COTTAGE SINISTER


I


IXJC
COTTAGE SINISTER i
BY
Q. PATRICK

ROLAND SWAIN COMPANY
PUBLISHERS 1931 PHILADELPHIA


Copyright, 1931, by
Roland Swain
Printed in the United States of America


CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. High Tea in Low Life i
II. The Doctors' Dilemma 14
III. Darkening Shadows 27
IV. Enter the Archdeacon 39
V. The Rinsed Cup 56
VI. Dinner at the Hall 77
VII. Village Sidelights 91
VIII. Mainly Mathematical 105
IX. Buss Triumphant 122
X. Vivien Explains 139
XI. Low Tea in High Life 15°
XII. Mildly Flirtatious 162
XIII. "And in Milady's Chamber" 176
XIV. The Fourth Victim 192
XV. The Stable Door 206
XVI. Merely Medicinal 219
XVII. The Perfect Case 231
XVIII. "A Lesson in Chemistry" 244
XIX. The Letter Tells 255
XX. Exeunt Omnes 267

V





High Tea in Low Life
In a pleasant Somersetshire valley, about half way be-
tween the Mendip and the Quantock Hills, lies the
village of Crosby-Stourton. Until the summer of
1930, when a series of terrible tragedies placed the name
of the village upon the front page of every newspaper
in England, it was a quiet, self-possessed little place. As
it lay somewhat off the main road that runs between
Bridgewater and Bristol, it had not yet been discovered
by the American tourist or the marauding automobile,
and its rustic charm was still unspoilt by the flamboyant
road-signs and advertisements which are assiduously de-
faming the English country-side in their attempt to inflict
unwanted goods on an unwanting public. An occasional
enthusiast would come down to rub the brasses in its fine
old Norman Church—an artist might sometimes have
been seen, sitting in the Butter Market, sketching Crosby
Cross, weather-beaten relic of some forgotten victory—
but dissipations even of this humble kind were rare. Pre-
occupied with its own affairs, the village went serenely
on—"the world forgetting, by the world forgot."
Crosby-Stourton lay quietly dreaming of the past while
a late June day in 1930 drew towards a close, suggesting
in no way the tragedies which were to follow and were
to make that peaceful spot into a Mecca for prurient sen-
sation seekers from all over the country. A fading sun-


2
COTTAGE SINISTER
light filtered through the rose-covered windows of the
prettiest cottage of the village, touching old Mrs. Lub-
bock's soft grey hair as she busied herself behind a large
teapot. High tea was in progress, and the quantity and
quality of the provisions did not belie the fact that a wel-
come was taking place, a mother's loving welcome to her
two older daughters—Isabel and Amy—who had just ar-
rived from London on one of their rare visits to their
home. Both of them held superior positions in town as
lady's maids.
"Why, mother," said Isabel, the older girl, as she
looked eagerly round at the good things before her, "if I
eat all that's on the table, I declare I'll be as stout as my
lady." Her eyes dropped to her spare, angular figure.
"You could do with a little more flesh, dearie," replied
her mother. "And I was thinking the same when I saw
you in town last month. Ah, dearie me, but town is a long
way away. If only your poor aunt were not so poorly,
and could come down to see me here! It's getting to be
too long a trip for my old bones. But it's God's will and
we mustn't complain. . . . Let's wait a few minutes for
the tea in case our Lucy comes in. She's been so anxious
to see you!"
The two sisters, town clad and travel-stained, turned
their chairs so as to look out of the window across the
meadows towards the park and the great hall.
Their cottage, which stood a little way back from the
road on the outskirts of the Crosby Estate, was known
as Lady's Bower, but is now more generally known as
Cottage Sinister—for obvious reasons! It was, in itself,
a miniature architectural gem, and cunning hands had


COTTAGE SINISTER
3
added to its charms by a setting of rambler roses, Vir-
ginia creeper, larkspur and nasturtiums. It has been the
cynosure—and perhaps the envy—of all discerning eyes,
and to be allowed to live in it was considered the crown-
ing favor that the Crosbys, the great family in Crosby-
Stourton, had it in their power to bestow.
Crosby Hall, across the park from Lady's Bower, was
a fine old pile, grey with moss and hoary with recollec-
tions. It remembered the times when warriors rode out
of its courtyard to fight as Crusaders in the Holy Land.
During the Wars of the Roses it saw many a skirmish
between the opposing forces, and a number of its vil-
lagers laid down their lives for the Lancastrian cause.
Even to-day the ancients of Crosby-Stourton will enter-
tain a casual stranger with the well-worn tale of Sir
Marmaduke Crosby, last and most faithful of the Cava-
liers, who barricaded himself in his own home and held
at bay for many days a large body of Roundheads. Ever
the centre of illustrious but lost causes, Crosby-Stourton
heard the drums of Monmouth as they summoned her
sturdy rustics to fruitless insurrection against the trained
soldiers of James II. But after the 17th century it passed
into oblivion, under the more prosaic rule of the House
of Hanover. True, Wordsworth walked over one day
from Nether-Stowey and wrote a rather poor sonnet in
praise of its "historic stones and slumbrous living dead,"
but he soon passed on and wrote better sonnets elsewhere.
Crosby-Stourton was now enjoying an era of compara-
tive peace and prosperity. Sir Howard Crosby, eleventh
baronet, was a good landlord if somewhat severe and
unbending. While there was nothing of the dashing Sir


4
COTTAGE SINISTER
Marmaduke about him, he gave his tenants few grounds
for complaint and less for gossip. As for the present
Lady Crosby, she was so plain in face and manners that
she was often pitied more than those objects of charity
on whom she lavished her great wealth and still greater
generosity. Their only son, Christopher, the young squire
and future baronet, was indeed remarkable in that he
spent a great deal of time and effort in studying medicine
in London, and that, in the words of the villagers, "he
do talk to us poor folk as though he were nobbut a plain
village lad and not one of the gentry at all." Neverthe-
less, though the Hall was still the hereditary topic of
conversation, the doings of the "quality" were not much
more interesting to the natives than those of old Mrs.
Lubbock and her pretty daughter Lucy, who were at least
distinguished by living in the most charming cottage in
the village.
Yet these distinctions had not brought Mrs. Lubbock
the affection and respect from her fellow villagers which
might have been hoped for in her declining years. No
one indeed could deny that she had earned her right to
spend the evening of her life in peace and tranquillity,
least of all Lady Crosby herself, in the service of whose
family she had been faithful and diligent for over twenty
years. No modern servant would have borne so patiently
the whims and tantrums of Lady Crosby's old invalid
mother. No trained nurse could have done so much to
make comfortable the last few years of that embittered
and autocratic old lady whose tyrannical nature must
often have tried the serenest of tempers.
But Mrs. Lubbock had been faithful to the last, and


COTTAGE SINISTER
S
now two years had passed since death had released her
charge from a miserable existence. Perhaps it had been
lucky for Mrs. Lubbock that the old lady's large fortune
had been inherited, not by her dissolute son, George Bur-
well, but by her only daughter, Cynthia, who, as Lady
Crosby of Crosby Hall, showed a lively sense of gratitude
by allowing the old servant to retire in comfort and ease
to the restful shelter of Lady's Bower.
And not only this, but Lady Crosby took from the
very first a special interest in Mrs. Lubbock's youngest
daughter, Lucy. Her quick, sympathetic eye had seen
Lucy's unusual possibilities when the girl was still a small
child, and she insisted upon giving her the best of educa-
tions, and finally equipping her for the profession of
nursing, her chosen field. To the rest of the village, how-
ever, these attentions smacked of favoritism, and there
was much tossing of heads, and self-righteous comment
on how "some people do give themselves airs." The result
was that, though Mrs. Lubbock was happy in Lucy's suc-
cess and devotion to herself, she was often lonely and
sadly in need of a neighbor to pass the time of day or
drop in for a cup of tea.
Sir Howard Crosby, too, while allowing Mrs. Lub-
bock's right to a generous pension, could not quite
reconcile himself to the idea of squandering such perfec-
tion as Lady's Bower on a "mere servant." In times gone
by, when blood ran hot in the Crosby veins, Lady's Bower
had been all that its name implied—an amorous trysting
place where the Lord of the Manor could forget his cares
and domestic worries in the arms of some fond lady, or a
cheerful asylum where he could fight his battles over


6
COTTAGE SINISTER
again among a convivial gathering of his friends. Not
that the present Sir Howard had any desire to re-estab-
lish Lady's Bower in its old capacity. For all his cavalier
tradition, Sir Howard might have been the last of the
Roundheads. No, it was another and less romantic con- ,
sideration that moved him. He could have rented it many
times over on enormously profitable terms, and even now
was negotiating with a rich American artist who had
an expensive taste in rural seclusion. Thus, though Mrs.
Lubbock had a strong ally in Lady Crosby, she never-
theless was always aware of the spectre of dispossession
hanging over her head like another sword of Damocles.
On this particular afternoon in June, as the minutes
passed and Lucy did not come in, Mrs. Lubbock pulled
up her chair to the table again, and took up the tea-pot.
"I think I'll pour the tea now and not wait for our
Lucy," she said. "She's very late. I'll keep the kettle on
the boil and make some fresh for her when she comes."
An eternally boiling kettle against an emergency cup of
tea was Mrs. Lubbock's Eleventh Commandment.
"Not much good waiting for her," sniffed Isabel, "she's
probably out a-gallivanting with young Crosby, if what
I hear in the village is true."
"Yes, ma," interrupted Amy, who had once been the
village belle and still fostered romantic ideas, "we met
Cockett as we came up from the station, and he told us
that young Dr. Crosby is fair took up with our Lucy.
What with her being a nurse at the Cottage Hospital,
and his being an internal—or whatever it is they call
someone who is nearly a doctor—they must be seeing
quite a deal of each other!"


COTTAGE SINISTER
7
"You would be pleased, Amy. You're that short-
sighted!" snapped Isabel, whose own romantic leanings
had had less scope than Amy's. She was not so attractive
as her two younger sisters, and it made her impatient to
hear of their amorous conquests. "I'd like to know what
Lady Crosby thinks of it," she went on. "For all she's
- so sweet to us I'll warrant she wouldn't stand for no
sweethearting in that quarter, and it's out of Lady's
Bower you'd go, ma, yes, and Lucy too."
"Hush, dear," said her mother, who still cherished a
happy faith in the infallibility of the aristocracy, "you
shouldn't even think of such things, and I don't take it at
all kindly in you that you speak like that about Lady
Crosby after all she's done for you girls—getting you
your posts up in London, and educating Lucy to be a
nurse and all! Such a generous creature as she is too!
Why, just before she went away she sent over her usual
half yearly gift—a whole ham, some eggs and tea and
sugar and even something extra this time—two big bot-
tles of her own special sloe gin." Isabel snorted and
buried her sharp nose in a teacup.
"And as for turning us out," continued Mrs. Lubbock
calmly, as she dropped a lump of sugar in Amy's second
cup of tea, "who do you think dropped in to-day? Why,
Sir Howard himself, and that handsome Miss Darcy—
her as they say the young squire be goin' to marry. He
was most civil-like—had a nip of his wife's sloe gin he
did—and Miss Darcy too! 'Mrs. Lubbock,' he says, 'my
lady has interceded for you, and I'm going to let you
stay on here—for the time being, at least—though if you


8
COTTAGE SINISTER
knew how much money I'm losing by it you'd say I was
crazy!'"
"That would make two crazy people that have lived at
the Hall," retorted Isabel sharply; "what with that old
looney mother of Lady Crosby's with her rantings and
ragings"
"Bella, dear," said Mrs. Lubbock, whose professional
feelings were now seriously shocked, "you mustn't speak
ill of the dead that way—not even of poor old Mrs. Bur-
well, God rest her soul. She may have been a thorn in
the flesh to me, but the Lord has given us our stations in
life to do our duty in them as best we may."
Before Isabel had time to criticise her mother's simple
philosophy, the door of the cottage opened, and Lucy—
Mrs. Lubbock's youngest daughter—came in. There was
a noticeable change in atmosphere as the two older girls
took stock of their sister's loveliness, for Lucy's beauty
was rather breath-taking to those who were not accus-
tomed to seeing it daily. The nurse's simple costume set
off to perfection the straight, classic lines of her figure,
while the starched linen cap made an exquisite frame for
her dark, lustrous hair. Her complexion was of the straw-
berries and cream variety—a perfect blend of pink and
white which "Nature's own skilled and cunning hand
laid on." Her eyes were grey and candid, yet with enough
hidden sparks lurking in their depths to denote character,
ambition and firmness of purpose. Lucy seemed to com-
bine the gentleness of her mother and Amy with the
courage and outspokenness of Isabel.
Removing her cloak, she kissed her sisters, welcoming
them affectionately, and then insisted that they all join


COTTAGE SINISTER
9
her in a cup of fresh tea that Mrs. Lubbock had prepared.
For a while the three sisters looked at each other a little
awkwardly, each awaiting the cue to speak. The two older
girls found themselves in some awe of this younger
sister who had been, when they last saw her, still a grow-
ing girl, and since that time had come into such a heritage
of poise and beauty.
"My, Lucy!" said Amy admiringly, "you are looking
well. And quite the nurse!"
"H'm, yes," added Isabel with a touch of acidity, "and
I can actually smell the hospital on your clothes."
"There was rather an important operation this after-
noon, Isabel, and I was on duty. That's why I am so late.
I've got to go back again in a very few minutes, but I
wanted to come over and welcome you home. Dr. Crosby
is coming to fetch me in his car quite soon—it's an urgent
case and I shall probably be at the Cottage Hospital until
quite late."
Dr. Crosby is coming to fetch you, Lucy," said Amy,
who already visualized herself as the sister of the beau-
tiful Lady Crosby, "since when did the young squire act
so attentive?"
"Since poor old Joe Birch's life depended on his having
someone to nurse him properly," said Lucy coolly, as she
helped herself to a slice of generously buttered toast and
passed the milk jug to Amy. "It's almost six now and
he will be here at any minute. But there's nothing to get
excited about, Amy. Dr. Crosby is studying medicine
up at Guy's hospital in London, and being home for a
few weeks he has naturally dropped in to the Cottage


10
COTTAGE SINISTER
Hospital quite often to help Dr. Hoskins, who thinks the
world of him."
"Well, don't say as we didn't warn you, Lucy," said
Isabel, "I've been in service with the gentry long enough
to know that no good ever came of that sort of thing."
Isabel liked to drop occasional dark hints which might
lead the hearer to suppose that she had ample oppor-
tunity to become the plaything of some rich nobleman!
"And my advice is that you don't let them know up at
the Hall or"
But the sentence was never finished, for at that moment
there was a knock at the cottage door, and a tall, red-
headed young man with merry eyes stood on the threshold,
smiling apologetically.
"How do you do, Mrs. Lubbock," he said, holding out
his hand, "I'm sorry to break up a family gathering like
this, but, before I carry Lucy away perhaps you will be
kind enough to let me join you in a cup of that tea I see
brewing. No milk or sugar thanks—I take my drinks
neat."
Mrs. Lubbock could hardly restrain herself from drop-
ping a curtsy, as she said, "Why, yes, indeed, Mr. Chris-
topher—er—Dr. Crosby, I mean—make yourself at
home."
"You know my two sisters, I believe, Dr. Crosby," said
Lucy calmly, as she poured out a cup of tea for the visitor.
Christopher Crosby shook hands with the two older
women and welcomed them home. Then he started to chat
with them all in the most natural manner about the doings
of the village, Joe Birch's chance of recovery and other
local matters. By the time he and Lucy left in the Morris


COTTAGE SINISTER
II
Cowley even Isabel felt obliged to remark that "at least
he wasn't as stuck up as some of the nobs, though there
was no reason why he should be seeing as how the Lub-
bocks were probably living on their own lands when the
Burwells were just tinkering around the country."
After a while a few of the villagers dropped in to
greet the two older Lubbock girls—Mrs. Greene from the
Post Office, Miss Sophy Coke, who kept the tiny village
store, and finally William Cockett, Amy's oldest and most
ardent admirer. It was many months since a casual visi-
tor had crossed Mrs. Lubbock's threshold, and she beamed
expansively in a genial atmosphere of tea and gossip.
The sloe gin and the tea-pot circulated freely as they
talked of the local doings—Lady Crosby's absence, the
illness of old Joe Birch who had been gardener at the Hall
for many years, and the thrill of having "the young
squire" at home again. There was a word of guarded
praise for Dr. Hoskins who had recently taken over old
Dr. Crampton's practice ("he do seem quite reasonable
in spite of his newness and withal a quiet sort of man in
need of a wife"), and a detailed account of the probable
rashness and unsuitability of all the recent marriages and
betrothals in the village. The two girls sat back and
listened, or put questions—Amy with obvious interest and
good humor, Isabel with just that touch of condescension
which implied habitual intercourse with the great.
Finally Cockett manoeuvred Amy into a corner and
suggested a twilight stroll.
"No, Will," she answered firmly, trying to smother an
all-too-obvious yawn, "I'm pretty tired after my journey,


12
COTTAGE SINISTER
and bed is the place for me. Mother, can I have a candle,
please?"
Amy followed her mother into the back kitchen where
she lighted a candle.
"Mother, dear," she said suddenly, "I followed you
out here because I wanted to get away from Will, and
also because I wanted to speak to you alone for a minute.
I'm worried—it's about Isabel—she's been acting strange
lately, and I think she's got something on her mind. Have
you noticed it? I've seen her several times in town, on
her afternoons off, and she's seemed kind of queer, and
whenever I've spoken of doings at home, and you and
Lucy and the Hall she's laughed that queer laugh that
she didn't used to have—as if she thought we were all
fools—kind of harsh and frightening."
Mrs. Lubbock looked intently at her daughter, but was
silent. "She doesn't love me like she used to," Amy went
on, "or I'd speak to her about it, but I thought that
"Let's talk about it to-morrow, dearie," said Mrs. Lub-
bock with a sigh, "it's no good worrying about things we
don't rightly understand, and you are tired now and need
sleep." They kissed each other affectionately.
Amy took up her candle, but just as she had reached
the door her mother called her back, a note of super-
stitious alarm in her voice.
"Why, Amy Lubbock, give me your candle a moment;
see, the wind has blown the candle grease into the shape
of a shroud! They do say as how it is a sign of ill for-
tune—or death!" With trembling fingers she removed the


COTTAGE SINISTER
13
piece of wax, which had assumed such a weird and
sinister shape.
"Nonsense, ma, it's a sign of marriage—perhaps it's
our Lucy and the young squire!" Amy laughed, and hav-
ing bid the company good-night, she went up the narrow,
winding stairway to her lavender-scented room.
When Lucy returned from the hospital some hours
later, she found Lady's Bower wrapt in darkness. The
night air was heavy with the odor of jasmine and Klies.
As Christopher walked up the garden path with her,
he started to hum softly:
"I passed by your window,
In the cool of the night,
The lilies were watching,
So still and so white. ..."
"Heavens! but those lilies smell lovely," he said sud-
denly, as they paused for a moment in the trellised porch.
Lucy gave an involuntary shiver. She had just left the
deathbed of poor old Joe Birch and her nerves were on
edge.
"Somehow or other I can't stand the smell. It reminds
me of graves and funerals and—Oh, I don't know, but
I expect I'm over-strung just now!"
Then, with a hurried good-night she passed into the
sleeping cottage which gave no hint that one of its tran-
quil inmates lay already, even as old Joe Birch, under the
shadow of death.


II 1
The Doctors' D1lemma
"t7-edgeree again!" said Sir Howard testily, as he
1^ dropped the lid of the silver chafing dish with an
m. angry snap, "what have I done to deserve to be <
plagued with these modern breakfasts, a modern wife
who is always up in London and a son with dam fool
ideas on democracy!"
Christopher gurgled flippantly from the breakfast table
—endangering a large spoonful of porridge and cream.
He had been eating breakfasts with his father on and
off for over twenty-five years and was not unaccustomed
to these storms in a coffee cup. He had also learnt that
his best defense lay in counter-attack.
"Why not try and modernize yourself a bit, Father?"
he asked innocently, as soon as his choking had subsided.
"I could outline a suitable course of treatment for you.
Start off by learning to love kedgeree—it's excellent!
Full of phosphorus, carbohydrates and vitamins."
"And what in the devil's name may vitamins be?" re-
plied Sir Howard, who had never quite forgiven his son
for deserting the land in favor of medicine. "I suppose
they are the things that give you your crazy ideas, my
boy? That make you work at the hospital all day when
you are supposed to be on a holiday, and ride around all
night with a pretty village wench?"
"So that was you I passed last night as I left the hos-
H


COTTAGE SINISTER
pital, Father! Well, I'm sorry that medical science and
skill, as embodied in Hoskins, Miss Lubbock and myself
couldn't do more for poor old Joe Birch. Heaven knows
we all worked hard enough until after ten o'clock, but
then he was almost eighty years old and acute peritonitis
is no child's play."
At the mention of the name "Miss Lubbock" Sir
Howard made the unintelligible noise which can only be
represented by the letters "Pshaw!" He then rose from
the table in disgust and rang the bell to order some eggs
and bacon.
The owner of Crosby Hall was a man who had man-
aged to bend to his will almost everyone with whom he
had come in contact, with the notable exceptions of his
wife's late mother and his own son and heir. He had
juggled shamelessly with his wife and her belongings,
having used her marriage settlement in making improve-
ments and paying off all outstanding mortgages on his
estate. When, subsequently, she inherited the vast fortune
left by her mother, he allowed himself the supreme luxury
of cheerfully accepting all that was offered to him and
also of snubbing her whenever he felt so inclined. He had
long ago discovered, however, that his son was far more
independent and irrepressible than poor Lady Crosby,
and, while he respected Christopher for it, he none the
less did his best to snub him too whenever his inde-
pendence ran counter to his own way of thinking. Chris-
topher's deferential mention of Lucy Lubbock brought
up a case in point.
"Well, I know that its hopelessly old-fashioned for a
father to advise his son, Christopher," he said with a


16
COTTAGE SINISTER
heavy attempt at withering sarcasm, "but I do think that
it's tactless—yes tactless—for a young man in your posi-
tion to go around so ostentatiously with the daughter of
a servant."
"In my position," replied his son, as he took a large
helping of kedgeree with unruffled serenity, "and what
exactly is my position, sir? A young and indifferent medi-
cal student with his way to make and not even one major
operation to his credit. In what respect am I superior to
a fully trained and remarkably efficient young nurse? *
And then, Father, it's Fate—Destiny—Kismet—that bud-
ding young doctors sooner or later make deplorable
matches with ambitious young nurses. I see it daily at
Guy's Hospital. It's epidemic, sir—positively pandemic,
in fact—I can't escape, so why not accept my doom
philosophically, right here on my own native heath, as it
were."
The squire gave vent to divers and sundry rumblings
from his epigastric regions.
"Deplorable matches, indeed! Arrant folly, I call it.
Look here, my boy, your mother will worry herself into
a fine state about this. She gets worried enough anyway
over nothing at all, and now you calmly spoil my break-
fast by telling me—or trying to tell me in that dam-
fool facetious manner of yours—that you are infatuated
with this village girl whom your mother befriended and
educated above her station. A girl who comes from no-
where, with no background, no social distinction, no
money, no caste—and I suppose you intend to make her
mistress of Crosby Hall!"
"No, Father, if I did marry her—and its extremely


COTTAGE SINISTER
17
unlikely that she'd ever have me—she'd probably be mis-
tress of a small local practice in Kensal Green, or, if we
rose in the world, South Kensington!"
The squire pushed away his empty plate with a fine
show of disgust. As a matter of fact he never allowed
anything to spoil his breakfast—at least not till after it
was finished!
"And what the devil is the matter with your eyes,
Christopher, when there is a girl like Vivien Darcy
around. She's charming, modern enough to suit even you,
good looking, of excellent stock, and . . ."
"And unfortunately has such a devoted admirer in the
person of my handsome father that there is just no room
for his plain, red-headed son. No, sir, she's too charming,
too handsome and far too modern even to be afraid of
you. In fact, if I am not mistaken, she actually has the
impertinence to be standing outside the window at the
present moment and allowing her horse to chew up your
prize salpiglossis. An early call, sir, far too early for the
convenances. Tut, tut, Sir Howard!"
The squire jumped up from the breakfast table with-
out a smile. His sense of humor did not extend beyond
his own rather ponderous jokes. A remarkably handsome
girl, dressed in riding breeches, stood in the courtyard
outside the breakfast room. Sir Howard opened the
French windows and advanced to greet her with alacrity.
"Morning, Sir Howard," she said, throwing off her
hat and disclosing short auburn hair with a natural curl,
"whew, I'm hot! A cigarette as you value your Vivien!
And where's the beloved physician? I've ridden like the
devil to tell him he's needed in the village. I was just


i8
COTTAGE SINISTER
exercising Trixie—no, damn it man, she loathes sugar
and it breaks her wind—and as I passed Lady's Bower I
saw Jo Hoskins' car. He bawled out to me to ask Chris
to step over at a gallop. That's all. Don't know if it was
birth, battle, murder or sudden death, but—j'y suis, et j'y
reste"
Christopher had followed his father into the court in
time to hear the last part of Vivien Darcy's excited little
monologue. At the mention of Lady's Bower he threw
away the Gold Flake he had just lighted and approached
closer to the girl.
"Lady's Bower?" he asked, and his face turned notice-
ably pale in striking contrast to his red hair, "did you
say that Dr. Hoskins was at Lady's Bower, Vivien?"
"Yes, Chris, but there's nothing wrong with your little
weakness. I saw her running around in her full nursing
regalia, looking very trim and important. None the less,
Dr. Crosby, Duty calls, and you must—here, you ass,
don't walk. Take Trixie, she's quiet and biddable. I'll stay
and amuse your father!"
Without waiting for another word, Christopher took a
flying leap into Trixie's saddle and pointed her towards
the five-barred gate at the end of the drive. Like a bird
the mare flew over the top bar and continued towards
Lady's Bower at a steady gallop.
Sir Howard turned towards the girl and said with a
note of genuine regret in his voice, "Gad but that boy
can ride! Why the devil he can't content himself with
country life is beyond me."
"Beats me too," said Vivien Darcy and they both went


COTTAGE SINISTER
19
into the deserted breakfast room to talk horse flesh over
some fresh coffee.
It took Christopher a very few minutes to consume the
mile and a half of rolling meadows that separated the
Hall from Lady's Bower. He tied Trixie to the gate post
and rushed into the cottage, where a rapid glance showed
him that Lucy was not in the room.
He saw only Mrs. Lubbock, pale and trembling with a
cup of tea in her hand for Isabel, who sat by the window
staring vacantly into the garden. The old lady put down
the tea with a little quavering moan of relief as the young
man entered. Even in this, her dark hour, her blind faith
in the omnipotence of the aristocracy did not desert her.
"Oh, Mr. Christopher, Mr. Christopher," she whim-
pered, "surely you can do something for us! It's our Amy,
Mr. Christopher—I knew there was a curse hanging over
her when I saw the shroud on her candle last night, and
then—and then—I couldn't wake her up this morning."
She broke into a fit of uncontrollable sobbing.
"Amy is dead, Dr. Crosby," said Isabel tersely, and
the doctor is upstairs with Lucy. If you want to go up,
I can take you." Christopher stared at her, all the usual
gay light gone out of his face. He turned to Mrs. Lub-
bock to stammer out a word of comfort but she had sunk
heedless into a chair with her face in her hands, and he
turned again to Isabel. "If you please," he said.
With unfaltering steps Isabel led the way to a small
room in which the sweet fragrance of old lavender was
now tainted with more recent medical odors. Dr. Hoskins
was bending over the figure on the bed. Lucy stood by his
side, in her hospital uniform.


20
COTTAGE SINISTER
"Morning, Crosby," said Dr. Hoskins, in a voice in
which polite regret and scientific interest were felicitously
blended, "I'm glad you came—all right, nurse, you can
leave us now, if you please." Lucy rose, softly, but as she
reached the door Christopher put his hand gently on her
arm. "I'm sorry," he murmured, looking earnestly into
her beautiful grey eyes. She thanked him with a sad
smile and passed out of the room.
"The poor young woman is dead, Crosby—there's no
doubt about that." Dr. Hoskins shook his head sagely
and tried to look as old and careworn as his thirty-five
years would allow him. "It beats me entirely. Here, you
take a look. You are fresher from medical school than I
am, and probably more used to this kind of thing."
Christopher bent over the body and examined it closely.
Amy Lubbock looked almost beautiful as she lay there—
a young woman in the prime of life, calm and gentle-
looking. Christopher's heart missed a beat as he noticed
for the first time her strange resemblance to Lucy.
"H'm, slight cyanosis," he murmured, "but apparently
there were no convulsions. Must have happened in her
sleep, poor girl. Look, Hoskins, there's marked dilation
of the pupils and a slight contraction of the throat mus-
cles, but otherwise no edema or discoloration to suggest a
broken blood vessel or sudden circulatory failure. She cer-
tainly looked the picture of health when I saw her yes-
terday."
Dr. Hoskins nodded. "Her mother told me that she
went to bed early with a slight headache last night. She
probably took one of these poisonous things. Damn, Oh
damn these patent medicines!"
i


COTTAGE SINISTER
21
He picked up a small bottle that lay on the table by the
bed and handed it to Christopher. It had the patent medi-
cine stamp on it and was labeled, "DORMITAL—A
remedy for sleeplessness, headaches and nervous disor-
ders. One to three tablets on retiring with a glass of
water." Christopher sniffed at the bottle and then ex-
amined it carefully.
"H'm, no formula given," he remarked, "but probably
it's harmless enough. Never heard of the stuff myself.
Bromide or acetysal., probably. Couldn't be anything very
much stronger or they'd have to mark it 'Poison.' The
poison laws are pretty strict, you know."
He turned again to the bed and examined the arms
and wrists. "Not an addict, I take it. Seems like a normal
healthy young woman to me. I wonder"
"I should say from the rigidity of the muscles and the
temperature of the body that she's been dead about eight
hours. Of course one can't be too precise on that subject,
but if I am anywhere near right that would make the time
of death soon after midnight. I wonder if they heard
anything in the house here. O, nurse—just a minute
please."
Lucy re-entered the room and placed herself with her
back to the bed. There were traces of tears in her eyes.
"Oh, Miss Lubbock!" said Dr. Hoskins, who seemed
conscious for the first time that Lucy was a sister of the
dead woman and not just the nurse on the case, "did you
sleep here last night?"
"Yes, Dr. Hoskins, after Joe Birch's death Dr. Crosby
brought me home from the hospital—at about eleven
o'clock I think it was. I went straight to bed in my own


22
COTTAGE SINISTER
room next door." Lucy was trying desperately hard to
answer in the calm, detached tones of a hospital nurse.
"Did you hear any movements or sounds from this
room, Miss Lubbock? Your sister must have died shortly
after midnight and I wondered if she gave any sign of—
er—pain or distress."
Lucy thought awhile before she answered slowly,
"well, doctor, I should probably have forgotten all about
it if—if this hadn't happened, but I did imagine I heard
sounds—as though Amy were restless—she seemed to be
muttering or talking in her sleep. Then I thought I heard
a noise like a slight dry cough. It was nothing alarming
so I went off to sleep and forgot all about it."
"And, Lucy," said Christopher gently, seeing that the
girl's composure was rapidly giving place to acute dis-
tress, "do you happen to know if your sister was in the
habit of taking things. I mean hypnotics, sedatives—stuff
like this?" He handed her the bottle of Dormital tablets.
"No," said the girl, and her eyes were brimming over
with tears, "Amy was always the healthy one of the
family. I've never even heard of this stuff. Of course I am
familiar with the regular sedatives and hypnotics that
they use at the hospital, but when I was being trained
they taught us never to advise patients to take patent
medicines like this."
"Since / received no training," said a harsh voice from
the doorway, "I guess you must blame me. I gave Amy
those tablets last night. She came into my room at about
half past ten looking very queer and talking very hoarse
—said she felt nervy and her throat was kind of parched,"
Isabel stood at the doorway, a look of defiance on her


COTTAGE SINISTER
23
shrewish features. "So I gave her that bottle. I take 'em
myself when I get restless. They're 'armless enough,
heaven knows, or I'd a been poisoned long ago."
The two young doctors stared at the older girl as she
spoke these words in a hard, rasping voice. The garish
and extravagantly new kimono which covered her spare
figure looked incongruous—and somehow horrible—in
the presence of death. Finally Christopher said, "Thank
you, Miss Lubbock. And could you tell us approximately
—I mean, could you give us any idea of how many of the
tablets your poor sister took?" Isabel glanced quickly at
the bottle.
"Well, there wasn't many there when I gave them to
her, and there are four left," she answered curtly, "from
a little take a little "her voice rose almost to a
screech.
"Thank you, thank you," said Dr. Hoskins, who
wished to avoid anything in the nature of an emotional
outburst, "now, both of you, please—won't you go down
and give an eye to your poor mother? She's taking it very
hard, I'm afraid."
The two young doctors faced each other when they
had locked the door behind the sisters. Each of them
felt a certain amount of disinclination to admit that he
was completely mystified by this sudden and unexpected
death.
"It doesn't look natural to me," said Dr. Hoskins at
last, as he turned back the sheet and started to re-examine
the body, "or rather, I should say it looks almost too
natural, if you know what I mean, Crosby. And yet the
girl couldn't possibly have been poisoned for the simple


24
COTTAGE SINISTER
reason that any available poison is so easily ruled out
when one lives in a village like Crosby-Stourton. Strych-
nine, for example—no signs of convulsions, no risus
sardonicus\ Arsenic—that takes too long, and this young
woman certainly shows none of the stigmata of chronic
arsenic poisoning! Mercurials—that takes even longer
and then it's nephritis or uraemia that actually kills after
a good bit of pain. Prussic acid—pish, tush, you could
smell it a mile off, and it's impossible to get hold of the
stuff now that it's almost entirely discarded from thera-
peutics. No, Crosby, there just isn't a poison in Crosby-
Stourton that could have done this—and besides, who
would want to poison a harmless, buxom country wench
like Amy Lubbock? And who could, even supposing they
wanted to? It must be a natural death, Crosby. The girl
was too plump. A sudden pressure round the heart after
a big meal and those wretched tablets—pouf—lots of
these healthy-looking women go off that way. What do
you say?"
"Well, I wouldn't care to have to sign her death cer-
tificate without a post-mortem," said Christopher. "I sug-
gest we send the body over to the County Pathologist, or
whoever the johnny is, and let him do his worst. In the
meantime we might wire the Dormital Company for their
formula. If, by any remote chance, it contains belladonna
or any of its derivatives, it might easily be responsible—
provided the poor girl took enough—but otherwise, well,
we shall just have to look elsewhere."
Dr. Hoskins nodded in agreement. As his recent prede-
cessor, Dr. Crampton, had been one of the most popular
men in the village, he was very anxious to do the right


COTTAGE SINISTER
25
thing by the natives of Crosby-Stourton. Suddenly an idea
struck him.
"Yes, and at the same time we could have him examine
her to see if—well, you know, Crosby, she's not at all
bad looking and perhaps some fellow got her into trouble.
If so, it's quite within the range of possibility that she
committed suicide."
"Nonsense," said Christopher with some warmth, "I've
known Amy Lubbock in the village for years. Her head
was screwed on as right as a trivet, Hoskins—you know,
calm, cow-like and rather slow witted. None of the appas-
sionata stuff about her. Besides, when poor servant girls
want to do away with themselves they swallow lysol,
iodine, ammonia—anything that's handy on the spur of
the moment, and it's one of our jobs in hospitals to get it
1 out with a stomach pump. If Amy Lubbock died from
poison—which I doubt—it was a poison she couldn't pos-
sibly have procured for herself, unless "he did not
♦finish his sentence. Instead he walked to the window and
stood looking out past the sprays of jasmine to the lilies
celow.
A "Then you think," said Dr. Hoskins slowly and with
jmphasis, "you think it's probably—murder!" Christopher
tarted perceptibly. Then he turned and faced his com-
panion with a troubled expression which belied his air
f nonchalance.
J "I think nothing of the sort, Hoskins. There is only one
erson in Crosby-Stourton who is capable of doing a
ing like that, and she—heaven be praised—has been
for over two years."


26
COTTAGE SINISTER
"And who is that, may I ask?" Dr. Hoskins' eyes were
looking serious through his thick spectacles.
"Well, the joke is wasted on you, Hoskins, because you
didn't even know her, but I am referring to my maternal
grandmother—the late lamented Mrs. Burwell!"


Ill
Darkening Shadows
Mrs. Greene, who presided over the village Post
Office, never let you forget that she was one of
His Majesty's Servants. If King George had
come to Crosby-Stourton in person with the express pur-
pose of placing plenipotentiary powers in her capable
hands, she could not have carried off her position with
greater dignity and magnificence. She breathed a divine
afflatus on the sale of a half-penny stamp and imbued
even a shilling postal order with weighty importance and
officialdom. When it came to telegrams—and it didn't
very often in Crosby-Stourton—she surrounded their
dispatch with a positive halo of mystery and romance,
always managing to give the sender the impression that
his awful secret was safe in her royally-consecrated hands.
As for broadcasting to her neighbors any information
obtained from one of these important missives—perish
the miserable thought! The village arcana were as safe,
when locked in her capacious bosom, as if they had been
confided in His Majesty's own personal ear!
And so, when Doctor Hoskins left Lady's Bower and
entered the picturesque thatched cottage which served as
the village Post Office, he was greeted by Mrs. Greene in
her most official manner. The news of Amy's death had
already got abroad, and it is greatly to the credit of the
27


28
COTTAGE SINISTER
postmistress that she did not betray, even by the flicker
of an eyelid, the curiosity with which she was consumed.
With care that amounted almost to cunning she concealed
her inquisitiveness and merely passed a few vague re-
marks about the weather or asked after Dr. Hoskins'
roses. From the magnificent nonchalance with which she
took the two telegrams, counted the words and made
change, any casual observer would have sworn that they
contained nothing more significant than a bon voyage
message to a maiden aunt!
After the doctor had left, she read them over carefully
—just to be sure that she had made no errors in her
computations! Then she skipped (with remarkable agil-
ity) into her back parlor and'produced a well-thumbed
dictionary—just to make certain that she had spelt all the
difficult words correctly!
The first ran:
County Pathologist, Taunton, Somerset, Kindly ar-
range for an immediate autopsy on a case of inex-
plicable death in Crosby-Stourton stop symptoms
point to possible poisoning and may need official
investigation.
Joseph Hoskins.
The other read:
The Dormital Company, 12 Bay Street, Manchester.
Wire immediately formula of Dormital Tablets and
any information that might account for sudden and
inexplicable death following their use.
Doctor Joseph Hoskins,
Crosby-Stourton, Somersetshire.


