Bell opened it with cautious fingers. A smell of peppermint came out. Within was a paper bag of peppermint lozenges, two unclean handkerchiefs marked E. W., an empty envelope addressed to Mrs. Wiven, a bottle of soda - mint tablets, and some keys.
“Evidence that it is the bag of the missing Mrs. Wiven strong,” Reggie murmured. He peered into it. “But no money. Not a penny.” He looked up at Bell with that cold, ruthless curiosity which Bell always talks about in discussing the case. “Stealin’ is the recurrin’ motive. You notice that?”
“I do.” Bell stared at him. “You take it cool, Mr. Fortune. I’ve got to own it makes me feel queer.”
“No use feelin’ feelings,” Reggie drawled. “We have to go on. We want the truth, whatever it is.”
“Well, all right, I know,” Bell said gloomily. “They’re searching the common for her. That’s why I came out here. They knew her. She did sit about here in summer.” He went back to the head keeper and conferred again… .
Reggie purveyed himself a deck - chair, and therein sat extended and lit a pipe and closed his eyes… .
“Mr. Fortune!” Bell stood over him. His lips emitted a stream of smoke. No other part of him moved. “They’ve found her. I suppose you expected that.”
“Yes. Obvious possibility. Probable possibility.” It has been remarked that Mr. Fortune has a singular capacity for becoming erect from a supine position. A professor of animal morphology once delivered a lecture upon him - after a hospital dinner - as the highest type of the invertebrates. He stood up from the deck - chair in one undulating motion. “Well, well. Where is the new fact?” he moaned.
Bell took him into the wood. No grass grew in it. Where the sandy soil was not bare, dead leaves made a carpet. Under the crab - apple trees, between the thorn - brakes, were nooks obviously much used by pairs of lovers. By one of these, not far from the whale - back edge of rising ground which was the wood’s end, some men stood together.
On the grey sand there lay a woman’s body. She was small; she was dressed in a coat and skirt of dark grey cloth and a black and white blouse. The hat on her grey hair was pulled to one side, giving her a look of absurd frivolity in ghastly contrast to the distortion of her pallid face. Her lips were closely compressed and almost white. The dead eyes stared up at the trees with dilated pupils.
Reggie walked round the body, going delicately, rather like a dog in doubt how to deal with another dog.
Beside the body was a raffia bag which held some knitting, a vacuum flask, and an opened packet of sandwiches.
Reggie’s discursive eyes looked at them and looked again at the dead face, but not for long. He was more interested in the woman’s skirt. He bent over that, examined it from side to side, and turned away and went on prowling further and further away, and as he went he scraped at the dry sand here and there.
When he came back to the body, his lips were curved in a grim, mirthless smile. He looked at Bell. “Photographer,” he mumbled.
“Sent a man to phone, sir,” Bell grunted.
Reggie continued to look at him. “Have you? Why have you?”
“Just routine.” Bell was startled.
“Oh. Only that. Well, well.” Reggie knelt down by the body. His hands went to the woman’s mouth… . He took something from his pocket and forced the mouth open and looked in. … He closed the mouth again, and sat down on his heels and contemplated the dead woman with dreamy curiosity. … He opened her blouse. Upon the underclothes was a dark stain. He bent over that and smelt it; he drew the clothes from her chest.
“No wound, is there?” Bell muttered.
“Oh, no. No,” Reggie put back the clothes and stood up and went to the flask and the sandwiches. He pulled the bread of an unfinished sandwich apart, looked at it, and put it down. He took the flask and shook it. It was not full. He poured some of the contents into its cup.
“Tea, eh?” said Bell. “Strong tea.”
“Yes. It would be,” Reggie murmured. He tasted it and spat, and poured what was in the cup back into the flask and corked it again and gave it to Bell.
“There you are. Cause of death, poisoning by oxalic acid or binoxalate of potassium - probably the latter - commonly called salts of lemon. And we shall find some in that awful tea. We shall also find it in the body. Tongue and mouth, white, contracted, eroded. Time of death, probably round about twenty - four hours ago. No certainty.”
“My oath! It’s too near certainty for my liking,” Bell muttered.
“Is it? “Reggie’s eyelids drooped. “Wasn’t thinkin’ about what you’d like. Other interestin’ facts converge.”
“They do!” Bell glowered at him. “One of the commonest kinds of poisoning, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes. Salts of lemon very popular.”
“Anybody can get it.”
“As you say. Removes stains, cleans brass and what not. Also quickly fatal, with luck. Unfortunate chemical properties.”
“This boy Eddie could have got some easy.”
