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CLERICAL ERROR





CLERICAL ERROR
BY
ANTHONY ROLLS

BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1932


Copyright., 1932,
By Little, Brown, and Company
All rights reserved
Published June, 1932
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA


TO
G. M. J. H.


All the characters and places mentioned in this
novel are entirely imaginary.





CHAPTER I
I
Colonel Cargoy fixed the Reverend Mr. Pardicott
with a glance of tremendous emptiness. He had
been speaking in the high cracked voice which he
considered appropriate to solemn occasions, but
now he lowered his tone in order to convey an even
deeper degree of ominous meaning.
"The real trouble with the fella," he said
emphatically, " is not so much the way his daughters
behave, and that's rotten enough, but—well, I
don't like to say it, you know—but he's not a sar/>."
The Reverend Gregory Virgil Pardicott looked
up with a shadow of annoyance upon his gentle
ascetic features. He scratched the back of his neck
and raised his eyebrows.
"I'm sorry, Cargoy, but I must confess that I
fail to see"
"What I mean is," the colonel went on with a
sort of mournful eagerness, " that it's awfully hard
to get on with fellas like that. They don't quite
know where they are, and they have a way of
putting in their oar and queering the pitch. Did I
ever tell you about that fella we had in the regiment?
His name began with a D. No! I think it began
with an M."


He paused, with every appearance of intense
mental effort, corrugating his brows.
"Watkins? Wilkins? It was something like
that. Upon my word, I rather think it was young
Bagshaw . . . funny kid, I knew him quite well.
No, it wasn't him either. I'm awfully sorry; I
can't remember his name."
"Never mind," said Mr. Pardicott. "Tell me
why you consider that Clatworth is unsuitable for
the office of a churchwarden."
"I don't say that he is unsuitable," replied the
colonel, "but I don't think he's at all the sort of
fella we want for the job. You know, one of his
daughters was frightfully rude to Lady Pratt the
other day. Mrs. Catmore was there, and she told
me what the girl actually said—never heard anything
like it. Lady Pratt simply walked to the other end
of the garden without saying a word. Couldn't
have done anything else. Lot of people noticed how
upset she was. Rotten sort of thing to happen after
the Pratts had been so jolly decent about the
cricket club, and let all the kiddies pick the cowslips
on the edge of the park. As a matter of fact, I saw
Tomlinson the other day, and he said there had
been quite a lot of talk about the girl . . . someone
saw her standing outside the Mitre. . . ."
Pardicott raised his eyes to the Church Almanack
which hung on the wall of the study, and observed
that although there were only four Sundays in the
month there were five Thursdays. He did not
actually hear what Colonel Cargoy was saying. He
2


was feeling tired. The colonel had already been
with him for an hour.
"Really, Cargoy>" he said, "I am still in the
dark as to the nature of your objection."
"No objection at all," said the colonel. "Of
course you know the fella much better than I do;
but I shouldn't have thought—well; let me ask
you if you really believe he's the sort of man we
want."
"I certainly do: otherwise I should not have
proposed him."
"Oh yes, quite. Still, it's jolly awkward if a
man's not a sari. Old Ambleside was a sarb—
anyone could see that—we used to get on like
anything. Sort of fella who understood a joke, and
never gave himself airs in the vestry. I believe his
boy is doing jolly well in the Gurkhas. Good stuff,
you know. Makes an awful difference. Those little
beggars can tell at once. ... I remember when
we were at Quetta"
The poor clergyman, who knew well enough
what came after Quetta, raised an expostulating
though friendly hand.
"Sorry, Cargoy, but I have to be at the school
by half-past, and I've got to prepare a few notes."
"Right you are!" said the colonel brightly.
"But there is just one other little matter—if you
can spare a minute."
Better let him get it out and have done with it,
thought Mr. Pardicott, and he took off his glasses
and laid them gently on his desk.
3


"Certainly; if you will please be as brief as you
can."
The colonel fingered his necktie (regimental
colours), he moved his head up and down several
times as though he was trying to swallow a pill;
then he pulled his thin grey moustache and looked
archly at Pardicott.
"Well; fact is, it's about those new windows in
the chancel."
Everyone knew that Mr. Bellinger had offered
to replace the ugly coloured windows in the chancel
with new plain windows of superior glass—Vita-
glass, indeed, had been expressly mentioned. The
vicar had warmly thanked Mr. Bellinger and had
provisionally accepted his offer. Most of the
parishioners of Lower Pydal had been consulted,
and they were obviously pleased with the idea. It
would be quite an event, and something to talk about.
"The new windows? Ah, yesl" said the vicar
with a melancholy smile. He guessed what was
coming. The colonel opposed all changes; it was
said that he left the regiment because he disapproved
so heartily of the new buttons. Yet the colonel had
a way with him, and now he faced the vicar in a
regular glow of amiable expansion.
"Yes, the new windows!" He smiled in his
most bewitching way. He made up his mind to
rely upon mere charm, and upon the employment
of a clever and tactful style.
"I think it's a first-rate idea. Very kind of
Bellinger. He and I have always been good pals.
4


My governor used to know his uncle in Derby.
They used to shoot together—awfully good covers
near Bewdon Hall. Nice old boy, I believe. Some-
thing to do with Lord Swallowcliffe. I remember
my governor telling me about something he said
when they were out somewhere or other—I think
it was near Bewdon, or it may have been at Ascot—
no! I believe it was when they met at the camp.
But I like the old windows, you know. When the
sun comes through that red glass in the twiddly bit
at the top. . . . Rather a pity to touch 'em, I
think. I know what it was old Bellinger said to my
uncle. It was at the camp: I thought so. He said,
'First they tax us, and then they axe us; but they
take darn good care not to axe us before they tax
us.' Ha, ha! I should be sorry to see the old
windows taken away. I don't like the notion of
plain glass at all. Plain glass doesn't seem right in
a church somehow. Looks too much like a Baptist
chapel."
The vicar felt more tired than ever. He answered
very quietly:
"I am so sorry. Most of us, I think, welcome the
idea of a change. The chancel is exceedingly dark,
and the coloured glass, though it may have a certain
effect in given circumstances, is of an inferior kind
and has really no value from any point of view. It
was put there by Gill the brewer in 1869."
The colonel was taken aback. He was not
prepared for Gill the brewer. But he recovered
himself immediately.
5


"I don't say it's not a good idea—as an idea.
Only I don't want to see the old glass taken out of
the windows."
Mr. Pardicott sighed heavily. He was a little
comforted by reflecting that he would be obliged
to go at twenty minutes past three. He looked at
the marble presentation clock on the mantelpiece.
At the end of another four and a half minutes he
would get up and excuse himself.
Strategy on the one hand and exhaustion on the
other imposed a silence. Only four minutes to go.
"You mustn't be annoyed with me," said the
colonel. "It's my duty to tell you what I think.
I don't want to spring a surprise on you fellas at the
meeting."
"You are going to oppose the suggestion?"
Pardicott's voice was so gentle, so placatory, it
seemed almost as if he was making an appeal.
"Well, yes. There are one or two who agree
with me, I think. Mrs. Bulley said we ought to
know all about the glass before we decided. Of
course, I don't say"
The vicar was not listening. He was thinking
about the colonel's wife. Poor little creature! How
sad and how beautiful! He would never forget the
day when he met her on Wiversdale Hill and
walked with her through the park. They had talked
quite confidentially about Marcus Aurelius and
Shelley and Emerson—she loved Emerson, although
he was such a prig. And then they had spoken in
the most surprisingly intimate way about the
6


aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
difficulties of life. He had never had such a wonder-
ful conversation, never met a woman who seemed
to understand him so well, or who received so
readily the message of holy comfort. He had never
known anything like it with his own wife, Claudine.
Yes; it had been a lovely experience, a pure union
of souls. What on earth had she been thinking of
when she married Cargoy? How unsearchable are
the ways of Providence!
What? The colonel was still talking:
“Of course I've nothing to say against Bellinger.
Very decent fella and all that. Bertha doesn't much
care for him, but that's nothing to go by. Blessed if
I know who she does care for, between you and me.”
Mr. Pardicott looked again at the clock. There
was one minute to go. It was a fatal minute.
“And you mustn't really mind what I said about
those windows. Thought I ought to tell you.
Plain glass would be rather a what's-a-name-can't
think of the word-analogy, anomaly—what is it?
Anachronism. You know. That brewer fella, too:
I suppose he's dead now, isn't he? Seems rather a
shame.”
While the colonel was uttering these words, a
dreadful thing happened.
A whole series of moral partitions gave way
suddenly within the exhausted brain of Mr. Pardi-
cott. The crash began just after the colonel had


said " anomaly," and it was all over in a few seconds.
Up to a quarter past three, Mr. Pardicott might
have been described as the gentlest of rural clergy-
men; at twenty minutes past three he was a criminal
of the most dangerous kind. In a dizzy moment of
revelation he saw that he had been chosen by the
Inscrutable Purpose to be the destroyer of Colonel
Cargoy.
This awful change was not accompanied by the
smallest outward sign. Mr. Pardicott, lightly
tapping the fingers of his left hand on the edge of
his desk, never moved his mild eyes from the
colonel's face, and still smiled at him with an
expression of the greatest benevolence. All such
conversions are the work of a moment. Heaven
knows for how long the new dictators of the mind
have been kicking against the barriers, but when
those barriers have gone the change of government
takes place in the twinkling of an eye. Mr. Pardi-
cott, already conscious of decision, felt neither
surprise nor horror nor pity.
And so the Inscrutable Purpose, comprising,
controlling all the designs and all the deeds of men,
rolled him, not rebellious, down the appointed
courses of his fate. Why should a man pray or re-
sist, or raise in vain the feeble hand of supplication?
The vicar got up from his chair.
"Now, Cargoy, I must ask you to forgive me.
I am very glad indeed to have had this talk with you.
Let me assure you that I shall consider very care-
fully all that you have said." (How odd! he thought.
8


One does not really feel well disposed towards a
man until one has decided to kill him. Poor old
Cargoy is not a bad sort, after all.)
The colonel smiled with pure satisfaction.
"There! I knew that you would agree with me.
All's well—eh? Capital! See you at the cricket
meeting on Tuesday. I won't keep you now.
Good-bye, and thanks awfully."
Mr. Pardicott walked to the door with the
colonel and then came back to his desk. No mur-
derer can ever have looked more radiantly serene.
Yes; he would have to do away with Cargoy;
that was quite settled. Time enough to think of
method. And now, those accounts. Why did they
want such a number of copy-books? Six dozen in
one week. Three boxes of chalk. Repairs to class-
room window. Repairs to master's lavatory—that
was rather vague—he would have to ask them about
it. Make a note. And there was something else.
. . . Of course; the question of a new clock.
Make a note of that too. Five-and-twenty minutes
past three.
He went into the hall, put on his hat and walked
down the Vicarage drive, listening with pleasure to
the buzzing of the bees in the rhododendrons.
3
When the vicar came back from the school-
house, he found that his wife had just poured out
her first cup of tea.
9


"You are rather late, my dear," said Mrs. Pardi-
cott.
"Yes; we had to ask Jones a good many ques-
tions. But I must say he keeps the school in very
good order. And he's got a way of framing those
Empire posters which is remarkably effective."
"And what had Colonel Cargoy got to say?"
"Cargoy? Oh, he objected to Clatworth being
put up as a churchwarden; and then he said quite
a lot about Bellinger's windows. I forget his precise
objection. It doesn't very much matter."
"No. But he really is an awful nuisance, isn't
he?"
"Who? Cargoy? Oh, he's not a bad fellow, you
know. I dare say we can stand him for a little
longer."
"A little longer? Why, they're not going, are
they?"
"Oh, no. Not so far as I'm aware." (How
careless of me! thought Mr. Pardicott. It is not
for me to reveal the hidden designs of Providence.)
"But I suppose we have a good chance of moving
to King's Pydal if anything happens to old Red-
water. Dovey as good as told me so. The bishop,
I believe, has every intention of making me a
canon."
The shadow of a smile animated the dull face of
Mrs. Pardicott.
"I should not be sorry to go," she said. "I hate
these dark rooms; and I think my heart has been
much worse since we came here."
IO


She was not by any means without intelligence,
but everyone who met her called her dull. Doctors
told her frankly that she was liable to sudden
extinction; her feeble heart could never be relied
upon from one day to the next. Such information
does not promote cheerfulness. What is more, she
had acquired from her youth in India (where her
father, the Reverend Peter Cubitt, was a man of
some eminence) a most disturbing kind of inter-
mittent dysentery. And so she had no vitality to
spare; she was languid; her voice came to you like
the low voice of one speaking from another world.
Her thick dark eyelashes gave her an expression
that many people described as tragic. She never
seemed to care very much about what was going
on. It was her custom to spend many hours each
day in a wicker chair, reading the lives of good men,
or enlarging her knowledge of the Christian hagi-
ology. If anyone called on her, she looked up with
an appearance of stupor, yet she was always polite.
She was the cause of little trouble and of little
interest.
The Pardicotts had no children. With such a
weak heart—the risk would have been very con-
siderable, of course. They were fond of each other.
Both were so gentle, so quiet: you could not
imagine such a thing as a quarrel between them.
As far as people could judge, they got on very well
indeed. Their servants had nothing to talk about.
But then, poor Mrs. Pardicott was an invalid, and
so very dull.
11


ooooooooooooooooooo
Among the parishioners, the vicar and his wife
were not unpopular. Pardicott was a man of
breeding; he did not behave as country parsons do
occasionally behave; he knew his place. The bishop
had his eye on him: he had more than once told his
secretary, Mr. Dovey, that Pardicott was too good
a man for Lower Pydal. A move to the rectory at
King's Pydal was only a matter of time.
Virgil Pardicott, although he was such a quiet
man, was not without ambition. He liked to see
proper men employed in the higher offices of the
Church, and he looked on himself as a proper man.
He was not infrequently to be seen in the bishop's
library at Belchester, nor did his lordship fail to
appreciate Mr. Pardicott's clever notes on the
Zürich Divines or the Fragments of Apollonius the
Neophyte. There were not too many scholars in the
diocese, and there were few who combined so
pleasantly the deference due to a bishop and the
generous enthusiasm of a student. Mr. Dovey was
also on very good terms with the vicar of Lower
Pydal.
The Cargoys had bought a small house in the
village not long after the retirement of the colonel.
They had no children: their only child had died in
early infancy.
It was generally supposed that Mrs. Cargoy was
at least twenty years younger than her husband, and
12


aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
that she had married him in order to escape from a
guardian aunt. But that was hardly fair. Bertha
Cargoy was an extremely pretty woman, a soft
appealing blonde, with an affectation of seriousness.
She could have made a good match. Indeed, it
may be that she had made a good match, for Cargoy
had some money and a D.S.O. and the record of a
manly career in the service. With men of his own
profession he was invariably popular. The War
Office had carefully examined a suggestion of his
for the improvement of the bayonet. No one
accused him of any moral failings, or even of any
unpleasing habits, though ill-natured or envious
people called him a fool.
You cannot very well have a D.S.O. in the village
without putting him on the parish council. Cargoy
was on the council, and he made a point of opposing
the others in the most amiable and exasperating
manner. Whenever any proposal was made, the
colonel got up and announced with an engaging
smile that he did not like the idea at all. He was
never rude or boisterous. He put an end to every
argument by a shrill, terrifying laugh, and the
assurance that you were bound to agree with him
after you had thought it over. People often won-
dered how it was that the vicar never lost his
temper, and there was not a little sympathy with
Sir Basil Watkins when he referred to the colonel
as “that infernal ass.” But Cargoy had his
friends. Old women like the Misses Hedly-Puffyn
were extremely fond of him—they were proud
13


Among the parishioners, the vicar and his wife
were not unpopular. Pardicott was a man of
breeding; he did not behave as country parsons do
occasionally behave; he knew his place. The bishop
had his eye on him: he had more than once told his
secretary, Mr. Dovey, that Pardicott was too good
a man for Lower Pydal. A move to the rectory at
King's Pydal was only a matter of time.
Virgil Pardicott, although he was such a quiet
man, was not without ambition. He liked to see
proper men employed in the higher offices of the
Church, and he looked on himself as a proper man.
He was not infrequently to be seen in the bishop's
library at Belchester, nor did his lordship fail to
appreciate Mr. Pardicott's clever notes on the
Zurich Divines or the Fragments of Apollonius the
Neophyte. There were not too many scholars in the
diocese, and there were few who combined so
pleasantly the deference due to a bishop and the
generous enthusiasm of a student. Mr. Dovey was
also on very good terms with the vicar of Lower
Pydal.
4
The Cargoys had bought a small house in the
village not long after the retirement of the colonel.
They had no children: their only child had died in
early infancy.
It was generally supposed that Mrs. Cargoy was
at least twenty years younger than her husband, and
12


that she had married him in order to escape from a
guardian aunt. But that was hardly fair. Bertha
Cargoy was an extremely pretty woman, a soft
appealing blonde, with an affectation of seriousness.
She could have made a good match. Indeed, it
may be that she had made a good match, for Cargoy
had some money and a D.S.O. and the record of a
manly career in the service. With men of his own
profession he was invariably popular. The War
Office had carefully examined a suggestion of his
for the improvement of the bayonet. No one
accused him of any moral failings, or even of any
unpleasing habits, though ill-natured or envious
people called him a fool.
You cannot very well have a D.S.O. in the village
without putting him on the parish council. Cargoy
was on the council, and he made a point of opposing
the others in the most amiable and exasperating
manner. Whenever any proposal was made, the
colonel got up and announced with an engaging
smile that he did not like the idea at all. He was
never rude or boisterous. He put an end to every
argument by a shrill, terrifying laugh, and the
assurance that you were bound to agree with him
after you had thought it over. People often won-
dered how it was that the vicar never lost his
temper, and there was not a little sympathy with
Sir Basil Watkins when he referred to the colonel
as "that infernal ass." But Cargoy had his
friends. Old women like the Misses Hedly-Puffyn
were extremely fond of him—they were proud
13


to remember what he had done at the battle of
Arras.
Perhaps Cargoy should be regarded with tolera-
tion. Poor manl A soldier demilitarised is about
the most helpless and the most useless thing on
this good earth, and Cargoy was no exception. He
was incapable of effort. He never read anything—
reading was too much trouble. And why should he
read? He knew everything by a miraculous intu-
ition, by the gift of God, without study or labour.
He had an infinite capacity for soothing himself
with trifles. His collection of picture postcards,
in forty-eight volumes, was probably the finest in
the kingdom. The use of such words as " morbid,"
"neurotic" and "introspective "—words with a
flavour of learning—gave him a good deal of
pleasure when he applied them to his wife.
No one could have described him as a handsome
man. He had lost one eye (not at the battle of
Arras) and its place was taken by a glass eye of
astonishing blueness and brilliance. His long, deep
jaw hung loosely, and his mouth was usually half
open. As he was becoming bald, you noticed at
once the ogival shape of the skull (a sign most
ominous in anthropometry) and the prominence of
the large ears. But let us remember, with due
gratitude, that he had saved the British army, not
once, but many times.
14


5
When the Reverend Mr. Pardicott rang the
bell at Kandahar Lodge he was reasonably sure
that the colonel was on the links and that Mrs.
Cargoy was at home. He brought with him the
parish magazine, and a copy of Dean Whimple's
new and illuminating book on Some Aspects of
National Decay.
Sure enough, Mrs. Cargoy, freshly powdered,
was in the drawing-room. She received him with a
pleasing air of refined welcome.
"Ah, Mr. Pardicott! I was hoping to see you
to-day. Whimple? That's affly good of you. I saw
that absurd review in The Times."
Mr. Pardicott explained that even The Times
occasionally made a mistake.
But Mrs. Cargoy had no intention of wasting
her time on Whimple. She was in a very personal
mood.
"Mr. Pardicott, I've been thinking a lot about
our talk the other afternoon: it helped me so much."
"It helped me, too," said Mr. Pardicott.
"I sometimes feel," said Mrs. Cargoy, with a
look of melting pathos, " as if my life was so empty,
so wasted. If it wasn't for poor old Rip here "—she
touched with her toe a large, unshapely and
unseemly dog upon the hearthrug—" I should be
dreadfully lonely. George is always going off to the
links or the moors, or pottering about in the garden.
I think he's quite happy," she added.
*5


