. Fortune. “That’s clever, sir.” He turned to Underwood. “Now it’s up to you, young fellow.”
“Yes, that’s given me a line all right,” Underwood chuckled.
“Has it!” said Lomas. “If you make anything of it, I shall be surprised. Damme, Fortune, what do you think it means? A cook set herself to poison this middle - aged widower of a policeman - why?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Reggie mumbled.
“It’s fantastic.” Lomas made contemptuous noises.
“Oh, yes. Yes. As it stands. It don’t stand on anything. Bit of the top of a crime visible, and a bit of the bottom, without anything in between. Fantastic, impossible structure. Like a crag supported on mist, with a lake poking out underneath. Crag is nevertheless real. And Constable Mills is dead by poison. So there is a poisoner somewhere about, Lomas. Whether the poisonin’ of Mills was intended or not.”
There was a moment of silence. “Good Gad!” said Lomas. “Confound your variations. Why can’t you talk straight? Mills got what was meant for someone else. That’s your real opinion, is it?”
“Oh no. No. Haven’t any opinion. Not enough facts. Death of Mills may not have been according to plan. It could be. I wonder.” He gazed at Lomas with dreamy eyes. “You’re so irrelevant. Evadin’ the true point. Which is that a bold poisoner is now operatin’ in Langdon. Poisoners seldom stop at one victim. Thus demonstratin’ the efficiency of the police force. Good night.”