30
COTTAGE SINISTER
tention she'd a been getting anyone might think that a
body lost her old man every day!" Miss Sophy Coke,
like the respectable spinster that she was, inveighed
darkly and bitterly against the dangers of town life and
dropped sinister hints about the awful possibilities con-
tingent upon a too close association with the aristocracy.
P. C. Buss, the village strong arm of the law, twirled his
enormous black mustache and whispered to a few inti-
mates that he "couldn't interpolate until importunited by
the parties concerned, but that presumptuously it was only
a matter of moments before he was authenticated by
some one."
Poor William Cockett, whose very obvious gnef made
him temporarily immune from approach, had not yet
been drawn into the maelstrom of gossip, but it was sup-
posed that he knew a thing or two if only he could be
prevailed upon to speak. As for Lady's Bower—even the
hardiest had not yet dared to brave the wrath of Isabel,
who, throughout the morning, had stood at the door of
the cottage like an Angel with a Flaming Sword to guard
her poor prostrate mother against unwarranted intrusions.
Let it never for a moment be supposed that Mrs.
Greene so much as breathed a word of what she had read
in the telegrams. She listened very carefully to all that
was told her and then went on her mute and mysterious
way. And yet—somehow or other—her very silence,
coupled with various noddings and shakings of the head
and an attitude of "I could a tale unfold" was more
pregnant of wild rumors than if she had disclosed the
whole contents of Dr. Hoskins' dispatches. At any rate,
by noon time, the village was convinced that something


CfTTAGE SINISTER
31
was "rotten in the state of Denmark," and one heard such
terrible assertions and- forebodings as "It's my belief as
how a fiend is at work," or "The Lord alone knows who
will be the next," and the number of people who had seen
a dark stranger hanging around the cottage on the previ-
ous evening grew to quite alarming proportions!
After lunch Mrs. Lubbock had recovered sufficiently
from the first shock of her grief to receive sympathetic
solicitations from Sir Howard Crosby and Miss Vivien
Darcy. Their visit touched the old lady and comforted
her strangely. By tea-time she was ready to see a care-
fully pi ked group of friends and was quite prepared
to talk freely of her sorrow. The majesty of grief became
her well. Though her neighbors were farl^o delicate to
mention the fact that they would like to seeXtjhe body (a
normal request under normal circumstances),'there was,
none the less, a noticeable current of excitement running
through the assembly when Mrs. Lubbock sadly suggested
that "they might like to see the last of our poor dear
Amy." Isabel conducted them upstairs, grudgingly
enough, one by one, and they all shook their heads and
made appropriately pious comments in an attempt to hide
a thoroughly secular curiosity.
It was Mrs. Greene who had acted as spokesman for
the little party during this visit. Her official title of Post-
mistress naturally gave her precedence. It is to be sup-
posed, therefore, that she voiced the general opinion
when she refused Lucy's offer of tea. Her actual words
were perfectly polite, "O, we couldn't think o' troubling
you in such sad circumstances," but, witfrher gift of con-
veying impressions without giving thent tongue, she


32
COTTAGE SINISTER
managed to suggest that she at least would prefer to find
an asp—a viper—a poisonous toad in her cup than any
tea of Lucy's brewing. Immediately afterwards, when
Cockett entered the cottage, she shepherded her little flock
outside, and as they passed down the road in the summer
twilight, she shook her head darkly and murmured to
Miss Coke, "there's more to come, Sophy. Mark my
words, there's more to come, and the Lord alone knows
who'll be took next."
William Cockett, at best a rather sombre individual,
looked haggard and wretched as he came in and took
Mrs. Lubbock's hand. Although Amy had never re-
sponded to his wooing, her sudden death had been a
profound shock to him and he gave the impression of
being a broken man. Without even a pretence at making
conversation with the three women he insisted on going
upstairs and staying alone with the body, and when he
finally was persuaded to come down and take a cup of tea
with the family, he could not be prevailed upon to say a
word.
The situation had reached an impasse when Chris-
topher dropped in—this time as a friend of Lucy's and
not in his role of physician. He did his best to be cheer-
ful, but the tea-party was a sad enough affair which
served only as a poignant reminder of the previous day
and of how happy they had all been before death had
claimed one of their number.
Just as evening shadows were beginning to fall there
was a low rumble of heavy wheels outside the door. It
was the ambulance from Taunton.
"Oh God! they've come for our Amy," cried poor Mrs.


COTTAGE SINISTER
33
Lubbock with a low moan, as Dr. Hoskins, followed by
two white-clad stretcher bearers entered the cottage. Lucy
went to her mother's side and tried to comfort her.
While the bearers followed Isabel upstairs, Dr. Hos-
kins called Christopher aside, and, pulling a telegram
from his pocket, said, "Guess we must give the Dormital
Company a clean bill, Crosby. The stuff's nothing but a
triple bromide and as harmless as possible. The whole
bottle of tablets couldn't have killed her unless it had been
doctored in some way."
Christopher read:—
Dr. Joseph Hoskins, Crosby-Stourton, Somerset-
shire, Dormital contains two grains sodium bromide,
two grains potassium bromide, two grains am-
monium bromide with starch as excipient stop slight
rash might follow extensive use but death or serious
results impossible stop management desirous to clear
itself so kindly send further particulars.
E. J. Aiken,
President, Dormital Company.
"I never did think they were responsible, Hoskins,"
said Christopher, as he returned the telegram. "Proprie-
tary remedies are pretty careful these days, but we might
as well have the public analyst check up on the remaining
four tablets just to see if they really are true to formula."
At this juncture they were interrupted by the stretcher-
bearers, who came downstairs carrying all that was mor-
tal of Amy Lubbock. To Dr. Hoskins was left the
unpleasant duty of asking Mrs. Lubbock to sign the paper
authorizing an autopsy—one of the most disagreeable


34 COTTAGE SINISTER
tasks a physician has to perform, but necessary in this
instance since the regular coroner for the district was
away. After some demur, all the final arrangements were
made, and Dr. Hoskins turned to his colleague, saying
quietly,
"I'm going to Taunton on the ambulance, Crosby. It
would be a great help if you could come along in your
car and bring me back. Incidentally, I'd like you to cor-
roborate my medical findings—we could both get home
by eleven o'clock."
Christopher consented willingly, and the party moved
on to Taunton, leaving the Lubbocks and Cockett alone
with their grief. For some time the four of them sat
silent in the fast-gathering darkness of the evening. The
carpenter was at the window staring unseeingly out into
the fragrant garden. Isabel sat at the tea-table where the
cups and saucers were still waiting to be cleared away.
Occasionally she would take a sip of cold tea in a listless'
manner. Mrs. Lubbock was crying softly to herself in
her large arm-chair. Finally Lucy rose and started to
light the lamps. The atmosphere of the cottage was be-
ginning to tell upon her nerves. There was no sound from
outside except when the evening breezes blew a rambler
rose or a spray of creeper against the window panes.
Suddenly Isabel's voice—hoarser, than usual—broke
the silence.
"Oh, my God, Mother!—what's he doing there—the
other man?" She pointed at Cockett with trembling
fingers.
Lucy put down the lamp and ran to her sister's side.


flAT?AOK SINISTER 35
"What is it, Bella?" She asked nervously, "what do you
mean—there's only Will Cockett there."
"There are two men there," muttered Isabel, "and—
Oh God! now there's two of you, Lucy." She coughed
slightly. "I don't know what is the matter with me, but
my throat is on fire. Water, water!" Her eyes were star-
ing terribly, and she lay back, slumped in her chair.
Lucy ran to fetch water and Isabel drank greedily.
"Hark! it's the van coming back," she said at last in a
strangled voice, "the van and a policeman coming with it
—for me—he's over there now," again she pointed to-
wards Cockett, "the policeman that murdered Amy!
Don't you hear the van, Mother,—Mother, I can't see any-
thing," her voice was getting fainter and fainter, "she's
dead—our Amy—poisoned, just as I am and it's my
fault. It's my fault, or Myra Brown's—curse Myra
Brown—Myra Brown "her voice rose to a weird
screech and she fell unconscious on the floor.
For a moment the three onlookers did nothing but stare
at Isabel in horror—they seemed almost paralyzed at the
awfulness of the spectacle. Lucy, the first to recover her
wits, turned towards her sister, and with Cockett's help,
lifted her on the horse-hair sofa.
"Quick, Will," she said breathlessly, "run for Dr.
Hoskins or Dr. Crosby."
"Reckon the two doctors be halfway to Taunton by
now with poor Amy," said the man morosely.
"What shall we do—what shall we do?" moaned Mrs.
Lubbock, when she saw that Isabel failed utterly to re-
spond to Lucy's attempts at reviving her.
Cold compresses, simple emetics, brandy—all were


36
COTTAGE SINISTER
tried, but to no purpose. Isabel lay on the sofa lifeless,
the thin pulse at her wrist growing weaker and weaker
beneath Lucy's experienced fingers. Without any sense of
time or place the young nurse worked like a slave, but it
was to no avail. Towards midnight, the two doctors, who
had been summoned by Cockett after their return from
Taunton, found Lucy lying in a state of complete ex-
haustion by the dead body of her sister Isabel.
Christopher's face was as white as death as he helped
Dr. Hoskins to carry the girl upstairs and administer a
hypodermic injection to her and Mrs. Lubbock. When
they finally came downstairs again they found Cockett
still waiting by Isabel's dead body. He gave them a sim-
ple version of the tragedy.
"Well, there's no doubt in my mind now that both girls
were poisoned," said Dr. Hoskins, when the two physi-
cians were left alone to make a more detailed examination
of the body.
"And now that I've heard Cockett's story," said Chris-
topher, "I don't believe I need to dip into a handbook of
Toxicology or Pharmacology to say what drug was prob-
ably used—though how anyone here could have got hold
of it "he broke off suddenly.
Dr. Hoskins looked up quickly at the pale face of his
colleague. The light of scientific admiration shone in his
eyes. "Well, you are one jump ahead of me, Crosby"
"Why, man, it's as plain as the nose on your face,"
continued Christopher wearily, "here's a drug which in-
duces a state of sleep or stupor after a period of agita-
tion and apparent mental derangement—more or less
marked according to the temperament of the victim, the


COTTAGE SINISTER
37
size of the dose, etc., etc. In Isabel's case the agitation
was pronounced—in Amy's less so. The first symptom is
a burning or dryness of the throat—you remember Amy
complained of that to Isabel "Dr. Hoskins nodded.
"Then restlessness—dual vision—Cockett said that Isa-
bel looked at him and spoke of the other man—followed
by almost unintelligible murmurings (which may have
been pretty important, by the way), and finally stupor
and death from respiratory failure."
A look of horror passed over Dr. Hoskins' stern young
face, "You don't, you can't mean hyoscine or any of that
atropine group, Crosby! Why, you know as well as I do
that it's altogether impossible for the layman to get hold
of it except on prescription and then the maximum dose
is about one-sixtieth of a grain! Damnable stuff, anyhow,
in my humble opinion. I always use luminal at the hos-
pital and in my practice"
"Yes, Hoskins, I do mean hyoscine, or scopolamine if
you want to give it its proper name. The stuff they used
to mix with morphine to produce the so-called 'Twilight
Sleep' in obstetrical cases some years ago. It's still used
pretty widely by itself, even now—Thornton of Guy's
uses it in the neuroses, epilepsy, manic frenzies, delirium
tremens, etc. It's safe enough if a doctor is handy to take
the right measures in case of overdosing. If you ask my
opinion, the pathologist will find that hyoscine is re-
sponsible."
"But the fatal dose is so tiny, Crosby, that I doubt if
it would be recoverable in the stomach. Two or three
grains at most—God, what a mess!"
Christopher shrugged his shoulders helplessly, "Well,


COTTAGE SINISTER
41
der because he firmly believed that there was no such
thing. If a rich club man was discovered dead in his
mistress' flat or an internationally known crook found
murdered in his motor car, the job went to Norris, Mal-
lory, Stork—any one of the boys. But if a poor old lady
in Twickenham with no money and no relatives suddenly
^ died for no reason at all, the Archdeacon was called for.
If the headless body of an unidentified man happened to
get caught in a fisherman's net, or a baby's left foot be
discovered at a Lost Property Office, that was a job for
Archibald Inge. Archibald—arch solver of mysteries be-
cause he did not believe that anything could be really
.£ mysterious!
And so, the Old Man had sent for the Archdeacon this
morning, and after giving him the few salient details had
left him a bare hour in which to collect his belongings, say
good-bye to his wife and make a dash for the noon train.
The case had sounded interesting enough as the Old Man
had outlined the available facts.
"Yes, Inge, just the case for you. Don't know a great
deal about it as the call came in from Taunton this morn-
ing and that Somersetshire dialect is too much for an old
cockney like me. Sounds like a pretty pointless and ap-
parently motiveless affair—if it really is a case of mur-
der. That's for you to find out. These small-town jobs
do need someone with a sympathetic and—er—rather
dignified approach. Scotland Yard wouldn't have butted in
at all in the ordinary way, but Archer—he's County Con-
stable down there—is laid up with the gout, and the local
inspector happens to be a new man without any experience
to speak of. Incidentally, Sir Howard Crosby got me


42
COTTAGE SINISTER
on the long distance wire this morning, too. He's an old
friend of mine, and he seemed to take it as a personal
affront that two of his tenants should have come to a
violent end. He's a pretty influential fellow, and par-
ticularly asked for our best man "The Archdeacon
smiled benignly as if he were pronouncing the blessing
at the end of an inspiring service in the Cathedral. "Now
a young termagant like Norris would probably set the
whole village by the ears and get nothing out of it except
a pack of enemies. I'm putting him on the London end
of the case and want you two to keep in close touch with
each other. The two young women had jobs up in town,
you know, and it is quite possible that the real solution
lies here, right under our own noses. But it is in their
own village that you can find out the facts about their
actual deaths. It may be quite simple—or—it may not.
. . ." The Old Man was notorious for not being willing
to commit himself.
"It may be quite simple—or—it may not! It may be
quite simple, jog—jog—jog "the train seemed to be
repeating the Old Man's words as it sped forward over the
flat countryside of Middlesex and Bucks. It was now pass-
ing through Slough, and the Archdeacon stared thought-
fully out of the window at the stately prospect of
Windsor Castle. Like most unimaginative people he had
a decided weakness for the homes of the great, and nour-
ished a secret hankering in his heart that one day some
case would bring him into direct contact with the real
aristocracy. His work, as in the present instance, usually
took him among humble folk and he probably would not
have recognized a member of the "upper ten" if he had


COTTAGE SINISTER
43
seen one. He vaguely imagined that they were all like the
pictures he occasionally saw in his wife's second-hand
edition of The Toiler—always smiling, always well
dressed, idle and insouciant. To him, they were beings
apart who did not follow the rules of conduct laid down
for ordinary, hum-drum individuals—gossamer creatures
who lived an enchanted life which brought them, only at
rarest intervals, into a nodding acquaintance with crime
and sordidness. All this notwithstanding the Sunday pa-
pers which he despised appropriately. But the aristocracy
were not for the likes of him—and yet, hope sprang eter-
nal in the archidiaconal breast, hope that one day—if
he worked hard and made a name for himself—he might
perhaps add the name of "The Society Detective" to his
already considerable list of sobriquets.
Stirred to action by this thought, he pulled from his
pocket the hurried notes he had taken down after his in-
terview with the Old Man. They were on the squared
paper he always used in the hopes that he would one day
be able to solve a crime by graphs without the necessity
for laborious investigation and tiresome details of rou-
tine. A graph, he reflected, or even an algebraic equation
would be more helpful than these fragmentary jottings.
None the less, he studied them with care.
Case i. Female, aged about 30. Died Sunday
night. Presumably poisoned. No autopsy report but
no reason to suspect poison self-administered. Has
worked as lady's maid for four years at Lady Bar-
chester's, 14, Kilgore Road, Mayfair. Good char-
acter and quiet, sober habits.
Case 2. Female, sister of above, aged about 32.


44
COTTAGE SINISTER
Died Monday (yesterday) evening. Worked for six
years at Hon. Mrs. Ribson's, 17, Portbury Place,
May fair. In opinion of local doctor symptoms point
to rather obscure and difficult to obtain drug. Men-
tioned name of Myra Brown shortly before death.
Norris investigating London end and identity of
Myra Brown.
H'm—well, that didn't help much, he reflected. Wonder
whether it's got into the papers yet. Hastily he picked up
the latest edition of the Courier which lay on the seat
beside him. A small notice in the Stop Press ran:
MYSTERY IN CROSBY-STOURTON
. "Profound mystery surrounds the sudden death
of two sisters, Amy and Isabel Lubbock, who have
died within twenty-four hours of each other in their
quiet country home in Crosby-Stourton, Som. Both
were in excellent spirits and perfect health when
they left London last Sunday, and yet they now lie
dead under strange circumstances. At the earnest re-
quest of Sir Howard Crosby, Scotland Yard has
taken the case in hand in conjunction with the
County Medical authorities."
The Archdeacon read, marked, learned and inwardly
digested these facts in the well-ordered store-house of
his brain, and by the time the train had reached Swindon
he realized that, for the time being, he knew all that there
was to know. He was not the man to waste precious mo-
ments in idle speculation until he was in possession of
more facts. He would have to wait now until he got to
Crosby-Stourton, wherever that might be—he had never


COTTAGE SINISTER
45
even heard of it before—and in the meantime he'd see if
he couldn't get the plump little lady in the corner to lend
him her copy of Punch which she had now discarded in
favor of a more highbrow and less entertaining pub-
lication.
If he had been traveling in an ordinary third-class car-
riage he would have asked her for it outright but—some-
how—it was different when he was going first, at the
Yard's expense. He studied his companion with a certain
amount of professional interest. She looked intelligent,
he thought, and had rather a nice twinkle in her eyes.
Wife of some country vicar, probably. No, country vicars
didn't run to first-class carriages and promiscuous copies
of Punch. More likely to be some rich man's housekeeper
or one of those ubiquitous Americans—obviously no one
of any great importance. Her rough tweeds, carelessly
worn, seemed to indicate that she was at least going to
the country. Her ruddy complexion, untouched by pow-
der, gave evidence that the out-of-doors was her natural
element. Must have brains too, otherwise she would not
have been reading a deep magazine like The Annalist.
That decided it, she must be an American—all American
women were highbrow and one could talk to them with
far more propriety than one could to English women who
traveled in first-class carriages. And then, she was sev-
eral years older than the Archdeacon—she must be fifty
at least—so she couldn't think he had sinister intentions.
"Have you any objections to smoking, madam?" he
asked, in the voice of one intoning the General Confession.
She looked up at him quickly with a bright smile.
"I was rather hoping you'd say that because I've been


46
COTTAGE SINISTER
dying for a cigarette myself, and there's no SMOKING
sign on the window. Would you be dreadfully shocked if
I joined you? Then we couldn't tell on each other! You
see, I thought that, being a clergy. ..."
The Archdeacon shook his head, smiling, and passed
his cigarette case across to her gallantly.
"Indeed, no, madam, you overestimate my calling. I'm
afraid I am nothing so alarming." They laughed together.
"In fact I am only a policeman with a pope's nose!"
"Policeman!" she recoiled slightly, but he was quite
accustomed to see astonishment when he announced his
metier.
"Well, detective, if you like it better," he added be-
nignly. She smiled again as though she were apologising
for having betrayed an instinctive dislike of his calling.
"How thrilling! I saw you staring at me suspiciously
when you first got into the carriage. I suppose you've been
making all kinds of deductions like—er—Sherlock
Holmes. What fun it must be!" She was smoking in a
very business-like fashion. "Do tell me all you've gathered
from the outer woman." She made a slight grimace as
she looked down at her plump, tweed-clad figure.
The Archdeacon smiled deprecatingly and raised his
hands as if he were pronouncing the Absolution.
"I'm afraid I have no parlor tricks, ma'am, not even
train parlor ones, I'm. . . ."
"O, but I insist"—she threw down her magazine with
the energetic gesture of a young girl—"it will fill in the
time till we get to Bristol. All women, even if they ^are
old and plain, are insatiably curious about themselves


COTTAGE SINISTER
47
and want to know exactly how they appear to the outside
world."
"But, my dear lady, a detective is not a palmist or a
conjurer. Appearances are deceptive—always—that is the
first thing we have to learn at the Yard. The science of
detection of crime is an exact science and has nothing to
do with the outer man or woman. I could, of course, in-
dulge in personalities the same as any other man, but that
is not detection. I could say you looked like the Principal
of a Young Ladies' College and you might be an opera
singer. I could say. . . ."
She cut him short. "Yes, but you have impressions and
they are probably more acute than those of the ordinary
man. Now, I thought that you were a clergyman despite
the fact that you are wearing a grey tie. Wrong. Probably
you didn't think about me at all, but if you did, I imagine
you said to yourself, 'If she weren't in a first-class car-
riage I'd think she was a vicar's wife, a school teacher
or a governess. If she hadn't got on a wedding ring under
her gloves I'd think she was a typical spinster—a blue
stocking—a dowdy intellectual female.' You might even
have gone so far as to think, 'She's probably an American
because no Englishwoman would talk so indiscriminately
to a stranger in a train.'"
The Archdeacon looked positively nonplussed as he
heard his half-formulated thoughts voiced in such a
downright manner. Incidentally, his intention had been
to get possession of the lady's Punch and not to open the
flood-gates of her garrulity. He was beginning to wonder
if he liked his disconcerting companion as much as he
thought he did. As a general rule, he preferred placid,


48
COTTAGE SINISTER
bovine women, but he had to admit that this one had a
certain charm even if she was too nervous, too talkative
and too highly strung to suit his simple tastes.
She fished another cigarette out of her bag. Though he
didn't really approve of women's smoking in public places,
the Archdeacon rose to give her a light. As he did so his
large bulk swept the Daily Courier to the floor at his
companion's feet. She glanced instinctively down at the
paper as the Archdeacon stood by her side holding the
match close to her face. She paid no attention to him but
bent down closer to read something in the paper—a
strange, strained look in her eyes. The match had burned
itself out before she looked up, but not before it had
shown the Archdeacon that her face was quite pale.
"Good Gracious! that can't be true," she murmured,
her cigarette completely forgotten, "it just simply . . .
can't ... be true!"
She picked the paper from the floor and started to read
it eagerly. The Archdeacon noticed that her hands were
shaking slightly. He was still standing by her side with a
look of benevolent sympathy on his face.
"No bad news, I hope?"
"Excuse me, please," she said with a weary gesture, "I
just happened to notice something in your paper about
my home—Crosby-Stourton." The archidiaconal ears
were pricked up. "Two girls I know there have been—er
—murdered, apparently, and I feel rather upset about it."
Her voice sounded faint and distraught.
This was just the kind of situation that pleased the
Archdeacon and brought out all his best qualities. A
young founder like Norris would have dashed in with


COTTAGE SINISTER
49
questions and note book at once, and got—precisely noth-
ing. He, thank goodness, had learnt to control himself
and restrain his eagerness, knowing in his wisdom that
a certain amount of metaphorical hand-patting—espe-
cially with this particular type of middle-aged lady—paid
better dividends in the long run.
"Too bad, too bad," he murmured sympathetically,
"I'm very sorry indeed for you, madam. As a matter of
fact, it may be a comfort to you when I tell you that no
stone will be left unturned to punish the—er—perpetra-
tors of these amazing crimes—if crimes indeed they be!
Sir Howard Crosby—you have probably heard of him
since he is a big land owner in your neighborhood—has
himself requested the co-operation of Scotland Yard in
the matter, and in me you see her unworthy, yet willing
representative." The Archdeacon smiled ponderously.
"These matters are usually left to the local authorities, but
Sir Howard was very insistent, and it seems to me that
it is a singular piece of good fortune that we should have
met each other in this way since we may be able to help
one another to solve the mystery of your friends' deaths."
There was a faint condescension in his tone which his
companion was quick to notice. At any rate there was a
subtle difference in her voice when she said, not without
a certain amount of hauteur: "Yes, there is no earthly
reason why I should not do all I can to help you and
tell you all I know about those two poor creatures."
Now, when the Archdeacon had first seen her he had
thought that his carriage companion was "just anybody."
When she had spoken two words he had realized that she
was what is conventionally known as a lady, but not one


COTTAGE SINISTER
51
pie, he reflected, especially important women, should wear
labels when they appear in public—labels to prevent well-
meaning citizens from undue familiarity or from making
fools of themselves. The Archdeacon was no socialist but
a devout believer in the divine right of the landed gentry!
By this time the train had reached Bath and Lady
Crosby had thrown away her half-smoked cigarette. She
was staring thoughtfully out of the window at the grey
stones of the old city. Presently she turned to the Arch-
deacon who somehow looked much smaller, for all his
bulk, as he sat in his own corner wondering at his own
temerity.
"Well, you can go ahead. I suppose you will want to
ask me a thousand questions now. We may as well get it
over and done with, though heaven knows I can't help
much."
"Thank you—er—thank you, my lady," the Archdea-
con was unaccustomed to dealing with titles, "perhaps—
if you would be so kind—a hint or two as to the girls'
characters, their forebears "She silenced him with
an imperious gesture. His ceremonious and obsequious
manner obviously displeased her.
"I'm not the queen of Spain, man," she snapped, "if
you want to know anything, talk to me as you would to
any ordinary woman—your wife, your mother, your
landlady. You have your duty to do, and I suppose it's
my duty to help you all I can."
The Archdeacon shuffled his feet nervously.
"As I told you, the mother, Mrs. Lubbock, was first
maid and finally nurse to my mother, Mrs. Burwell, for
over twenty years. A faithful soul and a good worker, if


52
COTTAGE SINISTER
a trifle "She paused, looking for a word which she
did not find.
"She has—or rather, she had—three daughters. Isabel,
the eldest, was efficient and hard-working, but a terrible
shrew. None of our village swains ever liked her much.
Too sharp-tongued and too sharp-featured! A disagree-
able character, but a good maid—at least, so I understand
from Mrs. Ribson, whom I saw yesterday, by the way.
Amy, the second girl, was a sweet, amiable thing and at
one time had all the young men in the village after her.
She turned up her nose at the yokels after she went into
service at Lady Barchester's, but I don't think she caused
enough bad blood so that anyone would feel exactly mur-
derous about her. I understand, however, that Will Cock-
ett, the village carpenter, is still hopelessly devoted.
Lucy, the youngest, is the loveliest thing you ever saw.
Now if it had been she who had been killed it might
easily have been a case of Cherchez I'homme. She's far
above her sisters in every way—intelligence, looks and
education. I've always believed in education for girls with
real brains and ability, like Lucy Lubbock, though heaven
knows I was considered crazy myself for going to Girtont'
but things were different in those dark days."
She rattled on and on. The intimate and homely qual-
ity of her conversation upset the Archdeacon far more
than if she had used the grand manner adopted by the
aristocracy of fiction. He would have known where he
stood then! Never had he imagined that a great lady
could be garrulous and communicative like this—espe-
cially in trains! In fact, he shared the American view of
the English aristocracy—that they were coldly reserved,


COTTAGE SINISTER
53
unapproachable, close-lipped and remote except when they
were among their blue-blooded peers. However, here was
valuable information, of a kind, and even if he did not
dare to bring out his note book and squared paper there
was no reason why he should not make the most of his
opportunity to glean knowledge.
"And is the father living?" he asked with deference,
when Lady Crosby had finished airing her views on
women's education.
"No, Mrs. Lubbock was a widow when she first came
to us at Crosby Hall. I know nothing about him at all
except that he hadn't left her a penny. He may not even
be dead for all I know, but he has been conspicuous by
his absence for over twenty years. She has never referred
to him in any way, but some man must have been re-
sponsible for the three girls. At any rate, there they were,
large as life, and they stayed in the servants' quarters
until they were old enough to go out and work for them-
selves. My husband didn't like to have them around and
my mother would have no one near her but Lubbock.
Lubbock couldn't be separated from her children, so there
you were—the old story of the irresistible force and the
immovable post!"
"Had they been much in Crosby-Stourton lately?"
"I was surprised to learn—and to learn in so tragic a
manner—that they had been there at all. They almost
never came home and I don't know what brought them
this time. Can't have visited their mother for years and
years. She used to go up to town sometimes to visit an
invalid sister and she'd see them then. But they're quite
strangers in the village. It's a complete mystery to me.


54
COTTAGE SINISTER
There had been a fuss about their home—a charming
place called Lady's Bower—my husband wanted to turn
them out and I had been hearing nothing but Lubbock,
Lubbock, Lubbock for days before I went to London.
Now, I suppose, I shall go on hearing it for a different
reason!"
The Archdeacon's brain was doing its best to collect
the nuggets of fact from all this mass of verbiage. There
was a calculating, shrewd light in his usually benevolent
eyes as he said, "and this youngest girl—did she like her
sisters ? Was there perhaps any family dispute, any?"
Lady Crosby started visibly at the implications in the
question.
"Nonsense, my dear man, Lucy Lubbock is a sweet
child and my own particular protegee. She couldn't quar-
rel with anyone if she tried. The idea, if it is an idea,
is preposterous." She looked annoyed and the Archdeacon
spread his hands in an apologetic gesture.
"The whole thing is all wrong," she said at last, "and
very upsetting, very upsetting indeed. I'm particularly
sorry about Amy. She was a good girl. I never liked Isa-
bel much, and probably there were plenty of others who
shared my opinion. But murder! Why, they are a couple
of stupid village girls—insignificant, unimportant people
who could not possibly have been in anyone's way. Oh
well, what's the use of thinking about it, and here's Tem-
ple Meads station where we have to change. Ugh! how I
hate Bristol."
The Archdeacon politely collected her luggage and es-
corted her across the network of platforms which
stretched out drearily under the dark vault of Bristol sta-


V
The Rinsed Cup
a s the train drew into Crosby-Stourton station the
i\ Archdeacon peered out of the window in a vain
JL attempt to catch a glimpse of Crosby Hall. In
spite of his disconcerting journey, he was now happily
looking forward to the time when he should make his
bow at that historic seat and dazzle its inmates by a dis-
play of his extraordinary talents. "Just a matter of sim-
ple mathematics," he could hear himself saying, with be-
coming modesty, to an admiring and mystified circle of
the elite. The Archdeacon smiled a deprecating smile.
Lady Crosby's voice broke in upon his pleasant reverie.
"There! I see you're sleuthing already! Looking for
the scene of the crime, I suppose. 'But you can't see it
from here. No indeed. Lady's Bower is some little dis-
tance from the station. One of the nice things about it,
you know. But then, you'll see for yourself. No wonder
the Americans are after it. I always think it's one of the
loveliest. . . ."
But the Archdeacon was too busy with the luggage to
listen to a full inventory of the charms of Lady's Bower,
and when at last they stood upon the platform, Lady
Crosby turned away from him to the smart young chauf-
feur who was already shouldering her shabby valise.
"Very good, Briggs. Straight to the Hall if you
please."
56


COTTAGE SINISTER
57
Then, before she trotted off to a magnificent waiting
Daimler, she looked back at the Archdeacon with a gra-
cious nod:
"Good luck, Inspector. Thank you for the cigarette,"
and the Archdeacon was left alone on the platform. Not
quite alone, for now a moth-eaten ticket collector sham-
bled out of the waiting room and favored him with a long
stare.
"Be you the gentleman from London, sir?" he asked
at length.
"I daresay," said the Archdeacon with an unaccus-
tomed frivolity born of great and sudden expectations.
"All right, sir. The County Constable's waiting in his
car. He don't get out because his foot's bad. This way,
sir."
Archer, the County Constable, was an elderly man with
an habitual expression of gentle reproach. All his life he
had been an assiduous reader of detective stories, and
the handling of a dramatic murder case had long been
his avowed ambition. But the fact, in connection with his
own county, had struck him as so surprisingly different
from the fiction, that he was now glad enough that Sir
Howard had insisted on calling in Scotland Yard. He
welcomed the Archdeacon with a mournful cordiality,
and directed his chauffeur to take them to the Crosby
Arms.
"A great relief to see you, Inspector," he said. "A
great relief. This foot of mine keeps me pretty well
housed. And there's lots to be unravelled in this business
though dear knows nothing may come of it. It's all a bit
of a muddle since our Coroner is away—holiday time,


58 COTTAGE SINISTER
you know, and I'm not much more use than a corpse my-
self. However, Hoskins has taken the matter up with the
county medical authorities and now that you are here
everything is in apple-pie order."
The Archdeacon smiled an Olympian smile, "Many of
these cases seem difficult at first," he said.
But in spite of the archidiaconal serenity the County
Constable still looked worried. "Nothing new since this
morning," he said, "but I've arranged for you to have
tea at the Crosby Arms with P. C. Buss. He's a good
fellow but a trifle windy. Knows every one in the village,
you know, and that sort of thing. He'll tell you plenty and
you may be able to get something out of it all, though I
must confess you'll need a sieve to do it. He married the
village schoolmistress, you see, and the strain has been
rather great. But here we are. I'll leave you here and you
can get Buss to take you over to Lady's Bower after
you've had your tea. That's only a short distance, but my
car, of course, is at your disposal for any longer trips.
I'll send it round this evening to the Inn garage. I must
go home and turn in now—just got up to meet you, but
the pain—Oh damn this gout and damn my port-wine
drinking ancestors! Can't tell you how relieved I am that
you've come."
The Archdeacon climbed out of the car, raised a be-
nign hand in parting, and mounted the stone steps of the
Crosby Arms in search of his tea and of P. C. Buss.
Neither was hard to find. The Archdeacon first secured a
room for the night and then sought the dining room,
where he found his man straddling the hearth rug and
holding forth on legal theory to a bewildered barmaid.


COTTAGE SINISTER
59
"Eventually," the Constable was explaining, "the law
must triumvirate, because it is omnivorous!"
"Lawks," said the girl, "you don't suspect that, do
you?" with which admiring comment she made good her
escape towards the kitchen.
"Tea for two, if you please," said the Archdeacon as
she passed him. "And plenty of bread and butter."
As soon as the girl had gone on her errand the two
men turned to each other.
"You must be Buss," said the Archdeacon. "I'm In-
spector Inge from Scotland Yard, and I'm relying very
much indeed on your help in the solution of the case
which has brought me to Crosby-Stourton."
The Archdeacon well knew the value of the confiden-
tial manner, but this time his reward was almost too rich.
Buss drew a deep breath, explained heartily that he was
"ingratiated, sir, highly ingratiated," and launched upon
a thorough discussion of the unfortunate prevalence of
poachers in Crosby-Stourton. He went into the various
methods which he had devised for ridding the county of
these pests, and, by the time tea was brought in, he had
embarked on a new aspect of the problem—the value of
catching potential poachers at a tender age and "repealing
to their susceptibilities."
With the end of his second cup of tea the Archdeacon
stemmed the tide by a curt question:
"Has all this any bearing on the Lubbock deaths?"
Buss put down his cup and stared at the Archdeacon
with a long resentful stare.
"Ah," he said, and was silent.
"Well?" said the Archdeacon.