The vicar tried hard to think of some material
justification for the existence of Mrs. Cargoy.
But no ordinary platitude seemed worthy of the
occasion, and he found himself at a loss.
"Surely," he said, "you have many friends,
many people to whom your society is delightful.
You are happy"
"Am I? Perhaps I only pretend to be happy.
I don't know. I seem to be living without any reel
purpose. My life just goes on—drum, drum, drum
—from one day to another. If only I had some
work—something ''
With all the will in the world, the vicar found
himself unable to suggest any suitable occupation.
But when he looked at the fair head of Mrs. Cargoy
he felt that no one could doubt the. purpose of a
creature so adorable.
"You have it in your power," he said, " to bring
intense happiness to others."
"But how?" replied Mrs. Cargoy.
"By your charm, your gift of sympathy."
Emotions of a turbulent kind rose protesting from
the depth of his heart. It was clear that the Inscrut-
able Purpose knew what it was about in deciding to
remove the colonel.
"Oh, I don't know! I don't know! " cried Mrs.
Cargoy. "I'm really awfully fond of George; he's
a dear old thing. But I sometimes think he doesn't
quite understand. Good gracious, Mr. Pardicott!
I ought not to talk like this, ought I? I'm sure a
nice woman wouldn't dream of saying such a
16


thing." A flush of exquisite colour spread over her
pale, smooth cheeks.
Mr. Pardicott became aware that another series
of moral partitions was not by any means as perpen-
dicular and steady as it ought to have been.
"Why should you not? " he said rather huskily.
"It gives me encouragement in facing the trials of
my life when I know that I am considered not
unworthy of confidence, and not incapable of under-
standing the difficulties of others."
(He has a beautiful head! thought Mrs. Cargoy;
and what dear, sensitive fingers—I should like to
kiss them! But of course it's quite unthinkable.
A clergyman, and all that.) She turned her big
innocent blue eyes full upon him.
"You see, Mr. Pardicott, there are so many
ways of looking at life, aren't there? George has
his own way of looking at it, no doubt; and I have
mine. At least we are both fond of the garden.
Would you care to have a look at the roses, Mr.
Pardicott?"
"Indeed I should," said the vicar. And as he
got up he was not a little dismayed to observe a
quite perceptible tremor about the legs. He felt the
imminence of another revelation.
It was very pleasant in the garden, among the
trim borders and the well-mown grass. Bertha (for
Mr. Pardicott was already thinking of her auda-
ciously as Bertha) looked positively angelic in the
warm sunlight of the afternoon. With a scholar's
fancy, the vicar thought of those lovely illumina-
17


tions in psalters of the Middle Ages. As a fancy,
that was all very well; but the real presence of this
exquisite lady forbade the pursuit of mere fancies,
no matter how ingenious.
"Here's the Sunstar," said Mrs. Cargoy. "And
here's General Macarthur—awfully good colour,
isn't it? This one is Mrs. Edward Powell; doing
very well, I think. And this is a new one we got
only last year—Mrs. Wemyss Quin—the catalogue
describes her as lemon yellow, very free and one of
the best bedders. I hope she's coming along all
right. Doesn't look much at present. Oh, Rip, do
be quiet! What's the matter? He's jealous. He
wants me all to himself. Silly old boy! Ah, naughty!
Go to your basket, sir!"
The clumsy, ridiculous, and embarrassing dog
ambled off towards the house. His one merit,
thought the vicar, is obedience.
"Those hybrid dahlias are looking very nice too."
Mrs. Cargoy led the way to a ring of dahlias,
surrounding a rather suburban image of Pan (for
the poor pagan gods are only " garden furniture"
in the suburbs).
The garden provided Mr. Pardicott with an
opportunity.
"Now here is a thing," he said, "which is very
beautiful, and which takes a great deal of attention.
You are fond of gardening. You can express your-
self—and how more fittingly?—in all these beautiful
flowers."
"Oh yes," said Mrs. Cargoy, " I suppose I can.
18


aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
almost every Friday when he knows the colonel's
away at the links. And Mary told me she listened
at the door the other day, and she heard-well,
that's just it-she didn't hear nothing at all.”
“Don't you tell me anything against Mr.
Pardicott. He's no gad-a-by, he isn't. He's a real
good man, that's what he is.”
“Maybe he is. People can
oticing,
though.”
“People had better keep their nasty minds to
themselves.”
“Oh, no offence!” said the Brown House
parlourmaid, bridling stiffly.
“ Nor none taken. But that Mary of yours is no
catch, I should say. What's a decent girl got to do
with green silk knickers, any old how? ”
Everyone observed the increasing kindliness, the
warmer sociability of Mr. Pardicott. He had
always been popular in the village, though he was
a bit irritable now and then, especially with Dis-
senters. But now he had asked Mr. Billing the
minister to see the collection of butterflies at the
Vicarage, and had lent him a very interesting book
on the keeping of bees for profit. Nor was this all.
When the Wesleyans of King's Pydal gave a concert
to raise funds for a new organ, Mr. Pardicott
offered to sing, and did actually sing, his famous
20


song about the brave bandolero, which he had
previously only done on church occasions.
It was also observed that the vicar was more
active. He watched with close attention the prac-
tice of the cricket team. He visited the school more
often during class hours, and genially asked the
children funny questions to which they could find
no answer. He called with greater frequency upon
the humbler members of his congregation; he
praised their offspring, their gardens or fowls or
pigs, in 1'such a way that blushing housewives
declared he was a real gentleman to be sure. In his
preaching he was more melodious, more humane,
more sweetly persuasive. His manner upon solemn
occasions had a peculiar yet consoling gravity. The
old women of the parish were invited to tea on the
Vicarage lawn, where they had excellent buttered
buns, and were each presented with a copy of
Sunset Hours bound in blue cloth with gilt top and
a red silk marker.
There had been a little trouble with the church-
wardens over the stove in the vestry and one or two
other matters, but everything was now smoothed
over in a new spirit of conciliation and brotherhood.
Even when Cargoy made an ass of himself at the
council meetings, the vicar managed not only to
keep the peace but to give to the colonel's absurd
objections a marvellous appearance of plausibility
if not of weight. What was even more astonishing
was the way in which he persuaded the colonel that
Bellinger's windows would really be an improve-
21


ment, without doing anything that might cause
offence to the shade of Gill the brewer.
Mr. Pardicott, having got in touch with the
Inscrutable Purpose, felt happier than ever before.
The deed he was about to commit, however dis-
tressing the thought of it might have been to one
who still retained the blasphemous doctrine of free
will, merely took its place in the appointed scheme
of the universe—he watched the event approaching
him as the astronomer might observe the calculated
approach of a comet. It was bound to come; there
was no cause for anxiety or surprise or any other
emotion. The time was not yet, the way was not
revealed; he had to wait, now, for the signal of
Providence.
Colonel Cargoy himself was pleased by the
affability of the vicar. He saw with delight that
Mr. Pardicott was greatly interested in his accounts
of military life. The Quetta stories, many times
related with a scrupulous insistence upon detail,
acquired an historical importance. It was plain that
Colonel Cargoy had striking and original views
upon the government of India, if, indeed, he was
not the only man who rightly understood the
problem. "I know India," he said. "I don't think
anybody would deny that."
So there was peace in Lower Pydal. Even Sir
Basil Watkins, obeying the general desire for
harmony, kicked his dogs with reduced violence,
and swore with a perceptible decrease of heartiness.
Never before, said the old men—no, not in the
22


an
a nas
days of Mr. Thomas Paley who saw the Queen at
Buckingham Palace—had the church been so well
attended.
The vicar moved among his people like a messen-
ger of goodwill and benevolence. He made himself
wanted where he had not been wanted before. He
showed, in a hundred ways, the goodness of his
heart and the niceness of his understanding. And
so the Inscrutable Purpose, comprising, controlling
all the designs and all the deeds of men, rolled him,
not rebellious, down the appointed courses of his
fate.


CHAPTER II
I
On the first Wednesday in September, Mr. Virgil
Pardicott took the excursion train to London.
There were several things to be chosen for the
church, and he particularly wanted to see the Leigh-
Sanderson MS. in the British Museum. On his
way from King's Cross to the Museum, he saw the
fine scientific bookshop of Tully and Moore, in
Gower Street.
At once Providence gave him a signal. He
entered the shop.
"I want a first-rate book on poisons," said Mr.
Pardicott in his most amiable way to the assistant.
"Not a popular treatise, if there is such a thing, but
a standard work. And it must be up to date."
The assistant, a pallid young man with a melan-
choly, abstracted air, replied without hesitation or
surprise:
"I think there is only one book that would meet
your requirements, but it's rather expensive—two
guineas."
Mr. Pardicott was inclined to resent the sug-
gestion that he looked as if two guineas would be
too much for him. Providence does not bother
about such a trifle as two guineas.
24


"Let me see the book," he said. "What is it?"
"The last edition of Lyle and Fergusson," replied
the young man, moving slowly towards the shelves
as he spoke. "It was only published this year, and
no second-hand copies have come in yet. We have
a copy of the 1924 edition at eighteen-and-sixpence.
But, of course, there's nothing in that about the
work of Bartsch and Rostof on the vegetable
alkaloids. And all this new stuff about the tar-
naphthas—Chesterton, Rawlings and Professor
Brill, you know"
"I want the new edition," said Mr. Pardicott
severely, though he was pleased to notice that the
young man regarded him as an expert.
"It's a very fine work," said the young man
impressively, handing it to Mr. Pardicott. "It's
got all the Belgrade cases, and the New York gas
affair. Shall I send it for you?"
"No, no," said Mr. Pardicott. "I have plenty of
room for it in my bag, thank you." And he paid his
two guineas and walked away.
As the vicar walked out of the shop, the young
man stared hard at his back, and then he stared
hard at another assistant who had observed the
transaction.
2
The most important thing in murdering is to
make up your mind, but there are certain related
25


particulars which require very careful thought. We
are not dealing here with any crude act of violence
or passion, but with a murder characterised by
decency, ingenuity, and a most proper regard for the
feelings of others. Hence, the choice of method
involves a considerable degree of responsibility.
Mr. Pardicott fairly revelled in the fascinating
pages of his Lyle and Fergusson, the murderer's
handbook. He kept it in the little cupboard below
his desk and read it during the hours normally
devoted to study.
He had no idea that it was possible to make so
many lethal decoctions, to emit gases of such over-
whelming deadliness, to eat without a thought of
ill such various forms of death. He took a curious
delight in the mere names of the poisons, often so
melodious, so intricate or sinister. Morphine,
atropine, ethyloxide-sulphocarbonate, hydric cyanide,
quebrachine, hyoscyamine, tyrotoxicon, barium, thal-
lium, the glucosides, the poison of the Madagascar
ordeal.
True, the post mortem appearances were often
exceedingly unpleasant: no one cared to dwell upon
such things. Neither was it agreeable to read of the
experiments which were necessarily carried out with
animals. Mr. Pardicott reflected with acute sensi-
bility upon expiring rabbits, tortured frogs, or
pigeons fluttering inside the glass death-chamber.
He was deeply affected by the fate of the poor
cat which died so painfully in order to prove the
effects of nitro-benzene. How could men be so
26


cruel as to inflict such agony upon little defenceless
creatures?
Mr. Pardicott was not going to be cruel. He
would never dream of—well, of experimenting with
phosphine or carbolic acid or cyanide. No man of
refinement could possibly choose things of that
description.
It was not so easy, when you came to think of it.
Some poisons, he found, acted too quickly, and
others demanded an extraordinary degree of perse-
verance in their administration. You did not want
a man to drop dead at your table immediately after
swallowing a glass of wine: on the other hand, you
could not keep running after him with minute and
carefully concealed doses. Then again, it would be
obviously wrong to inflict an unnecessary degree of
suffering—and not only wrong—it would be
inartistic, a clumsy experiment. The poor rats and
rabbits had done all the suffering, and now we knew
how to avoid these tortures. What I want, thought
Mr. Pardicott, is something in the nature of a
humane killer.
At one time he was greatly attracted by Fletcher's
case 173 (a), in which the toxalbumin of abras was
the cause of death; but then, you could not get such
a thing from your chemist, nor could you prepare
it for yourself. The clever investigations of Sonnen-
thal (who had separated the active principle of
ictrogen) were also worthy of close attention, and so
were the singular instances of codymethyline poison-
ing examined in 1926 by Klatsch and Hauser.
27


But finally Providence led him to the hydro-
carbons, and the brilliant researches of Chesterton,
Rawlings and Professor Brill.
These famous men, conducting a long series of
experiments with the courage and pertinacity that
we admire so often in our men of science, had
conclusively proved the nature and effects of
paradinitrotetramethylbenzene.
Now this is a very interesting substance. Some-
times it gets into your shoe-blacking, and then, if
the blacking does not dry quickly enough upon
your toe-caps, it kills you. Sometimes it gets into
your puff-pastry, and you die for no apparent
reason—unless Professor Brill happens to be there.
Or you may get some of it on your clothes—the
smell is not very unpleasant, but if you breathe it
too long the results are fatal. Yet Mr. Pardicott
read with some surprise that paradinitrotetramethyl
is being extensively used in photography for the
toning of bromide papers, its poisonous effects
being most happily neutralised by soda.
Here, thought the Reverend Virgil Pardicott, is
a matter demanding the most careful scrutiny.
And he read as follows:
"Paradinitrotetramethylbenzene is formed by
the addition of ordinary benzene, such as is
commonly sold for commercial or domestic pur-
poses. It is an extremely powerful poison,
whether taken in the form of a vapour or as a
liquid. It was first discovered by Guardino in
28


1916, but its lethal effects were not fully realised
until the experiments of Matthews and Pollard in
1920. Since that time, it has often been used
experimentally by Chesterton, who has produced
a series of exquisite preparations. . . . When
suitably prepared it is almost without colour,
and has a density of 1.186. The scent, though
subtle, is distinctive, somewhat resembling that
of bitter almonds. . . . Jager has collected 72
cases of poisoning by this agent, 51 of which
resulted in death after a more or less protracted
state of stupor followed by dyspnoea and pro-
gressive paralysis of the respiration. Cyanosis
was frequently present. An interesting case of
poisoning by the vapour is recorded by Willough-
by. A young man, aged 24, employed as a
laboratory assistant at Bartlesham College, cleaned
his necktie with some liquid from a bottle which
he believed to contain pure benzene, but into
which a strong solution of this preparation had
been poured in readiness for a demonstration by
the professor of chemistry. He wore the necktie
immediately after cleaning it, and went home at
the usual time. On his arrival at his lodgings,
he had a dazed expression and his gait was
unsteady. The landlady, believing him intoxi-
cated in the ordinary sense of the word, requested
him to ascend to his room. As he did not come
down to supper a fellow lodger went up to look for
him. By this time he was in a state of coma, and
before a doctor could be summoned he was dead."
29


After reading this pathetic and instructive case,
Mr. Pardicott remained for some time in deep
thought.
Bromide papers . . . benzene . . . dyspncea—
what was that? Anyhow, there was no need to look
any further. Everyone knew that Mr. Pardicott
was an amateur photographer of some repute. He
had won the silver medal of the Institute on three
occasions, and prided himself on being particularly
expert with the interiors of churches.
Curious, how the ordained march of events was
leading him to accomplishment. . . .
How gifted, how industrious and patient were
those excellent men—Brill, Chesterton and Raw-
lings! How admirable, the loving researches of
Jagerl How perfect the grim simplicity of
Willoughby's case! The outline of the murder—
no, no! of the experiment—grew more and more
definite within the busy mind of Mr. Pardicott.
3
Mr. Blazey, the principal chemist of Belchester,
knew Mr. Pardicott extremely well. He, too, was
an expert photographer, and they had long dis-
cussions about the technical mysteries of their
hobby. He was always glad to see Mr. Pardicott's
dilapidated, querulous Austin pull up at his kerb.
"Thank you, Blazey," said Mr. Pardicott. "I
may as well take one of the hot-water bottles. And
30


dangerous poison; but of course you could keep it
in a safe place. As regards the use of it"
More technical conversation.
"How much could you let me have?" said the
vicar. "I should like to try it in connection with
some other solutions, as you have suggested."
. "Well, as I know you . . . say half a pint.
You'll have to sign for it, of course. By next
Wednesday. I expect I shall see you. But don't
forget, you must add the soda. And it would be
most unwise to inhale the stuff in a small room, like
a dark-room. Most unwise. Keep the stopper tight
in the bottle. Make the solution quickly. Don't
slop it about."
Strangely exhilarated, Mr. Pardicott left the
shop and made some other purchases. He got
several flat boxes with glass tops (for butterflies),
and a yard and a half of white flannel.
4
Ten days later, Mr. Pardicott, in the murky
seclusion of the spare attic, which he used as a kind
of workshop, tasted for the first time the pleasures
of scientific investigation and the lurid joys of the
assassin.
He would leave nothing to chance. He would
not cheat the Inscrutable Purpose, or be the clumsy
instrument of a cruel fate—after all, he had the
makings of an artist. In his own mind, there was a
• 32


world of difference between what he was going to
do and the ordinary squalid murder. Probably he
was right.
The first phase of the experiment was rather
critical.
A beautiful blue glass bottle contained the
paradinitro . . . and the benzene was in a green
bottle which was labelled originally " Chablis."
Now, the thing to do was to make a mixture in a
smaller bottle without inhaling the vapour to a
dangerous extent. Mr. Pardicott therefore tied
round the lower part of his face a coloured silk
handkerchief which he had previously saturated
(for no particular reason) with eau-de-Cologne.
He then took a small white bottle with a glass
stopper, and poured into it a few spoonfuls of the
benzene. Then he placed a glass funnel in the top
of the bottle and prepared to unloose his deadly
dinitro, his treacherous tetramethyl. He unstop-
pered the blue bottle and rapidly poured some of
the liquid through the funnel on to the benzene.
Then he rammed the stoppers hard into the necks
of both bottles.
The immediate results were noteworthy. A most
extraordinary fuming and foaming took place in the
small bottle. A milky, turbulent liquor quickly
formed, and Mr. Pardicott clearly detected the
sound of hissing.
Fearing an explosion, the vicar moved to the
other end of the room andt observed his decoction
from a distance. He was so intent upon observing
33


that he did not hear Mrs. Pardicott come to the
door of the attic.
"My dear Virgil! What on earth!"
The vicar glared at her (though not fiercely) over
the top of his coloured handkerchief.
"A new developer. Take care! The bottle may
burst."
And indeed it looked as though something was
going to happen, for the liquor was now displaying
a remarkable series of opalescent hues tending
towards a coppery pink. Mrs. Pardicott looked at
it with gentle curiosity.
"James has come round to see about the fence
in the garden"
"Oh, bother James! " cried Mr. Pardicott with
most unusual vehemence, a little smothered by the
handkerchief. "Run down to him, Claudine, and
tell him I'll see him after lunch. I can't leave this.
And I don't want to be disturbed."
Mrs. Pardicott, with a shadow of dull perplexity
on her mournful countenance, softly withdrew.
The vicar, reproaching himself for his carelessness,
took the key from the outside of the door and
locked himself in.
By this time the mixture was settling down, and
Mr. Pardicott observed to his joy that it was
becoming calm and colourless. He took the bottle
and held it up to the light. He shook it. There
were a few air-bubbles, but the brew was now
perfectly clear. He might proceed to a real experi-
ment.
34


He took a square of white flannel and cautiously
sprinkled over it a few drops of the mixture. Then
he put the flannel into one of the butterfly boxes
(with glass top), and put the stopper back in the
bottle. From another box he took a small but
lively beetle which he had found that morning in
the garden. He dropped the beetle on the white
flannel and put the glass lid on the box. The great
Huber had condescended to such experiments, and
had used them as the basis for some of his most
useful and beautiful calculations. Mr. Pardicott
sat down by the beetle and began to watch him.
At first the beetle ran about with alacrity, sur-
prised, no doubt, to find himself in such a place;
then he went sideways, unevenly staggering. In a
few moments Mr. Pardicott observed with intense
excitement that the beetle was badly gassed. The
poor insect moved awkwardly towards the middle
of the box, suddenly pitched over on his back, and
was dead.
This interesting experiment was repeated with
flies, who perished in a few seconds. Then (as a
check) pure benzene was used; and that merely
produced a certain drowsiness.
So far so good, but it was important to know
something of the effects of this deadly vapour upon
the human organism. It might be breathed for a
few moments, so Lyle and Fergusson assured him,
without fatal results—indeed, with only transient
symptoms of nausea and giddiness. The symptoms
might occur shortly after the inhalation, or not
35


until some hours later; there was always an
appreciable interval.
Mr. Pardicott knew quite well that he had
not prepared paradinitrotetramethylbenzene in the
manner suggested by Lyle and Fergusson. He had
no burettes or filters or flasks or condensers; he
had simply mixed the things together, in unknown
proportions, trusting in Providence. He took off
the handkerchief, removed the stopper from the
white bottle, and held the bottle under his nose.
This brave action was in keeping with the noblest,
the most edifying, traditions of British science.
The smell was certainly aromatic—not unlike
the scent of an orchard, with a suspicion of some-
thing bitter. It was a subtle, delicate fragrance.
What an ideal preparation! In a moment of careless
pride he snuffed eagerly; then, remembering the
lethal nature of the fumes, he stoppered the bottle
and put it away in the cupboard with his other
chemicals. He felt no immediate consequences.
The vicar ate his lunch heartily. He anticipated
a loss of appetite, at least. But no! It was most
discouraging. Suppose the stuff was no good after
all?
In the afternoon he went to the garden, to see
James the carpenter about the new fence.
Mr. Pardicott liked the garden. He liked the
broad lawn and the heavy gloom of the great cedar
and the long lines of the flower-beds. The new
fence was to run by the side of the paddock. James
told him what he proposed to do.
36


"The chief thing is to stop the rabbits from
getting through," said Mr. Pardicott. "They do a
lot of harm to this border."
"They do that, sir," replied James. "The Castle
gardener was telling me he's never known the
rabbits so bad as they are this year. Seem to get
everywhere."
"The old rails will be of no particular use to me,"
said Mr. Pardicott. "I don't know if you would
care to have them."
"Thank you very much, sir. I should. I'd like
to fence off that corner of my garden against the
chapel there, and they'd do nicely. I'll send Tom
with the hand-cart. Much obliged, sir."
The vicar walked along the line of the fence and
paused by the stable door. "By the way," he said,
"there's a little job to be done in the kitchen, I
believe. The cupboard "He stopped suddenly.
"Hallo, sir! " cried Mr. James.
Well might Mr. James be astonished. The vicar
was looking at him with an expression of peculiar
horror; his face had turned to the colour of a
chalky loam, and his eyes were extremely brilliant.
"James," said Mr. Pardicott in a thick, rasping
voice, " did you see that?"
"See what, sir? " replied James, trembling with
a sudden cold apprehension.
"The—I suppose it was a dog—no! it's not a
dog—it's a—oh, oh!—Lord be merciful to me!"
The vicar closed his eyes, his legs doubled up
under him, and he quietly sank to the ground.
37


5
"No, no, my dear," he said, smiling in a rather
sickly way at his wife as he lay on the drawing-room
sofa, " there's no need to send for Apscombe. It's
all passed over now."
He put his feet on the floor, tried to get up, and
fell back again, breathing heavily.
"Bring me a little—a little soda," he said in a
faint whisper.
"Soda? " said Mrs. Pardicott.
"Yes; just ordinary soda in water—that's all."
He remembered his Lyle and Fergusson.
"Far better let me send for Apscombe," said
Mrs. Pardicott, and she looked for support to Mr.
James and the cook, who were respectfully standing
in the doorway.
"Yes, indeed, sir," said Mr. James.
"No!" Mr. Pardicott spoke more firmly. "Be
so good as to give me what I ask for—at once."
The cook ran off, and presently came back with
a tumbler. And sure enough, Mr. Pardicott revived
quickly, though it was quite another half-hour
before his breathing was normal. He had been
overtaken, so he told them, by the most inexplicable
dizziness. He had been talking to James about the
kitchen cupboard, and all at once everything was
blotted out by a kind of yellow fog, like a silent
explosion, and—well, he assumed that James and
the gardener had carried him into the house. It
38


was very lucky that James happened to be there.
Now he was quite well, quite well. ...
But, for all that, Mrs. Pardicott sent for the
doctor.
ella.
The Misses Emily and Susan Hedly-Puffyn
were considerably agitated when they got back to
The Lawns. They proceeded at once to the
drawing-room, where they found their sister, Miss
Amelia.
“ Whatever do you think, Amelia?” cried Miss
Emily, who was the youngest of the three sisters, for
she was only seventy-four. “Dear Mr. Pardicott
has had a sort of a seizure."
“He fell down in the garden, and was uncon-
scious for nearly two hours," said Miss Susan with
mournful intensity.“ They say he had been lying
there for quite a long time before they found him.”
Miss Emily took up the antiphonal story of
horror: “He was delirious, and kept on shouting
about green devils and all sorts of dreadful things.
They say he tried to jump out of the window."
“But now he is perfectly quiet and quite himself
again,” Miss Susan continued. “I believe it had
something to do with a touch of sun in Palestine,
when he was there with the infantry; and of course
he's been working too hard. I thought when I saw
him the other day at Mrs. Bellows' how very tired
39


"You mean that silly talk we heard in Bel-
chester? About Mrs. Cargoy?"
"Yes, indeed! I gave Mrs. Trunnion a piece of
my mind, and I don't think she'll have the impudence
to dare to say such a thing again of an English
clergyman. I've always suspected her of being a
socialist, you know. They always talk like that.
But one can't prevent lies from getting about.
Someone may have been trying to make mischief."
"Well," said Miss Emily, " if I ever hear anyone
saying anything of the sort, I shall just tell them
straight out what I think. I almost believe I should
threaten to tell Colonel Cargoy. He's not the man
to stand any nonsense."
"I should think not, indeed," said Miss Susan
warmly. "A man who has been through what he
has—after all—saving the whole army at the battle
of Arras—he said they all knew it. He'd make
short work of anyone who dared to say a word"
Miss Emily made her contribution: "Gallant
officer!" she said in a peculiarly exalted manner.
"Thank God for such men!"
"But were the gooseberries in a tart? " said Miss
Amelia. "If there was anything wrong about them,
the others would have been upset as well."
Miss Susan explained: "In a tart. Dr. Aps-
combe only made the suggestion. I understand he
was quite clear about the strain being the real
cause."
Miss Amelia picked up a ball of grey wool and
put it back in her work-basket. "We must per-
4i


s suade him not to exert himself too much. Poor
man! I wonder how that talk about Bertha Cargoy
got going?"
"I don't know." It was Miss Emily who spoke,
and she spoke in a dry, censorious manner. "I
must say I think Mrs. Cargoy is a little idiot in
some ways. I don't think she quite sees what is
expected of the wife of a distinguished officer.
She looks discontented. A woman ought to be
proud. . . ."
Miss Amelia protested. "No, no! I like Bertha.
I've always thought she was a sweet little thing.
Of course the colonel is a splendid man, and we can
never forget what he has done for us; but I think
he leaves her alone too much. Men are so apt to
take things for granted, you know."
"You may be right, Amelia. I don't think I
agree with you entirely. Poor dear Mr. Pardicott
is such an innocent man—he's a saint, if ever there
was one. But Mrs. Cargoy is a married woman,
and she ought to be careful. It isn't as if she was a
child."
"Child?" said Miss Amelia, who was a little
deaf. "Ah, yes!—a child would have made all the
difference."
7
The Reverend Virgil Pardicott had just com-
pleted the notes of a sermon for the following day.
42


It would be a good sermon. "And David left his
carriage in the hand of the keeper of the carriage,
and ran into the army, and came and saluted his
brethren." That was a fine touch of character.
In the Revised Version you had " baggage " instead
of " carriage," which might be more accurate, but
destroyed the whole effect of the scene and made it
somewhat ridiculous.
As the vicar carefully wrote the date in pencil at
the end of his notes, he sighed. It was all very well,
preaching these good sermons to the people of
Lower Pydal; but was he not worthy of a larger
and a more enlightened audience? When he
preached, as he occasionally did, in the fine church
of King's Pydal, there was no doubt that he made a
tremendous impression. Nor could he forget what
people had said when he took the part of Cunobelinus
at the Belchester pageant. What did Lower Pydal
care—what could it care?—for the influence of
Nestor the Alexandrian upon the school of Tiberius
at Nicopolis? He remembered looking in vain at
the placid Sunday faces of Sir Basil Watkins and
Mr. Bellinger for the merest shadow of interest.
And yet he doubted whether anyone else had ever
traced this influence with such remarkable ingen-
uity. Of course you could write a book; but that
meant a great deal of time, and there were so many
things which had to be done. In his spare moments
he liked to potter in the garden, and he would have
been sorry to give up the pleasant hours which he
devoted to photography.
43


ooooooooooooooooooooo
But then-Bertha.
Ah, yes! The vicar pushed his manuscript into
the pigeon-hole and pulled down the top of his desk.
It was curious, what a number of exquisite
fancies came into his mind when he thought of
Bertha. ... He was ill, and Bertha, in a form
angelic yet palpable, was nursing him. He was in
a great forest, and Bertha came towards him-a
slender white figure moving among the tall, dark
shafts of the trees. He was in a boat, sailing in
some happily vague manner across the gay waters
of a crystalline sea; and Bertha lay in the boat
beside him. Or she was in a position of desperate
danger; and Mr. Pardicott, rushing in fire or
plunging through water or lowering himself into
shimmering crevasses, brought her back to safety
and happiness. What could fame be to the posses-
sion of such a creature? And why not both? It
cannot be denied that Mr. Pardicott had a clear
though most irrational vision of Bertha and himself
walking on the rectory lawn at King's Pydal.
He got up, walked out of the study, and went up
the stairs to the attic. Half-past five on a Saturday
afternoon. The servants were out, and Claudine
had gone into the village to order some things at
the shop.
Mr. Pardicott unlocked the cupboard and took
out a half-pint bottle, plain, with a glass stopper.
Inside the bottle there was an almost colourless
fluid, though faintly golden. He withdrew the
stopper, and for one moment he sniffed. Like the
44


scent of an orchard—like bitter almonds—like a
summer hayfield—but to go on smelling it was
death.
He put back the stopper and placed the bottle on
the window-shelf. The light, passing through the
clear fluid, made a little pattern of dancing radiance
on the floor.
What sort of death, he wondered. In his own
startling though imperfect experience of the vapour
there had been nothing painful. A yellow fog had
risen up suddenly and blotted him out. He was
told of what he had said, but he had no memory
of any phantasm, of any visual impression apart
from the momentary sensation of yellowness and
obscurity, faintly punctuated, now that he came to
think of it, by points of light. He was glad he had
made the experiment. He was glad that Cargoy
was not to suffer. The idea of causing pain to a
fellow creature was too horribly unpleasant. Stupor,
coma, death. Really, it was almost an act of kind-
ness. Natural demise was not often so untroubled.
Yet there was a sort of pathos about it all. There
was Cargoy going about, up to the links, to the club
in Belchester, or pulling the roller in the garden,
without knowing that he was living his last days
upon earth.
Mr. Pardicott knew what was about to happen:
he was the conscious agent of destiny. There was
something awful, and yet sublime, in this know-
ledge. He alone could foresee the death of this man
—the man who had saved the British army at the
45


battle of Arras. Mr. Pardicott smiled as he looked
at the bottle. Saved the British army . . . well,
if he did that, he had done enough. As a matter of
fact, there was only Colonel Cargoy's word for this
historical performance. Anyhow, his time was up.
The vicar's preparations were almost complete.
If anyone had asked him then about his motives,
he would have been surprised, and probably angry.
It was only a fool or a lawyer who asked questions
about motive. There was no such thing. Legal
convenience occasionally demanded something
called a motive, but the psychologist knew that it
really had no existence. Once you got beyond the
few trumpery certainties of calculation or observa-
tion—the arid world of physics and mathematics—
you were confronted by the Inscrutable. And why
should a man pray or resist, or raise in vain the
feeble hand of supplication? How unspeakably
mean is the mind that is always picking and scratch-
ing for a motive! Have we any knowledge, any
view, of the whole design, thought Mr. Pardicott
as he locked the cupboard again. No! How, then,
shall we claim an understanding of any part of it?
8
As Mr. Pardicott preached his fine sermon upon
the character of David, he gazed with an air of
peculiar benevolence upon the congregation. There
they were in their accustomed places: Sir Basil
46


Watkins in the Castle pew, with his large wife and
three dreadfully ugly daughters; the Misses Hedly-
Puffyn, smiling appreciation if not comprehension;
Claudine, who appeared to take David as a matter
of course; Bertha, like a dear little saint, longing to
learn and to understand; the colonel, stroking his
jaw reflectively, but always conscious of his own
critical powers; and then, in gradual declensions
of rank and importance, the villagers, ending with
a shuffling group of neatly dressed young men by
the font. He looked at Cargoy with a warm, sen-
timental compassion. Poor Cargoy! Next Sunday
he would not be there.


CHAPTER III
I
"By the way, Cargoy," said Mr. Pardicott, as the
two stood together at the Vicarage gate, "I wish
you would just have a look at my little car. There's
a peculiar sort of tapping sound when the engine
accelerates which I don't altogether like. You're a
bit of an expert, and I should be glad of your
opinion."
"Oh yes!—rather!"
The colonel stepped back to his own car and
switched off. Nothing pleased him better than to
be given a chance of appearing expert, and he was
ready to appear expert at a moment's notice on any
subject in the world from beetroots to the quantum
theory.
"I'm afraid I mustn't be long. I have to get to
the golf house by eleven for the meeting. But let's
have a look."
Mr. Pardicott, with a quickening pulse, and with
a noise of singing in his ears, led the way to the
garage. For one moment he felt a numbing com-
punction; and then he pulled himself together and
became steady and resolute. In the practice of
killing, in hunting or in experiment, men have to be
cool, determined, impersonal. Only, for the life
48


of him, he could not restrain the fluttering of his
heart.
In the garage, everything was ready for the
assassination. After all, if the experiment succeeded,
it could hardly be called anything else.
The engine had already been warmed up, and
when Mr. Pardicott pressed the button it started
off at once. He raised the bonnet on the car-
burettor side and begged Colonel Cargoy to listen
attentively while he closed and opened the throttle.
Just below the carburettor there was a piece of oily rag.
The colonel bent his knowing head towards the
engine with many oblique, frowning glances, which
indicated the acuteness of his examination. He
looked extremely serious, and then held up his hand,
as a signal to Mr. Pardicott that he was to keep his
throttle steady. To any ordinary observer or lis-
tener there was nothing wrong with the car, but the
colonel was not an ordinary observer. His trained
ear had perceived at once a possible cause of trouble.
He straightened himself up and shook his head
gloomily.
"I should say it's the what's-a-name—you know
—the thing that pushes the valves up and down.
Pretty obvious, in fact."
"Just wait for one minute," said Mr. Pardicott
in a strangely excited manner. And he took off his
coat and put it on the roof of the car. "Now," he
said, stooping over the engine again, " if you listen
here, close to the camshaft bearing—take care of
the fan"
49


Cargoy, who was a tall, heavy man, inclined
himself with a little difficulty towards the fore-end
of the machine.
"Yes," he said, " I know what you suspect. A
little more gas. Ah, yes! But it's not in the bearing
at all."
Mr. Pardicott seized the oily rag. His gentle
face was quickly and hideously changed by a smile
not unlike that of some cruel Polynesian mask.
"Wait a bitl " he cried, above the rattle and roar
of the engine, as he jabbed the control savagely up
and down in a diabolical frenzy of mad exhilaration.
The situation was too exquisite. So might a
fierce Afghan of the hills, carefully sighting his
victim on the rocky path below, take his fill of joy
before pressing the trigger.
The engine burst out into a series of spluttering
howls, alternating with the descending wail of
sudden deceleration. It was like a chorus of devils.
Mr. Pardicott, in the character of his ghastly trans-
formation, was carried away by a thrill of crazy
delight. He could have laughed—nay, he could
have screamed with laughter. There was that fool
Cargoy, pretending he knew all about it when there
was really nothing wrong at all, finding imaginary
causes for imaginary symptoms, looking so grave
and so foolish and so irresistibly droll! And here
was he, the assassin, holding in cold though steady
fingers the first of his lethal devices—merely a
piece of oily rag!
"Now!" cried Mr. Pardicott as he raced the
50


engine even more furiously. "Now! Don't you
hear it?"
"Yes, yes!" the colonel shouted, raising his
voice to a shrill and exasperating pitch. "You may
be right. I can hear something. Ease her off a
little. That's—right. Just a—shade more"
The vicar understood that the time had come.
He steadied himself for a second. Then he raised
the oily rag.
"Look out! " he yelled.
At the same time, as the colonel instinctively
recoiled from the engine, the vicar pushed him
back with his left hand.
"My dear fellow! " cried Mr. Pardicott. "You
were nearly caught by the fan. I am truly sorry: I
have made a dreadful mess of your coat with this
oil. Stop! Don't touch it. I have some benzene
here and a clean cloth. I can get it off in a moment.
Allow me."
He ran briskly to the shelf, whence he took a
wine bottle, labelled " Chablis," and a new white
duster.
"I always keep these things here for such pur-
poses," he said. "There's nothing like benzene.
It makes an absolutely clean job of it, and doesn't
go on smelling like petrol."
The colonel, who had looked rather annoyed,
"regained his affability. He could not very well have
gone to the golf house with a great smudge of oil
on the lapel of his coat, and there was no time to go
back and change.
5i


"Thanks very much," he said. "Was my head
so near the fan? I thought it was miles away."
Mr. Pardicott fairly soaked the duster in benzene
and applied it with vigour to the coat, not merely to
the stain, but above and below it as well. Indeed, it
looked as if he intended, in his friendly way, to give
the colonel's old suit a thorough cleaning.
"That's all right," said Cargoy. "It's as good
as gone already."
"No, no! " said the vicar. "Just a touch more."
And he poured the stuff rapidly over the duster and
gave the coat a fresh and even heavier application.
This, of course, was really the critical part of the
experiment. A sweet, pastoral odour, like the scent
of orchards on a hot afternoon, began to fill the
garage. Mr. Pardicott squeezed the duster as
powerfully as he could, swabbing and dabbing
rather clumsily, but profusely, over the coat and
waistcoat. The colonel professed himself entirely
satisfied. The stain had practically gone: what
remained would dry out in no time. He must
hurry away now to the meeting. As for the car, he
had spotted the trouble, but would have another
look at it later on, just to make sure.
"I'll come with you to the gate," said Mr.
Pardicott.
He corked the wine bottle tightly, dried his hands
on a cloth, switched off the engine, and put his coat
on. All his movements were extremely rapid, but
that was because he knew the colonel was anxious
to get away.
52