6o
COTTAGE SINISTER
'"Well," said Buss, "it's this way. 'E may 'ave been a
poacher, and then again 'e may not."
"Who?" said the Archdeacon, getting out his note-
book with a perfunctory air.
"Ah," said Buss, and took a large mouthful of bread
and butter. "An obfuscated individual seen by me on Sun-
day evening in the vicissitude of Lady's Bower." The
Constable waved his spoon impressively at the Arch-
deacon and relapsed into silence.
"Meaning?" said the Archdeacon. "Oh, I see. You've
seen some one."
The Constable's face lighted up. "Blimey," he said,
"you've got it."
The Archdeacon poured himself a third and last cup
of tea, settled back in his chair and considered his com-
panion. The third cup always inclined him to at least a
charitable view, and this time there was a twinkle of
genial amusement in his eye.
"Was the person you saw a stranger in Crosby-
Stourton?"
"Yes, sir. I was hambulating 'ome past Lady's Bower
on Sunday evening at about six o'clock—while they must
'ave been 'aving tea inside—and the hindividual was as
it were 'anging on the garden gate."
"Did you speak to him?"
"No, sir. But I fixtured 'im with my eye. Might 'ave
been about fifty, say. 'E was a bit dressy, you know, like
a gentleman, but you never can tell because sometimes
these rapscalliwag poachers. . . ."
"Yes, yes," said the Archdeacon hastily.
"Well, sir, I didn't like 'is expressiveness if you take


COTTAGE SINISTER
61
me, sir, and I daresay 'e didn't care for mine, since when
I got to the bend in the road and looked back 'e'd disap-
peared right out of sight and when you catch 'im you'll
'ave the man who done it; that's my convincement be-
cause why would anyone here in the village want to make
away with them two girls?"
"And you haven't seen him since?" asked the Arch-
deacon.
"No, sir. 'E seems to 'ave emanated."
The Archdeacon made a note in his book. P. C. Buss
craned his neck to see it, and perhaps was spared a pang
by his failure, for the Archdeacon had written, in a neat,
even hand, the following memorandum: "Stranger, male,
seen by Buss near scene of deaths at 6 o'clock Sunday
evening. Probably irrelevant?" Inspector Inge had
learned to be as skeptical of the inevitable dark stranger
who generally turned out to be nothing more sinister than,
say, the village sweep returning home by a slightly un-
usual route.
"And now," he said rising and shutting the note book
with a snap, "if you would be kind enough we'll push
along to Lady's Bower. And on the way I'd be grateful
for anything you could tell me about the Lubbock girls
and their past."
"Mark my words," said the Constable, rising slowly,
"that man is hintricated."
As they strolled together through the village he elabo-
rated this theme, with sundry variations and grace notes,
and when at length the two stood together on the door-
step of Lady's Bower the Archdeacon found himself
equipped with a resolutely open mind, a quantity of


62
COTTAGE SINISTER
squared paper, and a confused impression of Amy Lub-
bock as Aphrodite plus, and of Isabel as Xantippe with a
difference.
A knock brought Lucy to the door. She nodded to the
Constable and welcomed the Archdeacon with quiet
dignity.
"Here's the detector, Miss Lucy," said Buss with im-
portance. "I've brought him."
Lucy paused for a second to savour the implication
that Buss had stormed Scotland Yard single-handed,
and was returning to Crosby-Stourton with a captive In-
spector. But the ghost of a smile died on her lips as she
spoke to the Archdeacon.
"I'm glad you've come," she said in a low voice, "and
of course we'll try to help you all we can. But please, oh
please don't ask my Mother anything more than you
need to. She's near the breaking point. It's wonderful the
way she's kept going through these two days, but there is
a limit." «,
Her eyes filled with tears as she spoke, and as the Arch-
deacon looked at her his thought echoed her words:
"There is a limit." There were cruel shadows under the
grey eyes that met his own with a steady, candid look, and
the girl swayed a little as she moved, almost as if she were
walking in her sleep.
"Thank you for warning me," he said gently. "I un-
derstand. But unless your mother is quite pros-
trated"
"Oh, no," said Lucy in a louder voice. "We've just
been having a cup of tea. Won't you come in?"
The Archdeacon, who had expected to find a buxom,


COTTAGE SINISTER
63
flustered country wench, was struck by the grace and
restraint of her bearing as she ushered them into the
cottage. Buss shambled behind, twirling his mighty
moustachios as was his habit when embarrassed. The
presence of grief upset him fearfully, as many a mis-
chievous small boy knew to his own advantage. Lucy led
the Archdeacon to the chair by the window where Mrs.
Lubbock was sitting, and spoke softly to the old lady.
"Mother, this is the Inspector. Inspector?"
"Inge," said the Archdeacon.
"Inspector Inge. He's come to help us. But first, of
course, he'll want to ask us a few questions."
"Help us?" quavered Mrs. Lubbock. "Help us?" and
she fixed incredulous eyes on the Archdeacon. Then she
collected herself and made him welcome, while he mur-
mured a few words of sympathy and condolence.
"Here," said Lucy, "take a chair. I'll clear up tea
later."
She drew two chairs away from the table to the win-
dow, and placed the Archdeacon between herself and her
mother, facing the room, while Buss sat down by the
door and mopped his face with a handkerchief that had
seen better days. The Archdeacon drew out his note book
and settled into his seat, for all the world like a cleric
about to do masterful things to a skein of wool.
"It gives me great pain to distress you, Madam," he
said to Mrs. Lubbock in his most soothing voice, "but
of course you, above all others, must be anxious to get
to the bottom of these—er—curious and tragic occur-
rences."
"That I do, sir," said Mrs. Lubbock, leaning forward


64
COTTAGE SINISTER
with an unexpected vehemence. "And if ever you find
who did it, sir"
"All in good time," said the Archdeacon, and referred
for a second to his notes.
Mrs. Lubbock shivered. "Not too much time, sir. I've
a fear in my bones."
"H'm," said the Archdeacon. "Yes. The doctor who's
in charge. Could you tell me his name?"
"Dr. Hoskins," said Mrs. Lubbock. "It used to be Dr.
Crampton, sir, but since he left we've had Dr. Hoskins."
The Archdeacon turned to Lucy with a quick glance.
Involuntarily her lips moved in answer to his question.
"Isn't that so, Miss Lubbock? Or did you mention a
different name?"
"No, Inspector. My mother is quite right. Dr. Hoskins
is the doctor in charge." Her voice was steady, but the
faint flush in her cheeks did not escape the Archdeacon.
"We'd better have Dr. Hoskins here if it's possible,"
he said. "Buss, would you be good enough to see if you
can find the doctor, and bring him along if he's free to
come?"
Buss rose and expanded. "Yes, sir. I shall expedate at
once. God bless you, ma'am. I'm truly sorry."
Mrs. Lubbock bowed her head in a simple acknowledg-
ment, while Lucy's unseeing eyes followed the Constable's
broad back as he strode down the path and out at the
garden gate. Then the Archdeacon asked the two women
a few questions establishing the hours of the deaths (ap-
proximately in Amy's case, exactly in Isabel's), and, in
some detail, their manner. Lucy answered him promptly
and firmly, mentioned the Dormital tablets, and occasion-


66'
COTTAGE SINISTER
come back from taking—from taking my sister Amy to
Taunton for the autopsy—where they took Isabel this
morning. But this morning I was too busy attending to
my mother to hear much about last night. I believe there
was something that puzzled them. Will Cockett would
know, too." She passed her hand across her forehead as
if she were searching for something that hovered just
beyond conscious memory.
"Then we must wait for the doctor," said the Arch-
deacon, resuming his chair. "But, Miss Lubbock, you
mentioned two names that were new to me. Supposing we
fill in the time till the doctor comes by running through
a list of the people who have come into the cottage in
the last two days, and might have been in a position to—
er—to tamper with anything." The Archdeacon avoided
the word "poison". ("Don't frighten people" was one of
his fundamental maxims.)
Lucy turned to her mother. "I was out most of Sun-
day," she said. "Can you remember?"
"Let me see," Mrs. Lubbock muttered. It was evidently
an effort for her to push her thoughts back to anything
that had occurred before the tragedies.
"I was at the hospital," Lucy explained. "There was
an urgent case—we were fighting to save a poor old man's
life—and I was gone from breakfast till tea time. When
I came in my sisters had arrived from town and were
having tea with Mother."
"Yes," said the old lady. "That's so. They'd arrived
just a little'while before tea, and the only other people
earlier in the day were Sir Howard and Miss Darcy who


COTTAGE SINISTER
67
dropped in after church in the morning. Very affable
they were, too, sir."
"Sir Howard, yes," said the Archdeacon, visibly im-
pressed by this act of condescension. "But who is Miss
Darcy?"
"Miss Vivien Darcy, sir. They do say she rides a trifle
hard to hounds, and is very new-fangled in her notions.
But she's kind, sir, and always has a word for an old
woman like me. And they do say, too, that she's sweet
on the young squire, though I daresay it's nobbut because
the two of them were children together."
"Yes," said the Archdeacon, scribbling in his book.
"And then?"
"There were others after tea," said Lucy. "But I went
back to the hospital before they came. Who was here,
Mother?"
"Before you went, dearie, of course there was Mr.
Christopher."
"Yes," said Lucy. "He did take tea. I'd forgotten. My
mother means Dr. Crosby," she explained to the Arch-
deacon. "He called for me on the way to the hospital."
"Dr. Crosby? Any connection with the family at
Crosby Hall?"
"Yes, sir," said Mrs. Lubbock. "He's the young squire
I was speaking of. But he's new-fangled, too, and must
needs be off doctoring, so we have to call him Dr. Crosby,
though dear knows he's always Mr. Christopher to me,
and Sir Christopher as is to come."
"I see," said the Archdeacon, further reconstructing his
picture of the aristocracy, a picture which had already


68
COTTAGE SINISTER
been sadly altered by Lady Crosby. "And he and Dr.
Hoskins work together in the village."
"Oh, no," said Lucy quickly. "Dr. Crosby is simply
here on a holiday, and happens to have been assisting Dr.
Hoskins because he takes a friendly interest in what goes
on in Crosby-Stourton. He has no responsibility in con-
nection with these—er—deaths."
"Quite," said the Archdeacon. "Most natural. And I
suppose you didn't notice anyone hanging about the house
on Sunday afternoon? Any stranger?"
"I did notice a man standing in the road looking at
Lady's Bower. It must have been at about six o'clock, I
think. I remember wondering he didn't move on. But he
soon did. I'm quite sure I'd never seen him before. But
many pause to look at Lady's Bower, you know."
"I don't wonder," said the Archdeacon with an ap-
preciative glance about the room. "And your mother
didn't see him?"
"No, sir," said Mrs. Lubbock. "I never heard tell of
him till this minute. And poor Isabel and Amy never
mentioned having seen anyone."
"I see," said the Archdeacon thoughtfully. "And now
I wonder if you could tell me of anyone else dropping in
after your daughter and Dr. Crosby left?"
"Well, sir, we don't get many visitors as a rule, lead-
ing a quiet life as we do, and I was quite surprised to see
the neighbors coming in so friendly like. There was Mrs.
Greene from the post office, and Miss Sophy Coke, and
poor Will Cockett, who was always sweet on Amy, sir,
since they was just a boy and girl. He's the village car-
penter, sir, and a very nice fellow indeed. I've often


COTTAGE SINISTER
69
wished she'd have him, though perhaps he's a little sol-
emn. But our Amy had good spirits enough for two, and
was such a good girl, sir, they all said so."
Mrs. Lubbock, giving way again to grief, leaned back
in her chair and began to cry softly, and Lucy took up the
story:
"That was all that happened—on Sunday. They went
to bed early, and there wasn't a sound when I came back
from the hospital, except that little cough of Amy's. The
next day, yesterday, there were only the two doctors in
the morning. And after lunch Sir Howard and Miss
Darcy looked in again for a moment. Then later some
friends came in—there must have been about half a
dozen altogether—Mrs. Greene and Miss Coke and Will
Cockett and Dr. Crosby and one or two others—but they
stayed only a few moments and didn't take tea, except .
Will Cockett later. But first Dr. Hoskins came with the
ambulance from Taunton, and he and Dr. Crosby went
away with Amy."
She gave the names of the other visitors, and then
paused for a minute while the Archdeacon considered and
made notes.
"I see," he said finally. "That left only you two and
this Mr. Cockett?"
"And Isabel," said Lucy quietly.
"Of course," said the Archdeacon.
"Well, we had tea," the girl went on. "And then after
a while I got up to light the lamps, and—and—oh, I've
told you the rest."
"Hm," said the Archdeacon. "I'd like to see Cockett if
he's available."


70
COTTAGE SINISTER
"Shall I go and fetch him?" asked Lucy, moving to-
wards the door.
"No," said the Archdeacon with a benign gesture. "It'd
be more help if you'd stay here and—er—corroborate the
doctor, you know."
He then asked to see the rest of the cottage, and Lucy
led him upstairs to show him the bedrooms, two of them
the more glaringly untenanted by reason of the clothes
and toilet articles that were casually lying about as if
their owners had just stepped out. Isabel's garish kimono
lay untidily across the foot of her bed, and one or two
bright colored dresses of expensive looking material were
flung over the back of a nearby chair.
"Nothing has been changed?" asked the Archdeacon,
noting a half-unpacked suitcase in Amy's room.
"No, Dr. Hoskins suggested that we leave things as
they were."
"Good."
He made a rapid survey, and they both descended the
stairs again just as a knock at the front door announced
the doctor. Lucy greeted him and introduced him to the
Archdeacon, who then sent Buss in search of Will
Cockett.
Dr. Hoskins, looking worn and upset, shook the Arch-
deacon's hand with an expression of relief.
"I'm no end glad to see you, Inspector. Good evening,
Mrs. Lubbock."
The Archdeacon took in at a glance the doctor's shabby
clothes, his keen, earnest eyes behind a huge pair of horn-
rimmed spectacles, and his hurried, nervous movements.


COTTAGE' SINISTER
71
"I'm glad to see you, too," he said heartily. "We've
been waiting for your help in several matters."
"The autopsy reports, I suppose? And the report on
the Dormital tablets? We're checking up on their for-
mula, you know."
"Yes," said the Archdeacon. "Miss Lubbock men-
tioned that you were."
"Well, I'm afraid that we'll have to wait till tomorrow
morning for all that. Both reports are promised by ten
o'clock. I tried to hurry them up, but that's the best they
could do."
The Archdeacon was disappointed, but not unduly. A
large patience was one of his major assets. "If you wait
long enough," he used to say, "almost any criminal will
give himself away." And the Archdeacon had often waited
long after others would have thrown up the case—and
waited to very good effect.
He asked for the doctor's corroboration on the times
of the two deaths, and then suggested a rendez-vous for
the next day.
"Supposing I see you at ten o'clock in the morning,
then. Shall I call at your office?"
"Excellent."
"And now I believe there's another little matter where
you can help us. About yesterday's tea things. . . ."
"There is indeed," said Dr. Hoskins with a grim in-
flection which Lucy and the Archdeacon were quick to
catch.
The doctor drew a small key out of his pocket and
handed it to the Archdeacon.
"I apologize, ma'am," he said to Mrs. Lubbock, "for


72 COTTAGE SINISTER
running away with your key. But I thought it for the
best, under the circumstances."
"Oh, yes, sir," said Mrs. Lubbock vaguely.
The doctor led the way to the kitchen, followed by the
Archdeacon, while Lucy remained with her mother. As
soon as the two men found themselves out of hearing
Hoskins turned to his companion and laid a hand on his
arm.
"I'm thankful you've come. There's something all
wrong about this. God alone knows what it means."
With a nervous jerk he indicated a cupboard in the
corner. The Archdeacon opened it slowly and drew out a
tray with a jumble of tea things. For a moment he looked
at the tray intently without seeing anything worthy of
comment; a tea-pot and kettle, a tea caddy, a milk jug
half full of curdled milk (the night had been hot), a
sugar bowl nearly empty, an almost untouched plate of
bread and butter, four spoons, four saucers, and four
empty cups. Then suddenly his quick eye caught the sa-
lient fact, and he turned on the doctor with an unwonted
vehemence.
"Whose cup was that?" he demanded, pointing to the
one which showed no vestige of any dregs of tea. The
doctor met his eye with a dogged stare.
"That was Isabel Lubbock's cup," he said.
The Archdeacon whistled softly.
"Who was with you when you made this discovery?"
"Dr. Crosby and Will Cockett. Crosby had just driven
me back from Taunton in his two-seater, and it must have
been nearly midnight. Cockett was waiting for us at my
house, and asked us to come at once to Lady's Bower,


COTTAGE SINISTER
73
which we did. You know what we found—Isabel Lub-
bock dead, and the other two as good as—for the moment.
After we'd got them upstairs, Crosby and Cockett and I
had a look at the tea things, still on the table of course,
and we asked Cockett who'd used which cup. . . ."
"H'm," said the Archdeacon. "Rinsed out, perhaps.
And could Cockett throw no light on the rinsing of this
cup, if rinsing it was?"
"Rinsing it was, all right. I asked him, just as we were
leaving, whether he remembered if Isabel Lubbock had
drunk tea at all. Thought it just possible she'd not taken
any, you know. Cockett said he remembered noticing just
that afternoon how strong she took it"
"And Miss Lubbock? Have you questioned her?"
"No, I haven't. I started to this morning, when I was
here with Crosby. But Crosby stopped me. Said some-
thing like this: 'Can't you see, man, she's absolutely done
up?' And I daresay he was right. She hardly understood
when you spoke to her."
"And Cockett? He hasn't asked her?"
"I doubt if he's been in today. His work keeps him
till tea time."
"H'm." A tiny frown puckered the Archdeacon's fore-
head as he carried the tray back into the front room.
Lucy looked up as he came in, and glanced unconcernedly
at the tea things. He set them down on a table in a far
corner of the room before he crossed to her chair with a
confidential expression.
"Everything seems quite all right in that quarter," he
said. "The only thing I want to ask you about is whether
any of you four who were here yesterday went without


COTTAGE SINISTER
your tea. One of these cups appears not to have been
used."
Lucy considered for a moment.
"I really couldn't say. I know / drank tea. And I know
Mother always does. And I think Will does, too. But
sometimes Isabel doesn't take anything. Perhaps she
didn't yesterday. I don't remember. Do you, Mother?"
"What? What's this?"
"Do you remember, Mother, if Isabel drank tea yes-
terday afternoon?"
"I daresay she did. I think I should have remembered
if she hadn't. But sometimes she doesn't. And sometimes
she drinks just hot water. Her digestion, you know, sir.
It was never very strong, poor girl. She was always tak-
ing things for it. Dear me, I couldn't say." ,
The Archdeacon drummed with his fingers on the back
of a chair. "Very trying, Madam, a bad digestion," he
said absently. Then he turned to the doctor, who had been
standing in the doorway that led to the kitchen.
"I don't think there's anything further to be done to-
night, Dr. Hoskins, except for a word with Buss and
Cockett. I'll see that these things are sent up to the Yard
for analysis. So if you're busy I won't keep you"
"Thank you," said the doctor. "I think I'll be off, then.
I have some patients waiting in the surgery. I'll expect
you at ten in the morning, and then when we've some
definite ideas of what drug was used I daresay you'll
want to comb the village to find out if it's available. Good-
night, Mrs. Lubbock. Good-night, Inspector."
He stepped out into the gathering June dusk, and
nearly collided with Buss and Cockett on the threshold.


76
COTTAGE SINISTER
"It was Miss Lucy, sir," said Will Cockett, staring
solemnly at the Archdeacon, and avoiding looking in
Lucy's direction. "Miss Lucy rinsed it out after tea when
Bella was took bad. Miss Lucy went to fetch water, and
picked up Bella's cup to fetch it in. I remember now,
though it had clean gone out of my head last night."
The Archdeacon wheeled round to confront Lucy, who
had half risen out of her chair.
"That's true, Will," she said in a wan voice. "I'd for-
gotten, too. That is what happened."
"There now, don't trouble yourself," said the Arch-
deacon, in his smoothest, silkiest tones. "Sit down again,
Miss Lubbock. It's easy to forget these little things. Quite
—extraordinarily—easy."


VI
Dinner at the Hall
hile the Archdeacon was getting his first general
impressions of Crosby-Stourton, Lady Crosby
™ • settled herself into the recesses of the great
black Daimler and stared at the back of her chauf-
feur's impeccable uniform. She might have been consid-
ering critically the cut of his coat, or she might have been
revolving in her mind the incongruity of sudden and in-
explicable death in this her own quiet village, or she
might have been thinking of nothing at all. Fields and
cottages flew past. The capable Briggs swerved suddenly
to avoid a dog. The great car lurched, righting itself by
a narrow margin. Lady Crosby merely continued to ob-
serve the back of her chauffeur's neck with a brooding
impassivity.
Crosby Hall loomed large and mellow in the late after-
noon sunlight as Lady Crosby trotted up the steps. Sir
Howard met her at the door. The Daimler's noiseless
approach, and Sir Howard's immediate appearance, might
have led a casual observer to believe that he had been
waiting with impatience for his wife's arrival. Yet he
greeted her brusquely, and pecked at her cheek in rather
the manner of a sea-gull who has discovered a doubtful
piece of fish on the beach. She gave him a hurried glance,
in which appeal and timidity were blended, and asked at
once after his own and Christopher's health.

77


7*
COTTAGE SINISTER
"Humph," grunted Sir Howard. "I'm all right. And
so's that blasted boy, if you're talking about his lungs and
his digestion and his sleeping at night. But his head's all
wrong. It's my belief he's a little mad, and that's what
comes of all your notions about democracy and women
and educating people above their stations and all the rest
of it."
"But I don't understand," said Lady Crosby. "Surely
you don't think Christopher over-educated? I thought you
were always regretting that he wasted his time at the
Varsity by reading natural sciences."
"Christopher!" broke in Sir Howard. "He's illiterate!
He doesn't know the difference between the Quorn and
and the Cottesmore, and he thinks a Brush is simply
something for sweeping up cobwebs. No. It's that Lub-
bock girl I'm talking about. He's infatuated with her.
And not only is she entirely beneath him in class (in
spite of the way you've pampered her and taught her to
give herself airs), but look at the scandal in her family.
You've heard about it, I suppose (and I've sent for Scot-
land Yard, too, because Archer's as nonplussed as a hen
with a duckling). You mark my words. That's what
comes of all these high-falluting ideas. Perhaps you can
do something with Christopher, but God knows / can't."
Sir Howard shook his head violently and made off to-
wards the billiard-room, muttering as he went, "mor-
ganatic, positively morganatic." He paused at the door
and looked over his shoulder. "Vivien Darcy's coming to
dinner tonight. Now there's a fine girl. . . ."
With curiously expressionless eyes Lady Crosby
watched him go. Then she turned and mounted the age-


COTTAGE SINISTER
79
old stair-case with the lagging step of an old, old woman.
Once in her room she rang the bell for Carrie, her maid.
Carrie bustled in, round and cheerful. She had bright,
dark eyes like shoe-buttons, and a quantity of greying
hair piled haphazard on the top of her head. She was de-
voted to her mistress, and indeed with good reason, for
few grand ladies in search of a maid would have put up
for long with Carrie's untidiness. It was even whispered
in the servant's hall that she never combed her hair, merely
stirring it once a week with a spoon. But the second butler
was notoriously malicious.
"How do you do, Carrie; will you bring me a cup of
tea, please," said Lady Crosby, laying aside her tweed
coat.
Carrie bobbed and smiled like a complete welcoming
committee.
"Yes, my lady. We're all so glad to see you back. But
I'm sorry to see you looking tired, my lady. I hope noth-
ing's troubling you."
"Those poor Lubbock girls," said Lady Crosby. "I've
just heard."
"Ah yes, my lady. And they do say all sorts of awful
things in the village."
"I've no doubt, Carrie. That will do now."
"Very good, my lady," and she bustled off to fetch
the tea.
Lady Crosby removed her hat and considered it for a
moment, absently. It was one of those hats which seem
to have rather more style in the hand than on the head,
and perhaps she herself reached that conclusion, for she
flung it onto the window-sill with a petulant gesture.


8o
COTTAGE SINISTER
Then, after smoothing her own short, wispy hair with a
pocket comb, she lit a cigarette and dropped into the huge
arm-chair by the window.
Carrie, returning with the tea, roused her mistress
from a deep reverie which had carried her far away, in
time and space, from the Crosby Hall of June 1930. She
thought of her girlhood, made awkward and unhappy by
a mother's tyranny; of the rapturous escape to Girton; of
the death of her father, and the consequent advent of
wealth and Sir Howard; of her passion for Sir Howard,
a passion at once romantic and genuine; of the long tale
of snubbing and reserve which had finally convinced her
that Sir Howard's love for his wife was merely a matter
of form; and of her occasional lavish excursions into the
social and intellectual worlds (excursions during which
she usually felt like a dull hostess who has given a bril-
liant party and is left in the corner with no one to speak
to). And now, as a last straw, this unfortunate attach-
ment of Christopher's, which Sir Howard would in-
evitably blame upon her. But she must see Christopher
and find out how far the thing had gone. He was reserved,
too, but he was kind . . . Carrie came in with the tea.
Dinner at Crosby Hall that evening was a sombre af-
fair. Christopher did not arrive until just in time for
dashing to his room to change. When he came down his
mother and father were waiting for him in the drawing
room. He greeted his mother affectionately, asked her
about her stay in London, related some bits of local gos-
sip for her amusement, and told her of his growing ad-
miration for Dr. Hoskins (who had settled in Crosby-
Stourton since Christopher's last long holiday).


COTTAGE SINISTER
81
"Capital fellow, Mother. Couldn't wish to leave you
and Father in better hands when I go away again—in
case you develop housemaid's knee or anything like that.
Eh, sir?"
Sir Howard stood by the window, gloomy and taci-
turn, listening to the conversation, and watching the tired
eyes of mother and son meet on an unspoken question.
Lady's Bower was not mentioned.
When Vivien Darcy was announced even Sir Howard,
generally unresponsive to an atmosphere, went to meet
his guest with visible relief. But if he hoped for gaiety
and aplomb he was doomed to disappointment. Vivien
came into the room with her usual assurance, but the
pallor of her face contrasted oddly with the vermilion of
her lips, and the handsome eyes that he admired were
deeply troubled. She greeted Lady Crosby politely, gave
Christopher a smile and a "hullo Chris," and shook Sir
Howard's hand with friendly warmth.
"Gad," said Sir Howard, "it's good to see you, and
yet all the same this place still feels like a morgue. I
think we'd better have cocktails. Best American invention
since tobacco, don't you know."
"Divine," said Vivien with unaccustomed limpness.
Cocktails were served, and a livelier, if not a happier
party made its way to the dining-room. But Lady Crosby
was still, on the whole, subdued, save for an occasional
rush of words to the head. Sir Howard was inclined to
be glum, despite his obvious pleasure in Vivien's com-
pany; and Christopher, doing his best to be natural, pro-
duced a sort of strained facetiousness about as convincing
as the grief of a hired mourner. It was Vivien Darcy who


82
COTTAGE SINISTER
kept the conversation going, who chatted with Lady
Crosby about London; discussed hunting with Sir How-
ard, growing confidentially "man to man" over the sub-
ject of the shortcomings of the Somerset and North
Devon Pack; and chaffed Christopher about operations,
skeletons, and the proverbial callousness of the young
sawbones.
"First," she explained, "you think you've got all the
diseases in the book, and then the next stage is that any-
one else who's really in a bad way is no more and no
less to you than an interesting guinea pig."
"Hear, hear," said Sir Howard.
"Well," said Christopher, "if you were to shed tears
over every old woman with a cold, you wouldn't have
much energy left if cholera were to break out in Crosby-
Stourton."
"God," said Vivien, "something worse than cholera
seems to have broken out already, if you come to sudden
death. . . ." There was an immediate silence.
"About these hounds, my dear," said Sir Howard at
length, with an obvious distaste for the turn the conversa-
tion was taking. And so the dinner dragged on.
By the time coffee was served in the drawing-room
even Vivien seemed to have come to the end of her re-
sources. She stood stirring the sugar in her demi-tasse
with elaborate care. Then she put the cup down untouched
and spoke to Lady Crosby with an unaccustomed hesi-
tation:
"I'm terribly sorry, and I know it seems dreadfully
rude to cut and run the minute I've tucked away your
dinner, but I'll have to do it because I've an appointment


COTTAGE SINISTER 83
to keep in twenty minutes' time. I told Sir Howard about
it when he asked me to come, and he very kindly insisted
that I come anyway. . . ."
She flashed a look of apology and appeal at Lady
Crosby as Sir Howard broke in at her elbow:
"That's so, my dear, but I hoped you'd change your
mind. Still, if you haven't, we have no right to keep you.
Can we—er—can Christopher be any help—drive you
anywhere in his car? It's getting awfully dark"
Vivien turned swiftly on Christopher, who was mut-
tering politely "delighted, of course."
"Oh, no," she said. "I've Father's two-seater here, and
he'd die of the shock if it weren't eating its head off in
its usual little stall tomorrow morning. I'll just buzz off
by myself."
"All right," said Christopher cheerfully.
Sir Howard glared at his son with a belligerent look
which he intended for one of subtle reproach. In reply,
while Lady Crosby was saying good-bye to Vivien and
affectionately urging her to come soon again, Christo-
pher's shoulders performed the faint suggestion of a
shrug, and one eyebrow wandered quizzically toward the
roots of his hair.
"Good night, Chris."
"Good night, Vivien. Good hunting."
"Good hunting, Chris."
Christopher poured himself a second cup of coffee, and
Sir Howard, spluttering with all the suppressed indigna-
tion of the frustrated match-maker, followed the girl into
the hall. As he helped her with her light summer coat he


84
COTTAGE SINISTER
was struck afresh by the nervousness of her manner, so
different from her usual self-possession.
"Bless my soul, Vivien," he suddenly blurted out.
"What's up?"
Vivien gave him a friendly smile and glanced at the
clock. "I've five minutes to spare," she said. "Give me a
gasper if you've got one, and I'll tell you." She perched
herself on the edge of the carved oak table, took the prof-
fered cigarette, puffed once or twice in silence, and gave
him a rueful grin.
"Same old story," she said at length.
"Same as what?" said Sir Howard anxiously.
"'Coming by goods train,' " said Vivien. "Never mind.
You'll arrive. Love, man, love. Has it ever hit you?"
"Dear me," said Sir Howard. "Dear me. Bless my
soul."
"Bless mine, too, if you like," said Vivien. "Or damn it
forever if you prefer. It's all the same to me. This busi-
ness isn't the pretty little fair story they tell you. It's
real. Too—damn—real."
She blew a series of smoke rings, and watched them
floating gradually upward, growing larger and frailer
until they vanished in the dim shadows of the great hall.
S.ir Howard watched them too, with an exaggerated care,
while his lips framed the words "most distressing—what
can be done?"
Vivien smiled and laid a hand on his arm.
"You're a first-class dear to mind," she said. "But you
mustn't mind too much, you know, because it has hap-
pened before."


COTTAGE SINISTER
85
"Not to you, has it?" said Sir Howard.
"No," said Vivien. "It's funny but you're right. Per-
haps that's the trouble. If only I'd had a little prac-
tice. . . ."
"Tell me," broke in Sir Howard. "Is your—is this—I
mean—is he not totally unconnected with the medical
profession?"
Vivien laughed. "Not totally," she said, "but I didn't
know you knew. You're coming right along by aeroplane
this time. Yes, that's his line, and God knows it's a queer
one, though anything he does is all right with me. If I
could pull it off I'd even willingly sell Trixie—yes, I
would—or let him have her to pickle in alcohol and put
away on his shelf in little bottles. Funny chaps, these
medicos, don't you think?"
"Yes," said Sir Howard grimly. "Most amusing."
Vivien got off the table, abandoned her cigarette, and
took Sir Howard's hand.
"Don't tell on me, will you?" she said. "I don't know
quite why I spilled over tonight. And I must say I don't
think I drew you a very taking picture—the form divine,
the flashing eye—but, of course, the poor fellow's as blind
as a bat. Anyway, he's a good egg."
"My dear," said Sir Howard, and choked on a mixture
of embarrassment, sympathy and indignation.
Vivien, giving him a gay smile to offset the little gasp
in her voice as she said good-night, walked out through
the great door and down the steps. Sir Howard stood in
the doorway until he heard the hum of the two-seater
diminishing into the park, then sighed and retraced his


86
COTTAGE SINISTER
steps to the drawing room, muttering as he went, "blind
as a bat, the idiot, blind as a bat."
At the drawing-room door he paused, hearing the
sound of his wife's voice and Christopher's from within.
"Better leave those two together," he thought. "She's an
idiot too, but the two of them may thrash out some sense
between them. Lubbock, Lubbock, oh, Lubbock; idiots
all." With which gracious reflection he made his way to
the billiard room.
In the meantime Lady Crosby and Christopher had
reached at last the subject that was most in their thoughts
that evening. As soon as Sir Howard and Vivien had
left the room, Lady Crosby settled herself in a com-
fortable chair, and reached for a cigarette. Christopher
lit it for her, took one himself, and flung himself into the
big chair opposite. For a minute they smoked in silence.
Then Lady Crosby spoke:
"It's a terrible thing that's happened, Christopher. I
can still hardly believe it."
"It's true enough," said Christopher wearily. "I've seen
the bodies."
Lady Crosby shuddered and puffed hard at her ciga-
rette.
"Of course," she went on, "I didn't realize till just now
that you had any special—er—interest in the family out-
side a friendly or professional one."
"Has Father been telling you lies?" asked Christopher
hotly.
"No, dear. He said very little."
"What did he say?"


COTTAGE SINISTER
87
"Only that he thought you weren't entirely indiffer-
ent. . . ."
Christopher grinned. "Oh well; if he put it like
that . . ." He left his sentence unfinished.
"Then it is true, dear, isn't it? And I must say I don't
know of a finer, sweeter girl than Lucy Lubbock. Only,
and you must remember this, she isn't quite—well, I know
you don't like anything that sounds snobbish and neither
do I—but she isn't quite . . ."
Lady Crosby stopped and spread her hands in a help-
less little gesture.
"Quite a lady?" suggested Christopher. Lady Crosby
nodded, and Christopher shrugged his shoulders.
"Can't say I know just what the word means, but I
thought that might be it. Now look here, Mother, Lucy's
always been your special protegee. You're playing the
role of a Pygmalion who makes a fuss when he finds
someone else falling for his Galatea. You ought to be glad.
Especially after all the things you've taught me, too.
Why, this is just the culmination of what I learned at
your knee. You know—votes for women with my earliest
porridge, education for all with my first cigarette, and
the rights of the proletariat with my one and only motor
car. It's inevitable, given a sweet, docile nature like mine."
"Just what your father will say," said Lady Crosby
mournfully.
"Oh, I say, Mother, that's too bad. I'll admit I hadn't
thought of how it was going to hit you that way. But I
won't give him this line of talk, you know."
"You won't need to," said Lady Crosby. "He'll think


88
COTTAGE SINISTER
of it himself. But look here, Christopher, there's one thing
I'd like awfully to know. That is, if you're willing to tell
me. How far has this thing gone? Is there any pledge or
engagement, or is it just a young man's fancy, with no
reference so far to a girl's?"
"The latter," said Christopher. "Most decidedly the
latter. And this isn't just the time to go prancing round
with a guitar singing sweet songs under her window.
Might seem a little heartless, don't you think?"
"But Christopher dear, doesn't it give you pauses—
doesn't it worry you to have these—these terrible things
going on in her family?"
"Does it worry me!" The lines in his face deepened at
his mother's question.
"Well, that's why, dear, I thought it would be a good
plan to get Lucy away—perhaps to Canada. I might be
able to get her a good post out there, and then we could
arrange for Mrs. Lubbock to follow later, and they could
make a fresh start together. You know they're rather
miserable here because Lucy's so unpopular. The stupid
people in the village are all a little jealous. That's why
I've often wondered whether I've been right. . . . And
of course your attentions, my dear . . ."
Her voice trailed off to an indistinct murmur, and
Christopher brooded for a time in silence.
"You don't know Lucy," he said at length, "or you
wouldn't suggest that plan. She's not one of your soft,
timid souls. She takes it as a sort of challenge to stay
here and face the music and keep going. She wouldn't go
away unless her mother urged it, and I think Mrs. Lub-
bock's too old to think of going off to Canada. No,


COTTAGE SINISTER
89
Mother, that won't work, and your son, in due course, will
just have to succumb to his fate, if his fate will have
him."
Lady Crosby sighed, and stirred uneasily in her chair.
"Well, dear, I can't run your life for you. It's up to
you. But do just promise me this; won't you keep away
from Lady's Bower for the present—just for the next
few days? Give yourself a chance to think it all over with-
out the distraction of being with her. It's fairer to her,
too."
"I'm sorry, Mother, but I can't promise you even that.
Lucy needs all her friends just now. God knows there are
few enough! They're saying things in the village about
her—dreadful things. But you mustn't worry about me,
Mother. I'm all right—I know my own mind if ever a
man did."
A look of dogged sorrow came into Lady Crosby's
eyes. She rose irresolutely, and looked at the clock.
"It's early still, but I'm tired, and there doesn't seem
to be anything more to say. Christopher, could you give
me your arm? I think—I'll go—to bed."
Christopher sprang up. "Right-o. And then I think I'll
go for a stroll in the park. I've a mess of things in my
head to think about."
When Christopher came down after seeing his mother
to her door, Sir Howard waylaid him in the hall.
"Young man," said Sir Howard, "I want a word with
you. What would you say if I told you that a certain
beautiful young lady said to me that you were as blind
as a bat?"