As they came out of the garage, Mr. Pardicott was
carrying the white duster in a gingerly way by one
corner of it. Then he did a very singular thing.
He fell behind the colonel, who was marching with
some speed towards the gate, and dropped the
duster over the low garden wall into the ditch on
the other side.
The colonel got into his car, waved a cheery
hand, and started off to the links.
Mr. Pardicott, no longer resembling the Poly-
nesian mask, went quickly into the house and up to
his attic. On the table stood a tumbler, apparently
full of water. Mr. Pardicott tossed it off; then he
gasped and smiled. He looked at the sleeves of his
shirt and smelt them. Not a trace. Then he went
to the kitchen, where Mrs. Pardicott was having
her morning talk with the cook.
"That was Cargoy who was here just now," he
said. "Poor fellow! I never saw a man looking so
dreadfully ill. He seemed hardly fit to be about.
I suppose it's all right, but I must say I feel rather
anxious about him."
"Oh really?" said Mrs. Pardicott in her apa-
thetic way. "Did you say anything to him?"
"Yes; I asked him if he was quite up to the mark,
and he said he had been feeling a bit dizzy but
thought there was nothing the matter. I strongly
advised him to see Apscombe."
"He's probably all right," said Mrs. Pardicott.
And she appeared to take no interest in the matter.
But the vicar went on, chiefly for the benefit of
53


the cook, whose evidence, he thought, might
possibly be of some value.
"Well, I don't know. He was on his way to the
gqlf club for some meeting or other. I suppose
Mrs. Cargoy would hardly let him go if she thought
there was anything wrong, but I don't like the look
of him at all. It's not usual for him to be so quiet
and depressed either. I shall probably find some
excuse for going up to see him this evening, just to
make sure that everything is as it should be."
He walked out into the garden.
At the end of the lawn there was a cool shrubbery
and here the Reverend Virgil Pardicott was accus-
tomed to pace up and down in his moods of con-
templation. Here, then, he now paced up and down,
reflecting upon his dreadful experiment.
Paradinitrotetramethylbenzene!
It was odd how the scientific interest came
uppermost after all. It really was an experiment,
was it not? A case that might well deserve to rank
with those of Jager and Willoughby.
How long would it be before the deadly symptoms
began to show themselves? The colonel was driving
a closed car, and after leaving it he would enter the
small meeting-room of the club-house. But prob-
ably, before he reached the club the lethal evapora-
tion would have come to an end. He would enter
the club to all appearances a healthy man (he was
looking unusually well), but actually charged with
a fatal dose of one of the most terrible poisons
known to science. Known to science—yes !—but
54


not known to the ordinary public, or to the ordinary
country practitioner. The colonel would sit down
to his footling discussion, sure to oppose the others,
without realising that he might, in given circum-
stances, have become a famous case for a text-book.
And while he sat there, the fumes would be gradu-
ally mastering his lungs, and then would come the
sudden rush to the brain, the blinding fog. . . .
What a pity that no one would be able to record
the particulars!
Or perhaps he would not get as far as the club-
house. Pardicott knew that he must have given
him a more than sufficient quantity of the vapour.
According to Lyle and Fergusson, the action of the
poison was always delayed—sometimes, even after
a heavy dose, for more than three hours. In other
cases, a relatively small dose had produced restriction
of the breathing, followed by coma, in about twenty
minutes. No; he would probably get as far as the
links; they were only five miles away. Would he
have a cocktail or a whisky when he got there?
That was important, for it was known that the
effect of paradinitrotetramethylbenzene was greatly
intensified by alcohol. A spoonful in a glass of wine,
for example. . . .
The vicar looked at his watch. Twenty-five
minutes past eleven. Most likely he was there. In
another hour's time—in two hours at most—it was
almost certain that something would happen.
Death, if Chesterton was right (and he was clearly
supported by Rawlings and Willoughby, especially
55


in the cases where alcohol was present), usually took
place after a period of from nine to twenty-four
hours after taking the poison or inhaling the vapour.
He would be brought home, and poor Bertha would
have to watch him. Fortunately there were not
likely to be any ugly symptoms: only a state of
coma, inertia, deepening until death.
Curious ... he had not thought much about
Bertha in connection with this experiment. It had
not seemed to concern her very intimately; and yet,
when you came to look at it, there was hardly
anything which could have a more tremendous
effect upon her existence.
Poor little creature! A black, hateful experience;
perhaps the shocking ordeal of an inquest. And then
she would be free again—she would be free.
Perhaps it was really for her sake that he had made
these interesting investigations in chemistry. . . .
However that might be, he was only obeying the
Inscrutable Purpose. Far be it from him to enquire
presumptuously. To some, he knew, what he had
done might seem atrocious; to him it was only the
pre-ordained accomplishment of an immutable
decree. He remembered the lines of the sage
Numenius: "Oh man, how foolish and vain are all
thy reasonings, wheresoever thou art; for the way
of doom is an hidden way, and thou knowest not
why or whither thou art speeding with so much
haste."
56


The sudden thudding of his heart was like the
beating of a hammer. News at last! He walked
quickly to the front door, but the caller, whoever
he was, had gone to the back and was not visible.
Trying to control himself, the vicar returned to the
lawn.
After a minute or two had passed he saw the
housemaid come through the French windows and
run towards him. He could tell at once, by her
white, frightened face, that she was bringing him
the news. The anxiety of Mr. Pardicott gave place
to feelings of hope and relief. Yes! it was more or
less as he had anticipated.
"The boy from Kandahar Lodge has just run
down on his bicycle, sir. Colonel Cargoy was took
ill at the links this morning—kind of stroke he says.
They got the ambulance out from Belchester and
brought him home. He's unconscious. Dr. Aps-
combe is there, and he's telephoned for another
doctor from Belchester. They say there's no hope.
Mrs. Cargoy wanted you to know. . . ."
3
"Oh, Mr. Pardicott, this is too dreadful! I can
hardly realise what has happened."
Mrs. Cargoy, with adorable confusion, looked at
the vicar out of her big, blue, troubled eyes. The
fingers of each hand were twining nervously about
a little scented handkerchief. Yet she had not
58


forgotten to dab some powder on her face before
descending to the drawing-room.
"It is indeed a grievous, a terrible, blow," said
Mr. Pardicott. "I trust he has not been suffering?"
"Nah; not at all, thank heaven. Dr. Apscombe
says it is probably an apoplectic stroke. He has not
been in pain."
"Ah!" said Mr. Pardicott, feeling not a little
relieved. "That is precisely what I had anticipated.
Quite so. I mean, when I heard it was a stroke"
Mrs. Cargoy applied her handkerchief to each
eye in turn. Her small mouth was partly open.
She looked exceedingly pathetic—and indeed, that
is precisely what she intended to do.
"Have you heard what—what happened?" she
said.
"No," replied Mr. Pardicott. "Only your
message"
"They phoned at once for Dr. Apscombe, and
he went to the club-house, and Mr. Hake told him
all about it. Poor George seemed quite as usual
when he got there. He had a drink, and then went
in to the meeting. First there was a lot of business
to be done; and they all noticed that poor George
was—sort of irritable. That was the first thing they
noticed. Oh dear!"
Mrs. Cargoy sniffed a little. Mr. Pardicott,
melting as he was with tender sympathy, waited
with some impatience for the continuation of the
narrative.
"Then they went on to the proposed alteration
59


aoooooooooooooooooooo
of the course, and Sir Basil Watkins got annoyed
with poor George, and then poor George looked
awfully strange and wild, and he got up and said
something perfectly dreadful to Sir Basil, and then
Sir Basil got up and said he had never been spoken
to in such a way in all his life, and then he said
something too shocking to poor George, and they
all got up and protested, and then poor George
began to shout and wave his arms, and all at once he
turned colour and fell down, and when they picked
him up he was quite unconscious, and so they
carried him into the secretary's room and put him
on a sofa, and Sir Basil said he was most awfully
sorry, but they all said he was not at all to blame,
because poor George had simply been outrageous,
and then they sent for Dr. Apscombe, and he said
it must have been coming on anyhow, so it was
really not Sir Basil's fault, and then Dr. Apscombe
rang up for the ambulance, and he came down in it
with poor George-he's upstairs now, watching
him." .
· Mr. Pardicott found himself wondering if cyano-
sis was present, and whether (assuming death) the
doctor would be prepared to give a ce
far he might congratulate himself on the course of
events. The case, if he was not mistaken, had
points in common with Willoughby's 2063. It was
odd, he thought, how the technical aspect of the
whole thing fascinated him. There was poor
Bertha, looking for all the world like a little suffering
saint, and he was thinking about cyanosis and the
60


excusable confusion with apoplectic coma! And it
was very interesting to observe how the working of
the poison had been speeded up by the administra-
tion of alcohol. Yes; it was very interesting;
probably one of the most complete cases ever
observed. The pity of it was that the observation
was so imperfect. As for the scene at the club-house,
that was a piece of luck—and it was very interesting
too. He would like to see the poor man, but a sort
of delicacy restrained him. He would see the doctor
instead.
"It is a very dreadful thing," said Mr. Pardicott,
looking hard at the toe of his boot. "We can only
submit ourselves to the Infinite Wisdom. And
perhaps he will get better."
"Dr. Apscombe has told me quite frankly that
he doesn't think so. He said something about
co—coma, I think. Dr. Wyvell came over from
Belchester, but he's gone back: he says that he can
do no more than Dr. Apscombe. I think he said it
was a plain case of apoplexy."
"And did he seem quite well this morning?"
"Oh yesl At any rate, I didn't notice anything."
"He called at the Vicarage and had a look at
my car. I thought he was looking very ill. I told
Claudine. I remarked upon it very seriously and
expressed my concern. Perhaps it would be as well
if I told Dr. Apscombe, in case—in case anything
should happen."
"I expect he'll be going in a few minutes now.
He has to be back at his dispensary by three.
61


There's a nurse with him, you know, and another
coming for to-night. Oh, I never thought this morn-
ing that all these dreadful things would happen so
quickly! If only I had noticed—perhaps I ought
to have noticed"
"No, my dear, how should you? After all, you
did notice: you noticed that he seemed all right. . . .
Is that Apscombe? You would like to have a few
words with him. I'll wait in the porch. God
bless. . . ."
The burly figure of the doctor entered the room.
4
Dr. Richard Apscombe was one of those big
hearty men who are so well fitted to practise in rural
communities—atoning for a lack of perspicacity in
diagnosis by a cheerful manner, an ample degree of
attention, bluff honesty, and a readiness to devote
any amount of time to the most humble of patients.
When a man is so thoroughly amiable and so
worthy it seems wrong to question his abilities.
His methods were quite simple: he had a winter
diagnosis and a summer diagnosis. If you died in
the winter, it was influenza; and if you died in the
summer, it was obviously gastritis. In the spring or
the autumn there might be a blending or a com-
promise—gastric influenza. Nor is it reasonable to
doubt that such diagnoses were as good and service-
able as any others. Dr. Apscombe did not bother
62


about the advance of medical knowledge, he did not
read the Journal, neither did he visit the hospitals.
In his spare time he was fishing, or riding, or
playing a round of golf, or out with a gun. Every
August he went to the same rooms at Sidmouth,
where he bathed frequently and lay on his back in
the sunshine. A good, hearty fellow. Everyone
liked him. With a happy mixture of respect and
familiarity he was known as Doctor Dick. When he
mistook infantile paralysis for diphtheria, or when he
failed to spot a most advanced case of diabetes, people
were greatly distressed—not because the patients
died, but because poor Doctor Dick was really
working too hard, and it was time he had a partner.
As he came away from the colonel's house, the
doctor found Mr. Pardicott waiting for him in the
drive.
"This is a sad affair," said Mr. Pardicott.
"What do you make of it?"
"Oh, my dear fellow, there's no doubt at all,"
said the doctor with his usual heartiness. "Wyvell
agreed with me the moment he saw the case.
Apoplexy. I have been attending him on and off, you
know, for the past two years, and have rather
expected something of the sort. I saw him pro-
fessionally only four days ago. Very likely poor old
Cargoy has been taking a bit too much: something
of the sort happened when he was in India. And
then—well; look at his neck and eyes. The row at
the club raised his blood pressure—and there you
are."
63


"He was down at my place this morning, and I
thought he was looking extremely unwell. I said so
to my wife. I wanted to tell you this."
"Ah yes, yes? " said Doctor Dick with no great
interest. "He may have been feeling a bit out of
sorts. Very likely."
"In the event of any question"
*' Question?"
"I mean, if he dies"
"There isn't much doubt about that," replied the
doctor, as hearty as ever. "But there won't be an
inquest, if that's what you are driving at. Can I give
you a lift down to the village?"
Mr. Pardicott hesitated for a moment. Then he
said very earnestly:
"Just one point. Did you observe any traces of
cyanosis?"
The doctor, who had turned towards his car,
sprang round abruptly and faced Mr. Pardicott
with an expression of the utmost bewilderment.
Simple men, like this good fellow, regard pro-
fessional terms with a kind of reverence. Such terms
in the mouth of a layman (who cannot know their
meaning) have an effect of strange impropriety,
almost of indecency. If Mr. Pardicott had said," Does
he look blue?" that would have been all right, though
rather startling: but this magical professional word
coming from a parson was enough to make any
fellow jump. Afterwards, in relating the episode,
Doctor Dick used to say, " He made me prick up
my ears like a hare when the dogs are out."
64


"Cyanosis!" cried the doctor. "Why; what
on earth do you know about that?"
Mr. Pardicott smiled in his gentlest manner.
"I had an idea—of course I may be wrong—-
that cyanosis was often present in these cases—that
is, in fatal cases of apoplexy. That's all."
"Good lord, man! You don't study medicine on
the quiet, do you?"
"Well, not exactly. But I admit that I take an
interest in these things. I hope you don't think me
impertinent."
"Not at all, not at all. But what an extraordinary
question! What in the world does it matter? It's
what we call a secondary symptom, you know. As
a matter of fact, there's a very marked cyanosis—
you would expect it. But I've got to be off. Are you
coming with me?"
5
When he came down to his breakfast next morn-
ing, the vicar, though calm, would have betrayed
to a close observer the evidence of concealed excite-
ment. Claudine never came down until ten o'clock
or so, and the vicar breakfasted alone. On the table
he found a note, delivered by hand. He guessed
what was in it, and he guessed correctly:
"Dear Mr. Pardicott,
"George died last night, quite peaceful, just
65


after 12. It is an awful awful blow. I have sent
for my uncle and Mr. Boverly. Will you please
come up this morning.
"Yours,
"B. Cargoy."
For a moment a kind of stupor clouded the brain
of Mr. Pardicott. He stared mistily at the big
engraving of the Sistine Madonna on the wall of the
dining-room; then he expelled noisily the air in his
lungs.
Weill Cargoy had gone. No man, not even the
most demented or perverse, can thus methodically
destroy one of his fellows without a few sad reflec-
tions and a little quiet moralising. As the series of
actions and the fatal consequences fall back into the
irrevocable past, the meaning of the ghastly accom-
plishment may well occupy the mind. The careful
preparations and the anxious waiting are over, the
direful game has come to an end, all the controlled
energies have disbanded, and the murderer looks on
his own work as though he had been called in to see
a thing new, unexpected, and horrible. While he
was moving forward from one stage of his experi-
ment to another, pleasantly engaged in the study of
detail, Mr. Pardicott had never anticipated the
blank shock of the awful conclusion. It is the usual
predicament of the intellectual murderer, or at
least of the more egotistical sort. He cannot believe
himself capable of what he has actually done, and
when he pleads that he is not guilty he is making a
66


"Just as the poor colonel himself would have liked
it. There were quite a lot of ladies there. Mrs.
Cargoy was very brave, poor little thing. She was
with her uncle, such a fine military-looking old man,
though I believe he is only a banker."
"The dear vicar was deeply moved," Miss
Emily continued. "He took the service most
beautifully. It must have been a dreadful shock to
him; he was very fond of poor Colonel Cargoy."
"Was he?" said Miss Amelia, lifting from her
basket a mass of coloured raffia with the splendid
unconcern of the aged. "I shouldn't have thought
they saw much of each other or cared much for each
other."
"Oh yes, indeed! " replied Miss Susan. "Mr.
Pardicott spoke about him often. I think they under-
stood each other very well. Knowing what he had
done, besides"
"I was very fond of Colonel Cargoy, of course,"
said Miss Amelia, " but I don't think he was a very
intellectual sort of man. I think Mr. Pardicott
would get on far better with Mrs. Cargoy: she's
quite a reader."
"Now, Amelia!" Miss Emily wagged a re-
proachful forefinger. "I believe you're just as bad
as those gossips after all. I think we know dear
Mr. Pardicott too well"
But Miss Amelia, smiling faintly as she took her
basket from the table and put it on the floor beside
her, made no reply. Her sisters also smiled faintly,
for Amelia had the privileges of a very ancient person.
68


"The vicar spoke so beautifully when we were
in the churchyard," said Miss Susan. "I don't
think I have ever seen him looking more dignified—
except, perhaps, at the Compton's wedding. I
remarked on it to Emily. There was such a wonder-
ful expression in his voice. You could see that he
was feeling it very much indeed. He was quite
different at Mrs. Roper's funeral. . . . The poor
colonel is just under the yew tree, close to the
Whittlesey vault. A very nice place indeed. I
forget who is on the other side of him. They are all
very nice people in that part of the churchyard.
Admiral Scullamore is not very far off, I think."
"Was it a large funeral? " said Miss Amelia.
"Moderately. I didn't see anyone from the
Castle. Doctor Dick was there, looking very
splendid. Mr. Bewley, the two Pardishes, Mr.
Quirtle—oh yes! and Mrs. Woosingdale."
"Mrs. Woosingdale!" There was a flicker of
animosity behind the pince-nez of Miss Amelia.
"I wonder what she wanted to go for. I should like
to know if there was anything in what she was hinting
at the other day."
"About the Cargoys?" Miss Emily tilted her
sharp, bird-like face a little to one side.
"Yes."
"Well; I don't like Mrs. Woosingdale: I think
she's a regular gossip. And I can't believe"
"I don't mean to suggest that there was anything
wrong, of course. Colonel Cargoy was a dear fellow.
. . . But I wonder. . . . You know, when they
69


oooooooooooooooooooo
" It has been so, so dreadfull” she said, dabbing
the corner of her mouth lightly with a handkerchief.
“I must not pretend that I was happy—but, oh
dear 1-it does make such a difference to everything.
All my life has changed now. I seem to be all
alone.”
“No, no!” Mr. Pardicott mumbled, his face
nearly as pale as that of the lady. “Not alone; not
while I can help you, comfort you "
Mrs. Cargoy closed her eyes, while her yellow
head sank slowly, but with an exact calculation of
distance, upon the black shoulder of Mr. Pardicott.
71