VII
Village Sidelights
The Archdeacon passed an excellent night at the
Crosby Arms. He had been given the best room,
which contained an enormous four-poster bed with
plump, oaken legs and hangings of crimson brocade. A
bed so venerable and so comfortable (as mine host had
conversationally remarked) that Henry VIII might well
have slept in it. And so enormous (as the Archdeacon
had waggishly riposted) that it could easily have accom-
modated all his six wives at the same time! At any rate,
the bed suited the Archdeacon admirably, and the Arch-
deacon suited the bed. A strict adherent to the chaste,
medieval nightshirt, he suggested a benign and somewhat
bewildered bishop as he lay luxuriously beneath the quaint
old patchwork quilt, and glanced up with appreciation at
the faded splendor of the ecclesiastical trappings above
his head.
He woke in a good humor, and told himself, as he
shaved his smooth, clerical cheeks, that he was almost
enjoying this case. When he went downstairs to the din-
ing room where the buxom blonde barmaid placed before
him a succulent dish of his favorite kidneys, he decided
that he was enjoying the case very much indeed. He had
never been quite so comfortable in his life. He liked the
village. The old cottages, with their crumbling stones,
their mossy roofs and bright, cheerful gardens, gave him
91


92
COTTAGE SINISTER
a sense of peace and repose. He took a quiet pleasure in
the gentle, unobtrusive wisdom of the rustics. He liked
the village ale, and—above all—he liked his propinquity
to the aristocracy. A twinge of conscience reminded him
that he had no right to be enjoying himself in the midst
of tragedy and death. And yet, in some innermost recess
of his mind, he secretly wished that the case might not
prove too easy—or, at least, that the solution might not
present itself too quickly. He would like to spend weeks
—or even months—eating the mythical lotus (or the less
poetical kidney) amid these pleasant and comfortable sur-
roundings. The spell of Circe was upon him!
But the siren voice gradually began to fade and Duty,
Stern Daughter, stood by him once more as he reflected,
over a Capstan cigarette and a penultimate cup of coffee,
that he would probably see Sir Howard Crosby to-day.
Had not the great landowner sent for him, Archibald
Inge, not only to avenge these two innocent country
girls, but also to protect the women-folk of the village
from the ravages of this fiend? Nobody knew where the
blow would strike next and he was all that stood between
the ignorant rustics and a cruel, relentless killer. The
thought braced him to shake off the last traces of his
lethargy, gulp down a fourth and final cup of coffee and
hasten outside into the early morning sunshine. Goading
him like a Fury, the Stern Goddess drove him round to
the village post office where he intended to send off to
the Yard the telegram which he had carefully prepared
last night, reporting what little progress had already been
made.
Mrs. Greene greeted him with a confidentially whis-


COTTAGE SINISTER
93
pered "Good morning," and gave him a look which im-
plied, "We servants of His Majesty must all pull together
in this sad business!" He handed in his telegram with a
preoccupied nod. It was very long and it was in code, so
that Mrs. Greene, scanning it with a puzzled and disap-
pointed frown, was obliged to ask some quite unnecessary
questions in the vain hopes of eliciting from the Arch-
deacon the few straws of information which were thus
denied to her. When she finally realized that the secrets
of Scotland Yard are even more zealously guarded than
those of the Postal Service, she went so far as to commit
herself to a profound reflection:
"There's more in this business than meets the eye, sir."
"Ah!" parried the Archdeacon guardedly, but not alto-
gether without encouragement.
"Yes, sir, a woman in an official position like me, sir,
she sees things and she knows things that are hidden, sir,
yes hidden from the rest of the village. Post cards and
letters, sir, post cards and letters—even the outside of
them can tell a lot to an eye that is trained, sir—to one
who handles thousands of them throughout the year, sir."
"I imagine that there is not much that escapes you,"
replied the Archdeacon, as he tried hard to look with
admiration into the all-seeing and slightly protuberant
eyes of the postmistress. He had decided that this woman,
who was, after all, the one link between the villagers and
the outside world, was not to be sneezed at as a source
of information.
"For instance, sir," she continued in a mysteriously
hushed voice, "you may not of known it, but about eight
years ago almost every young man in this village got a


COTTAGE SINISTER
95
Isabel pried and prizzed around into other peoples' lives,
you wouldn't be surprised at the sad end she's come to,
sir "(Mrs. Greene's tone was positively aggrieved,
as though Isabel had poached on the sacred prerogatives
of His Majesty's Post Office.)
"Yes, sir, she spied around, found out all the bad
things she could and then sent each and every one of
Amy's fellows a crool, wicked letter. Don't ask me how
I know, sir, there are some secrets of my office, sir"
At this juncture the Archdeacon made a sympathetic
motion of the eyelids which Mrs. Greene must foolishly
(and rather vulgarly) have mistaken for a wink. At any
rate she continued her story with renewed assurance and
volubility.
"Will Cockett was one as got a letter, sir, and the
wickedest of the lot. He was terrible cut up about it too
and he always had the notion that it spoilt his chance with
Amy. Now if he knew"
"Yes, yes," the Archdeacon was now more than inter-
ested.
"I say if he knew who sent him that letter, sir—well,
I'm not suggesting anything, but it was a well-known
fact in this village that Isabel Lubbock hated her sister
and wouldn't stop at nothing to do her mischief. And
anyone who hurt so much as a hair of Amy Lubbock's
head, sir—well, God help 'em if Will Cockett knew as
they'd done it. A quiet, patient man, sir, but you know
the old saying as is true today as the day it was written,
'Beware the anger of a patient man.'"
Mrs. Greene paused to take a deep breath and looked
furtively around her. Her ample bosom appeared posi-


96
COTTAGE SINISTER
tively diminished now that it was unburdened of so many
weighty secrets.
"People forget," she said, shaking her head as though
all the wisdom of the world were on her shoulders, "but
I don't forget like the rest of 'em, sir. I remember how
even Lady Crosby—kind soul as she is and always has
been especially to the Lubbock family—insisted that Isa-
bel should leave the Hall and go to service in London. I
reckon she couldn't stand her prizzing and prying around
all the time any more than the rest of them. At any rate,
out she went on her ear did Miss Isabel Lubbock, and
rarely she's hated my Ladyship for it since, in spite of all
her generosity to pore old Mrs. Lubbock and her educat-
ing Lucy way above her station."
Here Mrs. Greene gaveKhe Archdeacon a look which
spoke volumes of her personal opinion of people who
were unfortunate enough to be "educated way above their
station."
"And there's other things going on in this village as I
see too, sir," she said, as though Heaven (or perhaps His
Majesty) had gifted her with optic powers extraordinary.
"Now, take Miss Vivien Darcy, for example—what was
she doing?"
But she got no further, for at this moment Dr. Hos-
kins entered the Post Office. Mrs. Greene's thin-lipped
mouth shut like a rat trap and she shuffled some sheets
of postage stamps with splendid insouciance. The doctor
looked pale and over-tired.
"Any letters for me, Mrs. Greene?" She handed him
an official-looking envelope. "Good, that's what you and
I want, Inspector. Let's get outside."


COTTAGE SINISTER
97
With one longing, lingering look of understanding
thrown over his shoulder to the Postmistress, the Arch-
deacon followed Dr. Hoskins out into the village street.
The doctor opened his letter and glanced hurriedly
through several closely-typed sheets. The Inspector no-
ticed that his hand shook slightly as he held the foolscap
close to his short-sighted eyes.
"The autopsy reports?" he queried.
"Yes, yes," the young doctor's voice was tremulous
with excitement and scientific interest, "at least it's the
carbon copy. The originals go to the coroner's office. It
certainly looks as though Crosby were right. They don't
say positively that it was hyoscine, but you can bet your
boots it was one of the alkaloids of the atropine series.
The external symptoms all pointed that way too—the di-
lated pupils, dry skin, constricted throats. Apparently both
bodies were quite normal otherwise. No signs of any de-
generative diseases. That rules out heart failure and
apoplexy—in fact, it rules out death from natural causes
altogether. In other words, Inspector, I feel we can go so
far as to say that the girls were poisoned all right, and
any one of say three drugs—atropine, hyoscamine and
hyoscine—might have been responsible. Hyoscine is my
guess and Crosby's too."
The Archdeacon rubbed his hands together softly. He
could not help feeling a certain amount of gratification in
the fact that it really was a murder case after all.
"Three possible drugs!" he ejaculated, "doesn't that
rather complicate matters?"
"No, not really, you see the three are isomeric." He
paused, seeing that the Archdeacon looked more bewil-


98
COTTAGE SINISTER
dered than usual, "that is to say they have the same
formula chemically and approximately the same action in
the human body. The only difference is in their molecular
constitution. I doubt if even the Public Analyst would be
able to distinguish one from the other in the stomach
content"
"And the Dormital tablets?" the Archdeacon said
quickly, anxious to get back into his depth. Dr. Hoskins
blinked myopically at the pages in the bright sunlight.
"I was just coming to them. They are true to formula,
all right. That is the formula telegraphed to me by the
company. Just triple bromides and harmless as possible.
The poor girl could have swallowed the whole bottle
without developing anything more serious than a rash.
I'm convinced that their presence was merely accidental
and that they had no bearing whatsoever on Amy Lub-
bock's death. When all's said and done, almost every
woman has a bottle of them in her medicine chest. You
ask your wife, she's probably got one."
The Archdeacon turned to his companion with a faintly
perceptible glint of suspicion in his eyes.
"Do you mind if I see the report, doctor?" Hoskins
passed it over to him without a word. The Archdeacon
frowned at it for a few moments, then, selecting some
of the most complicated words at random and mangling
their pronunciation in a manner which made the young
doctor wince, he read.
"Paralyzing inhibitory terminations, mydriasis, inter-
cranial hemorrhage, laevorotary isomer, medullary cen-
tres !Why the deuce can't they write these things in


COTTAGE SINISTER
99
English. It's all Greek to me!" Dr. Hoskins smiled a trifle
grimly.
"Well, you needn't worry, it will all come out at the
inquest. In the meantime you will just have to take my
word for it."
"When is the inquest, by the way?"
"Well, Dr. Young of Edith's Ford is the coroner for
this district. He's away on a holiday just now. The best
thing for you to do is to ask Sir Howard exactly what
arrangements are being made. I'm not awfully well up
on these matters as nothing like this has ever happened
before in my—er—practice."
The Archdeacon nodded thoughtfully. The mention of
Sir Howard's name found him chastened and humble.
After rubbing his chin for a moment he said in a more
respectful tone.
"These drugs you mention, Dr. Hoskins—are they
simple drugs such as might be prescribed every day, or
are they"
"Complicated as the devil," the young doctor snapped.
"Doubt if you could get them anywhere round here short
of Bristol. Except in hospitals, of course. However, we'll
go round to Scripps, the local chemist, if you like, though
it is probably a waste of time. It might interest you to
know, by the way, that either Crosby or I could easily
have saved those girls if we had been called in soon
enough. A shot of pilocarpine, artificial respiration—
nothing simpler. Has it occurred to you that the murders
were extremely well timed? In both instances they took
place when no doctor was handy. I wonder if that was
deliberate."


IOO
COTTAGE SINISTER
They discussed this point as they walked down the vil-
lage street, passed the butter market and Crosby Cross
until they came to a small, shabby chemist shop housed
in a perfect specimen of 16th century architecture.
Mr. Scripps, an old man with a tobacco-stained beard,
shook his whiskers at them in bewilderment as Dr. Hos-
kins reeled off the formidable names—"Atropine, hy-
oscamine, hyoscine."
"No, doctor, nothing like 'em in stock and never have
had—now there's aspirin here, if that would do?"
They wasted no more time on Mr. Scripps and his
wares.
"Well, let's try the cottage hospital. Maybe old Cramp-
ton used hyoscine when he was in charge. There will
certainly be some atropine there, anyhow. That's used
quite frequently in all hospitals. Here's my house. If you
wait a second I'll run you over in my Austin." The Arch-
deacon assented readily.
It took them but a few minutes to reach the small but
rather imposing stone building which lay on the outskirts
of the village. As they passed under the Gothic entrance
the Archdeacon read the inscription:
CROSBY-STOURTON COTTAGE HOSPITAL
GIFT OF LADY CYNTHIA CROSBY, I915
"Come unto me all ye that travail and are heavy laden."
"Given by Lady Crosby during the war," said Dr.
Hoskins as he noticed the direction of his companion's
gaze. "It's a bit of a white elephant now, but, of course,
it was always full while the war was on and for some


COTTAGE SINISTER
IOI
years after. Lady Crosby ran it herself, I believe, and
darned well, too. She's always been keen about medicine
and health. In fact, she once told me that, before she
married, it was her ambition to be a doctor herself and
I think she'd have been a good one. Plenty of nerve. She's
made up for it, poor soul, by being on the women's com-
mittee of almost every large hospital in the county and
this is one of three that she's bought and equipped at
her own expense."
The Archdeacon grunted. He had the normal man's
healthy dislike of hospitals and the atmosphere of disease
and death.
"I'll take you to the matron, if you don't mind. I have
a tonsillectomy and a laparotomy to perform this morn-
ing and mustn't keep my patients waiting. Oh, Mrs. Bed-
ford !" They entered the matron's office. A stout,
grey-haired woman rose briskly to greet them.
"Mrs. Bedford, this is Inspector Inge, from Scotland
Yard. He's investigating the two deaths in the Lubbock
family. I wonder if you'd mind answering his questions
and seeing he gets all he wants. I'm due in the operating
room now. Oh, and before I forget, matron, you'd better
put that new nurse in number three. I doubt if Nurse
Lubbock will be in for a day or two. Is Crosby around?"
"No, doctor, not yet. I'll attend to your instructions
and I'll certainly do all I can for this—er—gentleman."
The Archdeacon bowed appropriately to the matron
and made a valedictory gesture towards Dr. Hoskins,
who was hurriedly slipping on a white coat as he went
down the passage.
"Sister," called the matron in a raucous voice, "sister,


102
COTTAGE SINISTER
put Wheeler in number three in Lubbock's place." She
turned towards the Archdeacon and remarked more to
the circumambient ether than to him in particular:
"Such a nuisance, these pretty girls who are always
getting into trouble"
"Meaning Miss Lubbock, ma'am?"
"Who else," snapped Mrs. Bedford. "She'd have made
a good nurse if she'd been as plain as poor pathetic Miss
Pinkney. But a pretty face in a hospital is worse than a
case of bubonic plague. She's turned Dr. Crosby's head
completely, and Dr. Hoskins always treats her with as
much consideration as if she were a prize heifer. If it
weren't for the fact that she's a special protegee of Lady
Crosby's, I'd have—but what can I do for you, sir."
The Archdeacon outlined the special reason for his
visit.
"Oh, you'd better see Miss Pinkney, our dispenser," said
the matron, "I'll take you right up."
In a room full of bottles, pipettes, scales and weird
odors, the Archdeacon was introduced to a thin, pimply
girl who gave the impression that she lived on an admix-
ture of pharmaceutical concoctions and the sense of her
own refinement.
The Archdeacon explained, rather in the manner of
one who is trying to match a sample of wool, that he
was interested in drugs of the atropine series. He had
remembered the phrase from the autopsy report.
He was rewarded with a verbaj torrent in which or-
ganic and inorganic chemistry, social distinctions, phar-
macology and physiology were all felicitously blended.
From which he finally gathered that atropine was used


COTTAGE SINISTER
IO3
frequently but hyoscine never, and that Miss Pinkney was
quite a "cut above" all the other inmates of the hospital!
Finally she produced a bottle labeled Atropinae
Sulphas.
"Theah might be some Hyoscine in that cupboard
theah," said Miss Pinkney in tones of ineffable refine-
ment. "It contains a lot of old Dr. Crampton's supplies—
he was the predecessah of Dr. Hoskins, you know. I shall
be glad to ascertain for you."
After much rummaging about and unnecessary "deah
me-s," Miss Pinkney produced from a back shelf a dusty,
half-used bottle labeled Hyoscinae Hydrobromidum.
"This is all I can find, Inspectah," she said at last, "it
must have been heah for yeahs and yeahs. Deah me, I'm
all dusty!" The Archdeacon picked up the bottle gingerly
as though he were handling an infernal machine, and ex-
amined it carefully. Finally he wrapped it in a handker-
chief and asked permission to slip it in his pocket.
"Is that cupboard kept locked?" he asked.
"No," replied Mrs. Bedford, "but we always keep the
Dispensary locked when Miss Pinkney is not here. There
are drugs and poisons in this room and it would never do
for unauthorized persons or patients to get hold of them."
"Quaite," agreed Miss Pinkney with an air of im-
portance.
"But the nurses, Miss Pinkney—don't they occasion-
ally come in here? Miss Lubbock for example?"
He did his utmost to make his question sound quite casual.
"O, quaite, Inspectah, quaite, but I don't encourage it.
You see, my fathah was a doctah, and he didn't think
much of "she paused, glancing uneasily at Mrs.


VIII
Ma1nly Mathemat1cal
From Miss Pinkney and Mrs. Bedford the Arch-
deacon did little more than establish the availability
of the Means of death, which, with Motive and
Opportunity were, to his mind, the Alpha and Omega in
any self-respecting analysis of a murder case. It had
taken him but a very little while to reduce the two women
to the "squeezed lemon" stage, and now he had more
important fish to fry. The matron and dispenser had been
mere sprats, but Sir Howard Crosby was a whale—and
a whale that could not be kept waiting. A glance at his
heavy hunter showed him that it was after half-past
eleven and he was, therefore, obliged to cut short Miss
Pinkney's voluble excursus on the subtle social distinc-
tions between nurses and dispensers. He was due at the
Hall by twelve—a mile walk across the fields, as Mrs.
Bedford had obligingly explained.
He took the foot-path through a large open meadow,
heavy with uncut hay. Even to an unimaginative soul like
the Archdeacon the warm smell of clover was intoxicat-
ingly sweet, and the droning of bees in the noonday air
seemed to be reproaching him for the nature of his mis-
sion in Crosby-Stourton and for thus violating the long
and unbroken peace of the English countryside. It was a
perfect midsummer day—one of those rare days which
can occur only in England and which seem like unex-
105


106 COTTAGE SINISTER
pected birthday presents from a generous Creator in con-
trast to the habitual inclemency of the British weather.
The Archdeacon walked slowly through the meadows,
idly plucking the long grasses and trying hard not to let
the beauty of the scene distract his mind from the matter
in hand. Leaving the fields behind him, he strolled up the
driveway to the Hall and rang the bell just as the church
in Crosby-Stourton struck the hour of twelve. An im-
peccable butler immediately ushered him into Sir How-
ard's study—a large room panelled in oak and lined with
books whose one purpose in life was to be a source of
annoyance to the housemaids at spring cleaning time.
The eleventh baronet greeted him with a mixture of
pomposity and cordiality: "Glad to. see you, Inspector. I
suppose you know that I'm responsible for your being
here, in a sense. As a rule, we are capable of handling
our own troubles, but what with one thing and another—
Archer's gout and the coroner's absence—I felt my—er—
responsibility to the village—my village, you know—and
I rang up Scotland Yard myself. I flatter myself I have
some little influence at Headquarters and the circum-
stances looked important enough to go to the Fountain
Head—the Fountain Head, you know!" The Archdeacon
did his best to look like a Fountain Head.
"But of one thing I am certain," continued Sir How-
ard, in the voice of one who expects his opinions to be
treated as facts rather than opinions, "that it was not the
work of a local—er—individual. No one in this village,
my village, could have done anything so—so—er—pre-
sumptuous." Sir Howard gave the impression that if


COTTAGE SINISTER IOJ
there were any poisoning to be done in Crosby-Stourton
he was the only logical person to do it.
The Archdeacon inclined his head humbly, though he
could not help thinking that he had overestimated the
mental capacity of the aristocracy. He had hoped that Sir
Howard might have something to contribute that was new
and startling—something outside the realms of mere
conjecture.
"Apparently a stranger has been seen in the village,"
continued Sir Howard weightily. "Have you ascertained
as yet whether or not his movements were at all sus-
picious?"
"Not yet, Sir Howard—Buss is working on him, I
fancy. That's just a routine job. At present I am more
interested in the local people themselves. People who
might possibly have motives—there are one or two names
about which I know nothing as yet, and I thought, per-
haps, you might be so good as to help me. For example,
several people have mentioned a Miss Vivien Darcy"
"Miss Darcy!" the squire almost jumped from his chair
with annoyance. His eyes protruded belligerently, "Miss
Darcy! Who has had the impertinence to drag her name
intc this?"
The Archdeacon raised his hands as though in self-
defence and then spread them out with a deprecatory
gesture.
"Village gossip," he murmured apologetically, "just
village gossip—when things like this happen, you
know"
"I don't give one single solitary damn what has hap-
pened," spluttered Sir Howard apoplectically. "I don't


108 COTTAGE SINISTER
care if fifty village wenches have been poisoned, but Miss
Darcy's name is to be left out of this—is that clear?"
Sir Howard's eyes glared with a feudal and fanatical
light, but the Archdeacon stood his ground. He was not
the man to be nonplussed by a blustering baronet.
"I might as well tell you, in strict confidence," added
the enraged landowner in a somewhat milder tone, "that
I have a special reason for saying this. Miss Darcy is a
charming girl, and her father, Sir Malcolm Darcy, is one
of my oldest friends—why man, he is master of our
pack!" The implication was that anyone connected with
the Master of the Hounds was as remote from suspicion
as Caesar's wife. "But that is not the only reason. I have
excellent grounds for believing that Miss Darcy will one
day be my daughter-in-law. My son, Christopher, has
grown up with her and it has always been the dearest
wish of both families. I might add that I have been in-
formed—and very credibly informed—that she is not al-
together indifferent to him. I speak advisedly and in
strictest confidence. That he is bound, sooner or later,
to—er—reciprocate this attachment must be obvious to
anyone with half an eye, though at present, I regret to
say, he seems to have his head in a gas oven of infatua-
tion over that Lubbock girl—a gas oven!"
At this moment the door opened and Christopher en-
tered the room. Except for the redness of his hair, there
was not the remotest suggestion of a gas oven about him.
There were, however, lines of fatigue and worry about
his eyes and mouth, and the facetiousness with which he
usually treated his father seemed this morning to spring
from habit rather than high spirits.


COTTAGE SINISTER IOO.
"Sorry, father, but I just popped in to say good-bye.
Didn't know you were engaged !" Sir Howard rose
ponderously and introduced him to the Archdeacon. In-
voluntarily he performed the ceremony as though his son
were a boy of sixteen instead of a young man of twenty-
six.
"I'm very glad, indeed, to meet you, Dr. Crosby" (the
Archdeacon positively exuded benevolence). "I was par-
ticularly hoping that I might have some of your ideas on
these tragic occurrences. With yourvmedical experience
and your knowledge of the local folk—a knowledge that
goes so much further back than Dr. Hoskins'—I'm sure
you must have some very interesting theories." There was
no hint of malice in his voice.
"Well, well," the young man replied with mock mod-
esty, "I have a few random thoughts, it is true—just a
few random thoughts. Call them the obiter dicta of a
great brain, if you like. In the first place there seems to
have been a positively indecent amount of tea-drinking
going on just before each death. Women are devils for
tea in this part of the world. I wonder if that is significant
at all"
"The tea-drinking in itself seems to have been innocent
enough," said the Archdeacon, watching the young man
very closely. "All women of that class drink tea at odd
hours of the day, you know. But—I would like to know
why Miss Lubbock—Miss Lucy, I mean—rinsed out Isa-
bel's cup just before her death and then forgot all about
it when I asked her. Now that seems to me to be of great
significance."
Christopher's face was a perfect study in impervious


no
COTTAGE SINISTER
amiability. "Quite simple, Watson," he replied airily,
"quite simple! Miss Lubbock is a nurse, as you doubtless
know—a well-trained nurse too, and her training never
deserts her even in an extremity. Now, I ask you, In-
spector—would any self-respecting nurse take water to a
patient in a dirty cup? She rinsed it out automatically,
I'm sure—probably did it in the twinkling of an eye and
then forgot all about it."
The Archdeacon looked palpably unconvinced.
"I have some more interesting theories, if you care to
hear them," continued Christopher jauntily, with a
twinkle in his green eyes, "one nice, juicy, psychological
theory which I expounded to Hoskins on Monday"
"Yes?"
"I told him that there was only one person in the
neighborhood who could possibly have done anything so
preposterous and so illogical as to murder either of those
girls—Mrs. Burwell!"
"Mrs. Burwell!" the Archdeacon jumped up excitedly
while Sir Howard glared at his blotting pad. "Why, who
is she? I haven't met her yet, have I? I haven't even heard
of her!"
"O she's not a real person," said Christopher with an
amused smile at the Archdeacon's excitement and Sir
Howard's obvious annoyance, "she's what Coleridge
would call 'a blessed ghost,' but I call her a hell cat. Inci-
dentally she was once my grandmother! She'd have done
it if she could, the old virago, but unfortunately she's
dead—yes, dead as the proverbial mutton and far more
decomposed!"
"Dead and decomposed!" echoed the Archdeacon, in


COTTAGE SINISTER
III
the voice of one who is doubtful as to whether or not it
was the right moment to laugh at some obscure joke.
"Yes dead, and safely buried, thank the Lord. You
needn't even bother to dig the old hag up, she's so dead,
so very, very dead. If you can't take my word for it, ask
father."
The Archdeacon turned to Sir Howard with a puzzled
frown.
"The—er—lady to whom my son so irrelevantly and so
irreverently refers, is—or rather was—my wife's mother,
Mrs. Burwell. She has been dead now for over two years,
and this fact alone should spare her the exaggerated,
though perhaps not entirely undeserved, epithets which
my son heaps upon her. She was certainly not a woman
of—er—prepossessing or pleasant disposition, it'is true,
but I fail to see that she or her foibles can have any
bearing whatsoever on this present case."
"There seem to be enough living people mixed up in
this without bothering our heads over those who are
dead," said the Archdeacon with reproachful benevolence.
"'The evil that men do lives after them,'" quoted
Christopher blithely. "Well, I've shot my bolt, and given
you all the progeny of my teeming brain—without, appar-
ently, being overwhelmed with appreciation! Now I'm off.
So long, father. Good-bye, Inspector, I'm afraid there's
nothing else I can tell you that Hoskins couldn't do much
better. He was in on the ground floor, you know." He
had just passed out of the room whistling a cheerful
tune, when his father called him back. The red head reap-
peared round the door, but the rest of the body remained
modestly invisible in the passage.


112
COTTAGE SINISTER
"May a mere father inquire where his son is going?"
"Certainly, I'm going to Canterbury in the Morris
Cowley—be back tomorrow."
"And what on earth are you going to do in Canter-
bury?"
"Call on the Archbishop "the red head disap-
peared and the door was shut with quite unnecessary
vehemence.
Sir Howard shook his head sadly and tried unsuccess-
fully to look like an old and broken man. The Archdeacon
did his best to appear sympathetic and solicitous, but, in
reality, he was secretly amused. It titillated his sense of
humor to witness unappropriate frivolity and mild domes-
tic discord in the homes of the aristocracy, and he thought
of the entertaining stories he would have to tell his wife
on his return to London.
They talked for a while longer, mostly on the subject
of the inquest, which, Sir Howard said, would have to
be postponed until the following Monday. Finally the
Archdeacon betook himself back to the Crosby Arms,
where he topped off his breakfast kidneys with a large
lunch of tripe and onions, followed by a monstrous, if
somewhat incompatible, dish of strawberries and cream.
He rose from the table at peace with all the world—
he had a cast iron digestion—and was just proceeding
towards his room when a breathless voice informed him
that he was wanted by London on the long-distance tele-
phone. He followed the voice reluctantly.
"Hullo, are you there ?" there was no mistaking
Inspector Norris' cockney accent.
"Nothing much to report, Archdeacon, but I thought


COTTAGE SINISTER
you'd like to know how we've got along so far. I've been
running around on the trail of Amy Lubbock, but haven't
found out anything particularly exciting. She had quite a
few followers it seems, but none that would 'a been
likely to do her in that way. There was a member of the
Constabulary, P. C. Haines by name, as apparently
thought her a 'bit of orl right' as the hoi polloi say. Ad-
mits he had also walked out once or twice with her sister,
too, but there doesn't seem to have been much to it any-
haow. Only suspicious thing about Isabel is that she
bought a lot of new clothes jest before she left taoun.
Aperiently they cost a deal more than the average lydy's
maid can afford. New too—not castoffs from some of the
nobs—we know that 'cos we tryced 'em. Oh, and you might
be interested to know that Hon. Mrs. Ribson—Isabel's
mistress—told me that Lady Crosby was at her house
Sunday, and she saw her again at a meeting on Monday
—just in case you want an alibi for her lydyship." Norris
chuckled noisily. "I don't want to say anything yet, but
we are on a trail that may lead to Myra Braoun. Will call
you at once if we run her to earth, and that will probably
be the end of this here cyse. Cherchey la femme, I sye,
and if you find her!"
The Archdeacon interrupted impatiently. "Any news
of those foodstuffs—the tea things, you know, which I
sent up to the Yard last night for analysis?"
"'Arf a mo, 'arf a mo, Archdeacon," Norris was al-
ways mortally afraid that someone would steal his thun-
der. "I was just coming to that. Doc. Fisher was working
on it all the morning and says that he's thoroughly ex-
amined the contents of the tea-pot, milk jug, sugar bowl,


114 COTTAGE SINISTER
bread 'n butter, and the dregs in the cups, and he can't
find a tryce of any poison, known or unknown! He says
he'll stake his perfessional reputation that they're O-kye,
and that's that. Any news your end?"
The Archdeacon gave his colleague a brief summary
of his findings in Crosby-Stourton and then rang off after
a few acrimonious civilities. Norris was not his type at
all.
Lighting his favorite Dunhill pipe, the Archdeacon
went upstairs to his room—the one place where he could
count on being alone and undisturbed. It was time, he re-
flected, for what he would waggishly call his "cold colla-
tion" of facts. Indeed, there came a moment in every
case when the Archdeacon took the facts that he had
gradually garnered in the well-ordered store house of his
brain, and set them down on paper by the light of cold,
hard reason. He then applied some of the rules of ele-
mentary mathematics. "Given all the facts and factors,"
he would tell himself, "mathematics cannot lie." And even
in a case like the present, he felt that he had sufficient
data to plot a fairly presentable graph or work out a very
quadratic equation!
He removed his coat, rolled up his sleeves and sat
down at a table that would have been the pride and envy
of any antique collector. He pulled out his note-book and
squared paper. His usual method was to divide his con-
clusions under the main headings, MOTIVE, MEANS
and OPPORTUNITY, and then to write down in due
order any possibilities which the facts of the case war-
ranted, however remote and unlikely they might appear
on the surface. The mathematical mind took no cogni-


COTTAGE SINISTER
115
zance of birth, character, personal dislikes or prejudices,
but tried to be as impartial and aloof as if the Arch-
deacon were solving the mystery with chessman in an
African desert, without ever having been near the village
of Crosby-Stourton.
In a neat, even hand he wrote as follows:
MOTIVE
A. FOR KILLING AMY
In view of the facts collated, who had a possible motive
for killing Amy Lubbock?
1. Isabel—Jealousy. Amy was more attractive to
men, and Norris' London investigation shows
that she may have stolen at least one of Isabel's
followers. Ref. also Mrs. Greene's story, and Isa-
bel's dying words referring to a policeman ( ?P.
C. Haines).
2. Lucy—Ambition. Anticipating a rich and impor-
tant marriage with young Crosby Lucy might
conceivably be trying to get rid of her lowly
family one by one.
3. Cockett—Passion. Rumor said that Cockett had
always loved Amy and that she had refused him
repeatedly. Disappointed passion might have led
him eventually to murder her.
4. X—some person unknown for motive unknown.
(This last shadowy figure always appeared in the Arch-
deacon's little calculations, and was his one and only con-
cession to the infinitesimal fallibility of mathematics and
a lack of omniscience in himself.)


Il6 COTTAGE SINISTER
B. FOR KILLING ISABEL
1. Cockett—Revenge, either for past wrongs,
(anonymous letter, etc.) or because he suspected
(or knew) that she killed Amy.
2. Lucy—Same as A2.
3. Any villager who knew or suspected Mrs.
Greene's evidence. Isabel, being of the blackmail-
ing type, seems to have created universal dislike.
4. X—as in A4.
Remembering with a certain amount of bitterness a
notorious case in which the whole issue had been clouded
because a murderer had killed a housemaid in mistake for
her—and presumably his own—mistress, the Archdeacon
had subsequently made it a point to figure on the possi-
bility of the murderer's missing his aim. In "The House-
maid Murder" the police of two continents had been
baffled to explain a motive which had turned out eventu-
ally to be merely a foolish mistake. In the present case
there was quite a reasonable possibility that Mrs. Lubbock
or Lucy had been the intended victims, since they were
the normal inmates of the cottage and the two elder girls
had been there by accident. He, therefore, decided to
work out a list of possible motives for killing the youngest
girl and her mother.
MOTIVE (Cont'd.)
C. FOR KILLING LUCY
1. Isabel—Jealousy. Might possibly have aimed at
killing a younger and more attractive sister and
then committed suicide.
2. Christopher—A crime of passion. Unlikely, be-


COTTAGE SINISTER
117
cause evidence seemed to point to the fact that
Lucy was not averse to his attentions.
3. Dr. Hoskins—Passion. The matron hinted at
Lucy's hold over him. Unlikely.
4. Sir Howard or Lady Crosby—To prevent her
marriage with Chistopher.
5. Vivien Darcy—Jealousy. Sir Howard hinted she
was in love with Christopher and that he was in-
fatuated with Lucy.
6. Almost any of the villagers—For some real or
fancied wrong since Lucy was universally dis-
liked as a "snob".
7. X—As in A4.
A formidable list of possible motives for doing away
with Lucy, he reflected grimly.
D. FOR KILLING MRS. LUBBOCK
1. Lucy same as A2.
2. Sir Howard or Lady Crosby for some (un-
known) reason connected with the past, or to get
her out!of Lady's Bower (unlikely).
3. X—as above.
He smiled to himself as he pictured the faces of some
of these people if they could see their names down on his
lists as potential suspects, with outlandish, and probably
undreamed of motives attributed to them!
He then went to his next main group of headings.
MEANS
E. Who of the persons implicated could possibly have ob-
tained a complicated drug without running the risk
of easy detection?


COTTAGE SINISTER
1. Dr. Hoskins—Easily.
2. Dr. Crosby—Easily.
3. Lucy Lubbock—Easily from Cottage Hospital.
4. Mrs. Lubbock—Possibly. She had been nurse to
old Mrs. Burwell.
5. Vivien Darcy—Possibly. Miss Pinkney had men-
tioned that she visited the Dispensary at the
Hospital.
6. Lady Crosby—From one of the hospitals do-
nated by her.
7. Sir Howard—Less easily but quite possibly from
same source.
8. X—from source unknown.
OPPORTUNITY
F. Who was in the vicinity of the cottage on the day of
each death so as to be in a position to administer the
poison to each victim?
CASE OF AMY
Fatal dose must have been taken between the hours of
six and ten-thirty.
1. Lucy—returned to Lady's Bower about six.
2. Mrs. Lubbock—all the time.
3. Isabel Lubbock—all the time.
4. Cockett—in cottage most of evening.
5. Sir Howard—called earlier in day.
6. Vivien Darcy—ditto.
7. Mrs. Greene and Miss Coke.
8. X—who might be the "dark stranger" described
by Buss.
1


COTTAGE SINISTER
119
CASE OF ISABEL
1. Lucy—In Lady's Bower all day.
2. Mrs. Lubbock—ditto.
3. Dr. Hoskins—morning and evening.
4. Dr. Crosby—ditto.
5. Sir Howard—called in afternoon.
6. Vivien Darcy—ditto.
7. Cockett—tea time and later.
8. Mrs. Greene and Miss Coke and the villagers,
about tea time.
9. X—very doubtful, as anyone would have seen
him.
Again the Archdeacon smiled to himself as he thought
of how Sir Howard would bluster if he knew that he
was down on the list cheek by jowl with the common
village folk. He even smiled at his own impertinence in
putting him there at all, and had the pleasant feeling that
he was committing a mild sort of sacrilege. It was typical
of the man, however, that he should tabulate all his poten-
tial suspects—whether prince or pauper—with a calm
and unbiased pencil.
He next reviewed his findings at length, and applied to
them certain little mathematical principles which had
often come in useful before. By the time he had finished
his calculations and covered his squared paper with weird
and wonderful hieroglyphics, X came out on top (as he
usually did) with the highest score; Lucy second, Cockett
third, and the rest (with the possible exceptions of Vivien
Darcy and Dr. Hoskins) as "also rans." Not a very signal
triumph, he reflected ruefully, for the science of mathe-
matics.


120
COTTAGE SINISTER
He then proceeded to jot down a few disconnected
facts in connection with the actual administering of the
problematic poison. They ran something as follows:
When was the fatal dose administered in each
case?
Dr. Hoskins says action of drug may be imme-
diate, or slightly delayed.
Amy drank tea from 5 :30 till 6:30 and then again
during the latter part of the evening. Presumably she
took one Dormital tablet around 11. Is it safe to
presume that the Dormital tablets were, as Dr. Hos-
kins suggests, accidental and without bearing on the
death?
Was the illness of which she complained to Isabel
the beginning of the action of the poison? (Note.
See Hoskins on this.)
Isabel drank tea off and on throughout the eve-
ning until her death, which was sudden.
Was the rinsing out of her cup deliberate or acci-
dental?
What was poisoned? Is it safe to presume that it
must have been the individual teacup of the victim
since Norris had reported that the tea in the pot, the
sugar, milk and bread and butter, were free from all
traces of poison? If poison had been put in the tea-
pot, the milk jug, or the sugar, would not all the
rest have been poisoned too?
If the action of the poison was immediate, who
were the persons present in both instances immedi-
ately before symptoms appeared? (Mrs. Lubbock,
Lucy, Cockett.)
These constituted a few delicate problems to keep him
busy on a midsummer afternoon, he reflected. Problems,


IX
Buss Triumphant
a lthou(?h the Archdeacon had been most assiduous
l\ during his first day in Crosby-Stourton there was
one stone which so far he had left unturned, or
rather, he had left the turning of it to P. C. Buss, with
the casual injunction to report progress if any.
But Buss was too soft-hearted, too easily impressed by
the counsels of others, to suspect anyone of wilfully be-
littling his own. No, as he saw it, the detective from
London had been tired, had been confused, had been too
alien (poor fellow!) with his London speech and his
London clothes, to understand the true worth and sagacity
of his Crosby-Stourton colleague and to attach proper
weight to the mysterious stranger whose presence at the
scene of the crime had been so ably described to him dur-
ing tea at the Crosby Arms.
Police Constable Buss heaved a sigh of genuine pity,
therefore, as he strolled down the village street at ten
o'clock on the Wednesday morning, and realized that he
himself must follow up his own clue, run his own dark
stranger to earth, and, though he really hated to do it,
carry away the laurels himself from under the disap-
pointed nose of the great London detective. He was a
little vague about just how this was to be done, but he
placed great trust in a Kind Providence, and this morn-
ing a Kind Providence did not play him false. Instead,
122


COTTAGE SINISTER
123
it led him past Miss Sophie Coke's little shop, and it led
Miss Sophie Coke to step out onto her doorstep and wave
him a cheery greeting. Miss Coke had heard by now (as
who in Crosby-Stourton had not!) of the Archdeacon's
arrival on the previous evening, and was consumed with
curiosity.
"Good morning, Constable," she said. "I hear there's a
great detective down from London to help you."
She looked about hopefully in search of the Constable's
new assistant, disguised, perhaps, as a pedlar or a lilac
bush, but seeing no one more exotic than Buss himself,
she sighed and went on casually:
"I know it seems very trivial when there's a Fiend
among us, but I do wish you'd arrest the man who drove
past here yesterday evening if you catch him. Drove by
so fast, he did, that all the jars rattled on my shelves, and
I was afraid the sixpenny lead soldiers would fall off the
top shelf and get mixed with the tupenny ones on the
second from the bottom. I looked out the window after
him, and he turned the corner down there toward Edith's
Ford in a cloud of dust and the chickens squawking in
every direction. A reg'lar bad 'un, he was, to drive so
fast, and one I'd never seen before—at least, I don't think
so."
"A Strange Man?" asked Buss with gratifying interest.
"Strange," said Miss Coke grimly, "and a Toff!" after
which terrible indictment she made as if to withdraw
again to her little counter. But Buss stepped up the path,
fixed her with a searching eye, and delivered himself of
an august command:
"Tell me all," he said in sepulchral tones.


124
COTTAGE SINISTER
"Well, I never!" said Miss Coke recoiling. Then with
a cautious glance up and down the road she said in a
piercing whisper: "Was it Lady's Bower you were think-
ing of? Surely you don't think"
"No," said Buss. "Not yet. According to English Law,
Miss Coke, a man is innocent until he becomes guilty.
Miss Coke, I represent the Law in Crosby-Stourton. Tell
me all."
Miss Coke smiled a confidential smile, adjusted her
spectacles, smoothed her apron, drew a deep breath, and
suddenly paused while a blank expression replaced a rap-
turously informative one:
"That's all," she said woefully.
"All? Think, Miss Coke, think! A life, many lives, may
hang balancing."
Miss Coke thought. A frown puckered her forehead,
and at last the anxious Buss saw a gleam of satisfaction
light up her eyes.
"Yes," she said, "it was yesterday morning. It'd gone
out of my head because it was not long after I'd heard of
the second Lubbock visitation (may God preserve us
all!). But I noticed this motor car because I'd never seen
it before in the village. I didn't see the driver because the
car was standing empty, but I'm sure it's the same one
that drove past last night. And where do you think it was
standing?" Miss Coke lowered her voice and looked over
her shoulder as if the shelves of her little shop contained
each a malicious eaves dropper.
"In front of the Post Office," she breathed.
"Ah," said Buss with official reserve.
"Ah," said Miss Coke with maidenly dignity.


128
COTTAGE SINISTER
gate, dragging a large plank for a fence which he was
repairing.
"Look where you're going," said Buss cheerfully.
"Look where you're going," said Cockett. "I can't."
He dropped the plank and turned a white face and a pair
of searching dark eyes on the village constable.
"Found anything yet?" he muttered. "You know what
I mean."
Buss looked wise. "Ah," he said. Then an idea struck
him.
"Look here, Will, they say you were at Lady's Bower
on Sunday evening. That's so, isn't it?"
"Yes, I was. What of that?"
"Did you notice anyone else hanging about? Any
stranger?"
"Yes, there was a man kind of looking at Lady's
Bower as I came up. I think he had a car. I think I'd
passed it just down the road—a Sunbeam, very old model,
as I remember. I've seen it once since, going in the direc-
tion of Edith's Ford."
"To Edith's Ford!" A sudden memory that Miss Coke
had mentioned the same place flooded the constable's
mind.
"Good-bye, Will. 1 can't waste any more time talking."
"Where are you going in such a hurry?" asked Cockett,
stooping to pick up his plank again.
"To confer my suspicions," shouted Buss as he strode
away in search of his bicycle.
The small market town of Edith's Ford lay quietly
dozing in a warm, noonday sun as P. C. Buss pedalled
vigorously up its main street, dismounted under the sign


COTTAGE SINISTER
129
of the Winged Dolphin, and removed the trouser clips
from his trousers. Once inside the Dolphin's friendly
doors, and seated before a generous mug of beer and a
large slab of bread and cheese, Buss allowed himself to
do a little strutting.
"Out on an important job!" he announced to the bar-
maid as he wiped his streaming forehead. The ride had
been hot and the constable had not spared himself.
"Are you?" said the girl, polite but laconic.
"Yuss. Murder. Have you heard of the Crosby-Stour-
ton murders?"
"Old Farmer Feathers had three sheep killed by a dog
last night," said the girl, trying hard to follow her guest's
conversational lead. Buss sighed and buried his face in
his mug. Edith's Ford, he reflected, was a thoroughly
self-centered place, no doubt more to be pitied than
blamed.
Indeed, as far as concerned murders in Crosby-Stour-
ton six miles away, the inhabitants of Edith's Ford were,
like the late Queen, not amused. They were not even
interested. Local gossip (very local), amateur theatricals,
and the energetic if puzzling proceedings of the Women's
Institute absorbed their attention. Edith's Ford was con-
siderably larger than Crosby-Stourton, and boasted sev-
eral of the more obvious signs of progress; a garage
with an elaborate petrol pump, painted a tasty mauve;
a track for horse-racing; two chemist's shops in deadly
rivalry; a nine-hole golf course of erratic proportions;
seven pubs and two hotels. Thus it will be seen that the
constable from Crosby-Stourton had undertaken no mean
task when he set out to find A Strange Man somewhere


COTTAGE SINISTER
I've provided because I'm a far-seeing man of busi-
ness. . . ." Here he stopped, aware that his audience had
left him. Buss was already at the bar, ordering himself a
glass of stout and staring at George Burwell, whose name
and face were vaguely familiar to him. Burwell returned
the stare with languid amusement. He was a stocky man
of perhaps fifty, with thinning, dark hair, lugubrious eyes
with curiously large pupils, and a drooping mouth.
"//' said Buss finally, "am The Law. Who are you?"
"'Angels and ministers of grace defend us,' " said Bur-
well in mock alarm as he ordered another drink.
"Yes," said Buss anxiously, "but who else are you,
and what were you doing in Crosby-Stourton yesterday
and Sunday?"
"Looking for my sister," said Burwell solemnly. "Too
much of water think'st thou, my poor sister, and there-
fore drink I whisky and soda. You see, Constable, I have
a sister in Crosby-Stourton. Can't a brother go and look
for his sister without being surrounded by a ravening
pack of policemen?"
Buss glanced apologetically down at his own two knees.
Then suddenly the wavering resemblance that had been
haunting him formed and attached itself in his mind.
"I know who your sister is," he announced triumph-
antly. "I know."
"Friend of yours?" inquired Burwell politely.
"She's Lady Crosby, that's who she is, though I never
knew she had a brother. Why, you're one of the real
gentry."
Burwell waved a complacent hand and made the Con-


COTTAGE SINISTER
133
When the Archdeacon, having just completed his
mathematical exercises, emerged from his room at about
six o'clock and rammed Buss amidships, he was not
altogether surprised by the encounter. He was used to
the helpful vagaries of local policemen, and had indeed
wondered once or twice during the day how the village
bulwark had been occupying himself.. He was not pre-
pared, however, for the appearance of George Burwell,
who strolled nonchalantly into the room behind his ele-
phantine captor, looked the Archdeacon up and down
with a cool scrutiny, and turned to adjust his monocle
for inspecting an old print that hung against the wall.
Yet, beneath this easy exterior the Archdeacon thought
he glimpsed a wary, defensive expression, and where,
oh, where had he seen that face and that particular ex-
pression before? He was soon enlightened. Buss, having
announced the "missing link" and "percolator of crimes"
proceeded to a more detailed introduction.
"This," he said, with a flourish of his great arm, "is
Mr. G. Burwell, brother of our own Lady Crosby, just
now living at the Duchess of Somerset in Edith's Ford,
and inextricably present at the scene of the crime on Sun-
day evening as well as probably involved with Miss V.
Darcy yesterday evening at Podd's Corner."
"Some of which is true, and some of which certainly
isn't," said Burwell turning away from the print and
dropping into a chair. "Allow me to present my card,
Mr. —er?"
"Inge," said the Archdeacon, a little puzzled by the
man's manner, but putting it down to an admirable aris-
tocratic sang froid.


134
COTTAGE SINISTER
"Mr. Inge. Not 'Reverend Sir,' but 'Inspector,' I sup-
pose? Yes. I gathered as much from our ponderous friend
on the way over. Charming drive we had! You'd hardly
believe it! And I gathered that someone's been doing a
nice little job of murder over here in a place called Lady's
Bower. Never heard of it myself, though, according to
Brother Buss, it belongs to that Ass Unpolicied, Cynthia's
husband. What?"
"Quite," said the Archdeacon, ignoring this signal lack
of respect for the landed gentry. "But I don't see just
what connection?" He looked inquiringly at Buss.
"Mr. G. Burwell," said Buss doggedly, "was as it were
'anging on the garden gate of Lady's Bower on Sunday
evening last at about six o'clock, and was seen by Mrs.
Green last night at ten o'clock in close contamination
with Miss V. Darcy at Podd's Corner. Ask 'im to deny it.
Ask 'im."
"Don't bother," said Burwell. "I don't deny it—the
first part of it. If Lady Bower's that charming cottage
down the road there" (he waved a vague hand towards
the window) "just on the edge of the Crosby estate, I
did stop. Who wouldn't? It's a gem. I was just strolling
about the village anyway, and I stopped to look at the
prettiest thing I saw in it. If the yokels choose to mur-
der each other under my very nose / can't help it, can
I? As for Miss V. Darcy, goodman Buss flatters me. I
know her by repute as a rich and handsome young lady,
but I've never set eyes on her. No, last night I broke
bread with mine host at the Duchess of Somerset. I then
joined some fellow guests, a Colonel Matraver and his
wife and their niece—(have you ever noticed, my dear


136
COTTAGE SINISTER
like myself to have a very rich sister who goes thrifty-
thrifty instead of fifty-fifty. Yet so it is. A hard case,
but mine own, and at the moment a loan would come in
very handy, if you can call it a loan when the money
should have come to me in the first place anyway. If my
father'd been alive I'm sure he'd never have allowed my
mother to leave it all to Cynthia. And Cynthia, though
not a bad egg as sisters go, hasn't quite that understand-
ing of the Bacchanalian point of view. ... So I've just
come along on the chance. But I haven't seen Cynthia yet.
It takes careful handling. You see, sometimes she's not
so glad to see me as—at other times. And Sir Howard,
I may say, never expresses cordiality. So, not knowing
Cynthia was in London, it just occurred to me that I
might run across her somewhere about the village, observe
her, and find out how the land lay. But so far I've not
been successful, though I was here again yesterday morn-
ing on the same errand. A family idyll, what?"
The Archdeacon nodded and lit a cigarette. He had no
reason to disbelieve this story, nor was it, indeed, one
which sounded as if anyone would have cared to invent it.
However, his eyes narrowed as he observed Burwell
closely, for his wide experience had enabled him to letect
almost at once the characteristic nervous symptoms of the
drug-addict.
"And Monday?" he went on tenaciously. "On Monday
at tea time Isabel Lubbock, sister of Amy, was also poi-
soned. Could you account to us for Monday afternoon
and evening, or throw any light that might help us?"
Burwell laughed. "Got you there, too," he said. "On
Monday I played golf with the Colonel—eighteen holes


I38 COTTAGE SINISTER
deacon was called to the telephone, and found Norris on
the other end, speaking from London:
"That you, Archdeacon? Hullo, are you there? Yes?
It's abaowt Myra Braown. Listen to this: Myra Braown
was Isabel Lubbock herself! Yes, just managed to tryce
it through the post office, where Isabel Lubbock 'as re-
cently deposited £480 in notes, under the nyme of Myra
Braown. What? Yes, we're trying to have the notes
tryced. Let you know if we succeed. That's all for the
moment. Looks like blackmyle, I should think. What?
What? Oh, good-bye."
The Archdeacon hung up and thoughtfully rubbed his
hands together. Blackmail, Lubbocks, rich people in-
volved, better keep a close watch on them all. . . . He
strolled back to the front door of the Crosby Arms for
a glimpse of the evening sky. Buss lingered large and
disconsolate in the doorway, preparing to take his leave.
As the Archdeacon came up the Constable cast a mourn-
ful glance in the direction of Edith's Ford.
"What's the matter, Buss?"
"A tragedy, sir, of major impertinence."
"That's too bad. What's happened?"
"My bicycle, sir. I left it at the Duchess of Somerset
when I came back with Mr. G. Burwell in his car. He'll
probably find it there when he returns. Do you think, sir,
that it will be safe overnight in the hands of such a dis-
soluble character?"


X
Vivien Explains
Thursday morning dawned clear and still, and, in
midsummer fashion, quite incredibly early. By the
time the Archdeacon sat down to his second suc-
culent breakfast at the Crosby Arms, the day wore al-
ready that sedate look which a respectable morning puts
on when the disconcerting mystery of dawn has been
decently got over and forgotten about. All the same, the
Archdeacon glanced out of the window with just a hint
of unrest in his eye, and allowed himself to picture an
all-day ramble through the fields, with a quiet book and a
pipe in the evening to top it off.
He sighed, and recalled his thoughts, with an effort, to
the business in hand. For the present, he reflected, there
was no use in recalculating his formulas. It was true that
the presence of George Burwell and the identity of Myra
Brown were two new factors that might affect his analy-
sis of probabilities, but the second of these factors he
regarded as still incomplete, pending the tracing of the
source of the notes which Isabel Lubbock had recently
deposited under the name of Myra Brown.
No, for the present there were just two little jobs to
tackle: the checking up of George Burwell's alibis at
Edith's Ford, and one other matter which wanted rather
delicate handling. In spite of Sir Howard's anger at the
mention of Vivien Darcy's name in connection with
i39


COTTAGE SINISTER
141
politely, he would find Miss Darcy at the stables. The
maid pointed out the way, and the Archdeacon strolled
off, resolutely restraining his feet from hurrying him out
of the dangerous field of vision of Sir Malcolm's study
windows.
At the stables Vivien Darcy received him casually, gave
no visible sign of agitation when she heard the open
sesame of Scotland Yard, and led him into the harness
room, where, as she put it, "we can yarn till the cows
come home." The Archdeacon sat down a little stiffly
while Vivien perched herself on a handy saddle, and lit
a cigarette. She was wearing riding breeches, and her
short, curly, auburn hair was touselled like a boy's. She
attacked it with a pocket comb, but gave it up with a
little grimace while the Archdeacon was still looking curi-
ously about him.
"One of these 'wind-blown bobs,' " she explained, "that
take half an hour to arrange. Well, I can guess your
mission in Crosby-Stourton, but what's brought you to
Somerton Court?"
The Archdeacon sensed friendliness and interest in her
manner, but his reply was guarded. What were mere in-
tuitions compared to mathematics?
"Some of my investigations," he said, "have led me
here. Of course, when anything so unusual as—murder—
takes place in a village like this there's bound to be a lot
of talk, and most of it irrelevant. But several people have
mentioned your name in connection with—er—the
Crosby family, and also the Lubbock family, and I hoped
you could help me to clear up one or two points. In the
first place" (here the Archdeacon's voice suddenly con-


142
COTTAGE SINISTER
veyed a hint of menace), "I gather that you were seen
with an unidentified man at a place called Podd's Corner
the night before last at about ten o'clock."
Vivien looked surprised. "Yes," she said calmly, "I
daresay I was. But I didn't know anyone had recognized
us. Who told you?"
"It was, I suppose," said the Archdeacon, disregarding
her question, "Christopher Crosby—young Dr. Crosby, I
should say?"
Vivien stared at him for a moment, then burst into a
merry peal of laughter.
"Chris? Good Lord, man, you must be off your chump!
You can't have learned much in the village if you haven't
gathered that Christopher Crosby is head over heels in
love with Lucy Lubbock. It's as good as a penny novelette
and quite the village romance! Anyway, why should he
be meeting me after dark at the crossroads and all that?
Haven't our families thrown us at each other's heads ever
since we were two? And aren't they all standing round
with their tongues hanging out of their mouths waiting
for the first maiden blush and the first youthful stammer?
Sorry, but you're after the wrong fox, my friend!"
"However," said the Archdeacon stubbornly, "there
was someone with you, and any stranger in the village
these days has to be followed up. Will you tell me who it
was?"
"No," said Vivien abruptly. "I won't, and I can't see
that it's any of your business. But I'll tell you this if you
like: it has nothing to do with your murders."
"I could judge of that better if you'd answer my ques-
tion," said the Archdeacon with a steely timbre in his


COTTAGE SINISTER I43
voice. "In the meantime, it's at least useful to know that
young Crosby really is infatuated with the Lubbock girl.
I thought it might be just rumor." He watched her nar-
rowly, but could detect no trace of rancor in her answer.
"Well," she said cheerfully, "he certainly is. And I
think the poor chap's in a terrible state, what with her
family dropping about her like flies this way. I don't
wonder he's jumpy."
"Nor I," said the Archdeacon grimly. "Especially when
her relatives might reasonably be considered as an obstacle
to his marriage with Lucy."
Vivien paused and stared at him with her cigarette held
motionless half way to her lips.
"Well!" she exclaimed. "I am a rotter. Here I go hug-
ging my own little secret, and spilling out Christopher's
for the asking. You aren't suspecting any nonsense about
him, are you? Christopher's as straight as they come.
He's a topping chap. And I suspect he knows all about
my indiscretion too, but he'd never let you pump him
the way you've pumped me."
"Supposing you tell me yourself, then?" said the Arch-
deacon. "The more so as what you have to tell may put
—your friend Crosby—in a better light."
Vivien was quick to see that it was not "your friend
Crosby" alone who needed, in the Archdeacon's eye, to be
put in a better light.
"I see," she said slowly. "You won't believe I'm not
in love with Christopher. Well, I'm not, and small credit
to your sleuthing if you still think so. But I suppose you'd
better have the story. The truth of it is that we're all in
the same boat. Only for heaven's sake don't tell Father.


144
COTTAGE SINISTER
You see, I'm engaged to Jo Hoskins—you know—the
village doctor. But Father won't hear of it—a lot of non-
sense about social position and what not. And Jo hasn't
a penny except what he earns, so there we are. I'm in
favor of eloping, but the dear man is proud and of course
I like that about him too. You've met him of course? Not
an Adonis on wheels, and as near-sighted as a bat, but
absolutely the genuine article and just the man for me.
I was at the boiling point the other night because Father'd
just been laying back his ears and raging about all the
Darcys having been gentlemen and never disgracing them-
selves by doing anything useful, and I had to see Jo and
let off steam. But I think we'll come out all right. Lucy
will be a great help, because of course Christopher is
Father's choice, and when Father finds that Chris won't
be accommodating anyway, he'll be more likely to listen
to me when I tell him about Jo."
The Archdeacon smiled benignly and lit a cigarette.
What a story all this would make when he got home to
his wife! Aloud, he said,
"Thank you very much for telling me, Miss Darcy. I
shall, of course, respect your confidence. Then I may
take it that the meeting at Podd's Corner night before
last was with Dr. Hoskins?"
"There's detecting," said Vivien with mock admiration.
"It was, Inspector, though I fail to see how you
guessed. . . ."
The Archdeacon raised a playful hand. He flattered
himself that he was not the man to be literal when the
situation demanded a lightness of touch.


146
COTTAGE SINISTER
in. He hurried to the telephone where it was a matter of
a few moments before he heard Norris' cockney accents:
"All quiet on the Eastern Front, Archdeacon—we've not
yet succeeded in trycing the notes, but we've worked on
that bottle you sent daown from the village 'ospital. The
experts say it 'asn't been opened for years—the dust
round the cork proves that much but its deadly p'ison all
right. A grain or two would kill a horse. . . ."
The Archdeacon hung up, disappointed, and climbed
the stairs, unlocked the drawer of his table and took out
his squared paper and his lists. At least he could incor-
porate Vivien's information into his analysis of possible
motives. An interval of figuring brought him to his re-
sults. Vivien's score was, of course, reduced, though there
were two possibilities that he could not entirely disregard:
the possibility that she really was in love with Christopher,
in spite of her story, and the possibility that the story
was true as far as she went, but that Hoskins, no less than
Christopher, was in love with Lucy. Mrs. Bedford at the
hospital had hinted that Hoskins treated Lucy with more
than the usual deference of a young doctor towards a
capable young nurse. However, that implication might
easily spring from envy, and be accounted for by Lucy's
general unpopularity. On the whole, he concluded, Miss
Vivien Darcy came out of it rather well, and Sir Howard
would be pleased at this exoneration of his favorite.
Sir Howard . . . the Archdeacon paused and glanced
thoughtfully at his results. Sir Howard would not be
pleased by a glimpse of his own score, which, together
with Lady Crosby's and Christopher's, had risen slightly
by reason of the virtual elimination of Vivien, and the


COTTAGE SINISTER
147
confirmation of Christopher's attachment to Lucy. He
tapped his pencil on the table and smiled as he thought
of Norris' London alibis for Lady Crosby on the Sunday
and the Monday. No, Sir Howard would not be pleased,
nor, of course, would Sir Malcolm Darcy, who now made
a tentative appearance in the lists on the grounds of his
desire to have young Crosby as a son-in-law.
The Archdeacon allowed himself an indulgent little
smile for his meticulous recording of even the most re-
mote possibilities. But the smile faded as he thought of
George Burwell, and turned to the task of fitting that
gentleman into his calculations. The connection seemed
tenuous and obscure. At length the Archdeacon threw
down his pencil and bethought him that Burwell's alibis
in Edith's Ford remained unchecked. Better see to that
before calculating any further. Just as well to keep an
eye on the man, too.
He got up and strolled to the window. Should he tele-
phone to Colonel Matraver at the Duchess of Somerset,
and ask about Burwell? Or should he borrow Archer's
car (which had been put at his disposal)? Or should
he . . . ?An idea struck him. He looked at his heavy
hunter. Nearing one o'clock, and a beautiful June day.
Edith's Ford, as he had already ascertained, lay some six
miles away through as lovely a stretch of country as any
in Somersetshire, and it was long since the Archdeacon's
walks had led him beyond the grey pavements and low-
lying smoke of London.
With something of the air of an incredulous school-boy
who has just been granted an unexpected half-holiday
and fears that it will be snatched away unless he takes


148
COTTAGE SINISTER
advantage of it at once, the Archdeacon made his prepara-
tions, locked up his figures in the drawer of his table, and
went downstairs.
An hour later, replete with lunch and contented in
heart, he sallied forth, leaving word with the barmaid
that if anyone asked for him, he could probably be found
at the Duchess of Somerset in Edith's Ford. He then
sauntered along the village street, left Miss Sophie Coke
palpitating with excitement over his purchase of an
eighteen-penny walking stick and a small tin of tobacco,
and struck out over the fields by way of a meandering
little by-path.
As he walked, he resolved in his mind the possibility
of some connection between two teasing facts, the fact
of George Burwell's impecuniosity, and the fact that
Isabel Lubbock had in all probability been blackmailing
some one shortly before her death. Was there a connec-
tion between these two, and, if so—if George Burwell
could have had any conceivable reason for murdering
Isabel, why had Amy also fallen victim? No one, so far
as he knew, had as yet said or discovered that there was
anything in Amy's past to warrant an attack upon her.
But at least, the discovery of Isabel's double identity,
and of her prying, blackmailing tendency, had set his
mind at rest on one point. If he had found nothing which
might possibly account for either murder, he would have
felt more disturbed for the safety of others in the village.
Having found, however, that Isabel had been universally
disliked, and that some mystery was attached to her re-
cent actions, he felt that he might more reasonably as-
sume that the murders were at an end, and that the


COTTAGE SINISTER 149
murderer, whoever he was, had accomplished his purpose
by Isabel's death. Thus communing with himself, he ex-
plained away any twinge of conscience which might have
accused him of deserting his job for the sake of a pleas-
ant walk. Besides, he reflected, he was really working as
he walked—he was thinking over and analysing every as-
pect of the case. . . . He strode happily along, swinging
his stick, under a hot June sun. He glanced about him at
the green sweet-smelling meadows, truly fields of aspho-
del to his town-wearied feet, and, some fifteen minutes
later, realized with a little start of surprise that he was
thinking of nothing at all.


XI
Low Tea in High Life
hile the Archdeacon was strolling away to
Edith's Ford, serene in the assumption that all
™ » was now safe at Lady's Bower, a new act in the
terrible drama of Crosby-Stourton was hurrying towards
its climax. The curtain rose gently enough. Lucy Lub-
bock had just cleared away the remains of her own and
her mother's simple mid-day meal when a knock brought
her to the door. She opened it to find Briggs, the chauf-
feur from the Hall, who handed her a note from Lady
Crosby. Lucy glanced quickly through it, and turned to
her mother with a smile of pleasure.
"Why, Mother, here's Lady Crosby asking us both
to come up to the Hall in her car. She says she'd have
come to see us to tell you all about how sorry she is, but
she's been a little unwell, so if you feel like going out
. . . Yes, Mother, do. It'd do you good to get away from
here. You haven't been out, you know, since. . . . But
here's your bonnet."
Old Mrs. Lubbock, protesting a little, yet still unable
to deny her instinct for obeying the aristocracy, allowed
herself to be persuaded, and within half an hour mother
and daughter were seated beside the capable Briggs on
the front seat of the great Daimler. The capable Briggs
had long since made the discovery that Lucy Lubbock was
a girl with points, and the fact that village gossip in the


COTTAGE SINISTER
last few days had turned her into something of a sinister
figure inspired him with a peculiar zest for what he would
otherwise have considered a more or less routine flirtation.
It was a relief to Lucy when, a little dashed by her stony
reception of his advances, he finally changed his tactics,
and launched amiably upon the story of his life.
In the servants' hall Lady Crosby's maid, Carrie, was
waiting with the message that her ladyship would like to
have a talk with Miss Lucy first, alone, in her boudoir.
Lucy greeted her old companions with quiet friendliness,
resolutely disregarding the coolness of her reception, and
saw that her mother was settled in a comfortable chair,
the center of much solicitude and enquiry, before she
departed in search of Lady Crosby.
Finding the door of the bed-room ajar, she crossed the
great untidy room towards the boudoir, tapped lightly on
the door and opened it after hearing Lady Crosby's
usual, quick "come in." As she closed it behind her, how-
ever, she stared for a second in surprise at her benefac-
tress, for Lady Crosby had risen from her chair and was
looking at Lucy with an expression of fear in her eyes,—
a look of anxious enquiry as if she were trying to read
the girl's inmost thoughts, and dreaded what she might
find there. Nor was Lucy reassured by the nervous little
laugh which broke the silence as Lady Crosby came for-
ward to greet her with an affectionate kiss.
"My dear child! So it's you! How good to see you, and
how sad to think of the things which have happened since
we met! However, I'm not going to talk about that. The
past's the past and it's all dead and gone. It's the future
that we must think about and plan for—you and I."


COTTAGE SINISTER
She led Lucy to the sofa where they both sat down.
"It was good of you to send for us, Lady Crosby,"
said Lucy. "Mother was terribly in need of a change."
"Your Mother," said Lady Crosby quickly. "Yes, of
course. I must see her later. So sad for her—so sad. But
I wanted a talk with you first about—oh, lots of things."
"About who did it?" said Lucy with a flash of in-
dignation.
"No, I'm completely at sea about that. We'll have to
leave that to the detective from London."
"The detective!" Lucy gave a little shiver.
"What I'm wondering about," went on Lady Crosby
hurriedly, "is what you think you'd better do. I shouldn't
think, of course, that you'd want to stay in Crosby-
Stourton."
Lucy's eyes widened at this suggestion.
"Not stay in Crosby-Stourton! But why? I doubt if
Mother would want to go anywhere else, especially just
now when she's feeling so upset and shaken. As for me,
I—I hardly think the detective from London would let
me . . ." her voice was steady, but fear showed in her
eyes, followed by relief at Lady Crosby's answer.
"Pooh, child, that could be arranged. He's in duty
bound to suspect everyone, but don't let that worry you.
No, I'm just thinking of the general situation in the
village. I'm wondering if you wouldn't perhaps both be
happier if you went, say, to Canada. I could probably
get an excellent post for you out there, and could arrange
for your mother to follow as soon as you were settled
and had a place for her to come to. They say Canada has
a most wonderful climate and lots of opportunities—or


COTTAGE SINISTER 153
perhaps I'm thinking of Australia—but I could probably
manage that too, if you preferred, or South Africa.
What do you think?"
Bewilderment showed in Lucy's face, but her answer
was firm.
"No, I don't think it's the thing to do. It's awfully
good of you to suggest taking all that trouble, but I really
don't think Mother could face going away. As for me,
I don't want to go unless it's for Mother's sake. You
don't think—I mean, you don't want us to go away be-
cause you think there's any more—danger?"
But her last words were swallowed up in the torrent
of Lady Crosby's lament.
"Just what Christopher said! Oh dear—how difficult
it all is! I hoped he was wrong. You see, I talked this
over with him night before last, when I first arrived from
London."
"I don't see," broke in Lucy indignantly, "what it has
to do with Dr. Crosby."
Lady Crosby paused and looked at her protegee
through curiously narrowed lids.
"You—don't—see," she began, separating her words
with emphasis, "what it has to do with Christopher?
But, my dear girl, perhaps you don't understand about
Christopher. Perhaps you don't understand what it means
to him, to me, what everything means."
She leaned forward, laying her hand on the girl's knee.
"Lucy, tell me this. Has he asked you to marry him?"
Lucy stiffened perceptibly, but her voice was calm.
"I don't see why you should ask me that," she said
slowly.


154
COTTAGE SINISTER
"I'm Christopher's mother," said Lady Cynthia.
"I . . . "said Lucy, and was silent.
"You don't understand," Lady Cynthia began again.
"It's all most unfortunate. Oh, you can't possibly know
how I've schemed for Christopher, how I've waited, how
I've hoped. If Christopher's career and his marriage
should justify me—justify me with my husband, I mean
—there's no telling—stranger things have happened. But
you see my husband thinks I've spoiled the boy completely,
what with his medicine and his career and his not much
caring about the title and the estate. And yet you can't
help what you think, can you? I daresay if my husband
had not been so—far away in the beginning I'd never
have bothered with very much else. But you must have
something, don't you think so ? Anyway, you see, it would
all be pretty miserable for you—the way the family would
feel if you married him, and you're proud, my dear. I
know that pride of yours. You couldn't be happy in such
a situation. Much better to go away and forget all about
it. You're young—so very young. Oh, God, to be young
and to be beautiful! You'll have the world at your feet.
Don't take the first little bit of it that offers. Oh, Lucy,
how I've hoped, how I've hoped!"
She was silent, staring in front of her, dry-eyed, though
there had been tears in her voice. Lucy's answer to this
incoherent outburst was sympathetic but non-committal.
She seemed thoroughly distressed by the distress of her
patroness, and at the same time a little nonplussed by its
vehemence.
"I'm terribly sorry," she said, "that you feel so upset
about—Christopher. But I don't see why I come into it
v


COTTAGE SINISTER
155
so much. It isn't because of me that Christopher wants
to be a doctor and earn his living. He'd be doing that—
anyway. If I were trying to persuade him to anything
different from his usual way of life. . . ."
She left the sentence unfinished. Lady Crosby turned
on her with a sudden energy.
"Then you are in love with him. You've as good as
admitted it. You are. Oh, if I only knew. . . ."
Lucy flushed and turned away.
"Well, and what if I am," she said in a low rebellious
voice.
Lady Crosby lay back in the corner of the sofa and
closed her eyes. When at length she spoke all resonance
had gone out of her tone and Lucy turned impulsively to-
wards her as if her own momentary flash of anger had
dissolved in a sudden pity.
"Listen to me, my child. If you really love him, I know
what that means. If I felt it had been merely ambition
on your part (as I couldn't help hoping) there'd have
been things I could have said—things I could have done.
But if you really love him, and I believe you do, then
there's only one thing I can say that will touch you (your
armor's so strong—for the present!). You see, I love
him too, and I have a right to ask you this. At least don't
marry him in a hurry. Don't do it unless it's quite clear
that such a marriage would be to his own best interest,
and that the world would say you were conferring the
favor rather than he. When that's clear, I'll be the first
to plead his cause, the first to come begging you to have
him."
Lucy raised questioning eyes to Lady Crosby's face.


156 COTTAGE SINISTER
"Of course," she breathed. "And you mustn't think I
haven't thought of all this. Oh, Lady Crosby, I've lain
awake so many hours at night wondering about these
very things. I do promise you, from the bottom of my
heart, that I'll never marry him to drag him down. I
couldn't do that. I'd rather never see him again, though
that's my idea of hell on earth. I swear I'll remember
what you've said. I won't be selfish and I won't marry
him if it really means his marrying beneath him. But it's
not always so easy to know. . . ." The grey eyes filled
with tears, and Lady Crosby's, meeting their gaze, turned
aside to rest on the picture which hung above her dressing
table framed in a heavy silver frame—an old-fashioned
photograph showing a handsome, insolent young face,
the face of Christopher's father as he had looked when
she married him.
"Still," she murmured, "you promise. That's some-
thing. But, oh, my child, you're right. Itls not always so
easy to know. . . . Now leave me and ask your mother
to come to me. I want to tell her myself how sad and
disturbed I am about your sisters. I trust you, my dear.
If Christopher were here I'd send you to him now. But
he's not. He's gone away—to Canterbury, I think."
"To Canterbury?" Lucy was surprised.
"Yes. Didn't you know? I can't think why or perhaps
it was just one of his silly jokes. Now go, dear, I want
to see your mother. But wait. Perhaps . . ."
Lucy, who had risen to go, hesitated as she saw Lady
Crosby still staring past her, with unseeing eyes, at some
nameless dread of her own.
"What is it?" whispered Lucy, as if an impulse of


COTTAGE SINISTER
157
sympathy had drowned the memory of her own worries.
"There's something frightening you. I wish you'd tell
me. Perhaps I could help. . . ."
Lady Crosby glanced up, one of her rare smiles re-
lieving but not cancelling the haunted look in her eyes.
"No, there's nothing. A cigarette if you please—the
box on the edge of the table. Thank you, dear. Now go."
Slowly and thoughtfully Lucy retraced her steps to the
servants' hall, where she found her mother quite cheered
and strengthened by the deference and sympathy with
which she was surrounded. The sight of the old lady's
smile put new resilience into Lucy's lagging footsteps,
and she crossed the room with a light tread.
"Lady Crosby wants to see you, Mother. She's up-
stairs in her boudoir. I'll wait here till you come down."
Mrs. Lubbock, the very picture of elderly, amiable re-
spectability, stood up, smoothed out her skirt, and ambled
to the door.
"I won't be long, dearie. Lady Crosby, bless her, can't
have much to say to a poor old body like me. Eh, but she's
a kind lady. . . ."
Her voice trailed off down the passage, and Lucy
walked a few steps irresolutely towards the outer door.
Her hope of a few minutes solitude in the kitchen garden,
however, was cut short by a glimpse of Briggs, strad-
dling a bed of parsley, and deep in converse with the new
- gardener who had recently come down from London to
succeed old Joe Birch. She turned back quickly, glad to
have escaped his notice, and strolled to an opposite
window.
The upper housemaid and the second butler, who had


I58 COTTAGE SINISTER
both been most assiduous in their expressions of sym-
pathy with Mrs. Lubbock, moved ostentatiously away as
she approached. Lucy's reputation in the village, since
the murders, was equalled if not surpassed by the gen-
eral suspicion with which she was regarded at the Hall,
where most of the servants avoided her like the plague.
The scullery-maid in particular tossed her head and made
for the door. Lucy, as a child living at the Hall, had
helped in her department, and the scullery-maid had taken
the girl's subsequent advancement as a personal affront.
With a glorious gesture of "I told you so," she left the
servants' hall for the scullery, whispering loudly to the
cook as she passed that "some folks don't know when
they're well off and then look what they come to!"
Lucy sighed and dropped into a chair, too preoccupied
by her recent interview with Lady Crosby to notice or
care about the malice and hostility which encompassed
her. Instead, she stared out of the window with troubled
eyes, revolving many things in her mind—Lady Crosby's
obvious fear of something (a fear which had changed
her usual benevolence and lucidity into incoherence and
opposition), her own promise about Christopher, the
news that Christopher had gone to Canterbury (Why?
—just now when she needed him so much! But no, she
had no right . . .), and the way the detective from Lon-
don had looked at her that afternoon when Will Cockett
told him about the rinsing of the cup. She shivered a little,
and sat quite still.
At length a familiar step in the passage made her turn
her head. Her mother stood in the doorway; unmistakably
her mother, but a very different woman from the old


i6o
COTTAGE SINISTER
the sofa. Tea had just been served, and there was a
steaming cup on the table from which she drank absently
whenever she paused in her writing to search for a word.
During one such pause she glanced over her shoulder at
Lucy, indicating the tea-tray behind her.
"I poured you out some, too, my dear. Do take it while
you're waiting. I'll be just a moment. Does it look about
right? Oh, but how stupid! I forgot that you don't take
sugar. Pour that cup away and make yourself some
fresh."
"It doesn't matter. I really don't care," said Lucy, me-
chanically taking the cup from the tray. She sat in silence,
sipping the tea, and watching Lady Crosby's back as she
bent over her letter on the writing table. Soon the letter
appeared to be finished. Lady Crosby rose abruptly,
blotted what she had been writing, and sealed it up in an
envelope. She then sat down on the sofa beside Lucy,
handed her the envelope, and looked her very seriously in
the face.
"Keep this letter, my dear, no matter what happens.
You are a good girl, and I trust you, and I believe you
love my son. If ever Christopher, or any one dear to him,"
(she paused with a significant look at Lucy) "should be
in danger, or their happiness seriously threatened, open it.
Otherwise, destroy it unread before you die, and may God
forgive you if you do otherwise than as I say."
Lucy was startled and impressed by the deep solemnity
of her voice and by the quiet weariness of her expression,
both so different from the rush and vehemence of her
former manner. The girl sensed again a fleeting impres-
sion that Lady Crosby was undergoing some overpower-


COTTAGE SINISTER
161
ing dread, though it seemed now as if the dread had
materialized and had become less terrible by the absence of
any hint of mystery or any gleam of hope. But the mem-
ory of her mother, sitting wan and miserable in the room
below, recalled her thoughts from the troubles of her
benefactress. Mystified and saddened, but hopeful, too,
she took the letter and rose to go. Lady Crosby rose also,
and kissed her once.
"Now, child," she said, "that's all. By the way, will
you take this tea tray? I've finished with it. And tell
Carrie I have a headache and don't want to be disturbed
until time to dress for dinner. Thanks, dear. Good bye."
Lucy put Lady Crosby's empty cup and her own on
the tray and took it up as she was bid, but she lingered
for a second in the doorway. Almost she could have be-
lieved that she heard a spiritual cry for help, that Lady
Crosby had called her back to tell her something that
must be told. So strong was the feeling that she looked
over her shoulder to see. She saw only that Lady Crosby
stood quiet by the window, looking out, a fresh cigarette
at her lips. "It was the striking of the match," thought
Lucy as she closed the door. Nevertheless, she sighed a
little, uneasily, as she went.