CHAPTER IV
I
Although Mr. Pardicott was by no means dis-
satisfied with his advances in chemistry, he felt a
certain occasional uneasiness. At times he was
aware of a sinister word, echoing witnin the deep
caverns of his mind, and that word was murder.
He had unpleasing visions of poor Cargoy's foolish
face. He found himself inclined to doubt the
Purpose after all; and then he was left suspended
over a glowing chasm of moral apprehensions.
In the rough judgment of the world, he knew
there could be no distinction between him and the
savage brute who battered heads with a mallet or
thrust a knife into the warm heart of a senseless
victim. Yet there was not merely a distinction, but
a whole world of difference. The savage brute was
at enmity with the Purpose, but he—Pardicott—
•was playing his part in the intricate, the incompre-
hensible designs of the Universal Good. Yes; he
could not really doubt it; it must be so. The
difference between him and the real criminal was
the difference between Jael and Judas. Indeed, the
history of the chosen people might be regarded
(superficially) as a history of applauded murders,
of cruelties and treacheries without number. Had
72


he been cruel? Had he been treacherous? Certainly
not. Cargoy had probably enjoyed himself up to the
very last moment of consciousness; he had faded
out through the deep oblivion of coma. Was there
anything cruel in that? On the contrary, it was the
most humane, the kindliest of interventions.
Still, he was not easy. It was all right as long as he
had plenty to do; but when the busy ideas left his
mind he could always hear, in the empty caverns
below, the rumbling and echoing of that ugly word.
He felt a new, a strange, desire for activity and
excitement. Parochial energies were not enough.
All that could be done in the parish he did with
extraordinary vigour and success, but there are
limits to what may be done officially in a parish.
Fantastic notions of altering the garden, of adding
to the house, even of rebuilding the chancel, came
into his mind. Action !—that was the thing!
Claudine, so placid, so imperceptible and faded,
began to get on his nerves a little. At times (so he
thought) she looked at him with a question behind
her eyes. It made him uneasy. Did she notice a
change in his manner? Was there a change in his
manner? Had she any suspicions about Bertha?
Well, after all—was there, or was there not, any
reason to be suspicious?
Mr. Pardicott had no liking for a situation which
might become squalid, vulgar and troublesome.
He still believed that his romance with Bertha
Cargoy was not of the sinful kind; it was tinctured
rosily with all the Christian virtues—or so it
73


appeared to him. Certainly he had kissed her more
than once; there had been moments of holy rapture
when he felt the soft warmth of her confiding body
close to his own; and more than once, looking into
the depth of her big innocent eyes, he had lost
himself in swift, vertiginous thrills. But as for any
idea of—crude intimacy: such a thing never came
into his mind.
She was a dear little saint, a dear little suffering
mortal; to be cared for and petted and comforted,
not crushed or fouled in the furious ardour of
passion.
For all that, he liked to be with her as often as
possible. He could not help thinking how splendid
it would be to find such a woman waiting by one's
own fireside, ready to spring up with a sweet,
affectionate smile, crowning the day's labours—
and his imagination actually went no further. Of
Mrs. Cargoy's own sentiments he had no concep-
tion whatever, and perhaps she knew as little of
them as he did. Most of us plunge about (if we
dared confess the truth) in a similar obscurity of
vague desires and smothered motives.
But whatever may have been the particular
obscurity of Mr. Pardicott, he knew quite well that
he wanted a larger field for his activities, and he
thought again and again of that delightful rectory
at King's Pydal and the canon's place in the grand
cathedral of Belchester.
Yes; Redwater was an old man; he was not likely
to hold the living much longer. He would die or
74


retire. A canon seldom retired; he usually died at
his post—or, we might say, in his emplacement.
How old was he now? Eighty-three? Eighty-four?
He could not be far short of that, and he had
grown more feeble in the last four years. He didn't
go out so often, and only preached every other
Sunday.
It was worth waiting for—Mr. Pardicott was
practically sure of the appointment—but the sooner
he could get a change the better. Before long he
would see Cargoy's tombstone in the churchyard:
indeed, it would stare him in the face every time he
walked to the chancel door.
He thought of that flat, accusing slab with a
shudder. It would be a distinct ordeal, having to
meet it every time he went to church. Perhaps he
could go in by the south door instead. . . .
Again, he dimly foresaw a complication of some
sort with the widow. She was not likely to leave the
place, at any rate for some time. And did he really
want her to leave?
Mr. Pardicott, except when he steadied himself
by reflecting upon the Inscrutable Purpose, felt the
circle of his destiny beginning to close in upon him,
as a cowering rabbit in the heart of the corn hears
the circling movement of the reapers narrowing
down his little island of safety. Everything might
depend upon a final scamper.
If only he could get away to King's Pydal, or any
other parish, and leave Cargoy and his new cold
white tombstone behind himl
75


He believed that danger was near him if he stayed
where he was; nor was he mistaken, though no
sign of danger could yet be perceived.
2
"Ah, my dear Pardicott!" cried the Reverend
Paul Dovey, the secretary to the Bishop of Bel-
chester. "His lordship was talking about you only
last Wednesday. I'm very glad to see you. Just take
that chair by the window for a moment—charming
view of the cloisters—mowing-machine makes
rather a noise—got to sign another batch of these
letters—not more than five minutes."
Mr. Pardicott sat down by the window, and
thought how delicious life would be in those
harmonious precincts. He did not realise that his
thoughts exactly resembled those of a tired assassin
visiting a monastery.
When Mr. Dovey had finished the letters, he
twisted his chair round from the table and smiled
on his visitor with a penetrating brightness. Every-
thing about him shone: the smooth top of his head,
his glasses, his red cheeks and his teeth. He was a
sharp, astute and jovial little clergyman, with plenty
of good health and a tough natural optimism. At
times he was a bit arch in his manner, like a man
who knew a great deal more than he was going to say.
"Now, my dear Pardicott; did you want to see
me about anything in particular?—or were you just
76


Mr. Pardicott—ready to take your place in the
cathedral."
This was gratifying. After all, Dovey was quite
right. King's Pydal was worth waiting for. It
might almost be described as the biggest plum in
the whole diocesan pudding.
"It is very good of you to say all this, extremely
good of you," said Mr. Pardicott, looking much
happier. "Of course I don't altogether like the
idea of waiting for someone else to—to move on.
But if his lordship really desires it"
"His lordship has definitely said so. I'll admit
(in confidence) there was some talk of Watherston
at one time; but since he's taken to using those odd
little prayers at evensong, and something very like
an angelus bell,—he's quite out of it. And I may
say—I may as well tell you frankly that his lordship
enjoys his talks with you. He told me the other day
he didn't believe there was another man in the
diocese capable of understanding the second Car-
thaginian heresy. Then again—your notes on
Piscator—ah, ta-ta-ta!"
Mr. Dovey rolled himself amiably from side to
side, and smiled and shone more than ever.
"By the way," he continued, oscillating more
gently and gradually coming to rest, "since you
are here, I should be infinitely obliged to you if you
would step into the library and give me your opinion
of a passage in Castello which I happened to come
across the other day. It's very obscure, to my poor
mind. His lordship, as you know, is away at Bath,
78


or he would have liked a talk with you too. I'll just
ring for Davis, and then we shall have no need to
hurry. And as for King's Pydal—that's definite.
Strict confidence, of course."
3
Mr. Pardicott, as he trundled home in his
garrulous Austin, had much to think about.
So it was really settled. When poor old Redwater
passed on, Canon Pardicott would be in residence
at King's Pydal—the plum of the diocese. It would
be a glorious advance: not as far as he hoped to go,
by any means, but still a glorious advance.
When Redwater resigned, or when he died. . . .
A sort of refrain began to drum in his mind,
accompanied by the creaking springs and rattling
bonnet of the Austin. "When he dies, when he
dies, when he dies, dies, dies. . . ."
The vicar tried to think of something else. He
tried to remember the passage in Castello; but that
brought him back to Mr. Dovey, and Mr. Dovey
brought him back to Redwater. Then he tried to
think out a new scheme for the restoration of the
chancel—an enterprise approved by the bishop,
and for which he was about to raise a fund. But
somehow or other he could not for the life of him
keep his attention fixed, could not even remember
what had been so clear in his mind only that morn-
ing. What was it the carpenter had said?—was
79


tolerant smile and the unvarying calmness of her
deportment you became aware of a really tremen-
dous degree of courage and capability.
Mr. Pardicott liked his sister-in-law, in spite of
some theological differences, and he was glad to
see her at the Vicarage. She was not often in England,
but now she was taking nearly a year's holiday,
though she was actively engaged in home work on
behalf of the mission.
On the evening of his return from the interview
with Dovey in Belchester, Mr. Pardicott and the
two ladies were sitting in the drawing-room.
"Claudine has been telling me something of your
prospects of a move," said Miss Cubitt. "Of course
I keep these things to myself. It would be a very
good thing."
"A move?" said Mr. Pardicott, resolving to
speak with the utmost caution. "I'm not at all
sure. I don't think we ought to reckon on that.
Mere possibility, you know."
"King's Pydal," Miss Cubitt rap-tapped.
"Canon's living. Mr. Redwater is a very old man,
I believe. I understand you know the bishop's
intentions. Wider field—a very much wider field.
More bracing, too. Suit Claudine much better.
Too low here; very much too low; all in a hollow."
The caution of Mr. Pardicott grew even more
intense. It seemed as though he was averting his
eyes from a view of things forbidden.
"Mere talk, my dear Laetitia. A possibility, as
I say; but nothing more."
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"Well," replied Miss Cubitt, "if the bishop
has said what he intends to do, I should say it was
more than a possibility. The old canon must be
called home before long. It would be silly to
pretend otherwise, however much you may like
him. And when he dies"
"Oh, but he's not going to die!" cried Mr.
Pardicott with sudden vehemence. "I mean," he
added foolishly, crumbling beneath the tolerant
smile of Miss Cubitt, " I mean, he's not likely to
give up for a long while yet. Such a dear old fellow,
still able to carry harness—quite busy—I should be
very sorry indeed to hear that he was gone. Oh no!
we mustn't talk about such a thing."
"But you were talking about it only the other
day, Virgil," said Mrs. Pardicott gently. "You
were saying how pleasant it would be if we got to
King's Pydal. And so it would be—very pleasant
indeed. I know I should be better there." She
sighed wearily.
"Yes, yes," the vicar answered with a shade of
petulance. "No doubt the place would suit us
both extremely well. But I beg you not to talk about
such a thing. The subject is very distasteful to me.
I hope Canon Redwater will be spared for many
years—many years of useful work. You know I've
asked him to come here next month to introduce
Lady Swading when she opens our bazaar. I hope
very much that he will be able to do so."
"Ah yes, Laetitia! " said Mrs. Pardicott, "you
will have to stay here and help me with our bazaar.
83


These affairs always terrify me. We had one for the
mission about two years ago, and did very well;
but it was dreadfully hard work. I suppose Lady
Swading will have lunch at the Castle."
"Yes; I think that has been arranged. I am
asking Redwater to lunch here afterwards, if he can
manage it. I shan't ask you to do any more enter-
taining, my dear."
"That will be quite all right, Virgil. I'm not as
helpless as I may seem to be. But I do find these
occasions rather trying."
"I shall take a stall," said Miss Cubitt; and you
could see that she was prepared to run the whole
show if necessary. "We are always having things
of that sort. I can't say that I approve of them
altogether, but they certainly bring in the money.
For the church, of course?"
"Yes," said Mr. Pardicott, steering the conver-
sation to a safer channel. "When the present
chancel was restored by that awful old Gothic
bungler, Vulliamy, in 1846, he very awkwardly cut
off the lower half of the north window. I suppose
he didn't care a toss what he did, because he was
only interested in his dreadful sham Gothic. But
now. . . ."
5
Mr. Pardicott was on his way back from Dawkey
Farm, and he took, as he usually did, the field path
84


leading to the Ten Boys Wood. He perceived,
sitting upon a stile at the edge of the wood, Bertha
Cargoy.
It was here that he had met her several months
before, on the evening when they had walked
together through the park, and had realised, for the
first time, what Mr. Pardicott always thought of
as a beautiful union of souls. But when he met her
on the present occasion he felt nervous, unsettled,
though he walked towards her eagerly.
The afternoon was cold, and she wore a thick,
heavy coat. Her black clothes and black hat gave
to her soft pale face and yellow hair a startling
appearance of luminosity, and yet—for some reason
which is not to be explained—she did not seem
angelic to the eyes of Mr. Pardicott.
Mrs. Cargoy, as a matter of fact, was doing her
best to look romantic. She had at her disposal a
whole series of phrases intended for the conveyance
of romantic ideas, many of which had a noticeably
Victorian flavour. Sentimental idioms, like religious
idioms, are not quickly changed, even by those who
fancy themselves excessively modern. Mrs. Cargoy
was fond of talking about "picturesque old
cottages," " autumn tints," " beauty spots," "love-
ly colouring," and "uplift." Her readings of
Emerson, and of Plato in English, had given her
vague though satisfactory notions of the human
soul. With such equipment, she may be forgiven
for supposing herself a really intelligent though
uncomprehended woman.
85


aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
As Mr. Pardicott approached the stile, Mrs.
Cargoy assumed an expression of tender melancholy.
“What a beautiful soft light on the hills,” she
said. “ Everything seems at peace.”
“ Beautiful indeed," said Mr. Pardicott, not
unwilling to become sentimental in his turn.
“ It makes one understand a whole lot of things,
doesn't it?” said Mrs. Cargoy. “ Those little
galden clouds above the haze-look! do you see
them? And ohl—what was that? I believe it was a
dear little rabbit.”
The vicar gently touched her hand.
“ Are you going back? ” he said tremulously.
“ If so, let us walk together.”
No, thought Mr. Pardicott, she is not looking
like an angel any more: she is too deliciously, too
dangerously human. He felt himself not a little
troubled by unholy desires. And as they walked
together through the purple gloom of the wood,
strange fantasies of redemption by love mingled in
his mind with images of voluptuous beauty that
would have astonished even Rousseau at the
Hermitage. The vicar was getting positively
Wagnerian: his emotions, pious and profane,
worked themselves up into a new contrapuntal
frenzy. Still he managed to talk in the calmest
way about the trees and the clouds, the scampering
grey squirrels and the cawing rooks. He wondered
if Mrs. Cargoy, melted by the autumnal mood,
would talk about her late husband. But no!-it
seemed as if she avoided the subject through a sort
86


of delicacy. No one—and least of all Mrs. Cargoy
herself—could have told what was actually going
on in that part of her organism which we must call
her mind.
They walked slowly, Mrs. Cargoy stopping occa-
sionally and looking at one thing and another with
little flutterings of delight. She seemed to avoid the
glances of Mr. Pardicott, and there was a touch of
warm colour in her cheeks.
"Poor Rip wanted to come with me so badly,"
she said. "But he's such a bad dog when he's off
the lead. Sir Basil's keeper said something about
him the other day. So Pm afraid."
"Ah! " said Mr. Pardicott, nodding and smiling.
"But he's such a dear loyal fellow—too awfully
dear for words, really. I don't know what I should
do without him. And I suppose it's natural enough.
A woman like me, without—without children. . . ."
"Not without those who love you!" cried the
vicar fervently. He did not share our general drivel-
ling sentimentality in regard to dogs. The idea of
people slobbering over these malodorous creatures
positively repelled him. He thought of Rip with a
flash of hatred. Paradinitro, he thought, would be
the proper stuff for him.
"Not without those who love you," he said again.
Then, for some minutes, they walked in silence.
"I have been thinking a great deal about you
lately," said Mr. Pardicott, not happily inspired.
"Indeed, I may say that I have been thinking about
you continuously. Your life at the Lodge must now
87


be dull and lonely, with so much to remind you. . ..
I suppose you are not going to leave us?"
"Oh nah! " Mrs. Cargoy answered. "I have a
lot of friends here. And I like the place. It's a dear
little place. Looking down the valley at those red
roofs and the new plantation—so picturesque.
Poor George had made it all so nice." She held a
handkerchief delicately to her nose for a moment.
"Oh nah! I should be very sorry to leave."
"I cannot imagine anything more dreadful than
your departure would be," said Mr. Pardicott. He
spoke sententiously, not because he wanted to, but
because he could not find words to express the
audacious, thrilling ideas that were now racing
through his brain. All emotional creatures (except
poets, of course) are familiar with his predicament.
"Indeed, Bertha, I—I cannot imagine life
without you."
Mrs. Cargoy again raised her handkerchief to
her nose, and at the same time there was a slight
though perceptible movement of her right hand
towards the vicar. Women are not such fools as
to stumble over words when a gesture is all that
is needed. Mr. Pardicott took the hand and lifted
it to the level of his bosom.
"Beautiful, strange and wonderful!" he said in a
deep though unsteady voice.
Mrs. Cargoy nodded.
"I don't know what it is," she said (and she was
quite right), "but I have felt it for a long time.
I'm sure that we are meant to help each other
88


somehow. And what is so uplifting and beautiful
must be right, mustn't it? I must show you some-
thing I marked in my Emerson the other day—
I've forgotten it, but it seemed to me so true. I
often find that Emerson expresses just what I feel
myself, absolutely. That's what is so wonderful
about these great thinkers, isn't it?"
"My dear, dear ladyl The tenderest and truest
affection, the high things of the spirit and the deep
things of the heart, the loving aspiration of the
soul "Mr. Pardicott listened to himself with
astonishment and approval. He really seemed to
have got going. His voice sounded like that of an
actor rehearsing a part, but it was a good part, it
was the part of a hero.
"I too have felt this for a long time. Perhaps I
have not dared to understand. Perhaps I have
questioned myself. But all the while it has been
growing, creeping, stealing. . . ." He did not see
how he was to end the sentence. He stopped
suddenly. He fondled Mrs. Cargoy's hand, then
let it fall. Before he had thought of what he was
doing, his arm was round her waist.
"Bertha—I love you."
There was a dry crackle of twigs and a swish of
dead leaves to the right of them, and as they moved
hastily apart they saw the red, cheerful face of
Doctor Dick. The doctor was wearing a Norfolk
jacket, breeches and gaiters, and the shining barrels
of a gun slanted from the crook of his arm. With his
right hand he lifted a brown cloth cap from his head.
89