XII
Mildly Flirtatious
ucy and her mother passed through the servants' hall
into the courtyard, where the smart Daimler and
* ■ the even smarter Briggs were waiting to take them
home to Lady's Bower. Briggs had (in his own words)
"poshed himself up for the occasion," and, as Lucy came
out of the house, he nudged the new gardener in a confi-
dential manner and whispered that he " 'ad 'opes in that
quarter." 'Opes that were undoubtedly the creatures of his
own imagination and certainly "fed on the chameleon's
dish," but 'opes none the less! Being an irrepressible and
irresponsible Cockney with good looks and well-brillian-
tined hair, he implicitly believed that leather breeches, a
smart uniform and a suave London manner could even-
tually remove mountains where any country girl was
concerned, even though the particular mountain, as in this
case, Was the "young squire's" passing fancy.
But he needed all his adroitness and suavity to arrange
matters so that they all three sat in the front seat of the
car, with Lucy next to the driver and Mrs. Lubbock on
the outside. Lucy had made it rather obvious that she
wanted to sit behind with her mother, for she had noticed,
to her anxiety, that the old lady's lip was trembling and
that her usually serene countenance looked pale and anx-
ious. She watched her mother with growing concern as
the car sped on, and was so much preoccupied with this,


COTTAGE SINISTER 163
and her own private worries, that she entirely ignored
the fact that Briggs was doing a great deal of unnecessary
gear-shifting in the neighborhood of her right knee.
"Mother, dear," she whispered at length, "do you feel
all right?"
Mrs. Lubbock started slightly, then glanced involun-
tarily towards the chauffeur, muttering,
"S'sh, Lucy. Talk to him, dear, and be civil. Don't pay
no attention to me."
There was little need, however, to talk to Briggs, for
he kept up a continual flow of brilliant persiflage for Mrs.
Lubbock's benefit, while his gear-shifting hand worked
overtime for Lucy's. But his sallies were not appreciated
in either quarter. The girl replied to his questions with
preoccupied monosyllables, edged away from him with
such emphasis that she almost crowded her mother out of
the car, and, when at length they reached Lady's Bower,
climbed out with a sigh of relief which the sanguine
Briggs promptly interpreted as most flattering to himself.
As soon as the two women were inside their home, Mrs.
Lubbock slumped heavily into a chair without taking off
her bonnet, and stared straight in front of her in silence.
There was a vacant and utterly bewildered expression on
her face.
"Did you have any tea at the hall, mother?" asked
Lucy, looking at her anxiously.
The old lady shook her head, but sat still, making no
effort to move towards the kitchen, though it was past
her usual tea-time.
"I'll get you some, dear, it will do you good." The girl
went out of the room and presently returned with a cup


164
COTTAGE SINISTER
of strong tea. She added milk and sugar and passed it to
her mother.
Mechanically Mrs. Lubbock raised the cup to her lips
and drank feverishly. The tea seemed to revive and stimu-
late her to speech.
"Lucy," she said at last, looking at her daughter with
an expression of fear and horror which was entirely alien
to the usual placidity of her countenance, "there's things
been going on as are too much for my old brain. Dark,
terrible things, child, as I don't rightly understand, but
I can't help feeling as how it's my duty before God and
to my two dear girls to tell all I know, and perhaps"
she choked over her words and started to cry softly.
Lucy poured another cup of tea and passed it to her.
"Tell me, mother, if it would relieve your mind," she
said gently.
Mrs. Lubbock again looked at her daughter strangely,
and as though she were seeing her for the first time, "No,
Lucy," she said, in a tone that was almost severe, "you'd
probably laugh at me, and I may be all wrong. I may even
have misunderstood my own ears—anything seems pos-
sible after what's been happening these last few days—
but it's that man from London, the one who looks like
a reverend, as I want to see. So when you've finished your
tea, child, just run out and ask him to step in here some
time. There's no hurry—or well—perhaps there is—I
don't rightly know. I'm old and stupid and I can't reckon
it all out, and even if I could, it wouldn't bring back my
two girls as are in heaven, God rest their souls." Her
voice, though faint, now sounded firm and resolute.
Lucy got up with a sigh and patted her mother's shoul-


COTTAGE SINISTER
165
der abstractedly—the events of the past week seemed to
have passed over her like a forest fire, leaving her—emo-
tionally, at least—parched and dry.
"All right, mother, if you've been keeping some little
thing to yourself that you feel the Inspector should know,
I'll fetch him at once. But you look tired and worried,
dear, I wish you'd lie down a while."
"Not till I've seen the Inspector," said the old lady with
unsuspected obstinacy. "Just leave me alone and I'll be
all right." Lucy looked at her mother quizzically, finished
her tea, and then left the cottage without a word.
She made her way as quickly as possible to the Crosby
Arms where the barmaid informed her that the Inspector
had left some little time ago and had gone on foot in the
direction of Edith's Ford. Hesitating as to whether she
should follow him or leave a message with the village
Constable, Lucy stood on the inn porch, pondering. As
she paused there a moment, a Morris Cowley came tear-
ing down the road and passed her—then stopped with a
mighty screeching of breaks and a honking of horns. A
hatless, red-headed young man emerged, yawned and
stretched himself prodigiously, then waved cheerfully at
Lucy.
"Hullo, Lucy," he said airily, as he wiped the dust
from the corner of his eyes, "what are you doing at the
pub? Looking for me by any chance?"
"No, Doctor Crosby," there was a mischievous gleam
in the weary grey eyes, "I shouldn't choose the Crosby
Arms to look for you at this hour. The bar's not
open yet! I'm trying to find the Inspector. They tell me
he's gone to Edith's Ford."


166
COTTAGE SINISTER
"Fine, I'll take you there in the car and well run him
to earth together. What's a few more miles when one has
just gone over two hundred in a non-stop personally con-
ducted Cook's tour around England! Jump in."
"Thank you, you're very kind. But, are you sure?'
"Nonsense, jump in before everyone in the village
thinks I am trying to carry you off to Timbuctoo."
The two young people looked at one another with a
sudden burst of sympathy and understanding. It was a
beautiful midsummer afternoon and the air was soft and
untainted, as in the world's infancy.
The young doctor backed his car dexterously and
headed it in the direction of Edith's Ford. He looked
travel-stained and tired, but there was an irrepressible
twinkle in the eye that contorted itself constandy in
Lucy's direction as she sat back in her corner without
speaking.
They drove through the village—past soft, green
meadows, sleepy thatched cottages and freshly made hay-
stacks, until they came to the top of a slope which showed
a view of the Mendip Hills stretching out in the distance
like a Perugino landscape. Christopher stopped the car
and lit a cigarette.
"Have one, Lucy?" he asked "I know you do some-
times, don't you?"
"Yes." She took a cigarette and stared at the beautiful
vista through the blue haze of smoke.
"Lovely, isn't it," she murmured, so softly that he
could scarcely hear what she said. "I just can't believe
that death and wickedness exist in a world that's as beau-
tiful as this."


COTTAGE SINISTER-.'' 167
He nodded sympathetically.
"It's been a beastly week," the girl continued gently
and in a matter-of-fact tone. "I've hated it all—all the
ugliness and useless tragedy of it. Of course, I'm not
going to be hypocritical enough to pretend that I was pas-
sionately devoted to my sisters. As a matter of fact I
scarcely knew them, but it's all made me feel so—so ut-
terly arid! I've needed just this—the open country, and a
glimpse of our own dear Mendip Hills more than any-
thing. They make me feel sane again. Why," she whis-
pered, "they make me feel almost happy!"
The color had come back to her pale cheeks and her
eyes were shining as if with some inner exaltation. Chris-
topher thought that she had never looked lovelier than at
this moment.
"Yes," he said, as he puffed long spirals of smoke into
the clear, steel-blue air, "you've had a rotten time of it
lately, Lucy, and you've been awfully brave. I've been
worried to death myself, about you and about—Oh, well,
everything!" He smiled elfishly and continued in a ban-
tering tone, "But, you know, there's one thing that has
worried me more than anything else. I've been racking my
brains about it while I was away, trying to puzzle it
out."
"Worried about me—puzzled, what do you mean?"
she said, laughing, "am I such a mystery?"
"No," said Christopher with mock solemnity,' "I'm
afraid I can't flatter you by saying you are a mystery to
me, though I know all women long to be one. I feel I
know you awfully well—everything about you, in fact,


COTTAGE SINISTER
169
suppose your age is full, Lucy. That means over twenty-
one, my dear, and it's good for any registry office in the
British Isles, exclusive of the Irish Free State. Signed by
the Archbishop of Canterbury himself—doesn't that al-
lure you? I thought I'd have to beard the old boy in his
palace, seize him by the beard (if he has one) and force
him to sign it. I raced to and from London several times
to get this little bit of paper—and just as I thought every-
thing was O.K. and I came to sign our names on the
dotted line, I suddenly remembered that I didn't know
what came after Lucy. I rushed up and down in a mad
fit of conjecture, saying to myself Lucy Alice, Lucy
Elizabeth, Lucy Ann—none of them seemed to fit and
everyone must have thought that I was crazy—then sud-
denly I hit on Jane. I felt certain it was Jane, when all's
said and done, it couldn't very well be anything else—I
just had a hunch and I was right—Hurrah!" He grinned
boyishly.
Lucy put her hands to her ears in dismay, "Stop," she
cried, "you are talking nonsense, absolute nonsense.
Please, oh please don't be frivolous and ridiculous just
now—I can't bear it."
"But I am not being frivolous—heavens! I'm in dead
earnest or I wouldn't have gone off and left you at a
time like this. It's no season for practical jokes. You must
listen to me, Lucy. I mean what I say. We ought to get
married at once—this afternoon would be fine if it
weren't after three o'clock—for with all this battle, mur-
der and sudden death going on, the Lord alone knows
whether I shall live long enough to be your widower or


170 COTTAGE SINISTER
you to be my widow." There was a note of earnestness
beneath the apparent jocularity of his words.
"But you've never even spoken to me of marriage,"
said the girl, looking at him from troubled grey eyes.
"Why, I never even knew that you cared about me"
"Fiddlesticks, dear," he replied tenderly, "you know I
love you, and I know that you really love me, though
you probably don't admit it, not even in the virginal fast-
ness of your prim little mind. It all happened on the day
when Doctor Hoskins was doing that op. for multiple
tumors three weeks ago. You know—I was giving the
anaesthetic and you were handing him the instruments
while he worked—darn cool and efficient you were too,
considering what was happening to both of us!—you re-
member, don't you?"
The girl nodded slowly.
"I hadn't even noticed you properly before—in fact I
felt I'd never seen you in my life until that minute. Then
I gave you one look and it was all UP with me. I was
gone—sunk up to the neck. I thought it must be the ether
at first, then I realized that it must be love—love coming
to us both like that in the very middle of a major opera-
tion! I felt so excited I almost put the poor devil to sleep
for ever—and you, you little minx—you gave me a look
that meant business if ever anyone did!"
"Stop, oh stop!" cried Lucy tremulously. "I can't listen
to you, Christopher. It's all true what you say, and I felt
just the same as you did. I do love you, but I can't marry
you and I won't"
"Obstinate child, of course you will—what else could
we do about it?"


COTTAGE SINISTER
171
The girl flushed and her eyes were misty. "Oh, don't you
see how impossible it is," she said dejectedly, "I haven't
anything. I'm poor and stupid, while you are rich and
clever—and—oh, your family would never hear of
it"
"Nonsense, Lucy," he answered gently. "I owe nothing
to my family—nothing at all. I don't even like their way
of living, and I've never been happy at home. How could
one be happy when, until two years ago, the entire house-
hold was under the thumb of my detestable harpy of a
grandmother? Father's too much taken up with his tur-
nips to bother about me, and poor mother has always had
far too many troubles of her own"
"You may feel that you don't owe anything to your
mother, Christopher, but / owe everything to her—every-
thing. I couldn't do it, my dear,—at least I couldn't marry
you against her wishes. Why, I promised her this very
day"
"Promised her—what do you mean?" Christopher's
brow darkened.
Lucy hesitated in some embarrassment, "Well, if you
must know," she said at length, "your mother brought
up the question this afternoon and I promised her that
I'd never marry you unless she—er—wanted me to, or
unless it was obvious that you could not lose by it in any
way. Unless, by some miracle it was / who was confer-
ring the favor in the eyes of the world."
"Well, that's very nice and dramatic of her," he said
grimly. "Reminds me of the girl in 'Framley Parsonage.'
It puts the whole thing up to me, I suppose, and now all
I have to do is to prove to you that it would be a conde-


172
COTTAGE SINISTER
scension on your part to marry me. Somehow or other I
have to get so badly disgraced that no one else will touch
me, not even with a barge pole—is that right?"
Lucy nodded, smiling, but the tears were dangerously
near the surface. "I'm afraid that's about it," she said
brokenly, "but oh, how I wish you were poor, or in trou-
ble, or that your family!"
"Well, that's easy!" the young man's tone was
strangely jubilant. "I can soon show you that in every
way I am the world's worst match—especially for a nice-
looking girl like you. But you've got to promise me one
thing,- Lucy. I know I can easily convince you, and
Mother too, if necessary, but you've got to give me the
chance to make my little demonstration any time I ask
you. You've got to up and follow me when I whistle just
like the meek, submissive little wife you are eventually
going to be!"
"I promise. I ask nothing better, but I know it's hope-
less—absolutely hopeless. My hands are tied." The grey
eyes met his clearly and with great sincerity.
"All right, all right, that's enough for the present."
Christopher took her hand and pressed it gently. "But I
shall hold you to your bargain. And now, dear, if the
Mendip Hills will kindly turn the other way for a minute,
I suggest that we ratify our little pact in the—er—usual
way, and then we'll drive on to find the episcopal gentle-
man who represents himself as a police inspector."
Ten minutes later they turned into the courtyard of
the Duchess of Somerset where they found the Arch-
deacon in close confabulation with George Burwell.
Christopher alighted from the car and approached the


COTTAGE SINISTER
173
two men. He was greeted with mildly intoxicated enthu-
siasm by his uncle, who shook him warmly and vinously
by the hand, saying:
"O my prophetic soul, my nephew!—all grown up but
still red-headed as a fox! I'm parlous glad to see you, my
boy, and if by any chance you can convince the Inspector
here that instead of being a slayer of innocent women
your uncle is merely a harmless if somewhat tedious old
fool—if you can. . . ."
"If me no ifs and uncle me no uncles," said Chris-
topher impatiently. "I'm afraid there's no time for
Shakespeare now or any kind of a family reunion, Uncle
George. I want the Inspector—urgently."
"I'll come with you right away, Dr. Crosby," said the
Archdeacon impressively, after Christopher had outlined
the reason for Lucy's visit. "My work here seems to be
finished, and I'll be grateful for the drive back." He drew
Christopher aside with an inquiring look at George
Burwell.
"Mad, but quite harmless," said the young man, an-
swering his unspoken query with some distaste. "Not the
most reputable of characters, I will admit, but an angel of
peace and mercy compared with his mother, of whom I
spoke to you yesterday."
"Since you are so full of family information," said the
Archdeacon genially, "I wonder if you would mind telling
me whether he—or any other member of your family for
that matter—has been—er—in a position to be black-
mailed recently. I might mention in strict confidence that
Isabel Lubbock appears to have been blackmailing some-
one under an assumed name, and I wondered. . . ."


174
COTTAGE SINISTER
"I know nothing of my uncle's private life," replied
Christopher coldly, but there was a gleam of strange in-
terest in his eyes which the Archdeacon did not fail to
notice. "My old grandmother kicked him out ages ago.
The reason is obvious. Disinherited for dipsomania like
the penny novelettes! Father won't have him around on a
bet, but he doesn't do so badly when all's said and done.
My mother makes him a generous allowance and he might
conceivably be a mark for blackmail on that account. For
all I know there are a million girls who'd try and get a
dishonest penny out of him, but I don't imagine he ever
so far forgot himself as to commit any violent indiscre-
tions with a sour-faced spinster like Isabel Lubbock."
The Archdeacon gave him a confidential nod and they
joined Lucy and Burwell by the car. The latter was stand-
ing with his foot on the running-board and throwing ad-
miring glances in the girl's direction.
"Well, this is where we part I suppose," he said when
the others came up and the Archdeacon was climbing
ponderously into the back seat. "I go back to my humble
inn and off you go—on wings as swift as meditation—
or the thoughts of—love!"—this last with a sly leer at
Lucy.
Christopher glared at his uncle, started the motor and
whirled them through the streets of Edith's Ford with
the speed and assurance which can come only from the
knowledge that one has a police inspector in the back
seat!
"Did you happen to notice that—er—relative of mine
at the inn just now, Lucy?" whispered Christopher, as
they got out into the open country.
i


XIII i\
ft
"And in Milady's Chamber"
Ten minutes later the Morris Cowley drew up in
front of Crosby Hall, followed by the Daimler.
"Hoskins is here before us," muttered Chris-
topher to Lucy, breaking the silence for the first time as
he noticed the doctor's Austin standing empty at a little
distance. And, indeed, it was Hoskins who met them at
the door—an agitated, bewildered Hoskins who wel-
comed them with evident relief. Behind him, at the foot
of the stair-case, came Sir Howard. Apparently they had
come downstairs together on hearing the sound of the
Morris Cowley in the driveway below.
The Eleventh Baronet was now a very altered man
from the imposing landowner who had blustered and
fumed to the Archdeacon only the day before. To-day his
manner was shaken—almost furtive—and the great red
setter who generally gambolled and strutted ahead now
seemed to reflect his master's mood by slinking down the
stairs behind him in an ecstasy of apprehension.
Sir Howard held out his hand to Christopher with an
oddly tentative little gesture.
"My boy—glad you're here "He turned to the
Archdeacon with an attempt to be business-like.
"Lucky you're on the spot, Inspector. Perhaps you'd
better come up ..." He broke off and turned sharply
on his heel. Lucy he did not seem to notice at all, though
176


COTTAGE SINISTER
177
she stood close to Christopher, stealing anxious glances
first at him and then at Sir Howard.
"How was the discovery made?" asked the Archdea-
con, realizing at once that any attempt at condolence
would be out of place. "Hoskins, were you here?"
"No," said the doctor in a strained voice. "Sir How-
ward telephoned for me after he'd—found out. And
luckily I was at my home and came right over. I've been
here about fifteen minutes, and made a brief exami-
nation."
"You've—looked at her then?" said Christopher
tensely. "Is it—the same thing?"
"Wait a minute," interrupted the Archdeacon. "Sir
Howard, would you please tell me who made the discov-
ery and how it was made?"
"I did," said Sir Howard in a dull voice, as he turned
again to face the others. "And you'd better come up and
have a look."
As the sombre little party made its way up the stairs,
followed by the foreboding setter, Sir Howard continued
in an even monotone:
"I went to my wife's room a little over half an hour
ago. There was something" (here for the first time he
appeared to notice Lucy) "that I wanted to talk over
with her. I found her door locked and no answer to my
knock, but her maid had told me she was in her room,
resting. Growing anxious, I tried to force the door. I
couldn't do it alone, so I sent for Briggs, the chauffeur.
Together we got it open. We found—but you'll see for
yourself."


COTTAGE SINISTER 179
«
"Curse that dog!" exclaimed Sir Howard, turning
quickly and crossing the room to shut the door.
"What's that other door in the corner?" said the Arch-
deacon. "The clothes-cupboard, I suppose?"
"No," Sir Howard answered. "That's the boudoir. It
has no connection with the rest of the house except through
this room."
The Archdeacon, notebook in hand, walked to the op-
posite corner and flung open the door. A brief survey
showed him the outstanding details of the little room be-
yond—the untidy, rather Spartan dressing table, the com-
fortable sofa, the small writing table by the window, and
the clothes-cupboard with its one or two severe frocks
and coats and its rows upon rows of hats—these last a
mute, pathetic indication that, in spite of every mirror's
tale, hope had sprung eternal. . . .
Returning to the big room he advanced to the side of
the bed, while Christopher stepped back with averted
face. The Archdeacon noted the position of the body-—
natural, as if preparing for sleep, and then gently re-
placed the sheet. In the meantime Hoskins, aware that
Christopher had moved away, approached the bed from
the other side. -:
"Looks like the same drug," he said, "and evident
signs of a heavy dosage. I could tell that from the ap-
pearance of the body when I first saw it. She looked quite
peaceful, you know, just as if she were sleeping. That
shows she must have gone right into a state of coma
without any of the preliminary disturbances. I should
judge that death took place about an hour and a half
ago—perhaps a little more. That would make it" (he


l8o COTTAGE SINISTER
glanced at his watch) "at four-thirty or thereabouts.
Without a further examination we can't, of course, be
certain that the same—poison was used, but I think it's
fair to assume that it was. All the outward symptoms are
the same."
The Archdeacon nodded and turned to Sir Howard:
"Now, about this key . . ."
"Good God, man," said Sir Howard, "she can't have
swallowed it. I tell you it wasn't in the door—either side.
And search the room if you like, but I doubt if you'll
find it. No, some one poisoned her, and then went away
and locked the door, and it's up to you to find out who
it was." There was a flash of the old Sir Howard in the
testiness of these words.
"All the same," put in the doctor softly, "it could have
been suicide."
"Rubbish!" said Sir Howard. "Why, my wife never
used that key anyway. It was always on the outside, and
was used only when she was away and this whole wing of
the house was shut up. No, when she wanted to lock her
door she used the bolt on the inside, and this afternoon
the bolt hadn't been shot. You can see for yourself. Be-
sides what in heaven's name would she want to commit
suicide for?"
The Archdeacon turned and examined the door. The
lock, of course, had been broken when the door was
forced open, but the bolt on the inside, as Sir Howard
had pointed out, could not have been fastened at the time
because it was now in no way injured.
"Well," said the Archdeacon to the room in general,


COTTAGE SINISTER
181
"assuming that Sir Howard is right, who was the last per-
son who saw Lady Crosby alive?"
There was a dead silence for half a minute. Then
Lucy spoke, in a low, tremulous voice.
"/ may have been the last. I saw her at about four
o'clock."
Christopher and Sir Howard showed no surprise at
the girl's words, but the doctor started and the Archdea-
con wheeled round on her with a menacing gleam in his
eye.
"Where? Here?"
"No, in her boudoir."
"What were you doing in Lady Crosby's boudoir at
four o'clock?"
"She'd sent for me earlier. She'd wanted to talk to me
—and to my mother too. We'd both been there. At four
o'clock I was just leaving."
"Were you and your mother there together?"
"No, separately. I was the last. I'd been the first, too;
and then Mother; and afterwards Lady Crosby called
me back."
"Why did she send for you and your mother?"
Christopher shot Lucy a warning glance which did not
escape the Archdeacon, as the girl hurried on.
"Oh, just to tell us how sorry she was. About my sis-
ters, you know. She was always so kind . . ." There was
a catch in her voice as she spoke the last words.
"Look here," Christopher broke in hotly. "Miss Lub-
bock admits to having seen my mother at four o'clock, but
according to Hoskins death didn't occur till four-thirty.
Any number of people may have seen her between four


182
COTTAGE SINISTER
and four-thirty, and hyoscine, if it is that, is generally
pretty quick in its action, you know."
The Archdeacon, still decently mournful, smiled a tol-
erant smile:
"Right, Dr. Crosby. We'll investigate. I think you'll
find, though . . ." He broke off and turned to Sir How-
ard. "Would Lady Crosby's maid be aware of any visi-
tors between four and four-thirty?"
Sir Howard moved reluctantly to the side of the bed
and touched a bell. "Yes," he said, "I suppose so."
In a few minutes a knock at the door revealed Carrie,
her eyes red with weeping, her hair more gloriously un-
tidy than ever.
"My wife's maid," said Sir Howard, with the faintly
contemptuous inflection which was habitual with him in
speaking of his wife. A sudden realization of the tone of
his own voice seemed to overwhelm him, and he walked
away again to the window.
The Archdeacon turned to Carrie, who stood trembling
in the doorway, both repelled and fascinated by her first
glimpse of the great bed.
"Could you tell us, my good woman, who was the last
person who saw your mistress alive?"
"Oh sir, yes sir, I think so. It was Miss Lucy, sir,
bless her dear heart, and don't you go believing anything
evil about Miss Lucy, who's a kind sweet child that I
love as if she were my own in spite of her being nearly a
young lady so I suppose I shouldn't."
"You didn't come into the room yourself after Miss
Lucy had left the Hall?" asked the Archdeacon, disre-
garding this enthusiastic testimonial.


COTTAGE SINISTER 183
"No, sir. Of course not. Miss Lucy told me not to."
"Miss Lucy told you not to!"
"Well, leastwise she brought me a message when she
came down with the tea things. She said Lady Crosby
had a headache and didn't want to be disturbed until time
for dinner. That's what I told Sir Howard about her
ladyship. Oh, sir, I didn't even know there was anything
wrong till Briggs came running into the servants' hall
with the news, and now she's dead!"
Carrie dissolved into a paroxysm of tears, but both
her tears and her last remarks went unheeded, for the
attention of all was riveted on Lucy.
"The tea things!" ejaculated Hoskins and Sir Howard
in one breath.
"The tea things! Oh, Lucy!" murmured Christopher.
"The tea things!" said the Archdeacon, and there was a
note of professional satisfaction in his voice. "What tea
things?"
Lucy drew herself up with the desperate expression of
a trapped animal.
"Lady Crosby was having tea when she called me back
just before four o'clock. When I left her she asked me
to take the tray and to tell Carrie that she didn't want
to be disturbed till dinner time because she had a head-
ache."
"That's so," said Carrie, punctuating her words with
sobs. "I'd taken the tray in just a little time before four
because Lady Crosby usually took her cup of tea early.
When I got there this afternoon Mrs. Lubbock was just
leaving and Lady Crosby asked to see Miss Lucy again,
so I left the tray and went for Miss Lucy, and when Miss


184
COTTAGE SINISTER
Lucy came away after seeing her ladyship, she brought
me the tray and the message like I told you. And that's
the whole truth and a kinder lady never lived. . . ."
But Carrie's lament was cut short by the Archdeacon's
curt question:
"Have those tea things been washed yet?"
"I don't know, sir. I'd have to ask the pantry maid."
"Please go and see, and bring them here at once if
they haven't been."
"Yes, sir." Carrie bobbed and was gone.
"It may have been important for some one," said the
Archdeacon ponderously, "to get those dishes washed up
as soon as possible so that they wouldn't be found stand-
ing in this room."
With uncertain steps Lucy sought the chair at the desk
where Hoskins had been sitting a few minutes earlier.
Christopher stationed himself behind her, but said no
word in her defense, though his tired eyes blazed as the
Archdeacon proceeded:
"Perhaps you remember, Miss Lubbock, since your
memory seems open to stimulation, whether the key was
in the door when you left Lady Crosby's room at four
o'clock?"
Lucy thought for a moment, then raised her eyes with
a look of weary candor.
"I really couldn't say," she said. "All I can say is that
it's usually there, and that this afternoon I didn't notice
anything tmusual. But it might have been gone and I
never have noticed it. . . ."
"Most helpful," said the Archdeacon with weighty
irony. "And now, Miss Lubbock, there's another matter


COTTAGE SINISTER
I'd like to have cleared up. I still don't understand why
Lady Crosby called you back. Surely if her sole purpose
was to offer sympathy about the death of your sisters she
could have done so during your earlier interview. What
was your final subject of discussion? And was it, I won-
der, one on which you found yourselves in complete
agreement?"
"We talk about so many things," said Lucy evasively.
"Lady Crosby has been very kind to me, you know, and
I see her often."
"But what about today? Were you as good friends as
ever when you parted?"
"Yes," said Lucy after a slight hesitation, "we were,
though she seemed to me to be a little nervous and
upset."
"But, I say, that's impossible," broke in Sir Howard.
"Look here, Inspector, I suppose you ought to know. The
reason my wife sent for Lucy Lubbock today was to tell
her that she was no fit match for my son Christopher.
That's why I was seeking her out half an hour ago—to
find out whether or not the girl had behaved decently. It
hardly stands to reason that it could have been much of
a love-feast, you know. And now my wife lies murdered
and there's the girl still ogling my son in the very pres-
ence of the dead . . ."
Lucy flushed with anger, and Christopher turned on
his father with a muttered exclamation which died on his
lips as Sir Howard's tone changed.
"I'm sorry. I forgot myself. It's all happened so
quickly. ... If you'll excuse me I think I'll go to my
study for a while."


COTTAGE SINISTER
l87
arrest her because she has an aged ma who is entirely de-
pendent, and she says however should she have known
about the dishes anyway?"
"Now, now," said the Archdeacon. "That's all right.
You tell her not to worry."
"Oh, thank you, sir. May I go now?"
"Yes, thank you, that'll be all."
As soon as Carrie had disappeared the Archdeacon sat
down at the desk and began to make a few notes. Chris-
topher, who had been grimly silent since the Archdeacon
had snubbed him, walked to the window and looked out,
mechanically noting the drift of the clouds and the per-
pendicular course of a lark which was climbing the late
afternoon air between Crosby Hall and the tranquil west.
Suddenly he turned about and faced the Archdeacon.
"You're on the wrong track. I'm sure of that," he said
in a strange voice. "But all the same I've been wrong,
too. Not that I had any definite ideas, you know, but just
one or two little theories. Anyway, they've all gone to
pot now. I don't know what this is all about, but for God's
sake go slowly before you accuse anyone."
"I suppose," said the Archdeacon with a superior shake
of his head, "that the theory you're referring to is one
you've already mentioned once or twice—the responsi-
bility of your grandmother who has been dead for two
years?" (Christopher shrugged impatiently) "Well, I'm
sorry to upset your most imaginative case against a dead
woman, but it looks as though mine, against a live one,
would soon be made water-tight. As for going slowly,"
his voice became suddenly serious, "there's been too much
of that. I reproach myself bitterly with what my slackness


COTTAGE SINISTER
'aven't traced them yet. May be able to tell you when I
see you in the morning. Bye bye, Archdeacon. Keep
going."
The Archdeacon hung up with a little grimace. The
prospective arrival of Norris, and possibly of the Old
Man himself, would not be an unmixed blessing, but all
the same he felt shaken by the unexpectedness of the
afternoon's events, and in need of stalwart backing.
In the meantime Lucy had been sitting huddled in her
chair, and Christopher, after a few moments of brooding
in silence, had turned from the girl towards Hoskins
with an unspoken appeal. Hoskins flushed, looked dis-
tressed, and turned away.
"After all, Crosby," he said in a hesitating voice,
"those Scotland Yard men generally know their jobs."
"The deuce they do," muttered Christopher.
Suddenly Lucy sprang up from her chair and laid her
hand on his arm.
"I'd forgotten! And you'd forgotten, too! Mother may
know something. Don't you remember? I was looking for
the Inspector when I met you at the Crosby Arms.
Mother seemed so upset when she came home, and said
she had something to tell him. . . ."
Christopher's brow cleared. "She may help us," he
said. "Hasn't that chap finished telephoning yet?"
At that moment the Archdeacon reappeared from the
next room.
"Come along," said Christopher impatiently. "We were
looking for you, you know, before—before this hap-
pened. Mrs. Lubbock has something to tell you at Lady's
Bower. She saw my mother too. Oh, come on!"


190
COTTAGE SINISTER
"Not so fast, my young friend," said the Archdeacon.
"Before we go I want a word with Dr. Hoskins in
private."
"All right," said Christopher grimly. "Come on, Lucy."
The two slipped into the adjoining room, leaving the
door ajar. As soon as they were out of the big room the
Archdeacon turned to the doctor with a matter-of-fact
air.
"Well, Hoskins, it looks as if all three were the work
of one hand. Don't you think so?"
"It certainly looks that way," said the doctor cautiously.
"Well," went on the Archdeacon, "I didn't want to
upset Crosby about this, but I'll count on you to do the
necessary about arranging for an autopsy at Taunton, and
so forth. The other inquest had to be postponed till Mon-
day anyway, so the coroner can sit on all three bodies at
once. You'll be ready by then, of course?"
"Yes, that will do."
"All right," called the Archdeacon to Christopher
through the half-open door. "Now we'll be off. But first
I'd like to have a word with your father about having
nothing in the room touched. Would you please show me
the way from here to his study? It would be best if he
had a duplicate key and could lock the room up. . . . Here,
what's your hurry? Can't an old woman's story wait five
minutes?" For Christopher was already herding him out
of the room with extravagant energy.
The young man cast a last, pitying glance over his
shoulder in the direction of the still, shrouded figure on
the bed.
"I don't know," he said uncertainly. "Perhaps there is


COTTAGE SINISTER
191
a hurry and perhaps there isn't. Anyway, let's not take a
chance. . . ."
He did not explain his thought, but merely closed
Lady Crosby's door behind him, gently, as if he feared
in some manner to disturb the dead.


COTTAGE SINISTER
193
unconscious of the fact that still another lay just before
them.
When they reached the garden gate of Lady's Bower,
Christopher took Lucy's arm and supported her gently up
the path. The Archdeacon walked behind in dignified and
somewhat disapproving isolation. A demonstration of
affection at this juncture seemed to him to be in the worst
possible taste. As soon as she saw that they were at some
distance from him, Lucy turned her pale face towards
Christopher and whispered—so low that the Inspector's
alert ear could not catch a word of what she said:
"I'm so sorry for you, dear! Your poor mother! I feel
utterly crushed myself at the loss of my kindest friend—
but you—Oh, my dear, I'm so sorry!"
Christopher smiled at her with a preoccupied air.
"Thank you, Lucy," he said simply. Then, as though he
had some instinctive foreboding of what he was about
to see, he pushed her gently aside and preceded her into
the cottage.
As he crossed the threshold, Lucy, who was standing
immediately behind him, noticed that the muscles of his
back suddenly went rigid and that he involuntarily
clenched his hands and started as though he had been
stunned. He stood still for a brief moment and then, turn-
ing quickly around, came out of the cottage and closed
the door. His face, which had been pale before, was now
ghastly.
"Lucy," he said, speaking very slowly and with an
obvious effort, "I'm sorry, terribly sorry, dear, but I want
you to be prepared for something—something rather—
terrible. . . ."


194
COTTAGE SINISTER
With a convulsive movement of her throat she brushed
past him and ran into the cottage. Christopher and the
Archdeacon followed her. Inured as they all were to
scenes of tragedy and death, none of them was destined
ever to forget the scene that met their eyes.
The room was in a state of chaos—bottles, towels, and
cups lay in an untidy mass upon the table. A chair had
been overturned and a broken tea-pot lay on the floor,
surrounded by a dark sinister-looking stain. Their eyes
took in all these relatively unimportant details at a glance
before they rested finally on the body of Mrs. Lubbock
which lay in the centre of the floor—terribly twisted and
contorted in the final agony of death.
That someone had been with her at the last was evident
from the fact that a cushion had been placed clumsily
beneath her head and the front of her dress had been
hastily unloosened. The bottles and wet towels on the
table also bore witness to an inexperienced and fruitless
attempt at administering first aid.
Christopher moved instantly towards the body, while
Lucy stood still by the door as though petrified with the
horror of the scene. Instinctively the Archdeacon placed
his large bulk before her so that she could not see the
young doctor make a cursory examination and compose
the corpse. After a very few minutes he pulled a rug
from the sofa and covered the body; then he turned to
them saying,
"Dead—I knew it the minute I saw her. I'm terribly
sorry, Lucy dear. You must try to be brave." She stared
straight in front of her without apparently seeing or hear-
ing him.