CHAPTER V
I
It was the day of the Lower Pydal bazaar. Lady
Swading was coming all the way from Dowchester
Hall to open it, and the Misses Hedly-Puffyn were
in twittering ecstacies. "Such a good woman!"
they said. "So clever and so handsome!"
Nor was this all, for dear old Canon Redwater
had promised to come over and take the chair at the
opening. It was, indeed, a day of excitement.
Mr. Pyng, the senior churchwarden, had been
busy in the parish hall since eight o'clock in the
morning. Now, with assistance, he had got every-
thing ready.
The body of the hall was almost completely filled
with three rows of stalls. At the far end, opposite
the door, there was a platform with a large table in
the middle of it. Behind the table a dusty Union
Jack rose from the floor to the ceiling. Three
superior chairs with green plush backs were placed
at the table, one for Canon Redwater, one for the
vicar, and one for Lady Swading. A room at the
end of the hall had direct access to the platform by
means of a set of wooden steps covered with a red
carpet. Lady Swading, entering the room unper-
93


ceived by the multitude, would ascend the steps at
eleven o'clock precisely.
By half-past ten many parishioners and many
visitors had come into the hall. There was a pre-
ponderance of old ladies; some of them bright and
bird-like, with sparkling pince-nez; others fat,
slow and wheezy. A few vigorous old men, smartly
dressed, represented the ancient glory of the Ser-
vices. The red faces of the farmers and the pink
faces of their wives were not well matched by the
sallow countenances of the poor folk who lived in
the tottering cottages of the Castle estate. Sir Basil
Watkins was not present—he considered that he
should have been asked to take the chair.
And all around them were the intricate, ingeni-
ously futile wares made almost entirely by the good
ladies of the Pydals: bewildering masses of ribbons
and laces and painted boxes, of plates and pictures,
of cushions, of stools, trays, toys, purses, and those
astounding inventions—things composed of the
bones of chickens and the dried gills of sea-fish—in
the construction and purchase of which elderly
people seem to take a peculiar delight. Those who
lacked the inventive faculty had been content to
supply cakes and liquescent sweetmeats, or the
simpler forms of the pin-cushion.
"Ah! " cried Miss Emily Hedly-Puffyn to Mrs.
Pardicott, who was going about with a dreamy
smile on her face. "It's a very good affair indeed!
Everything is so well displayed. Mr. Pyng is quite
94


a genius! And have you seen those lovely little
bags?"
"Mr. Spak has just seen Lady Swading's car,"
said Miss Susan impressively. "I dare say that she
is actually in the hall at this moment. Such a
splendid speaker! We are all looking forward to
her speech."
Mrs. Pardicott was about to reply when the buzz
of talk subsided in a gentle hiss like the last sigh of a
deflated bladder, and Lady Swading, conducted by
Canon Redwater and Mr. Pardicott, appeared on
the platform. She was a smart, thin, middle-aged
woman with fine features and the haughty charm of
those who are conscious of their unquestioned
superiority. The Pydal people greeted her with
much clapping and tapping, and she bowed and
smiled as she took her place between the vicar and
the canon.
There was a moment of rustling embarrassment,
and then Canon Redwater rose tremulously to his
feet. He spoke in a quavering, senile voice, making
a great many sounds which were totally incompre-
hensible.
"Lady Swading," said the canon. "Ladies and
gentlemen—ladies. On such an occasion as the
present, when, in view of the sad troubles of which
we read daily—I am grieved to say—m'heh,—we
read daily in our newspapers—troubles due to a
state of unrest in the entire Christian world—eh,
heh, heh-ha—an artificial state of unrest which is
exploited—and I need not tell you this, ladies and
95


gentlemen, for you all know-I say you all know,
unfortunately, how this state of unrest is exploited
-heh-in every part of our Christian empire-our
Christian empire-I am glad to think-yes, I
say I am glad to think-heh-ha, heh—that we as a
Church are still united, notwithstanding the horrid
prevalence of unbelief-steady and united as we
are-ladies and gentlemen-united-heh-and
ready to do our duty, loyal and united in our
devotion, and proud of our loyalty, ready to do our
best on such an occasion, when every one is anxious
to show his or her (and I am glad to see so many
ladies in the hall to-day) appreciation—appreciation
-heh, eh, m'ha-appreciation of the splendid
endeavour to make beautiful and to set in order
the noble edifice-I say, I am sure that you are all
anxious to show your appreciation in a practical way
-to assist your splendid vicar" (cheers and
emotion) “in his desire to restore and to make
beautiful the noble edifice of which you are all so
proud,” (discreet cheering) “I am quite sure of
that—and I am sure that you have all come here to
buy these pretty and useful things, and you will not
forget the-ha, heh, eh-ha, heh-Scotchman who
said that many muckles made a mickle-heh-a
muckle-mickle—a muckle—ha!” (encouraging
laughter) " and I know we are all of us right glad
to see Lady Swading here to-day ” (boisterous
cheers)“ to be with us on such an occasion-an
uccasion, ladies and gentlemen-I say, we all know
what a really great occasion it is—united as we are
96


aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
in our devotion-and it is now my duty-and I am
proud indeed to have the honour of being here on
such an occasion-I say, I am proud to be here-
to ask Lady Swading to—and I must remind you
that she has come from a great distance, and per-
haps at some inconvenience to herself-hehto
open our bazaar.”
The canon sank slowly into his chair, smiling
feebly, while the great lady slowly rose: it seemed
as if they were moving up and down on a pair of
invisible balances. When the applause had come
to an end, Lady Swading, in a sharp, aristocratic
voice, began her speech:
“ Canon Redwater, Mr. Pardicott, ladies and
gentlemen. It gives me peculiar pleasure to be
here this morning. First, because I have heard so
much of the really splendid work of the church in
Lower Pydal, and secondly because I have always
admired your beautiful village. You will all remem-
ber how, when King Charles rode through Pydal
at the head of his troops ” (“ Hear, hear!” cried an
old gentleman with fervour)“ he waved his hand
with a kingly gesture to the people at the Castle
gates, and said he had never received a more loyal
welcome. ..."
She was the most effective kind of public speaker,
for she did not know, and did not care, whether she
meant what she said, or whether it had any meaning
at all. She had the supreme gift of making her
audience feel thoroughly satisfied. A liberal use of
such words as loyalty, courage, devotion, empire,
97


home, duty, dignity and progress made her listeners
believe themselves (for the time being) no ordinary
people. They were thrilled by her splendid enco-
miums, her noble appeals, her flashing rhetoric:
they felt themselves participating in the great
affairs of the world. Nor was she entirely a humbug.
Through mere facility, she had ended by per-
suading herself that all the fine things of which she
spoke so glibly did really exist.
At half-past eleven the bazaar was formally
opened.
The great lady, followed by the canon and Mr.
Pardicott, now descended another flight of steps
and walked, conversing affably, among the crowd
in the hall. People began to drift about in an aim-
less way. The stallkeepers were softly importunate.
It was a very successful bazaar.
2
Paradinitrotetramethylbenzene has one very
curious property. It does not mix with other
liquids, but sinks to the bottom. Thus, while the
upper part of a decoction may be wholesome and
refreshing, the lower part of it may be unavoidable
death.
This interesting peculiarity is worthy of attention.
In the first place, there is no effusion of vapour, no
warning smell, if paradinitro is lurking at the bottom
of the cup or glass. But then, if it is poured into a
98


the burial-mounds as quickly as possible, and then
picked up anything which they happened to notice
lying about. According to Redwater, there were
only two kinds of antiquities in these burials—
Egyptian and Phoenician—and you generally found
both. Of course there was no difficulty in accounting
for this, because the Egyptians and Phoenicians
were really the same people. At Lower Pydal they
had found a Phoenician tooth-pick, believed to be
unique. It was the subject of a long paper in the
Antiquaries Journal. Professor Wheelwright said
it was not a tooth-pick/nor was it Phoenician—but
then he had very little experience of field work.
Now the canon had made the discovery of an
Egyptian (or Phoenician) sun-temple on the moors
at Pydal Weeting, and he was about to show it to
some chosen members of the club.
"Not much doubt about it, Pardicott," said the
old man with gentle exultation. "It corresponds
very closely with the remains at Tel-el-Shebek,
only it's about half the size, and there is no approach-
ing avenue and no outer circle—eh-ha. Little
building of the mastaba type—the mastaba—eh,
hum-ha, heh—mastaba—no doubt at all. I've
written to Crawley at the Survey, to see if we can
get an air-photograph."
"How extremely interesting! " said Mr. Pardi-
cott, who seemed nervous. "It is remarkable that
the Egyptians got so far afield. Or is it due to—
er—migratory influences?"
"Migratory influences?" said the canon, rather
IOO


sternly. "I'm not quite sure what you mean. They
were great navigators, great navigators. Indeed,
our own word navy is of Egyptian origin. No one
seems to realise that. They got to immense dis-
tances; all round the world. You mustn't be
misled by the representations or models of boats in
their tombs and so on. Not to scale, Pardicott,
not to scale. They had big ships. Got across the
Indian Ocean, Pacific Ocean."
"And—er—do you propose to excavate up
there?"
"The mastaba, of course. That is, if Watkins
has no objection. Not a bad fellow, really; but he
has this unfortunate idea that everything must be
Roman. That's what comes of Wheelwright and
all his pictures in The Times and his ridiculous
talking films and all that—heh—bosh! Archaeology
used to be a gentleman's occupation. Heh-ha-ha,
heh! Roman! Roman! Roman pigsty!" He
spoke with a flicker of wrath.
Then Mrs. Pardicott came to tell them that
lunch was ready, and the vicar got up with visible
excitement. Mrs. Pardicott looked at him, and
came to the conclusion that he had been over-
working and needed a rest.
It was a good lunch, but there seemed to be an
absence of conviviality. The vicar talked with
unusual loudness and emphasis; but that may have
been because old Redwater was a trifle deaf. Miss
Cubitt was the only one who seemed to enjoy
herself, and she was in her element with churchmen.
IOI


The conversation sputtered fitfully, now in one
direction and now in another. Mr. Pardicott, in so
far as he wanted to talk at all, evidently wanted to
talk about the restoration of the chancel; Miss
Cubitt wanted to talk about the new mission at
Tokyo; and Canon Redwater tried to get them
interested in his Phoenician burials. Mrs. Pardicott
hardly said anything that was not required by
politeness.
There were times when the attention of Mr.
Pardicott was clearly wandering, and a close
observer would have noticed that he kept looking
in a fixed yet nervous manner at the sideboard.
"Yes, Canon," said Miss Cubitt, "we have
nearly two hundred children in the school at
Sakamoto. They are doing extremely well—
extremely well. Mr. Bower-Jardine, our principal,
is more than satisfied. I should like to show you
some of the photographs if you have time."
"Heh-a-hahl " said the canon. "I should very
much like to see them. But I must hurry away
after lunch, I fear. Mrs. Redwater is not very well,
and I promised her that I would not be late—not
late on any account. Perhaps if you are here next
week."
"Yes; we mustn't try to keep you now, sirl"
cried Mr. Pardicott with some eagerness. "It was
extremely kind of you to come over this morning.
I had no idea that Mrs. Redwater was unwell."
"I would not have missed the occasion, my dear
Pardicott. I only hope they liked my little speech.
102


Perhaps I ought to have spoken at greater length,
but I did not want to stand in the way of Lady
Swading."
"It was a most delightful little speech, I think,"
said Mrs. Pardicott. "Very clever, and amusing as
well."
"Thank you, thank you, my dear! " said the old
man, smiling in a way that would have melted the
heart of any ordinary person. "It is very good of
you to say so. I hope you'll come up and see our
work on the sun-temple later on. Our friends from
Belchester will probably drive to Weeting House,
and we shall be delighted to see you there."
"I should like to come," replied Mrs. Pardicott,
not untruthfully. "Thank you very much."
"It should be quite interesting—eh—perhaps
of considerable importance. It may go a long way
towards confirming my theory of the relation of our
hill-temples with the buildings of the twenty-ninth
period at El Shebek." He turned to the vicar.
"Eh—m'ha heh, Pardicott, I hope you'll be able
to drive over; I should like to show you one or two
things."
The vicar, for no apparent reason, was becoming
even more nervous and excited. A smile of the
most engaging kind appeared with ghastly abrupt-
ness on his face—so abrupt, indeed, that it seemed
like the reaction to a painful stimulus. "Oh, I
should be delighted! " he said. "Though you will
understand, my dear Redwater, that my knowledge
of such things is very limited."
103


As an archaeologist, the canon found that he got
on best with people whose knowledge was limited;
he preferred them greatly to those who knew too
much. "We shall positively insist on your coming,
my dear Pardicott. . . ."
And now the lunch was nearing its final stages.
They were provided with cheese and little biscuits,
and a sensitive nose might have detected the smell
of coffee when the maid opened the door. It was
nearly time . . . nearly time. Mr. Pardicott was
looking pale. He wiped his mouth repeatedly in
order to conceal a twitching of the lips, and once or
twice he swallowed noisily with a jerky, convulsive
movement of his throat. Anyone could see that
he had been doing too much. It was just the
same, thought Mrs. Pardicott, before the con-
firmation last year. He would have to watch his
nerves.
Miss Cubitt and Canon Redwater were parrying
each other's observations about the school at
Sakamoto and the ruins at El Shebek when the
coffee was brought in. At that moment, as though
he was an amateur actor jumping to a cue, Mr.
Pardicott sprang from his chair.
"You must join me in a glass of port, sir. The
ladies, I know, won't have any. No mean vintage,
either. You will enjoy it, I think."
"M'ha—ehl—thanks, Pardicott; delighted."
And Mr. Pardicott, after a certain mysterious
fumbling and clinking at the sideboard, brought to
the table two dark red glasses on a silver salver.
104


He placed one glass tremulously by the side of the
canon's plate and took the other himself.
How easy it was after all! The worst was over.
He knew that Redwater liked a glass of wine; but
he might have declined, might have needed per-
suasion, and Mr. Pardicott did not feel equal to
that. Now, thank heaven! the thing was as good as
done.
The old man, smiling amiably, was already
extending his long yellow fingers towards the stem
of his glass. In a moment he would be sipping the
port, and a really good port it was too.
Presently he would come to the last sip, or the
last gulp, and then he might notice a subtle bitter-
ness, like the taste of crushed almonds—but in all
probability he would notice nothing at all. Still, it
would be very interesting to observe. . . . And
Mr. Pardicott felt himself cool and steady again,
watching his experiment with the noble, dis-
passionate interest of a man of science.
Smiling at each other, the vicar and the canon
raised their glasses. Mr. Pardicott drank a good
deal of his port; the canon sipped reflectively.
"Very excellent indeed, Pardicott; very excellent."
Mrs. Pardicott and Miss Cubitt were talking
about the bazaar. They anticipated a large attend-
ance during the afternoon, and of course a still
larger attendance when the hall was cleared for
dancing at eight o'clock. Miss Cubitt did not
entirely approve of the dancing; she was glad to
hear that it was to end at midnight.
105


the roof-garden—and all the while he was gently
rotating his wineglass and looking at it with a
somewhat abstracted air.
Mr. Pardicott grew a little impatient. The
experiment was being held up in the most pro-
voking manner. "Now then, man!" he said
mentally. "Go on! Drink it down—what are you
waiting for? Never mind about Park Lane and all
that; let's get on with this little scheme of ours.
I've taken a lot of trouble to get that stuff ready for
you—it was not as easy as you might have supposed
—so toss it down like a good fellow, will you?"
But the canon went on placidly; and now he was
talking about London in the 'eighties and his early
work as a curate in Hampstead. All at once he
gave a little exclamation.
"Ah, dear, dearl I am forgetting the time—
and your natural anxiety to return to the hall.
Pray forgive me. Perhaps you will be good enough
to send a message to Jenkins and tell him to bring
the car round."
He pushed his chair back from the table, folded
his napkin, and flicked away the crumbs from his
black coat with a fluttering, nervous hand.
Mr. Pardicott actually frowned. It was touch and
"But, sir—you haven't finished your wine . . .
another glass?"
"Ah, eh! No, thanks. Excellent—very."
And then, either because he liked the wine or
because he did not wish to hurt the feelings of Mr.
107


Pardicott, he took up his glass and emptied it—at
least, he appeared to do so.
Mr. Pardicott could have cried aloud for sheer
joy and relief. He looked sharply at the canon's
face. There was no sign of anything wrong. The
dose had gone down without any suggestion of
nastiness, entirely concealed by the flavour of the
port. That, in itself, was a fact of tremendous
interest. Chesterton, Rawlings and Professor Brill
would have given a great deal to know this, nor
had it come within the more extended experience
of J&ger or Willoughby. It was very pretty, very
pretty indeed. Poor old Redwater became, for the
moment, a mere Case (Pardicott's number two), a
mere subject for investigation and curiosity.
"Your car? Ah, well!—if you must go. I cannot
thank you too much for having come here to-day."
And Mr. Pardicott meant what he said.
3
This was quite different from the Cargoy case.
It would be most unlikely that any news would come
through before the morning, if then; so Mr.
Pardicott was not required to undergo the torture
of suspense. He pottered about during the after-
noon, went to the parish hall several times, and was
delighted to find, after the closing of the bazaar at
six o'clock, that they had made £59 17s. 4d. on
sales alone. It would be safe to reckon on £10 more
108


from dance tickets. He would have been quite
satisfied with £50 in all, so this was extremely
gratifying.
As the vicar looked at the red, honest face of Mr.
Pyng, who was sitting by the stove in the little back
room of the hall and marking up the accounts in a
book with shiny black covers, he felt a shade of
regret at the thought of leaving the parish. They
were not so bad, after all, the people of Lower
Pydal; some of them were excellent fellows. But
then, the Inscrutable Purpose designed him for a
wider field, a more active ministry, a post of autho-
rity and power. He would not stop at King's Pydal.
Indeed, going on as he was now—where would he
stop?
"Them bottles of sweets was a rare hit," Mr.
Pyng was saying. "Miss Tweedy had sold most
all of them by the afternoon. You'd never have
thought it, would yer? The hats has done well, too.
Supposs you've heard about Mrs. White trying
to go off with one of 'em—sly old creature she is
and all!—pretended she was only taking it to the
winder to see it properly. Ha, ha! Still, we haven't
had no real complaints, not what you would call
serious like. Just a bit of picking about. I think
we've done uncommon well, sir, haven't we? Mr.
Batt here reckons we shall be able to start on the
work any time now, don't you, Mr. Batt?"
Mr. Batt, pale, cautious and excessively polite,
was the Castle agent. He had never been known to
express a positive opinion.
109


"Well," said Mr. Batt, "I think we might
safely begin to discuss the matter, in a way of
speaking, you understand."
Mr. Pardicott smiled at both of them. Yes; they
were dear good fellows; not exciting; but they
certainly possessed some of the finest human
qualities.
4
The news came, as the vicar had anticipated,
soon after breakfast the next morning.
Mr. Pyng was told of it by a farmer on his way
to market, and it was confirmed by a groom at the
Castle who had been to King's Pydal late on the
previous night. Canon Redwater had been taken
seriously ill between tea and dinner. Dr. Wyvell
from Belchester was in attendance, and they were
talking about a specialist from London. Heart
failure they said. A sudden collapse.
"Oh Virgil!" said Mrs. Pardicott, "how per-
fectly dreadful. I thought the poor old man was
very shaky at the bazaar, and yet he seemed quite
cheerful at lunch. Perhaps he ought not to have
come at all. What a shock for Mrs. Redwater!
You must go over to enquire."
"Of course I shall," said Mr. Pardicott. "As a
matter of fact, I am not altogether surprised. I
thought he was looking shockingly ill on the plat-
form. That was why I insisted on giving him a glass
110


of port—it can have done him no harm at any rate.
Yes; I shall drive over after lunch. I've got to see
to those accounts this morning, you know. We are
meeting at eleven."
He did not look greatly distressed. Mrs. Pardi-
cott glanced at him in what seemed a peculiarly
searching manner. She had thought his behaviour
odd for the last two days, and had some fears of a
nervous breakdown. He noticed the trouble in her
eyes, and smiled at her reassuringly.
"It is a shock for all of us," he said. "I am
devoted to the old man, as you know. But such
things happen at his age."
So it was not until after lunch that he set forth
in his querulous, neglected Austin.
Probably it was all over now, he thought, as he
steered his way along the lanes to King's Pydal.
A man so advanced in years could not withstand
for long the shock of such a poison. He had given
him, he calculated, about one-and-a-half times a
fatal dose; in fact, it was surprising, especially
when you considered the presence of alcohol, that
the effect had not been more rapid. He did not
know the exact time of the collapse, but it must
have been at least four hours after the administra-
tion. That was unusual, though by no means
without precedent. Now (Mr. Pardicott looked at
the clock on the dashboard) it was about twenty-five
hours after the taking of the poison. He was dead.
He must have died soon after they got the news in
the morning. Or even before. A coma of more
m


than twelve hours' duration would be unlikely in
the case of such an old and feeble subject.
He topped the low ridge and saw below him the
fine tower of King's Pydal church. A little to the
right of the church was the grey roof of the rectory,
with the tall stone chimneys and the dark mass of
the copper beech. Soon, thought Mr. Pardicott as
he accelerated briskly, he would have the news. It
was to be hoped that the time of the decease had
been carefully noted. But now—steady!—he must
compose himself, he must assume the proper
expression of sorrow. He wondered who would take
the funeral. Possibly the bishop himself. Or
Stanley; or Pillico-Smith. You could not tell.
Undoubtedly he would be asked to assist, and he
would be very glad to help them.
The rectory was very still. A gardener, weeding
near the drive gate, looked up with a melancholy
air and touched his cap as Mr. Pardicott went by.
Just as the vicar got out of his ridiculous car, the
front door was opened, and Dr. Wyvell appeared,
with old Mrs. Redwater behind him. The doctor,
tall, neat and fashionably dressed, shook silently
the hand of Mrs. Redwater, bowed to the vicar,
and walked to the smart Armstrong-Siddeley
that was waiting for him on the other side of the
porch.
"I have no wish to intrude," said Mr. Pardicott
quietly, "but I could not forbear from calling."
"Come in, Mr. Pardicott," said the old lady.
"I should be very glad to have a word with you."
I 12


And she led the way to the drawing-room, leaving
Mr. Pardicott to shut the door and follow her.
Mrs. Redwater was a large, placid old woman.
She added considerably to her natural bulk by
wearing at all seasons a mournful mass of heavy
warm clothing. Her face was not without dignity,
her bright grey eyes looked at you with interest
and kindliness. Her dappled hair, white in places
and yellow in other places, flowed smoothly from
her brows under the nodding elaboration of a large
cap with ribbons. She sat down in the amplitude
of her chair, and looked with sad composure at Mr.
Pardicott, who sat opposite.
"Thank heaven," she said (and it was evidently
a relief to have a visitor to talk to), "the awful
strain is over."
Mr. Pardicott bowed his head in silent sympathy.
"The shock was appalling," she went on. "He
seemed drowsy when he came back, but I noticed
nothing unusual. Then, just after we had finished
tea—Mrs. Robinson was here—he turned the most
peculiar colour" (Mr. Pardicott listened with
eagerness) "and sank down in his chair. We got
him to bed, and telephoned at once for Dr. Wyvell,
who usually attends him."
Poor Mrs. Redwater wiped each of her eyes in
turn.
"If this is too painful for you," said Mr. Pardi-
cott, whose emotion was by no means unreal.
"No, no! " said Mrs. Redwater, " I should like
to tell you. And it's all over now, all over. The
113


doctor said it was heart the moment he saw him—
he had been expecting something of the sort. He
did not think the visit to Lower Pydal had made any
difference, although the excitement of the speech
may have been bad for him. The doctor went back
and got two nurses, and he stayed here till nearly
one in the morning. They persuaded me to go to
bed then. There was nothing more to be done."
The old lady looked across at Mr. Pardicott, and
he was astonished to see that she was smiling.
Poor old creature, it must have turned her brain, he
thought.
"And now," she said quietly, "as you have
probably heard, the attack has passed, and he is
very much better."
"Much better! " cried Mr. Pardicott, forgetting
himself entirely. "Oh no!—you don't mean to say
so! Surely that is not possible."
Then he realised the impropriety of what he had
said.
"Why, they told me"
"I know the rumour got about," said Mrs.
Redwater. "But he is quite out of danger now.
Just before you came he was sitting up in bed,
talking to the doctor; and he has been able to take
some chicken jelly. . . ."
But Mr. Pardicott was not listening. The idea
of failure had never entered his head, and now his
faith in the Inscrutable Purpose, and his confidence
in Lyle and Fergusson, had received a staggering
blow.
114


recovering: and Mr. Pardicott might almost be
reckoned among their number. After all, there
were so many ways of looking at a thing. Perhaps he
had been too presumptuous, too ready to trust in
the infallibility of his own devices, the necessary
triumph of his own desires.
And yet, Mr. Pardicott felt, at times, a dreadful
sort of depression. He did not seem to take the
same interest in his ordinary occupations. He
trimmed the new rose trees with indifference, he
glanced in the most careless way at the rough edges
of the lawn. At the meetings of the church council
he was observed to fall into sudden abstractions,
answering vaguely when he was called on to speak
with authority, ex parochia.
He spent a good deal of his time in the study,
sitting with the tips of his fingers pressed closely
together and his eyes shut. His memory appeared
to be somewhat affected, for when he talked to the
villagers he forgot the names of their children—he
said Rosie when he ought to have said Martha, and
Richard when he ought to have said Charles. In the
course of an otherwise passable conversation, he
caused the deepest offence to Mrs. Oxshott by
asking about her son in Australia, when he should
have remembered that her only child, a daughter,
was a dressmaker in Dundee.
Such things would have been enough to arouse
the hostility of people who were less fond of him,
but the general sentiments were those of pity and
concern. What was wrong with the vicar? Even
116


understand a fellow wanting to get a picture of
Highland cattle in the snow, like the one he had in
his dining-room; but surely there was nothing in
this blessed old hill, with hardly a tree in sight.
Poor old Pardicott!-rum fellow—wanted a change
-ought to drop his work for a time—yes, really!
Mr. Pardicott, inclined to be on his guard, was
presently won by the bluff amiability of the other.
“ You may be right, Apscombe. I have been -
working rather hard and worrying rather hard of
late. Claudine is far from well. I have been very
troubled about her.”
Now, this was a new idea. It was quite true that
he had been troubled about his wife, but not so
much on account of her health. She was making
him feel uneasy in some way, he hardly knew how.
“Not the dysentery again?” said Doctor Dick.
“ The heart?—faintness?-insomnia? We'll try
paraldehyde-in capsules. Very safe and very
effective. I really shouldn't worry, my dear fellow:
there's no reason why she shouldn't go on for years
-live as long as any of us. Of course I'm not
saying there's no risk. That would be wrong.
But. ..."
The vicar mumbled something appropriate.
It was a very ordinary and a very innocent con-
versation, yet the fatal word was there. Neither of
them knew it, neither of them could have guessed
the tragic, the appalling results of this meeting.
There they stood: the doctor with his red, cheery
face, and the afternoon light slanting in a blue
118


aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
gleam down the barrels of his gun; the pale,
ascetic parson in his black clothes, fumbling with
the joints of his camera-stand—both ignorant of
the grim catastrophe that was now being prepared.
So imperceptible are the decisive movements of des-
tiny. So awful may be the consequences of a mere
sound, flung out so lightly upon the careless air.
Paraldehyde. ...
The vicar looked across the moor. He looked up
at the sky, narrowing his eyes and scowling a little.
Then he pushed his head under the black cloth and
aimed his camera. Good bit of cloud, that; and the
line of the hill ran in a fine curve across the picture.
The outcrop of rock on the left, a pleasing episode.
A little more to the left: how about that? Aperture,
eleven. Yes; that would do very nicely. He closed
the shutter, pushed in the slide, and looked at the
sky again.
Paraldehyde. ...
His attention had wandered. Something had
come into his mind, something vague, a mere
sound ... what was it?-Ah! Now was the
moment. The shadow moved over the foreground,
the light fell upon the ridge of rock; it was an
excellent picture. Just the sort of thing —
Paraldehyde. ...
Paraldehyde? What was that? Oh yes -the
capsules. To be sure. Capsules of paraldehyde for
Claudine. He hoped they would do her good.
Click! That ought to be a good one. And now,
what about one a little higher up, getting the
119


corner of the wood against the sky? It was not very
far, he might as well carry the whole apparatus as it
stood. And so he moved on, stumbling over the
soft, uneven ground, looking for a new point of
vantage. And still, in the silences of thought, he
could hear the echo of that beautiful and sinister
word—paraldehyde.
2
It was just after the canon's illness that Mr.
Pardicott had discovered a change in Claudine.
She looked at him more frequently, and with a
disconcerting alertness. She seemed to be watching
him. And one day she had said something which
made Mr. Pardicott feel suddenly cold and empty.
"That was a very curious attack of poor old
Redwater's, when you come to think of it, wasn't
it? He seemed so well when he was here. I've
thought about it a good deal, you know. I suppose
it was all right—his taking that glass of port?"
Mr. Pardicott was terrified, but he appeared to
be only shocked.
"That glass of port? Good gracious, Claudine!
You don't mean to suggest. . . . Why, Redwater
is very fond of port, always has a glass after lunch.
Impossible."
"Yes, I know. But then—with a heart, you see.
And after the excitement of the bazaar."
It was very disturbing. What did she really
120


think? What could she think? A strange woman,
Claudine; he had never known her really well.
Pity she couldn't take more exercise, and cared so
little for seeing people: it was bad for her to sit so
long by herself, brooding. ... Of course it was
out of the question that she could be suspicious.
And then came an even more startling observation:
"You know, Virgil, I have been thinking about
poor Colonel Cargoy, too. That was dreadfully
sudden. I suppose Dr. Apscombe was quite right."
The vicar got up from his chair and walked
across the room.
"I can't stand these crooked pictures," he said
petulantly, for he was a man of temperament; and
he tilted the "Charge of the Light Brigade" a
little to one side and then a little to the other. He
then gave the "Death of Nelson" an angry jab,
and tried to correct the slope of " St. Catherine."
He was thus enabled to turn his back on his wife.
It was a clever move: he had no idea that he was
capable of such control and such presence of mind.
Still, it was an ugly moment.
"There is no reason for supposing that Apscombe
was not right. It was a terrible shock to me. I wish
you would not talk about it."
Mrs. Pardicott said nothing more, but shook her
head. Mr. Pardicott could see the movement
faintly reflected in the glass of the picture.
Paraldehyde—ah, yes!—he might as well go and
have a talk with Dr. Apscombe. Claudine was out
of sorts, obviously. And when you are out of sorts,
121


the most extravagant, the most hideous and absurd
ideas may invade your mind. It was time that
something was done. She might get it into her head
—goodness knew what she might get in her head,
or what she had got in it already.
3
Doctor Richard Apscombe lived in a large, ugly
house just above the brook which flowed through
the village. He was a bachelor. We have seen that
he devoted part of his time to sport; he devoted
another part of it to gardening. The doctor's
garden was ugly and formal, like the house, and
indeed like the majority of gardens, but he took
pains to keep it weedless, neat, prim and orderly.
Dr. Apscombe was particularly fond of driving his
mowing-machine or hauling his big roller over the
lawn.
The doctor had a large rural practice, and he
found it necessary to do a certain amount of dis-
pensing. His knowledge of the materia medica was
not by any means contemptible, and he kept a
fairly large stock of drugs, as well as a good labora-
tory outfit. It is strange that a man with such
resources at his disposal should have been so timid
in the matter of diagnosis.
One evening, just after he had finished his tea,
and was wondering if it was too late to do some
work in the garden, Dr. Apscombe was told that
122


the vicar would like to see him, if he was not too
busy.
"Come in, Pardicott; come inl" shouted the
doctor, in his loud, hearty voice.
The vicar came in, looking distinctly agitated.
"How d'you do, doctor? It has been a very
pleasant day, has it not? If you can spare me a
moment, I should like to talk to you about Claudine.
She has been extremely unwell of late."
"I'm sorry to hear that. Sit down, sit down.
Have you had your tea? Sure you won't have
another cup? Unless somebody comes for me,
or there's a call, I shall be free until half-past five."
Mr. Pardicott then explained that his wife was
very listless, with occasional faintness and nausea.
She did not sleep well. There seemed to be some-
thing on her mind. She had taken a curious dislike
to the place, and wanted to get away from it. She
complained of sudden pains in the chest, accom-
panied by difficulty in breathing. Her pulse was
irregular. Other symptoms, about a fortnight
before, had suggested a mild attack of dysentery.
But the most disquieting symptom was mental: she
had always been so placid, but now there were fits
of irritation, when she said things harsh and bitter,
quite unlike herself. There were even certain
illusions: very disturbing.
The doctor listened gravely, every now and then
nodding his head, with a deep hum-ha! as much as
to say " Precisely; that is just what I should have
expected." Poor Claudine had got her medical
123


label years ago—V.D.H.—and there was an end
of it.
"Now look here, Pardicott; from what you have
told me, there's no need to worry. I'll come and
see her, of course, and then I can make up some-
thing. It would be a good thing if we could get her
away to stay with some friends for a few weeks.
There's no reason to suppose she has really got
anything on her mind, is there?"
"No indeed; not so far as I am aware. Of
course"
"The heart is the trouble," said the doctor
heavily. "Once you get a groggy heart, you can
expect almost anything. That accounts for the
depression and everything else. You might even
get hallucinations of some kind. I had better give
her a safe narcotic, to help her to sleep."
Mr. Pardicott looked up eagerly:
"You mentioned something the other day.
Paraldehyde, I think—-in capsules."
"By Gadl Fancy you remembering that! You've
got a most astonishing memory, Pardicott, really
you have. Well; that's the very thing, as it happens.
I always use it as a narcotic in heart cases—you can
give it in ordinary doses without any risk at all.
One capsule at night. But not too often, mind—
don't let it become a habit. Occasionally two might
be allowed. I can give you some now if you like."
The maid came in.
"Please sir, the young man from Callicroft is
here. He says Mr. Barlow is much worse this
124


fastened with sealing-wax, and left Mr. Pardicott
in the dispensary.
Mr. Pardicott, still envying the doctor, got up
and looked about him with interest. He could not
understand many of the labels on the bottles and
the smooth white porcelain jars, but he read them with
respect and with curiosity. He glanced at the fine
balances, with their little square snippets of brass;
he noted the sink, the taps, the clean towels, the
general air of neatness and order. In a mood of
quiet abstraction he reflected on the attitude of
men in all ages towards the magician, the maker
of potions, the apothecary, the healer—or the
destroyer. And yet, here was this very ordinary
person, honest and hearty as he was, going about
this miraculous dispensing with as little concern
as a cook would display in the beating-up of an egg.
Mr. Pardicott smiled, and looked about him dreamily.
Then suddenly he perceived the fatal bottle.
It stood apart from the others, on the top of a
metal cupboard. It was a three-sided bottle made
of dark blue fluted glass. Even before he read the
label, the heart of Mr. Pardicott gave a great
fortissimo thump, like the awful, tragic drum of an
orchestra.
As he looked at the bottle he seemed almost to
hear the commanding voice of destiny. He trem-
bled as he read the crimson words:
Poison. Mercuric Perchloride. (Corrosive Sub-
limated)
126


It is impossible to say what happened then to the
mind of Mr. Pardicott. He was not thinking.
His hands took the bottle and withdrew the cork,
they tilted the bottle and abstracted a number of
pink tabloids—tabloids of a singular truncated
form. These pink things (about six of them) were
slipped quickly into the breast pocket of his coat.
The cork was replaced, and the bottle returned
to its original position on the cupboard.
This action was not only unpremeditated; it
would almost be correct to say that it was uncon-
scious. If the doctor had brusquely appeared and
asked Mr. Pardicott what he was doing, he could
have replied truthfully that he did not know. There
had suddenly been presented to him a bottle of the
most deadly poison, and he had no sooner set his
eyes on it than he made haste to convey to his own
keeping enough of it for the killing of at least a
dozen people. Having done this, he sighed deeply.
The bottle was no longer -beckoning to him; it was
merely an oddly shaped bottle, taking its place as
a simple object among the other things in the
room. But Mr. Pardicott knew that he had done
something necessary, something fatal. He had been
led to the doctor's house, led to the dispensary,
led to the bottle. The young man had been led
from Callicroft, and the doctor had been led out of
the room. It was all part of the scheme.
And so the Inscrutable Purpose, comprising,
controlling all the designs and all the deeds of men,
rolled him, not rebellious, down the appointed
127


courses of his fate. Why should a man pray or
resist, or raise in vain the feeble hand of supplica-
tion?
Then Mr. Pardicott observed something with a
momentary terror. The door was half open. Surely
the doctor had closed it behind him. Had he, or
had he not? Really, it was not easy to say. You
were often deceived in such matters, you did not
notice everything.
Now he could hear the doctor returning through
the hall. In another second he was back again.
"So sorry, padre. But I just wanted to have a
word with the boy. I think old Barlow is really
pretty bad: I'll have to run up and see him
presently. What about a turn in the garden?"
"Thanks; it would be delightful." There was
nothing extraordinary in the manner of Mr. Pardi-
cott. "By the way, how about that paraldehyde?"
"Ah, of course! I was forgetting. Here you
are—the bottle's not quite full, but there are plenty
to go on with—about two dozen, I think. But
remember; only one, or at most two at a time: it's
on* the label. Shall I wrap it up?"
"Oh, no, thanks," replied Mr. Pardicott, and
he put the bottle in his pocket—not in his breast
pocket, for fear of crushing those deadly pink
tabloids.
"Now," said Doctor Dick, " I want to show you
my improvements down by the brook. Rather a
wheeze, I think." And he led the way through the
garden door.
128


"By the way," said the doctor reassuringly, as
they stood looking at the new lawn, " I shouldn't
worry about Mrs. Pardicott, you know, if I was
you. No, really. Look at old Redwater, for example
—that was a case of heart—not quite similar, of
course. But think of his age—doddering old man—
the least thing would bowl him over. Well; they
say he's quite brisk again—better than he was before
in fact."
"Ah, yes, yes!" replied Mr. Pardicott, a trifle
irritated. "But the case, as you very rightly observe,
is not similar. Poor Claudine is really very ill: I
want you to see her within the next day or so. I
think you will notice a very great change."
"I don't imagine I shall notice anything of the
sort," said Doctor Dick cheerily. But he was
entirely mistaken.
4
After Mr. Pardicott had returned from his visit
to the doctor he went upstairs. Anyone who saw
him might have observed the ominous composure
of his face. It was not the composure of a good man,
thinking of good works, but the hideous fixity of
a maniac. Those gentle ascetic features, so often
luminous with benevolence, were now immobile,
grey and stern. Only the eyes gave evidence of a
dreadful intentness.
He knew what he was about. His plan was
129


tragically simple. It was not even distinguished
by novelty. Like all murderers of his type he was
not greatly concerned with motive, nor did he con-
sider the painful and terrifying consequences of
what he was going to do: he was controlled by
one of those- grim obsessions which break down
irresistibly the whole elaborate structure of the
civilised mind.
Having reached his work-room, he closed and
locked the door behind him. He remembered a
previous interruption. It was getting dark, so he
lit the oil lamp on the table. Then he took from his
pocket a bottle of paraldehyde capsules. He took
from another pocket several pink tabloids and
arranged them neatly in a row. After this, he
spread on the table some clean sheets of paper, and
after a little searching he found a bottle of gum and
a penknife.
These preparations were made without a tremor,
without any sign of hurry or impatience. In the
yellow light of the lamp, Mr. Pardicott's face looked
peculiarly tranquil. The nervousness which had
accompanied his first experiments was no longer
there. After all, he had made great advances. You
could not have seen anything obviously dramatic
in the dim yellow mask, or in the steady, slow move-
ment of those long fingers. You might almost have
supposed that he was not taking much interest in
what he was doing—if it had not been for the
eyes. . . .
Mr. Pardicott took two of the pink tabloids and
130


crushed them into a powder with the flat of the pen-
knife; then, after delicately blowing on the blade
of the knife, he took one of the paraldehyde capsules
and cut it in half. Inside the capsule he found a
sticky, grey-white substance with a nasty smell.
At this stage it was necessary to decide whether he
should find a piece of rag, or sacrifice his handker-
chief. He decided to sacrifice the handkerchief,
and on this he wiped the blade of the knife. It was
not easy to clean out one hemisphere of the capsule
and to fill it with the pink powder, and the hitherto
placid brows of Mr. Pardicott were wrinkled in a
froWn. Nor was it easy to fasten the two halves of
the capsule together again without a too conspicuous
use of gum. But the second attempt was more
successful, and Mr. Pardicott began to feel a
certain pride in his deftness.
It was a fascinating game. He actually smiled.
Two more tabloids were crushed. He was becoming
-expert. To look at his capsules, you would have
thought they were just the same as the others.
There they were—four of them—waiting for the
gum to dry. The first attempts were not good
enough: they would have to be thrown away.
Four was enough; more than enough.
He had not consulted Lyle and Fergusson, but
he knew that mercuric perchloride was deadly, even
in small quantities. Corrosive too. Why had the
Inscrutable Purpose chosen a corrosive? It seemed
rather a pity.
Still, it was not for him to ask questions. He
131


shook the remaining capsules out of the bottle,
added the four others, mixed them all up together,
put them in the bottle, pushed back the wad of
cotton wool and screwed on the metal cap. Two of
the pink tabloids were left over. Shame to throw
them away. He slipped them carefully into a bottle
containing photographic developer tabloids; that
was a safe place, and they might be useful some
day.
Now it was only necessary to clean up the mess
on the table, and there was not much of a mess.
All he had to do was to scrumple up two pieces of
paper and send them down the drain. The knife
was carefully wiped on the handkerchief, and the
handkerchief was put aside for future disposal.
That, of course, was a mistake.
At about a quarter to seven, Mr. Pardicott came
downstairs and found his wife in the drawing-room.
She was really looking very ill.
"My dear," said the vicar, in a soft, even voice,
"I looked in at Apscombe's this afternoon—to see
his garden. We had a few words about you, and he
has sent you some paraldehyde—a safe narcotic, you
know—certain to make you sleep without hurting
your heart in any way." He took the bottle from
his pocket and placed it on the table beside her.
"It says not more than two on the bottle, but
Apscombe said you could take three if you liked,
without the least danger."
"That is very kind of you, Virgil," said his wife.
"Paraldehyde? I think I had that years ago—
132


when Uncle Baker was at home. Sleep would make
such a difference."
"He's coming to see you before long. I don't
want you to think we're alarmed—of course we're
not. But it might be just as well."
"Perhaps so. Only I do wish we could get away
from this place. I don't know what the matter is,
but it seems all wrong somehow." She gave a little
shiver. "I believe you feel it too. You don't take
the same interest in things. Isn't that true?"
The vicar looked sharply at his wife.
"No," he said drily. "I don't quite see what
you mean. A change, a wider field—yes. For your
sake too. But I am not aware of losing interest."
"Probably that is not what I really mean. Very
likely the effect of the place, in both cases, is physical.
How long have we been here—five years? six years?
Just about six, isn't it? Well, I don't know."
Her hand moved listlessly towards the little
bottle on the table. Poor soull she looked so dull
and hopeless.
"You should take one at night, after you are in
bed," said Mr. Pardicott. "I believe the action is
fairly rapid."
5
It was advisable, thought Mr. Pardicott, to re-
member the photographic uses of paradinitrotetra-
methyl. And although experiments of this kind
133


were not as interesting as those on the human
organism, still they were not to be despised. Besides,
Mr. Blazey, the chemist, would be sure to ask
questions.
So the vicar, after studying the ingenious process
of Fuller, treated a number of prints with various
preparations of the new toner.
The results were quite amusing. It is true that
the first attempts were either too dim or too murky,
but presently he was able to command a fine range
of indigoes. The green variations were less pleasing,
though not without originality. A strange russet
brown, accidentally discovered, was also used to
advantage. Mr. Pardicott was unaware, at the time,
of the special value of these researches.
In this way the paradinitro was presently used up.
The bottle which had contained it and the wine
bottle in which the solutions were preserved, were
kept in the dark-room. It is odd, perhaps, that Mr.
Pardicott should have forgotten all about the
mixture in the garage, or, if he had not forgotten it,
should not have troubled about it any further—but
so it was.
134