196
COTTAGE SINISTER
help. That poor girl—I'm sure it must have been a ter-
rible experience for you—but it's even worse for her than
it was for you. Her mother, you know—go to her, take
her upstairs and try to comfort her—she needs a woman
now!"
As she heard these words, the postmistress stiffened,
and her bosom swelled indignantly.
"Wait . . . ," she said, and even in this tragic moment
her sense of the dramatic did not desert her, "Wait . . .
till I tell you all—yes, and her too—all about her pore
mother's death."
The Archdeacon, who had been looking large and awk-
ward in the tiny cottage, nodded his head eagerly. "We
may as well hear it now, Dr. Crosby," he said firmly.
Christopher shrugged his shoulders wearily and then
boldly sat down beside Lucy and put his arm around her
trembling figure.
Mrs. Greene looked at her audience impressively, as if
to be sure that she had their full attention. Then she
started in a voice which trembled with emotion but was
not without a touch of self-importance.
"I was just passing by here—around five o'clock it was
—when I thought I'd drop in for a bit of a chat with
pore old Mrs. Lubbock. She was sitting in her usual chair
—there—with her bonnet on and there was a teacup be-
side her on the table. She looked upset and was trembling
a bit, but I spoke to her as though nothing was amiss.
She answered me sort of strange and listless like, so I
tried to cheer her up seeing as how she's had a lot of
troubles lately, pore soul. I told her all about my work
at the Post Office and the number of letters as goes


COTTAGE SINISTER
197
through my 'ands each year, but she didn't seem to be
paying no attention like—no, she just sat there in her
chair saying nothing except, 'I must see the Inspector—I
must see that there policeman from London.' I was wor-
ried about her, she looked that peaked and poorly, so at
last I decided to get out my knitting and sit with her
until Lu—her daughter (as I'd heard was off joyriding
in the car) should come home." Mrs. Greene paused to
take breath and threw an envenomed glance in the direc-
tion of the unconscious Lucy. Christopher's encircling
arm pressed the girl a little closer.
"And then—suddenly—Oh, it was too terrible, Inspec-
tor! She got up from her chair and her eyes were staring
something awful . . . and her voice sounded kind of
thick and throaty. She seemed to be seeing things as
weren't there and she kept muttering—muttering—I shall
never forget it. . . ."
"Did you hear what she said?" The Archdeacon asked
with ill-concealed eagerness as he made a prodigious ef-
fort to get out his notebook and pencil without being
observed.
"Yes, I did "Mrs. Greene pursed up her mouth
and looked at Lucy as though she were longing to point
a denunciatory finger.
"Yes, I did hear exactly what she said," the Postmis-
tress repeated with awful emphasis. "And I'm going to
tell you the words as I heard them, and I'll take my Bible
oath that they was the exact words too." Mrs. Greene no
longer looked like a mere public servant. She might now
have been Queen Victoria herself, so regal and righteous
was her bearing.


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COTTAGE SINISTER
them. I can swear to that. And she's probably been dead
about an hour. I suppose this means another autopsy re-
port. Well, that makes four altogether now. Oh, dear I" his
voice sounded infinitely weary. "And when this little
holocaust is over, I'm going to find myself a nice quiet
practice somewhere in the East end of London—or
Chicago!"
"I suggest that we both have a look at the tea things
now," interrupted the Inspector, who welcomed the
chance to get into action again after all these emotional
outbursts. "Mrs. Greene, are you sure this is the cup that
Mrs. Lubbock was drinking out of?"
Mrs. Greene nodded emphatically.
The doctor advanced to the table and peered myopically
into the cup. Then he dipped the tip of his finger in the
dregs of tea that lay at the bottom and tasted them very
cautiously with his tongue. Next he tasted what was left
in Lucy's cup in a similar manner, and finally he bent
over and repeated the performance with the liquid tea
leaves that still adhered to the broken teapot. He then
went back to Mrs. Lubbock's cup once again.
"Unmistakable," he muttered, "just dip your finger in
here, Inspector. It won't be enough to hurt you, but don't
swallow any of it. So. Now tell me if you notice any
funny after-taste." Very gingerly the Archdeacon did as
he was told.
"Why, yes," he said eagerly, "the tea is sweetened, of
course, but I do believe I notice a faintly—very faintly—
bitter after-taste. Something like—er—-quinine."
"That's it, all right," the doctor's tired voice was vi-
brant with excitement. "Hyoscine and all those other


202
COTTAGE SINISTER
extraordinarily coherent to me—extra-ordinarily logi-
cal. . . ."
Christopher looked at the Archdeacon steadily for a
moment. There were deep lines of worry around his
mouth, but his eyes were now clear and purposeful.
"Inspector Inge," he said at length, speaking very
slowly and deliberately, "I think you will have to take
our word for it that the two Lubbock girls, my mother
and Mrs. Lubbock all met their death from hyoscine or
some very similar poison—administered God knows how.
Is that right?"
The Archdeacon nodded.
"Well, that being the case, I want to make one point
perfectly clear, and I know that Dr. Hoskins will bear
me out in what I say. After a person has taken an over-
dose of this alkaloid he—or she—suffers not only from
hallucinations of vision, but also of mind. In fact, one
sees this phenomenon frequently even after a patient has
taken an ordinary therapeutic dose. People say things that
have no meaning, often just nonsense. They are under the
influence of a drug which—to put it in plain every-day
language—befuddles the brain and induces a state bor-
dering on insanity. And so, while I do not question Mrs.
Greene's accuracy in reporting Mrs. Lubbock's dying
words (though I certainly take exception to the implica-
tion which she gives them), I do say that they cannot—
they must not—be taken too seriously. Am I right,
Hoskins?"
Dr. Hoskins nodded, but without much conviction. "It
often happens that way," he muttered with his eyes fixed
on the ground.


204
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"Whatever she told me or didn't tell me, there's one
thing as she did mention, poor crittur, and that was when
I asked her if she'd like a cup of tea, she said no 'cos
Lucy had just got her one and the one as Lucy had got
her was that there cup which you was sticking your
fingers in just now." She gasped for breath, sat down
and glared malignantly at Christopher.
The young man ignored her studiously. "Very well", In-
spector, have it your own way," he said in a toneless
voice, "but don't blame me if you make one of the big-
gest mistakes of your career." He turned towards Dr.
Hoskins, "Jo," he said, "Lucy's almost prostrated, and no
wonder, poor girl. She simply can't be left alone here to-
night, and—as there doesn't seem to be anyone in the
village who feels like taking her in"—here he threw a look
of withering scorn in the direction of the postmistress,
"I wonder if you'd be so kind as to drive around to the
Hall and fetch Carrie to come and stay with her. I'll stay
here till she comes. Oh, and you might tell Carrie . . ."
he whispered something in his colleague's ear.
Dr. Hoskins nodded gravely, but there was a gleam of
sympathy in his eyes. The Archdeacon was just about to
speak when Christopher interrupted him with some heat >
"Oh, I know what you are going to say, Inspector—she
won't run away. Couldn't if she wanted to, poor girl. I'll
be responsible for her anyhow. It may interest you to
know that, in spite of whatever you and my father may
do, Miss Lubbock and I are going to get married—just
as soon as all this trouble is over. . . ."
Dr. Hoskins turned his pale face towards the Arch-
deacon. "Crosby's right," he said quietly, "the girl had


COTTAGE SINISTER 205
better stay here with someone. You can trust me to make
the necessary medical arrangements. I'll be at my house
later if you want me."
The Archdeacon looked at them both suspiciously,
opened his mouth to say something and then closed it
again. Finally, he made a gesture of resignation and said
firmly:
"Very well. I'll hold you responsible for Miss Lubbock,
Dr. Crosby. I've got a great deal to do—a great deal to
do, and there are some things I will just have to leave in
your hands, gentlemen."
Dr. Hoskins bowed perfunctorily and hurried from
the cottage. Christopher turned his back and went up-
stairs to Lucy. Mrs. Greene, who was perhaps disap-
pointed not to be taking part in an actual arrest, stood
(or rather sat) her ground grimly—a look of intense
disapproval on her face. The Archdeacon turned to her,
saying:
"We can talk later on, Mrs. Greene, but now I'm going
to ask you if you'll be so kind as to send the Constable
to me here. There is a lot to do that is absolutely urgent,
and I'll have to make the best of him until another man
comes down from London to help me. In the meantime,"
he called after Christopher's retreating figure, "nothing
is to be touched or taken away—nothing."
With a look that would have done honor to an Aveng-
ing Fury or the Delphic Sibyl, Mrs. Greene rose and
marched majestically out of the cottage without a
word. . . .


XV
The Stable Door
n the following morning England's newspapers
rang with the strange story of the death of Lady
Crosby. Headlines varied, according to journal-
istic temper and tradition. There was the "Lamentable
and Premature Decease of a Notable Philanthropic
Woman" by which a well-known twopenny paper an-
nounced the event. There was the "Mysterious Murder
of the Bountiful Lady Crosby" with which an equally
well-known penny sheet beguiled its readers, and there
were many shades of emphasis between. However, the
keynote of all was the same—a keynote of mystery, hor-
ror, and eager, if sometimes veiled, conjecture.
And every paper carried long, full accounts of Lady
Crosby; accounts from which the credulous reader might
have gathered that she had led a life which alternated
between the glitter of fashionable society and the austerity
of intellectual effort; that she had combined a completely
successful public career with the acme of domestic bliss,
and that her loss would be deeply felt by a large, impor-
tant circle.
Under ordinary circumstances the almost simultaneous
death of an obscure and elderly villager like Mrs. Lubbock
would have occasioned small comment. On this particu-
lar morning, however, the papers devoted almost as much
space and speculation to the cottage as to the Hall, and


COTTAGE SINISTER 207
every fulsome notice of Lady Crosby was followed by a
detailed account of the three deaths in Lady's Bower. In
fact, the papers so obviously connected the four tragedies
, together into one grim holocaust that the most popular
feeling in the village itself was that Lady Crosby, after
a lifelong demonstration of favoritism towards the Lub-
bock family, had at last shown them a supreme conde-
scension in permitting them to join her in her exit from
this world.
The whole village, of course, was in an uproar. Any
stranger, no matter how innocent, was an immediate
cause for alarm, and there were plenty of inquisitive
strangers in Crosby-Stourton on that day. Even the
worthies of Edith's Ford, serenely preoccupied with their
own affairs, were forced to concede a comfortable allow-
ance of limelight to Crosby-Stourton, and the village it-
self hummed with suspicion and conjecture.
Mrs. Greene, recovering rapidly from a momentary
eclipse caused by the news about Lady Crosby, held the
position of honor. A commendable devotion to duty saw
her in her usual post at the accustomed hour on the morn-
ing after the deaths, and from then on the Post Office
became a small court, with Mrs. Greene efficiently repre-
senting the entire royal family. Indeed, she admitted to
a few intimates that nothing so exciting had happened in
the village "since the Jubilee of our dear Queen." And no
one contradicted her.
Through Mrs. Greene's capable reporting, the story of
Mrs. Lubbock's last words was soon common property
throughout the village. Reactions to the story were varied,
but no one doubted its truth. Nor, to do Mrs. Greene jus-


208
COTTAGE SINISTER
tice, did she elaborate or go beyond the dramatic account
which she had given to the Archdeacon on the previous
afternoon. The only voluntaries which she permitted her-
self to add were a few sinister mutterings and shakings
of the head on the score of the young squire's outrageous
behavior in championing "that girl." There are various
ways of articulating the two words "that girl." Mrs.
Greene's way at least was not ambiguous.
Will Cockett was one of the first to drop into the Post
Office that morning. To Mrs. Greene's gratification he ap-
peared very little interested in the circumstances of Lady
Crosby's death, but absorbed and upset by the news about
Mrs. Lubbock—so much so that Miss Sophie Coke, who
had come in in time to hear the end of the story, was
moved to remark over her shoulder to a recalcitrant Miss
Pinkney that "the pore fellow" was "feeling it bad."
When Cockett at length took his leave, more taciturn
than ever, Miss Coke looked after him with a sympathetic
little sigh, her own humble tribute on the altar of thwarted
romance. Then, with eyes shining and tremulous voice,
she approached the counter, stared at Mrs. Greene in
solemn awe, and begged her to begin. There was a mo-
mentary delay, however, for Miss Coke was a believer in
the Golden Rule, and, noticing that Miss Pinkney was
standing at a refined distance, studiously reading a notice
about the foot and mouth disease, she boldly invited that
well-bred young lady to join her and swell the audience.
"Oh deah," said Miss Pinkney, "that's very—ah—
kaynd of you, but I rahlly didn't come heah to—ah—
gossip. I came—ah—that is, Mrs. Bedford sent me from
the hospital because we needed a few—ah—stamps. I


COTTAGE SINISTER
211
"Oh, rats," said Norris cheerfully. "Not with the Arch-
deacon 'ere. 'E's never fyled yet, 'ave you, Archdeacon?
But, bye the bye, this 'ere George Burwell. You didn't
sye wot you found in Edith's Ford yesterday. Wot
abaowt them alibis of 'is?"
"They were all right," said the Archdeacon with dig-
nity. "I talked to a Colonel Matraver, the man that Bur-
well claimed to have been with when the second Lubbock
girl must have been poisoned, and the Colonel bore him
out. He seems a reliable sort of fellow, and, anyway, I
checked up by asking other people at the hotel and at the
golf club. No, I think he's all right. Besides, he was with
me at Edith's Ford yesterday afternoon all the time while
someone was poisoning Lady Crosby and Mrs. Lubbock."
"I see," said Norris. "Nobody's treasure, but 'armless."
"Quite," said the Archdeacon.
There was a thoughtful silence for a few moments.
Then Norris began again:
"And wot abaowt the Lubbock girl all this time? 'Ow
do we know she's not giving us the slip?"
"I have Crosby's word for it," said the Archdeacon.
"Crosby's word for it! My eye, Archdeacon, you're
turning byby in your old ayge. Why, Crosby's in love
with 'er. You don't expect 'im to 'and 'er over, do you,
sying, 'thank you, gentlemen, Miss Lucy and I are ex-
pecting to get married awfter you've finished 'anging 'er
by the neck till she's dead.' Fie, Archdeacon, I wouldn't
'ave thought it of you!"
"And you needn't now," said the Archdeacon stiffly,
"because Buss, the village Constable, is stationed in front
of the cottage with strict orders to prevent anyone from


212
COTTAGE SINISTER
going in or out without permission. He may not be
brilliant, but he has a strong right arm."
"Aow, yes. The little airy-fairy feller you was telling
us abaowt. Well, 'ere's 'oping 'e doesn't go to sleep or get
distracted over a little gyme of pytience."
At that moment there was the unmistakable sound of
a commotion below, followed by the heavy tread of steps
on the stairs. Without so much as a knock the Arch-
deacon's door was flung open and Buss stood on the
threshold, accompanied, as once before, by George Bur-
well. But it was a very different George Burwell from
the jaunty, defiant wastrel of two days earlier. Now he
was hatless and dishevelled, and the monocle which he
still clutched in shaking fingers gave him the appearance
of a dilettante turned gladiator.
"Inspector . . . gentlemen," he gasped, "I've been
brutally attacked by these wretched rustics."
"'E 'as that," announced Buss, "and I'm not saying as
there aren't people I'd 'ave preferred defensing. But all
the same I couldn't stand by and watch 'im 'lunched' be-
fore my eyes. They seen 'im, sir, a-looking at Lady's
Bower, and they recernized 'im for 'aving been 'anging
about the village last Sunday, and they went for 'im."
"How cheerfully on the false trail they cry!" exclaimed
Burwell. "Brother Buss, my thanks and compliments."
He walked to the end of the bed and sat down with a
sudden limpness.
"I'm sorry about this, Burwell," said the Archdeacon,
"but you were rash to go sight-seeing just at this point.
We're keeping people as quiet as we can, but there's
bound to be excitement, you know. The village is quite


COTTAGE SINISTER 213
hysterical. ... By the way, what were you doing at
Lady's Bower this morning?"
"Just paused to look when I saw other people doing
the same," said Burwell. "I was on my way here to see
you. I heard the news this morning, and came right over
to find out about the reading of the will. Thought I'd
better keep myself posted, as it's hardly likely that Sir
Howard will send me an engraved invitation. ... By
the way, I don't think I know these gentlemen?"
But the introduction was never made, for at this point
Norris sprang up from his chair with a vigor that made
the lugubrious Archer wince:
"Look 'ere! Wot's to prevent this Lubbock girl from
myking a dash for it while we're jawing 'ere? Let's leave
Burwell for Archer to entertyne, and just pop raownd to
Lydy's Baower and lock the styble door before it's too
lyte. Come on, Archdeacon, I've got a premonition, as you
might sye."
The Archdeacon rose pontifically. He hated to admit it,
but he felt that Norris was right. In fact, the same
thought had just been crossing his own mind.
"All right, Burwell," he said. "You'd better wait here
till things^calm down a little. Archer, we shan't be long.
We'll just make sure of our quarry, and then come back
here and lay our plans. Come along, Buss. We still need
your help."
"But wait," said Burwell plaintively. "'The will, the
will! We will hear Caesar's will.'"
"This afternoon at the Hall at four o'clock," said the
Archdeacon over his shoulder. And he heard, as he went,


214
COTTAGE SINISTER
an uneasy cough from Archer, and Burwell's "alas, poor
Cynthia!"
Within ten minutes the two men had passed through
an excited crowd of onlookers to reach Lady's Bower, and
within eleven minutes they had discovered that the cottage
was empty!
* * *
That same morning had dawned bleakly enough for
Lucy Lubbock. Carrie's presence had been a help in the
sense that any living thing would have been a source of
comfort and reassurance in that house of death. But be-
yond this undeniable quality of life Carrie's resources did
not go, and her sympathy and grief-stricken loyalty were
such a scatter-brained, incoherent quality that it was al-
most a relief to Lucy when, early in the morning, the
good woman declared that she must go back to the Hall
and arrange "the poor dear lady's things." Carrie was
allowed to slip quietly out, leaving Lucy to sit alone in
the window seat downstairs, motionless and stunned as
if an excess of grief had been turned, by some merciful
alchemy, into obliviousness.
At length she was roused by sounds outside: voices,
and the coming and going of automobiles, and the crunch-
ing of many footsteps on the gravel path. She got up,
looked out the front window, and was startled to see a
crowd of hostile, curious people wandering about in the
road in front of her own peaceful home. Buss' broad,
blue-clad back at the garden gate was the only reassuring
sight in a strange, sinister world, and even he was
obviously having none too easy a time with the im-


COTTAGE SINISTER 215
portunate tribe of reporters and photographers that had
gathered here from all over England.
A village boy, catching sight of Lucy's face at the
window, shouted and hurled a stone which crashed
through the glass beside her. The cry was taken up on all
sides, and it is to the credit of Buss that there were no
more stones.
Lucy shuddered and hurried to lock the front door.
Then, as if in a daze, she sat down again at the window
seat, hidden from the road, and stared out over the garden
and meadows behind.
Minutes passed . . . George Burwell appeared in front
of the cottage. The pent-up suspicion of the crowd sud-
denly concentrated itself and found vent in a rude elbow-
ing and jostling of the newcomer, who had been quickly
recognized as the much-talked-of "dark stranger."
Sounds of hate and scuffle reached Lucy's ears where she
sat. She shivered and buried her face in her hands. As
she did so, the rattle of some gravel at the window at-
tracted her attention. She looked out, and saw Chris-
topher. Cautiously and softly she opened the window and
leaned out. Christopher glanced fearfully about him with
his finger on his lips, but the scuffle in front of the cottage
had drawn away all attention, including that of the small
boy who had been set by Buss to watch the back door.
Then, with an impish, quizzical expression, but still no
word, he whistled softly and pointed to the Morris Cow-
ley which was standing empty by the side of a lane two
meadows away.
Lucy smiled a wan, comprehending smile, her first in
many hours. Then she nodded and slipped away up the


2l6 £ COTTAGE SINISTER
stairs for a hat and veil. In a minute she was letting her-
self quietly out by the back door, where Christopher stood
waiting. He took her arm hurriedly, and together they
crossed the garden, crossed the brook, crossed the first
meadow, crossed the second, reached the Morris Cowley,
and were miles away from Crosby-Stourton by ten-thirty,
the hour when Norris and the Archdeacon arrived too
late to lock the stable door.
Neither Lucy nor Christopher spoke till Crosby-Stour-
ton lay well behind them. Christopher drove carefully, but
there was a subdued excitement and elation in his whole
bearing. At length Lucy asked him where they were going,
and he answered her lightly:
"Somebody's wedding, my dear. Don't ask me whose!"
Then he added gravely, "Lucy, do you remember your
promise? You said you'd come when I whistled, and
you'd give me a chance to show you that I'm anything
but a catch in the marriage market. All I asked, you know,
was a chance to show you. Well, we're on our way."
Lucy sank back and closed her eyes, too tired to utter
the questions at her lips, too happy in Christopher's mere
presence to unravel the reasons for their journey.
But Christopher soon roused her from her reverie to
ask her a great many trivial, intimate questions which
surprised her; questions about the daily life at Lady's
Bower, the clothes she and her mother had worn, the
things they had eaten, the hours they had kept, the visits
they had made and received. She was surprised, and, at
first, perfunctory in her answers. She soon saw, however,
that he had a purpose in the things he was asking; for,
with every answer she gave him, he paused and frowned


2l8
COTTAGE SINISTER
aren't going to see him, are we? I don't see what he has
to do with—with the present and our troubles."
"The present has roots in the past," said Christopher
simply, and was silent.
They drove on through the residential town of Clifton
to Victoria Park, the happy hunting ground of gouty
Indian Colonels, arthritic widows and aged doctors such
as Harold Crampton, who, until two years before, had
played the part of doctor, guide, philosopher and friend
to young and old in Crosby-Stourton.
The Morris Cowley drew up in front of a grey stone
house facing the square, and Christopher was out of the
car in a second, offering his hand to Lucy as she stepped
down onto the pavement.
"Come on, Lucy," he said, and his voice was deeply
serious. "This is Dr. Crampton's house—and when we've
heard all that he has to say—it will be time for you to
decide my fate."


XVI
Merely Medicinal
Yes, Dr. Crampton is in his Consulting Room, but I
don't know if he can see you just now. . . ." The
trim little housemaid looked at Christopher and
Lucy with the condescending eyes of one who is used to
turning away princes and potentates daily.
"Have you an appointment? . . . No . . . then I'm
afraid . . . you see there are several patients wait-
ing. . . ."
"Perhaps if you would give him my card and say it's
urgent—I think he'll see me." The maid took his card
with obvious reluctance.
"Very well, sir—if you will kindly wait." The voice
was polite but uncompromising.
She returned in the twinkling of an eye—breathless
with apologetic embarrassment.
"Why, yes," she said, now smiling and humble, "Dr.
Crampton will be dee-lighted to see you. I'm sorry, but
I didn't know you were such an old friend of the doc-
tor's. Will you please wait in the study? He won't be a
moment. You wouldn't want to go in with the patients,
would you?" She added this in a confidential whisper as
though she were speaking of some strange and unpre-
dictable species of wild animal.
Christopher and Lucy had not waited more than four
minutes in Dr. Crampton's comfortably upholstered
219


220
COTTAGE SINISTER
study before the door was thrown open and a brisk, cheer-
ful little old man literally ran into the room with a happy
smile of welcome. He gave the impression of an amiable
robin which had just discovered a particularly tasty worm.
"My dear Christopher, this is indeed a pleasure—and
Lucy Lubbock too—my dear child! I'm delighted, de-
lighted—you'll stay awhile, of course. ..." As he
chirped out these little staccato phrases of welcome, he
seized their hands in turn and worked them up and down
like a pump handle.
"Alice," he called, and the trim little housemaid came
bustling in, "I won't see any more patients today. Send
'em away—right away—and say I'm called off on a—let's
see—on an important consultation. Oh, Alice, and bring
in the sherry and three glasses—here's an old friend of
mine—two old friends—here's the cellar key—and, Alice
—some biscuits"
Hopping around from one to the other with surprising
agility, the little doctor lit an Abdullah cigarette for Lucy
and forced an enormous Corona-Corona on Christopher.
He looked so happy and cheerful over his activities that
it was obvious to his young guests that he had heard
nothing of the tragedies which had caused their visit.
If he felt any surprise at seeing the son of Sir Howard
Crosby arriving at his house with the daughter of a
servant, he kept it to himself. Or, perhaps, being a neu-
rologist, and therefore accustomed to the unaccountable
vagaries of the human race, he did not give it a second
thought. In any case, his welcome to his two old friends
from Crosby-Stourton could not have been warmer or
more sincere.


COTTAGE SINISTER
221
The maid brought in a decanter and three glasses. As
Dr. Crampton poured out the clear amber liquid and cir-
culated the biscuits, he talked eagerly to his visitors, and
his small bird-like eyes darted from one to the other with
a happy twinkle.
"Well, Christopher, I hear you're up at Guy's now.
Good work, my boy! Should call you Dr. Crosby, I sup-
pose! Well, well, God bless my soul, it seems only yes-
terday that you were a little red-headed boy sneaking into
my office in Crosby-Stourton in the vain hopes of catch-
ing a glimpse of a guinea pig's insides or the viscera of
a frog! Quite the scientist, you were, even at that tender
age! . . . And you, Lucy, my dear—a full-fledged nurse.
Good, good. I could use you—I could use you—could
give you lots of work here. A cool, capable girl like
you"
He rattled pleasantly on, and if his trained eyes no-
ticed the anxiety and strain on their pale young faces, he
carefully avoided making any reference to it. Not with-
out good reason had Dr. Crampton become one of the
leading mental specialists of his day.
"Well, well," he said at length, seeing Christopher's
eyes wander appraisingly round the well-furnished room,
"I suppose you are wondering how I attained to all this
magnificence after my humble practice in Crosby-Stour-
ton "he chuckled gleefully. In spite of the fact that
the conversation appeared to have no bearing whatsoever
on the recent events in the village, Lucy noticed with
some astonishment that Christopher was not only listen-
ing with almost preternatural interest, but was obvi-


222
COTTAGE SINISTER
ously drawing Dr. Crampton on to talk more about him-
self.
"It happened this way, my boy," continued the neu-
rologist with egotistical enjoyment, "you remember the
book I was writing when I was with you—that voluble
and voluminous tome entitled Newer Aspects of Neu-
rology—well, it came out, finally—and actually made
quite a hit, especially in America! No one was more sur-
prised than yours truly, and I almost became one of my
own patients when they asked me to go out there and
lecture at their best medical schools—Harvard, Pennsyl-
vania, Johns Hopkins. It was a stunner—at my age and
weight, as they say across the Herring Pond—but I went,
and I learnt a lot too. . . ." Christopher was listening
eagerly.
And well he might listen, for Dr. Harold Crampton
was one of the many interesting anomalies of the medi-
cal profession. He had spent the thirty most active years
of his career rusticating (but not rusting) at Crosby-
Stourton—outwardly an able and kindly country prac-
titioner, but inwardly an ardent scientific theorist. His
bent had always been towards neurology and the allevia-
tion of mental suffering, and gradually he had accumu-
lated enough knowledge and clinical data for the book
which he had just mentioned to Christopher. At the age
of sixty he had been a busy, capable man, paying a round
of calls in the morning, attending to hospital patients in
the afternoon, with evening surgery hours from six to
seven-thirty. A country doctor, unhonored and unsung.
Now, at sixty-two, since the publication of his book and
some rather startling articles in the British Medical Jour-


COTTAGE SINISTER
223
nal, he bid fair to become one of the leading neurologists
of his day, and patients were referred to him from all
over creation. By some he was considered a harmless
quack, to others he was an amiable charlatan, but to all
he was important, and the patients kept pouring in. There
were even whispers of a knighthood, and the doors of
Harley Street were open at his bidding—truly a remark-
able achievement (as he himself put it) "at his age and
weight!"
"Why, yes," he continued happily, pleased by Chris-
topher's very obvious interest, "I gave lectures at the best
Universities out there, and I entitled the series, 'Neurotics
are Human Beings.' I flatter myself they made quite a
hit. . . ." The bright, bird-like eyes twinkled humorously.
"You see, my pet theories happen to fit in pretty well
with theirs, and that's always a good foundation. Let me
fill up your glass, my boy."
"I'd very much like to hear something of those theories
of yours," said Christopher, as he puffed valiantly at the
Corona-Corona.
"Well," the little doctor continued, "it's not so easy to
give them to you in a nutshell, but they are all founded
on the idea that a mental case, especially in the earlier
stages, must never be treated as an invalid, and the doctor
must never be a doctor—just a valued friend. We can
do a lot for them, of course, but we mustn't let them
know we are doing it. In other words, neurotics are hu-
man beings, first and foremost. Take the question of
drugs, for example—no mental case should ever know
that he is taking medicine or drugs of any kind. If he
knows he is ill, the battle is as good as lost in most in-


224
COTTAGE SINISTER
stances. I use drugs, of course—far be it from me to be
one of these therapeutic nihilists—but I have contrived a
thousand ingenious little ways to give them without the
patient's knowledge. Why—with the cooperation of the
family or friends, one can get any amount of medication
into a patient without his even knowing that he is being
treated. It's a fascinating game—as Habermehl was say-
ing the other day"
"Habermehl!" interrupted Christopher, "I saw him the
day before yesterday, I was"
"You saw Habermehl!" the little doctor was visibly im-
pressed. "The greatest brain specialist in the world, in
my humble opinion. Why don't you take up neurology,
my boy, and go in with him? Couldn't do better. He's
been showing a very flattering interest in my theories,
especially my theory on drugs—very flattering"
"Let me get this straight," said Christopher with un-
diminished enthusiasm. "I have a particular reason for
asking. You believe in giving drugs and medicine without •
the patient's knowledge. Is that right?" The neurologist
nodded.
"Well, that's only a very small part of a big scheme—
but, so far, so good. . . ."
"All right. Now let's take hyoscine, for example. That's
used frequently in mental cases, isn't it?" The neurologist
nodded again. "Could you give that—or, say, atropine—
without the patient's knowledge?"
"Why, yes, indeed—that's a good case in point, my
boy. Hyoscine is very easily given without the knowledge
of the patient. Easier than a great many others, in fact,
as the therapeutic dose is almost infinitesimal. One-six-


COTTAGE SINISTER
225
tieth of a grain at the very most. A valuable drug too—
I use it constantly, and so does Habermehl, I believe.
It works like a charm in the ordinary anxiety neurosis,
functional neurosis, delirium tremens and to control the
palsy in the Parkinsonian syndrome. The relief is only
symptomatic, of course, and doesn't touch the real root of
the trouble, but it means a lot to those poor devils"
"But "interrupted Christopher, "if you leave the
administration of hyoscine to the patient's family—and,
of course, you can't always be at hand to supervise it—
isn't there always the danger that someone might make
the dose just a little bit too strong—intentionally or other-
wise. It's terribly poisonous, as you know, and—well,
there's the possibility not only of criminal negligence, but
also of criminal intentions"
"Pooh, pooh! my dear Christopher, you are being quite
unnecessarily dramatic—of course, one gives minute in-
structions and the utmost care has to be exercised. Of
course, of course. Here, I'll make you a present of my
book—read it at your leisure—you'll find it all in Chap-
ter 14, see—'The Role of Drugs in Neurology.' I grant
you that criminal negligence is always possible. One runs
across it all the time. But—criminal intentions—well, you
seldom have to cope with that situation outside of the
penny dreadfuls and detective stories. People haven't the
brains—haven't the knowledge—haven't the courage to
fool around with 'Doctor's Orders' . . ."
"Apparently you don't read the papers, then," said
Christopher grimly.
"No, my boy, I'm afraid I don't," assented the little
doctor briskly, "a good neurologist never does and never


226
COTTAGE SINISTER
should. Why, I have enough horrors and tragedies in my
office every day to make anything else in the way of sensa-
tionalism quite unnecessary. No—Jane Austen and Trol-
lope—nice restful souls—they are my favorite mental
pabulum."
While he was speaking Christopher took up from the
sideboard the morning copy of The Western Daily Press
and quietly handed it to Dr. Crampton. A glaring head-
line revealed the latest tragic developments in Crosby-
Stourton.
The little doctor took the paper and read it without a
word. When he finally looked up from his reading the
normally cheerful countenance was puckered up like that „
of a child who is just about to cry.
"Why," he said, looking at his young friends with
fatherly solicitude, "you poor, poor children. I hadn't
heard a word of this. Can't think how I missed it. Dear
me, dear me! And here I've been gabbling on egotistically
about myself all this time, while you—Oh, dear, Oh,
dear !" He blew his nose into an enormous pocket-
handkerchief and turned his head away abruptly.
"Last Monday morning," said Christopher, "Amy Lub-
bock was discovered dead in her bed. The same night
Isabel died—both with symptoms of hyoscine poisoning.
The autopsy reports corroborated the suspicions of Dr.
Hoskins and myself. Yesterday, as you see in the paper,
my mother died—in the same way—and, later on, Lucy's
mother—now you know why I am so much interested in
hyoscine and the possible methods of its administration.
I thought that you—since you were so long at Crosby-
Stourton—might perhaps be able to help us."


COTTAGE SINISTER
office, and after the glittering ceremony we invite you to
join us in the first part of our honeymoon, which will be
a trip back to Crosby-Stourton."
The little doctor blew his nose violently, and muttered
something about "Hay Fever!"
t "Yes," he said, with a pathetically forced effort at
cheerfulness, "I'll be delighted to come along and see you
through. It's a good thing I'm used to seeing people do
crazy things, because this is probably the craziest I've
ever seen in all my long career. Lucy, my child," he blew
his nose again, and turned away to hide the moisture in
his eyes, "I think you are the"
"Oh, let's not talk," she interrupted hastily. "Let's hurry
—hurry, because even now we may be too late."


232 COTTAGE SINISTER
clamor, and both of them hoped for a speedy arrest with
no complications.
At a little before four in the afternoon, after much
consultation and several interviews with village people,
they set out again for the Hall to hear Lady Crosby's
will. Burwell followed them closely in his ancient Sun-
beam. He still felt shaken by his experience of the morn-
ing, and was in no mood to go alone and unprotected to
beard Sir Howard. His anxiety to hear the will, however,
triumphed over any dislike he may have felt for the com-
pany of the detectives, and he clung to the Archdeacon
and Norris with unwavering tenacity.
The three men were ushered into the library, where Sir
Howard rose to meet them and introduced them to his
lawyer, Philip Beeston, a handsome middle-aged man
with iron-grey hair and a furrowed brow. Sir Howard's
manner was noticeably subdued and uneasy. He greeted
even his brother-in-law with a deprecating cordiality
which led that gentleman to expand and detach himself at
once from the plebeian proximity of Scotland Yard.
"My son Christopher . . ." said Sir Howard with an
apologetic little glance at Beeston. "He said he'd be here
at four o'clock, but as far as I know he hasn't yet come
back. ..."
"And Miss Lubbock," put in Philip Beeston. "She
should be present too, as she is mentioned in the will."
"Well, why isn't she here?"
Norris and the Archdeacon exchanged a small smile of
understanding.
"Perhaps you are not aware," said the Archdeacon to


COTTAGE SINISTER
233
Sir Howard, "that Miss Lubbock, also, left Crosby-
Stourton not long after ten o'clock this morning."
"I don't know anything about that," said Sir Howard
hastily.
"We do," said the Archdeacon with an ominous smile,
"and we can assure you that she will be here again by
Monday, in time for the inquest."
"But Christopher said," repeated Sir Howard stub-
bornly, "that he'd be here this afternoon."
"We might give him ten minutes," suggested Philip
Beeston, looking at his watch.
At that moment there was a tap on the door.
"Come in," said Sir Howard abruptly.
The door opened, revealing Christopher and Lucy
themselves, closely followed by Dr. Crampton.
"You!" exclaimed Sir Howard. "Thank God!"
"Yes, Father, I—or rather, we. Sorry to be late, but
getting married took longer than I expected. Here's Dr.
Crampton, Father—best man and maid of honor rolled
into one."
There was a simultaneous gasp of astonishment from
the four men gathered in the library. Sir Howard sat
down suddenly as if his knees had given way, and the
Archdeacon glanced anxiously at Norris. It was Burwell
who broke the silence by hurrying over to take Lucy's
hand, and exclaiming as he did so:
"By the nine gods of Rome. My niece!"
"But—but—when—where?" asked Sir Howard in a
strangled voice.
"A little over an hour ago in Clifton. Oh, it's quite
regular, Father. You'll just have to swallow us both."


234
COTTAGE SINISTER
Sir Howard was about to retort when he suddenly re-
membered his manners and gave Dr. Crampton a me-
chanical smile. He paid no further attention to the doctor's
presence, but turned next to Lucy and said in a voice in
which resentment and solicitude were strangely blended:
"Won't you—er—have a chair?"
"Thank you." Lucy crossed the room to a seat in the
corner and sat down hastily as if hoping to play no more
than the role of silent spectator in whatever drama might
follow. But the Archdeacon, recovering from his sur-
prise, strode up to the big writing-table and faced Sir
Howard.
"I'm sorry," he said, "but this young woman has al-
ready given us the slip once today, and I may as well tell
you that I have a warrant in my pocket for her arrest."
Christopher started, but before he had time to speak Sir
Howard intervened:
"This young woman," he said with some bitterness, "is
apparently my son's wife. You will kindly give her every
chance to clear herself of the charges against her before
you treat her to the indignity of serving a warrant."
The Archdeacon sighed. His fears, he felt, were justi-
fied, and Sir Howard's family loyalty was obviously to
triumph over all considerations of justice. But Norris
broke in cheerfully with:
"Never mind, Archdeacon. Awfter all, she's come back,
'asn't she, a-thrusting 'er pretty 'ead right into the jaws
of the lion as you might sye. Let's 'ave the will first, and
arrest awfterwards."
With these words he selected a comfortable chair, the
others followed suit (Christopher next to Lucy), and


COTTAGE SINISTER 235
there was nothing for the Archdeacon to do but to pos-
sess his soul in patience while Philip Beeston proceeded,
calm and unruffled, with the reading of Lady Crosby's
will. It turned out to be simple enough. The bulk of her
enormous estate was to be divided equally between Sir
Howard and Christopher. There were one or two minor
bequests to various charities and institutions (such as the
Cottage Hospital) in which Lady Crosby had been spe-
cially interested. Comfortable provision was made for
Carrie and other old servants. Five thousand pounds were
left to Lucy Lubbock—to be administered in her mother's
favor as long as the old lady lived; and a thousand
pounds a year to George Burwell for life (a clause which
caused him to remark: " 'Tis not so deep as it might have
been, nor so wide as I hoped; but 'tis enough. 'Twill
serve.")
When the reading was over and Philip Beeston's care-
ful, well-modulated voice dropped away into silence, no
one spoke for a moment. It was as if Lady Crosby
herself had been in the room with them: "I, Cynthia
Crosby, being in my right mind and fully possessed . . .
etc." And, especially, not one of those men but felt the
pathos of the bequest of five thousand pounds to Lucy
Lubbock in her mother's favor.
It was the Archdeacon who broke the silence by rising
to his feet and addressing the assembled company like a
lawyer before a jury:
"Now that we've heard the will," he said, "I can see
no further reason for delay. I've sworn out a warrant
against Miss Lucy Lubbock, and I suggest that she ac-


COTTAGE SINISTER
company Inspector Norris and myself at once to the police
station."
"Hold on," said Sir Howard, rising from his chair
before Christopher had time to speak. "You may have a
warrant against Miss Lucy Lubbock, but I doubt if you
could serve it on Mrs. Christopher Crosby. Is that so,
Beeston?" (The lawyer smiled an ambiguous smile.)
"Anyway, before you swear out a new one, suppose you
outline your case, and give—my son's wife—a chance to
clear herself."
The Archdeacon sighed submissively and drew out his
notebook.
"It's a matter of simple mathematics," he explained in
a patient voice. "There are three fundamental stones on
which to build up any case of this kind. Their names are:
Motive, Means, and Opportunity.
"Let us take them in order. The first is Motive. Now,
Lucy Lubbock is the only person on my records who had
a plausible motive for every one of the four deaths. Ob-
viously, the idea of marriage with Dr. Crosby was not,
shall we say, repugnant to her." Here he paused, but
there was no response to this little pleasantry, and indeed
it sounded hollow enough in his own ears as he stood
there, large and benevolent, under Christopher's burning
gaze. Lucy sat motionless, staring at her hands which
were clasped tightly in her lap. After an awkward little
pause he went on. <
"Yes, Lucy Lubbock, anticipating a brilliant marriage
into the Crosby family, had every motive to get rid of
her own humble family one by one, in the hopes that the
opposition of the Crosbys to the match would be less


COTTAGE SINISTER
237
strong if she were alone in the world. Before her plan is
quite carried out, Lady Crosby sends for her and an-
nounces her own disapproval. What more natural than
to do away with Lady Crosby as well, whose opposition
may even have come, in part, from a suspicion of Lucy
Lubbock's guilt. For I gather" (here he looked at Sir
Howard for confirmation) "that her ladyship held demo-
cratic views, and, under ordinary circumstances, might
not have frowned on such an—er—imprudent combina-
tion. Also, though this point need not be labored, it is
more than likely that Lucy Lubbock knew the terms of
Lady Crosby's will—knew, that is, that five thousand
pounds would come to her at her ladyship's death. So
much for Motive.
"Now for Means: Obviously the four deaths were
caused by someone who knew a certain amount about
drugs and their action. Also, by someone who was in a
position to obtain a drug more or less rare and unknown
to the layman. Well, this drug was obtained, and I have
learnt from Miss Pinkney, the dispenser at the Cottage
Hospital, that Lucy Lubbock was in the habit of fre-
quenting the dispensary. Also, in each case the drug was
administered by someone who understood the course of
its action, for in every instance no doctor was available
until too late. For it appears" (here he looked inquiringly
at Christopher and at Dr. Crampton) "that a doctor can
easily counteract the action of an overdose of hyoscine if
he is present in time to take the proper steps. But Amy
Lubbock died in her bed at night. Isabel Lubbock died
when Dr. Hoskins and Dr. Crosby were miles away from
Crosby-Stourton. Lady Crosby died after express orders


238 COTTAGE SINISTER
had been given not to disturb her for several hours. And
Mrs. Lubbock would have died alone and unattended but
for the accident of Mrs. Greene's dropping in to call—a
most rare occurrence, as I have since ascertained. Thus,
it is obvious that some medical training or knowledge
was a necessary part of these murders. I do not need to
remind you of Lucy Lubbock's profession.
"So much for Means. Now as to Opportunity. It is
obvious that in each case the murderer must have been
present to administer the poison in person, and that the
poison must have been slipped into the victim's cup. Thus,
in Amy's case, though half a dozen people drank tea
brewed in the same teapot, Amy was the only one poi-
soned. In Isabel's case four people drank from the same
brew; Isabel was the only one poisoned, and moreover a
subsequent examination of the tea things showed no trace
of poison—though Isabel's cup could not be examined as
Lucy had rinsed it out at the time of the death. In Lady
Crosby's case, though the tea things were not available
for examination, I have since ascertained from the pantry
maid that both Lady Crosby and Miss Lubbock had
drunk tea brewed in the same teapot. Therefore, the
poison must have been administered at the time in Lady
Crosby's cup. In the final case of Mrs. Lubbock, the old
lady's cup showed unmistakable signs of the poison, while
the teapot itself and the dregs in her daughter's cup were
quite uncontaminated. The one and only person who was
present at the tea drinking which, in every case, preceded
the death, was Lucy Lubbock. So much for Opportunity.
"Furthermore, I feel I need not elaborate the signifi-
cance of Mrs. Lubbock's last words to Mrs. Greene,


240
COTTAGE SINISTER
"At that time my grandmother, Mrs. Burwell, was still
living. She was living right here, in fact, at Crosby Hall.
No one can pretend, as I've already hinted to you once or
twice, Inspector, that she was exactly a lovable character.
What I did not tell you was something the significance
of which I have realized myself only within the last two
days. Here it is. Though my grandmother had complete
control over her large estate, nevertheless, shortly before
she died, there were grave doubts as to her sanity. In
fact, just before her death, Habermehl, the famous men-
tal specialist, had been called into consultation. A week
before the consultation was to have taken place Mrs.
Burwell made her will. Two days before it was to have
taken place, she died. As you all doubtless know, the en-
tire estate was left to my mother, and thus indirectly to
me. While the Lord knows my father, too, has benefited
through my mother's generosity during the last two years
—not only in being able to put through certain pet
schemes of his own, but also in freeing this property com-
pletely of a heavy burden of mortgage and debt. Am I
right in my facts?" (He glanced at Beeston and Cramp-
ton, both of whom nodded gravely.) "Now then, before
I go any further I want you all to realize the implications
of what I say. According to English law, if old Mrs.
Burwell could have been proved to have been insane at
the time of making her will, that will might have been
declared invalid—in which case the bulk of her property
would probably have gone eventually to her only son,
George Burwell, now sitting in that chair over there."
"Yes, that's so," interposed Beeston. "Though he'd
have had to take it into court. But he might easily have


242
COTTAGE SINISTER
"Good. Thank you. Now then. Let us call that mythical
person X. Let us suppose that X murdered Mrs. Burwell,
for the reasons outlined above. And let us suppose that,
after two years of safety, X is blackmailed by an un-
known individual—since proved to have been Isabel Lub-
bock masquerading under the pseudonym of Myra Brown.
X knows very well that the only person who could have
known of the murder at the time is Mrs. Lubbock, the
nurse on the case. X is terrified, and resolves on another
murder to cover up the first—resolves, that is, on the
murder of Mrs. Lubbock. If Mrs. Lubbock is Myra
Brown herself, what more natural than thus to destroy
every possible danger of discovery? If Myra Brown is
not Mrs. Lubbock but someone else (and remember, X
may not have known for sure), then Myra Brown can
have obtained her information only through Mrs. Lub-
bock, and, hence, if Mrs. Lubbock is out of the way Myra
Brown's hold over X becomes negligible in the eyes of
any court. Am I "right?"
"Roughly speaking, yes," said Beeston judicially.
"Well then, X determines to murder Mrs. Lubbock. As
we have agreed, what more natural? The scheme is made,
the means of death prepared with diabolical cunning, Mrs.
Lubbock's life is a matter of days at most. . . ."
But Christopher got no further, for Sir Howard, who
had been staring wildly in front of him during the last
part of this discourse, now rose with such a sudden jerk
that he knocked over the chair he had been sitting in.
"Stop!" he exclaimed in a voice thick with horror and
emotion. "Stop! Christopher—no more! Gentlemen—all
of you—God forgive me—I did it!"


COTTAGE SINISTER
243
There was a breathless hush, broken only by a bewil-
dered little "But . . ." from Lucy.
Then, while the eleventh baronet stood clutching the
writing-table and swaying a little where he stood, all eyes
were riveted on the future twelfth. For Christopher, ris-
ing slowly from his chair, received his father's confession
as if it were the only pleasant anecdote in an otherwise
distasteful after-dinner speech. His face relaxed, and a
look which combined affection and respect came into his
shadowed eyes. Slowly he walked across the room to face
Sir Howard behind the writing table.
"Father," he exclaimed, holding out his hand, "you're
topping after all! Simply topping!"
Mechanically Sir Howard held out his own hand. De-
lightedly Christopher shook it.


XVIII
"A Lesson in Chemistry"
During the congratulatory little scene between
father and son, a benevolent smile caressed the
Archdeacon's lips ... a smile which dimpled
almost playfully around his episcopal mouth as he looked
indulgently first at Christopher and then at Sir Howard
. . . a smile that embraced a self-confessed murderer of
innocent women, and the son who stood by him in ob-
vious admiration of his confession! There must be some-
thing wrong somewhere—and yet . . .
The smile said as plainly as words, "Very well, very
well, gentlemen, you are welcome to your little display
of dramatics, and I fully appreciate the heroic instinct
that lies behind this confession—but—facts are facts—
and Sir Howard will have to prove his guilt by facts
before he can expect me to accept it."
The others were now staring incredulously at the elev-
enth baronet. There was a bewildered furrow on Lucy's
forehead, a cynical smile on Philip Beeston's well-bred,
handsome face, and an unholy look of triumph on the
ravaged countenance of George Burwell.
"Deuced interesting," he muttered, as he screwed his
monocle into the socket of his right eye and looked at his
brother-in-law as though he had never before appreciated
him at his true worth. "But, tell us more, my dear How-
ard—'thou tellst me all and yet thou tellst me nothing.'"
344


246
COTTAGE SINISTER
Archdeacon puffed out his papal chest and said with much
solemnity" it was you, Sir Howard, who called in
Scotland Yard—and it's hardly likely"
"Well, I won't say another word," snapped Sir How-
ard, "without Beeston's advice. But I have made my
confession and now I wish the inquiry to stop. Is that
sufficient?"
The Archdeacon shook his head gently but firmly.
"All right," the landowner snorted. "If you won't
stop the inquiry, you won't . . . but you can't stop me
from leaving my own library. And so—with or without
your permission—I am going to my study. You can find
me there when you want me, and, in the meantime you
must thrash this out amongst yourselves. I'm upset—very
much upset. . . ."
With these words he strode out of the room and shut
the door behind him with baronial emphasis. While the
commotion caused by his exit was subsiding, Christopher
took the opportunity to ring the bell and ask for Briggs.
The young chauffeur appeared and received some whis-
pered instructions which caused him to look around him
in amazement and to mutter a distinctly audible and none
too respectful "Crikey!"
As the leather breeches disappeared through the door-
way, the Archdeacon turned towards Christopher and said
in the same smooth, sonorous voice,
"It is quite obvious to me, Dr. Crosby, that your father
—gallant gentleman that he is—is merely attempting to
shield your wife! He showed us just now that he was
prepared to stand by her to the limit now that she is
actually one of the family, but to my mind there is not


COTTAGE SINISTER
247
one shadow of evidence against Sir Howard. He was
not even near the cottage at the time the poison must
have been administered—in the case of Amy and Isabel
and also in the case of Mrs. Lubbock. I am not one whit
shaken in my belief—a belief which amounts now to a
certainty—that there was only one person who could
have committed these crimes, and that was the person
who in every case had access. . . ."
"Wait," cried Christopher excitedly, "I don't say that
you are wrong about father's innocence, but I do think I
can show you"
The Archdeacon held up a peremptory hand. "Further-
more, your wife is involved still deeper by the theory
which you yourself expounded to us so ingeniously just
now. Two years ago, at the time of your grandmother's
death, she was no child. Even then she may have con-
ceived the plan of keeping the money in the family into
which she hoped to marry. I do not say she is your friend
X or that she murdered Mrs. Burwell—that is your own
particular contribution to the case. I admit that it is
very plausible to suppose that the person who killed your
grandmother (if she really was killed) also killed the
others—but I repeat what I said just now . . . that Mrs.
Crosby had—in each case—the motive, the means and
the opportunity."
"Nonsense," interrupted Christopher, flushing angrily,
"my wife was in London at the time of Mrs. Burwell's
death. She hadn't even finished her training. I could pro-
duce a thousand witnesses to prove it. And as to your
ridiculous idea of keeping the money in the family into
which she intended to marry—why—I don't think she


248 COTTAGE SINISTER
was even conscious of my existence at that time, and I'd
certainly never spoken more than two words to her." In
his indignation he looked ludicrously like a red-headed
edition of his father. George Burwell tittered, profanely
muttering, "She never told her love, but—sat like Pa-
tience on a monument. . . ."
"And now," continued Christopher, ignoring his
uncle's levity, "I want to show you that your theory is
all wrong—I want to convince you, Inspector, that the
person who killed all these people need not necessarily
have been present to administer the poison"
There was a rustle of interest round the room.
"But, Dr. Crosby," insisted the Archdeacon, "must I
tell you again that the things were analyzed? Nobody
could possibly have poisoned one person at a time with-
out killing everyone else, unless he—or she—had been
present at or around the time of death to slip the hyoscine
in the cup of the victim."
There was a strange smile on Christopher's face. "Was
everything analyzed?" he asked, "The tea, the su-
gar . . .?"
The Archdeacon nodded.
"Even the sugar in the bowl?"
The Archdeacon nodded again.
"Ah! but did you analyze the source of supply? All
the sugar and tea in Lady's Bower?"
"No, of course not "the Archdeacon's tone was
impatient. "To the best of my somewhat limited knowl-
edge, Dr. Crosby, one cannot poison five pounds of tea
or five pounds of sugar effectively without killing every-
one who takes any."


COTTAGE SINISTER
249
"As far as the tea is concerned, I will admit you may
be right," said Christopher, "and in the case of granu-
lated sugar too. But—lump sugar, such as one uses in
tea—that's another story! Why couldn't someone poison
one or two lumps in, say, five pounds, and kill, say, one
or two people?"
Everyone in the room was now staring eagerly at
Christopher, with the exception of Dr. Crampton, who
was looking down at the pattern on the Aubusson carpet
with his hands folded meekly on his lap.
The Archdeacon grunted. "I'm not a chemist, and I'm
not a poison expert," he muttered, "but I am more than
willing to learn." The tone was faintly sceptical.
"Very well, you shall learn," said Christopher with
emphasis, as he strode across the room and rang the
servants' bell. A butler appeared at the door, received
some instructions and returned bearing a tray which con-
tained a bowl of lump sugar, a salt cellar, a tumbler and
a jug of water. Christopher arranged these articles be-
fore him in the manner of a conjurer who is preparing
his stage properties. There was a deep silence in the
panelled library.
Christopher then turned to the dejected little neurolo-
gist. "With your permission, Dr. Crampton, I will ex-
plain to these laymen your method of administering
hyoscine—or indeed any other soluble alkaloid—without
necessarily being present at the time when it is to be
taken. Dr. Crampton," he turned again to his breathless
audience, "is responsible for this ingenious little device.
You'll find it described in Chapter 14 of his book entitled
'Newer Aspects of Neurology.'"


250
COTTAGE SINISTER
Dr. Crampton continued to study the pattern on the
carpet with a dejected air.
"Please get on with it, Dr. Crosby," said the Arch-
deacon impatiently, "it's getting very late. . . ."
"Very well, I'll get on with it, but I'm afraid I'll have
to go fairly slowly or you won't follow me." Christopher
poured a few grains of the salt into the tumbler.
"Now, you see this salt, Inspector? Well—may I ask
you to use your imagination sufficiently to consider it as
hyoscine for the time being? Dr. Crampton can tell you
that they look very similar and also that this amount of
hyoscine would be enough to poison several people"
The Archdeacon grunted.
"Now, I'll pour a few drops of water on the salt in the
tumbler—just sufficient to dissolve it. So. As a matter
of fact, if we were really following Dr. Crampton's in-
structions in detail, the water should be alcohol, but—
never mind. It's dissolved. See. Now, Inspector, that is a
saturated salt solution."
He shook the tumbler gently and passed it to the Arch-
deacon who examined it with interest.
"Well?" he queried.
"Well—if the salt really were hyoscine, you'll admit
that this mixture would be pretty deadly."
The Archdeacon grunted again.
"All right. Now—I'll take a lump of sugar and put it
in the tumbler. Or—if I had a medicine dropper—I could
drop the liquid on to the sugar. This is quite a rough and
ready method, but you see the sugar absorbs the moisture
completely."


252 COTTAGE SINISTER
crystallized inside the sugar almost immediately. Then
you would scarcely have known this particular lump from
the most innocent or ordinary lump of sugar in the
world!"
With these words he took up from the table the book
with which Dr. Crampton had presented him during his
visit to Clifton. "Now," he said, "I want to read from
one of the authorities, to prove to you that this is, if not
a standard method, at least a familiar one with the medi-
cal profession for the administering of such drugs as
hyoscine. This book of Dr. Crampton's has been accepted
as a medical text book in England and America, so it
certainly ought to carry some weight with you, even if I
don't. Here we are—page 243.
"'In administering small doses of hyoscine and
other soluble drugs to neurotic patients, I suggest a
method which is practical and easy and, at the same
time, does not let the patient know that a drug is
being administered to him. A weak solution of hy-
oscine in alcohol is prepared by the pharmacist'—
here some complicated tables are added, but we can
skip them—'This is given to the nurse or some re-
sponsible person in the patient's family with instruc-
tions to place a few drops on a lump of sugar with
a medicine dropper. The alkaloid crystallizes inside
the sugar which successfully masks its bitter taste.
The patient can take the sugar in coffee or tea at
stated intervals without any trouble, but care should
be taken (see previous tables) to make the dilution
so weak that the patient receives only one-two hun-
dredth to one-sixtieth of a grain at a time according


254
COTTAGE SINISTER
in tea or coffee by some unsuspecting victim? And would
not the family who was unwittingly using that particular
package of sugar gradually drop down one by one as the
poisoned lumps were taken—just as the Lubbocks did at
Ladys Bowerf"


XIX
The Letter Tells
ood God!" cried the Archdeacon, as he voiced the
astonishment of everyone in the room. "It sounds
perfectly fantastic to me! Dr. Crampton, is this
really possible?"
The neurologist nodded sadly. "Alas, yes! I'm afraid
I must admit that my—er—method might possibly lend
itself to some abuse of this sort at the hands of an ex-
perienced person, but"
At this moment, the door was thrown open to admit
Briggs, carrying in his arms a large tin which bore the
label of a well-known firm of sugar manufacturers. Chris-
topher cleared a space for it on the table at his side.
"Sye! where in 'eaven's nyme did that come from?"
asked Norris, who had been listening to what had gone
before with an adenoidal stare.
Briggs brightened perceptibly as he heard the familiar
Cockney accent and indicated Christopher with a back-
ward gesture of his thumb.
"Arst 'im," he said, grinning broadly. "Orders is or-
ders." With which cryptic remark he turned and left the
room.
"Briggs has just fetched this tin of sugar from the
larder at Lady's Bower, Inspector Norris. You recognize
it, don't you, Lucy?"
The girl nodded.


COTTAGE SINISTER
With a deft movement of his hand, Christopher over-
turned the tin and spilled its contents—about four pounds
of lump sugar—on to the table. It lay on the cloth in a
snowy heap.
Dr. Crampton, now all excitement, hopped up from his
seat and examined it eagerly. Finally, he selected several
lumps from out of the pile.
"Look," he whispered to Christopher, "look at those
that I've put on one side. If you examine them closely,
you'll see that they have a slightly mottled, shrunken
appearance. I shouldn't be a bit surprised if they were the
ones we're looking for."
"Inspector Inge," said Christopher, after he had ex-
amined the small pile which Dr. Crampton had put on
one side, "superficially at least, you would say that these
lumps here are perfectly normal in every respect. They
don't look very different from the rest of the sugar—or,
at any rate, the difference is not great enough so that you
would notice it unless you were deliberately looking for
it. And yet—if you will be kind and courageous enough
to taste one of them with the tip of your tongue, I think
you will notice the faintly bitter taste of hyoscine—just
as you noticed a slightly salty taste about the lump of
sugar which I used for demonstration purposes a few
moments ago."
Very, very cautiously the archidiaconal tongue was ap-
plied to the lump of sugar which Dr. Crampton held out.
Very ponderously and apologetically the Archdeacon
wiped his lips with a large pocket handkerchief and ex-
pectorated into the waste-paper basket.
"But the sugar in the bowl, Dr. Crosby, we analyzed


COTTAGE SINISTER
257
it! Why didn't we find more poisoned lumps? Apparently,
quite a number were used ...!"
"Coincidence—or mathematics," replied Christopher
with a gentle shrug. "Ten poisoned lumps mixed in with
five pounds of sugar! You can figure out for yourself the
chances for more than one lump to be in a small sugar
bowl at the same time! A simple sum in permutations and
combinations ...!"
"You may be right," said the Archdeacon, and there
was a note of grudging admiration in his tone, "but we'll
want to have our analyst check up on it before we can
be dead sure. But, Dr. Crosby"—here the Archdeacon
paused and looked around him cautiously, as if trying to
gauge the sentiments of his hearers, "I'll grant that you
may be right as to the method of administration, but you
have only confirmed my belief that this job must have
been done by someone with a knowledge of chemistry
and medicine. It was no amateur performance. Sir How-
ard—I am convinced—couldn't have done it. He hadn't
sufficient scientific knowledge. You, presumably, would
not wish to murder your own mother and then be oblig-
ing enough to disclose your special method. Neither Dr.
Crampton nor Dr. Hoskins had any particular motive—
and as for Mr. Burwell—well "here the Archdeacon
spread out his hands as though the gentleman in question
were incapable of anything more serious than an occa-
sional tag from Shakespeare—"No," he continued, "in
spite of this interesting and instructive demonstration of
yours, I still feel that Mrs. Crosby is the only possibility,
and I regret to say that I feel it my duty to serve my
warrant on her—even now—and to ask her to come along


258
COTTAGE SINISTER
with me, at least for further questioning. We can hear
the rest of your story at the inquest."
With these words, he laid a slightly apologetic hand
on Lucy's arm and murmured with sinister benevolence,
"Now, Mrs. Crosby, if you are ready"
Lucy looked at Christopher helplessly—an unspoken
appeal in her eyes.
"I can't go," she murmured. "Oh, Christopher, we can't
be separated so soon. . . ."
A flicker of pain and frustration passed over the face
of the young doctor.
"Well, dear—I've done my best to explain, but still,
they either don't—or won't—see. I can't do more . . .
now. I have no proof—nothing tangible. But I can try to
get some. You'll have to be brave, Lucy—we know it
will come out all right."
"But, Christopher, I can't go there alone—without
you." She shivered.
It was now Christopher's turn to spread out his hands
in a helpless gesture.
"It won't—it can't be for long, darling," he murmured.
With a little cry, Lucy shook off the Archdeacon's re-
straining hand and ran to her husband.
"I hoped it wouldn't come to this," she whispered in
a desperate voice, "but, since it has, I feel I've got to do
something which I hoped I should never have to do."
With trembling fingers she picked her handbag from the
table and drew from it an envelope on which Chris-
topher's name was hastily scribbled.
"The letter," she cried, "your mother's letter! She gave
it to me just before she died and told me to give it to you


COTTAGE SINISTER
259
only if you, or someone you loved was in danger. Other-
wise I was to destroy it unread. It may help "her
voice trailed off brokenly.
Christopher took the letter and read it through eagerly.
"Wait a minute, Inspector, please," he said slowly, with
his eyes fixed on the paper. "This may throw some light
on things. And—there are still quite a few more questions
which ought to be asked and answered. Let's not jump to
conclusions—just yet. Give me a few more minutes"
"I'll give you ten minutes," said the Archdeacon re-
signedly, as he pulled out his watch and resumed his seat
with obvious reluctance.
Inspector Norris was on his feet in a moment. "Sye,
Archdeke," he whispered, his eyes shining with a strange
excitement, "don't go off half cock, this wye. Don't do it
now. We're just beginning to learn things—important
things—and there's one or two questions as I'd like to
ask, if"
"Go ahead," said the Archdeacon with the grandilo-
quent gesture of an indulgent public prosecutor. "My
case is finished."
Norris heaved a sigh of relief, and, facing the others,
said in a squeaky voice which was at once diffident and
impertinent, "I'm not what you'd call altogether au fay
with this case, but there are one or two things I'd like
to know, if"
Christopher looked up from his letter and nodded en-
couragingly.
"Naow—to go back a minute to that there sugar,
which is presoomed to have caused the deaths in the Lub-


26o
COTTAGE SINISTER
bock family. Can you tell me, Mrs. Crosby, 'oo it was as
bought it, and 'ow did it get into Lady's Bower?"
Lucy hesitated for a moment, but Christopher, seeing
her pause, nodded again, saying, "You may as well tell
the truth, Lucy—it's got to come out, sooner ... or
later!"
She wheeled and faced the Inspector. "Lady Crosby
sent it to my mother," she replied, blushing. "She sup-
plied us with groceries and food regularly. She had done
it for years. There was nothing strange about it."
"O-kye!" Norris was refreshingly imperturbable. He
turned to the neurologist.
"And naow, Dr. Crampton,—'oo in Crosby-Stourton
knew of your tricky method of administering hyer-sine?"
"I used that method in the case of old Mrs. Burwell,"
the doctor answered despondently. "To the best of my
recollection the instructions were given to Lady Crosby
only. Mrs. Lubbock, of course, was the old lady's at-
tendant, but I should never have dreamed of trusting her
with such a delicate task as the administration of seda-
tives. Besides, Mrs. Burwell was—er—decidedly can-
tankerous towards the end. She didn't take kindly to
trained nurses so her daughter had to do all that kind
of thing for her."
"O-kye. And could Mrs. Burwell have been given an
overdose without your knowledge?"
"It is possible—yes." The little doctor's voice was re-
gretful. "When a patient in a critical state is taking a
certain drug regularly, deliberate overdosage might pass
unobserved by any physician unless he had some special
reason to look for it. But—as I remember it, Mrs. Bur-


COTTAGE SINISTER
263
instigation, since she was the only person who might
reasonably be expected to know what she'd done. And so,
my poor mother treated several lumps of sugar with
hyoscine, enclosed them in an ordinary five-pound pack-
age and sent it to Lady's Bower with her regular gift of
groceries. Then she established her perfect alibi by going
up to London until it was all over. Perhaps she intended
to come back in time to stop Mrs. Lubbock from being
poisoned, but it was too late. She had not counted on the
unexpected arrival of Lucy's sisters from London. Their
deaths—I firmly believe—were purely accidental. I don't
think my mother ever intended them any harm. . . ."
There was a rustle of astonishment in the room.
". . . And I don't believe Mrs. Lubbock ever really
knew anything about Mrs. Burwell's death, but I think
my mother gave away the truth just before she commit-
ted suicide, and then—and then—it was too late."
"Suicide!" There was a gasp from his audience.
"Yes, my mother must have killed herself after she
discovered the ghastly mistakes she had been making.
But she left some explanation. I felt sure she would. Al-
though her mind was unhinged and she suffered from a
constant fear of being found out, she was not utterly bad
and I am sure she would not have allowed anyone else to
suffer for her wrongdoing. She sent for Lucy just before
she died and gave her this letter—to be opened only in
case of danger to someone I loved. The letter is addressed
to me. I will read it—or, if you like, Inspector, you can
read it for yourself."
With averted eyes he handed to the Archdeacon a
hastily scribbled letter. It ran:


264
COTTAGE SINISTER
"Christopher, my son—if you are in trouble, seri-
ous trouble, touch the third acanthus leaf on the
fourth panel from the window above my desk, use
anything you find there if it is a matter of life or
death, but destroy the rest. Try to think kindly of me
always, and remember that all I did was done for
you—and your father. I trust you and love you.
Your mother."
A hush fell over the assembled company as the Arch-
deacon read out this last pathetic message of a dying
woman. At length the silence was broken by Norris, who
jumped from his seat and said in an entirely unemotional
voice. "Let's go!"
Without a word, Christopher accompanied him to Lady
Crosby's room, where the police inspector eagerly started
to finger the beautiful old oaken woodwork above the
Sheraton writing desk. Suddenly a small panel slid back,
revealing a tiny cache. Christopher gasped in astonish-
ment, "I didn't know that one existed," he murmured,
"we might have hunted for years. . . ."
With an excited "Golly," Norris started to pillage the
hiding place with sacrilegious hands. Finally he drew
forth a pile of old letters and a locked Japanese box.
Christopher sprang forward. "This is my business,"
he said quickly. "I'll take a look first, if you don't mind.
I promise you that you shall see all that's—necessary."
Rapidly he glanced through the papers, noticing with
a sudden clutch at his heart that they were nothing but
letters from Sir Howard to his wife. Even the briefest
and most cursory of notes had been treasured. There
were letters that began, "Dear Miss Burwell," old and


COTTAGE SINISTER
265
worn with much reading. Later letters, more intimate,
beginning "Dearest Cynthia." And, finally, hurried scrib-
bles naming a train, an address, or a business engagement,
and ending with a peremptory "Yours, Howard." All had
been kept.
Reverently Christopher laid the letters back in their
resting place, shut the panel and carried the box down-
stairs to the library.
With the skill of a carefully trained safe-cracker the
resourceful Norris gently hammered the delicate frame-
work with a poker until the lid of the box flew open.
Everyone stepped forward to peer inside, and there was a
faint murmur of excitement when the Archdeacon finally
drew out a dirty sheet of paper, a bottle, a medicine drop-
per, several discolored lumps of sugar, and—most sur-
prising of all—a key bearing a tiny paper tag which
showed that it belonged to Lady Crosby's bedroom. The
bottle was labelled Hyoscine Hydrochloride and bore the
imprint of a well-known American Chemical Manu-
facturer.
"The key!" exclaimed the Archdeacon. "That certainly
makes it look as though it must have been suicide all
right."
Without making any comment Christopher picked up
the letter. It was addressed to his mother, and carelessly
printed in pencil. He handed it to the Archdeacon, who
read it aloud.
"Your family secret is known. How could anyone
who nursed your mother for years not know about
you and she. For five hundred pounds in notes, not
a check, your secret will be forgotten. Send money


266
COTTAGE SINISTER
at once to Myra Brown, Box 323, Hammersmith,
London."
The Archdeacon whistled softly. "Lady Crosby!" he
murmured, "blackmailed! Lady Crosby a murderess 1
Why—it's unbelievable!"
"Unbelievable," echoed Christopher, and his voice
sounded hollow and weary, "unbelievable, but true! Even
my father guessed it just now when he tried to shield her.
And—as for me—well, I guessed it two days ago!"


XX
Exeunt Omnes
Two days ago—you guessed it! And yet you let all
this happen! You let your own wife stay at Lady's
Bower when you knew the danger!" The Archdea-
con's voice was stern.
"You mustn't mistake me," said Christopher sadly. "I
couldn't have prevented either of the last two tragedies.
You see," he explained wearily, "I had gone to London
to consult Habermehl about myself. I wanted to get mar-
ried, and I felt it was only right to find out first whether
or not the taint of insanity in the family might be heredi-
tary. There was my grandmother; my "(here he
paused and looked expressively in the direction of George
Burwell)" and my mother. I knew that she was
odd in many ways, but it was only from Habermehl that
I learned how far the thing had gone. He reassured me
about the possibility of any hereditary taint, but also he
started me thinking that perhaps my mother—you see, I
have a smattering of neurology myself, and I understand
what a functional neurosis or chronic anxiety state can
do to a person"
"Or just plain fear," interposed Dr. Crampton. "Your
mother was always subject to fears of different sorts,
even when I knew her in the old days, and I think it may
have been fear of discovery that goaded her on to act as
she did."
267


268
COTTAGE SINISTER
"At any rate," continued Christopher, "I came home
intending to talk it over with her. I had only a vague idea,
of course, that she might possibly be guilty, but within
a few hours of my homecoming she was dead. At first
it looked like another murder, and that upset my theory
completely. Also, I knew that, even if it were suicide, she
had a perfect alibi for the other deaths. I puzzled over it,
and still I couldn't see how a person in London could kill
two people in Crosby-Stourton. It was what you would
call the Means of death which worried me, Inspector.
But, after Mrs. Lubbock's death, I took no chances as far
as Lucy—my wife—was concerned. I asked Dr. Hoskins
to send Carrie to spend the night with her, and I told
him to warn her to bring over enough food for herself
and Lucy, and, on no account, to eat anything that was
in the cottage."
The Archdeacon's brow cleared slightly.
"And this morning," went on Christopher, "I still was
puzzled. I'd heard the story of 'Myra Brown' and the
blackmail, but somehow I couldn't piece it all together.
If it was my poor mother who did it, how had she done
it and why had she killed a nice, harmless woman like
Amy Lubbock? Then I thought of Dr. Crampton. I knew
he could tell me more about my grandmother's death, and
I wanted my wife to hear from his own lips the truth
about the insanity on my mother's side—just so that she
would surely know into what kind of family she was
marrying. It was during our talk that he mentioned his
method of administering hyoscine. Then it all seemed so
plain and simple. I saw at once how my mother's alibi
fell to the ground—completely! Lucy saw it too. Then


COTTAGE SINISTER
269
we were married, and although we had no proofs we
came straight back here to tell you all we could. It was
my poor mother herself who supplied the proofs."
A murmur of sympathy went round the room. Dr.
Crampton blew his nose vigorously and walked over to
the window. Even George Burwell had discarded some-
thing of his jaunty air, and looked at Lucy with genuine
if somewhat bleary admiration. Philip Beeston sat quite
still, frowning slightly and tapping on the table with a
silver pencil. The Archdeacon murmured a few conven-
tional words of sympathy.
"But," he continued, "if you'll forgive my pressing
such a small point now, I don't quite see why the letter
from 'Myra Brown' or Isabel Lubbock, should have—■
er—precipitated all this trouble. And how did Isabel Lub-
bock know about Mrs. Burwell's death anyhow, if Mrs.
Lubbock didn't?"
"Well, Inspector, I take it you've never suffered from
a guilty conscience! I don't think Isabel did know about
Mrs. Burwell's death. But she had guessed about her
insanity. I imagine she was just trying a little blackmail-
ing game on 'spec', as it were. A regrettable pastime of
hers, I believe. If you read her letter you will see that it
refers just as logically to insanity as to murder. Only a
guilty conscience would interpret it as the knowledge of
the latter. I've ascertained, too, that Mrs. Lubbock was
in London visiting a sister at the time this letter was
written. Wouldn't a guilty conscience immediately im-
agine that it came from the only person (except possibly
Dr. Crampton) who could have known the details of
Mrs. Burwell's death? Especially when the letter spoke


274
COTTAGE SINISTER
"The notes? Oh, yes, sir. So the Bank has come across?
Good. It was Lady Crosby who paid them? Thank you,
sir. I think that completes our case. Yes—sir—oh yes—
well, just a few more t's to cross, as it were. But I'll
report in full tonight. No—oh, no sir, nothing for the
papers—yet! There will be no conviction. . . ."
The Archdeacon hung up absently and drew Norris
aside for a moment. Philip Beeston gathered together his
papers and rose from his chair, while Dr. Crampton and
Lucy conferred in low tones. George Burwell, seeing
Beeston about to take his leave, approached the lawyer
with obsequious deference.
"Look here," he began, "as I make it out somebody's
done me out of a good deal with one thing and another.
What?"
"Looks that way," said Beeston cheerfully.
"Well, now, you're a lawyer. What would you advise
me to do?"
"Nothing at all," snapped Beeston, "except be thankful
for what you've got. If you managed to prove that your
sister died insane all of her property would probably go
to her next of kin, and then you might have difficulty in
securing that thousand pounds a year which is left to you
in her will."
"Ah, well," said Burwell resignedly. "Sweet are the
uses of adversity. I'll to my hovel and my crust. Goodbye,
all. Our revels, I take it, now are ended? Goodbye, Lucy.
Don't think too harshly of your uncle. He is a man, take
him once and for all. Cheerio."
As soon as the door had closed behind George Burwell
the Archdeacon stepped forward.


276
COTTAGE SINISTER
tears as she took his hand. His words, however, were
characteristic enough to restore her composure at once.
"I suppose," he said gruffly, "that I must call you Lucy.
Well, you've behaved creditably, and I can't say I'm alto-
gether sorry that you're one of us. And if you can learn
to manage that red-headed son of mine it's more than
I've ever learned."
"Trust Lucy," said Christopher. "She'll make a good
doctor of me yet."
"Pshaw!" said Sir Howard. "Doctoring! Now, I have
a scheme about the estate. . . ."
"Sorry, Father, but Lucy and I must be buzzing along.
You seem to forget. This is a wedding party."
"Well, well. All right. I'll see you off. You won't stay
to dinner? But I suppose not. All right. All right."
The eleventh baronet stood at the top of the steps as
Lucy and Christopher settled themselves into the Morris
Cowley. A late summer sunlight touched the lonely figure
with brightness, and gave almost a mellow look to the
stern features, the tired, unyielding eyes, and the tight-
lipped mouth.
Suddenly Christopher, remembering something he had
forgotten, got out of the car and ran up the steps.
"Father," he said in a low voice, "there's something I
meant to tell you. Go to—her room, and touch the third
acanthus leaf on the fourth panel from the window, above
the desk. You'll find some letters there. You may want to
destroy them."
After a quick, short clasp of his father's hand he ran
down the steps again and started the motor hastily. As
the Morris Cowley roared away into the park, the eleventh