CHAPTER VII
I
The man who poisons his wife is not always a very
amiable person. There is something about the
squalor of such a deed which does not encourage
ideas of amiability. And yet Mr. Pardicott had never
appeared more truly amiable than he did after his
nefarious preparation of the paraldehyde capsules.
His anxious concern for his wife was noticed by
everybody. It became known that poor Claudine
was very ill; a sudden failure of the heart was more
than probable; she might fall dead without the
slightest provocation. The dear vicar, said Miss
Emily Hedly-Puffyn, was touchingly attentive. He
thought of so many things—foot-warmers of a new
pattern, for example—which showed what a good,
careful husband he was. "It nearly makes me cry,"
Miss Emily declared, " when I see them together."
Mr. Pardicott was too much of a gentleman to go
on recommending the capsules, to push them for-
ward in any way. That, in the circumstances, would
have been a piece of shocking bad taste. He left
everything to Providence, and his wife had already
taken some paraldehyde, with excellent results.
At the same time, the vicar was frequently to be
seen with Mrs. Cargoy, though Mrs. Cargoy did
135


not often call at the Vicarage. They had been
observed lunching together in Belchester. Mr.
Pardicott was continually running up to Kandahar
Lodge, and his visits were clearly informal. It was
believed (by those who were charitable) that Mrs.
Cargoy sought his advice on matters connected
with the house and garden. Sometimes, when he
went to the Lodge, he had a parcel in his hand.
Even the Misses Hedly-Puffyn were a little shaken.
"It is unwise of the dear vicar," they said, " though
of course there is really nothing in it—nothing at
all."
On the other hand, those who were not charitable
smiled in a way that conveyed a whole world of
nasty meaning. It takes far less to loosen the tongue
and stir the imagination of scandal in a country
parish, where such matters as the cleanliness of a
kitchen or the colour of a new hat may provide the
materials for a devastating controversy, dividing
entire families and threatening to break the friend-
ship of a lifetime. Only the common knowledge of
the fact that clergymen are not quite human pre-
vented the wildest indulgence of prurient fancies.
As it was, Mr. Gifford, who kept the post office,
said something to Mr. Furzey, the Castle gardener,
which caused Mr. Furzey to exclaim, "Oh, get
on!" and then to throw back his head and wink in a
particularly unpleasant manner.
Mrs. Cargoy was naturally aware of this attitude.
She looked upon it as a kind of persecution, but not
as a persecution that was entirely disagreeable.
136


As long as nothing could be proved, she was quite
willing to be suspected of an intrigue: it made her
interesting. And with a clergyman too—so unusual!
Perhaps it was not really an intrigue; but still,
as a mere flirtation the affair could hardly have gone
any further. The kisses of Mr. Pardicott were not
brotherly or expressive of pure Christian benevo-
lence. There were moments of confusion or
abandonment when—well, he hardly knew what he
was doing. Yet even at such moments he was
quickly recalled by a cooing, reproachful voice
which gently said, "Oh no, Virgil! oh no, no!"
Mrs. Cargoy, though doubtless a fool, insisted upon
limits, whether those limits were to be measured by
inches, by seconds or by a personal standard of
morality. The influences of Emerson and of Plato
do mean something after all. Her understanding
with Mr. Pardicott was really so beautiful; it was
not to be destroyed by anything horrid or precipitate.
Of course (she persuaded herself) it was the under-
standing that mattered: caresses, though sweet,
were only the expression of a subtle spiritual
harmony. Dear Virgil!—How wonderful! No
more loneliness, no heartache nowl In such
maudlin ambiguities the gentle fluttering soul of
Mrs. Cargoy found peace, amusement and self-
satisfaction. Philosophy teaches us not to look
too far ahead.
As for Mr. Pardicott himself, he did not believe
that he was trying to poison his wife in order that
he could marry Bertha Cargoy. Had he examined
137


his mind in the darkest, the most searching hours
of a sleepless night he would never have admitted
that his idea, all along, was to obtain the person
of Mrs. Cargoy and the living of King's Pydal.
This is where the doctrine of conscious motive
is so entirely fallacious. The murderer who dies
protesting innocence is probably right in ninety-
nine cases out of a hundred, at least where motive is
concerned. Murder, like suicide, is the action of a
mind not truly cognisant of itself.
We are so anxious to find a reason for everything
that we recoil from the notion of a crime without a
clear, directing purpose. The most illogical thing
a man can do is to be explained in terms of plain
logic. A case which ought to be submitted to the
alienist is submitted to the heavy legal deliberations
of a court of law, and finally decided by a number of
persons equally incapable of understanding either
law or science.
It is important to insist on this, because otherwise
it might be assumed that Mr. Pardicott is a mere
invention. Of course he is nothing of the sort.
2
People noticed about this time that the vicar
spoke often concerning his wife's health. They
remembered, for the rest of their lives, how anxious
he was to impress them with her extreme debility,
the painfully evident weakness of her heart.
138


"Poor Claudine," he would say, "is really in a
very sad condition. I hardly know what to think.
We can only hope. . . ."
His concern was not altogether affected. When
he thought of the approaching death—sudden, and
almost certainly painful—he felt a genuine grief.
Yet the idea of preventing it never entered his mind.
It was a part of one of those immutable and inscru-
table designs for which Providence alone, and not
Mr. Pardicott, was clearly responsible.
Providence had put the blue bottle on the doctor's
cupboard, knowing very well that its proper place
was inside the cupboard; Providence had led Mr.
Pardicott to the doctor's house and had sent the boy
down from the farm. ... If Mr. Barlow had not
been worse that evening—if the boy had not come
down for the medicine—if the bottle had been in
its right place—no one would ever have heard of
Mr. Pardicott, and Mrs. Pardicott might still be
living her placid though precarious life.
The lunatic is in no way more plainly distin-
guished from other men than by his belief in the
special character of his actions and their exemption
from ordinary standards of judgment. If he steals,
it is not theft; if he swears, it is not blasphemy; if
he kills, it is not murder. This peculiar detachment
from the ordinary social point of view is what makes
him so dangerous. As Johnson said of the man with
the inner light, you cannot tell where you are
with him—any more than he can tell where he is
with you. At one moment he is warmly pressing your
139


hand in cordial and sincere friendship; at the next,
he is calmly giving you a dose of poison, or waiting
for you with a gun at the corner. No subtlety can
ever be a match for the ghastly inconsequence of a
madman or a fool, and we are literally correct when
we say that he is not responsible, though we are
tragically inconsistent when we try to fasten upon
him the highest degree of responsibility.
The gentle, the kindly Mr. Pardicott was no
spurious, no assumed personality. When he talked
so sadly about his wife, making odd, melancholy
movements with his long fingers, as though to
designate the unspeakable depths of despair, he was
quite serious and quite sincere. He did not want
to hurt anyone: the idea of causing suffering was
intensely repugnant to his delicate sensibilities.
3
The sensibilities of Mr. Pardicott were fortun-
ately spared. His wife died very suddenly, after a
few short spasms of pain.
On the day of Claudine's death she had seemed
so ill, so listless, that her husband sent for Dr.
Apscombe. The doctor saw her in the afternoon,
and he decided to call again before ten o'clock.
Mrs. Pardicott (who was indeed suffering from
extreme debility of the heart) went to bed at half-
past nine. The doctor arrived just before ten. He
140


was immediately struck by the collapsed condition
of the patient.
At about a quarter past ten, just after the doctor
had completed his examination, and had noted the
imminence of cardiac failure, the poor lady stretched'
out her hands, opened her eyes wide, and gave a
sharp cry of agony. There was a moment of cruel
convulsion, and she was dead.
Mr. Pardicott, who had been standing at the bed-
side, burst into tears and hurried out of the room.
After the doctor had gone and everything had
been put in order and the excited servants had
retired, Mr. Pardicott remembered something
important.
He took an electric torch and went to his wife's
room. He did not look at the bed, he was only
half aware of the dreadful white immobility that
lay upon it, but carefully directed the slender ray
of the torch to the table at the bedside. There were
several things on the table, little private things, now
invested with a rending pathos. But the vicar was
looking for one particular thing, and he could not
see it.
Mr. Pardicott began to tremble. He nervously
pushed and fiddled with the things on the table
until he had looked at every one of them. No; it
was not there. Perhaps someone had moved it.
But the other things had not been moved, and why
should anyone take a bottle of paraldehyde capsules?
He had seen it there himself while the doctor was
attending to his poor, dying wife.
141


He went across to the dressing-table. No; of
course it was not there. The light wobbled in his
agitated hand as he swept it over the chest of
drawers.
It was a still night. Above him, he could hear the
twittering of the two maids. Then he heard a vague,
indescribable sound in the room itself. He gasped
and shivered, as though he had been suddenly
immersed in a stream of icy water. What was it?
Horrible! He sent a tremulous ray of light waving
and dancing round the room, across the quiet
whiteness of the bed, over the floor, along the walls,
past the door.
Nothing, of course.
He listened intently. He could only hear, at
first, the twittering of the maids in the bedroom
above. Then—good God!—was it a sound, a real
sound — or was it a mere fancy? Something was
happening; something indefinable yet full of terror.
Perhaps it was in his own mind; perhaps it was
actually in the room; perhaps
Mr. Pardicott hurried out of that dreadful cham-
ber. The fire was still glowing in the study, and the
sight of its comfortable warmth composed him a
little. He sat down and began to think.
Somebody had taken that bottle. But who, and
why? Mrs. Tadsley, a most respectable old woman,
had been called in to help, and she had gone home
at midnight with the doctor. Then the doctor
himself. It was not impossible that Apscombe had
taken it. Perhaps he was short of paraldehyde, and
142


thought there was no further use for the capsules.
Still, it was a very odd thing to do. Very odd indeed.
Had he noticed anything? Had there been some-
thing unaccountable in those last ugly symptoms?
Ah! he should have stood his ground. He ought
not to have run away, blinded by tears, at that
awful moment. But then he could not help it. He
had been overcome by the sheer poignancy of his
grief. A penetrating, dolorous emotion had swiftly
pierced him like a blade.
And again, drowsy and shaken, he felt the bitter-
ness of sorrow.
Poor, poor Claudine! She had been a good wife
in her way, so placid and patient. If only she had
been stronger! After all, she could not have lived
much longer with that heart of hers. It was a com-
fort to think of that. But there were other things
that he could not think of with equanimity, and at
last the poor man, overwhelmed by the confusing
multiplicity of his fears and sorrows, fell asleep in
the chair.
4
Soon after breakfast the next morning, Dr.
Apscombe was shown into the study. He found
Mr. Pardicott looking pale, but quite composed.
The doctor had an appropriate manner for these
occasions, and he generally prepared himself for
them by taking a spot of whisky. He was a very
143


tender-hearted man, but since he was a good,
simple fellow he dreaded the least appearance of
emotion.
"I've brought the certificate, Pardicott," he said,
with as little concern as if he was talking about the
day's newspaper. "There is no doubt as to the
cause of death. The primary cause is V.D.H., and
the secondary is a recurrence of dysentery." He
handed a long white envelope to Mr. Pardicott.
It is not easy to think of the proper thing to say
at such a moment. The vicar merely said, " Thank
you," and he looked extremely grateful.
If the doctor had been a subtle man, he might
then have been struck by something unusual in
Mr. Pardicott's manner. But he saw no peculiarity
and proceeded to offer sympathy in a purely con-
versational style. It was Mr. Pardicott who suddenly
gave the conversation a turn which was anything
but conventional.
"By the way, Apscombe, did you happen to
notice that bottle of paraldehyde capsules?"
The doctor smiled. He was glad to escape from
the difficulties of polite condolence.
"Ah! so you missed it? Well, yes; I have to
make a confession. I took it with me last night.
After all, they're no use to you, and I seem to have
given you all that I had. So, if you don't mind"
Mr. Pardicott tried to smile in his turn. The
effect was ghastly.
"Oh, by all means, doctor. But, as a matter of
fact—I should rather like to have them back again.
144


I am not sleeping well. And now after this dreadful
blow. If you would be so good"
"I can probably give you something that would
suit you far better. I tell you what I'll do—I'll
make up a draught for you. Take it last thing with
some water."
"Thank you, thank you," said Mr. Pardicott,
feeling that circumstances were getting beyond his
control. And he made a desperate and foolish
effort: "But really, you know, I—well, I rather
fancy paraldehyde. It's so convenient, so effective."
The doctor looked indulgent. People had their
whims and Pardicott was a funny fellow; he seemed
to think he knew quite a lot about medicine.
"Well, look here; let's compromise. Try the
draught first. Then, if that doesn't do the trick
(but it will !) I can send you half a dozen capsules.
In the meantime, I shall note that I require a fresh
supply. I shall be sending an order to Seagry and
Malton next month."
Mr. Pardicott made the fatal blunder.
"The fact is, doctor, I think there's something
wrong about those capsules."
Dr. Apscombe started as though Mr. Pardicott
had pricked him with a pin.
"Something wrong! Something wrong! My
dear fellow, what on earth do you mean? Something
wrong! Excuse me, but—er—well—really—"
The situation was hopeless. Mr. Pardicott tried
to recover himself, but he stammered miserably.
"You see, doctor, it's like this. I meant to tell
145


you. Poor Claudine seemed to get worse after
taking them. I thought it might have been coin-
cidence. She had taken three single ones at different
times, I think. Last night I remember her telling
me she had taken two—"
Doctor Dick stared at Mr. Pardicott with an ex-
pression of total bewilderment. He did not think
quickly, and his first impulse was purely professional.
"Something wrong!" he repeated. "That's
quite out of the question. The capsules were pre-
pared and put into the bottle by Seagry and Malton,
the best firm in the world. I don't know what you
mean." He frowned. "Do you realise the serious
implications of a suggestion of this kind?"
Mr. Pardicott was terribly frightened.
"I must be mistaken," he cried. "Yes, of course!
I am very much upset. I am talking nonsense. This
dreadful loss has quite unnerved me. You must not
pay any attention to what I was saying."
"You are certainly mistaken," said Doctor Dick
in a more kindly manner. "But if you have got this
idea in your head, the sooner we get it out the
better. You don't wish to infer that I was wrong in
prescribing paraldehyde, do you?"
"No, indeed!" the vicar protested in a frenzy of
apprehension. "I don't know what made me say
anything so foolish."
"But if you think that the capsules were im-
properly prepared, we had better have a look at
them."
"Oh, no, no!" This was too awful!—" I beg
146


you to forget what I said, or to ascribe it to my
nervous condition. I do really. I"
The doctor smiled in a rather superior yet friendly
way.
"All right. I understand. But the idea of Seagry
and Malton making a mistake is too absurd. They
simply can't make mistakes. As for the use of the
drug in such a case—ask any medical man, if you
don't like to take my word for it, and he will tell
you that no other narcotic would be advisable. Do,
ask anyone."
But the vicar was crushed, and he was feeling
sick. He only bowed his head wearily.
The doctor, as he drove on his rounds, thought
a good deal about this extraordinary scene. Pardi-
cott was a rum fellow: he had been positively child-
ish. Was he really a bit mad? What was the idea,
anyhow? If he had thought there was something
wrong with the capsules, why didn't he say so at
first? Quite incomprehensible. The poor chap was
evidently shaken up, he was off his rocker, wanted a
tonic, a rest, a change and so forth. Something
wrong! Good Lord!—what an extraordinary fellow!
Some chaps would have been quite angry "if they had
been spoken to like that. Pff!—the doctor expelled
a powerful breath, as though he was trying to blow
down something flimsy and yet irritating. He
made up his mind to go for a walk over the
moors, if nothing turned up in the afternoon, to
get some bracing exercise and some good whole-
some air.
147


But still, after he had got home again, the doctor
could not help thinking of what Mr. Pardicott had
said. He went to the dispensary and looked at the
bottle of capsules.
Then, feeling rather ashamed of himself, he took
out his penknife.
Well, he thought, he had got a sort of Pardicott
complex, and he might as well get rid of it. He took
one of the capsules and looked at it carefully. He
rolled it between his finger and thumb. He held
it up to the light. Finally he sliced it open with the
knife and put it on a piece of white paper.
H'm, yes! That was paraldehyde, beyond the
shadow of a doubt. He put a microscopic dab of it
on the tip of his finger and licked it. Ughl Any
fool could tell what that was. He went upstairs,
grinning, to put on his Norfolk jacket.
5
The funeral service was taken by Canon Red-
water. It was very affecting. The vicar was evidently
heartbroken. There was only one fault to be found
with the ceremony, and that was due to the great
age of the canon, for he mumbled so that you
could hardly hear what he was saying. Still,
when you remembered what the poor old man
had been through, you were prepared to make
allowances.
148


6
"Well," said the parlourmaid from the Brown
House to Miss Hedly-Puffyn's Martha, "I don't
like to say nothing about nobody, but it do seem a
bit queer. They say he was up at the Lodge the
very day after the burying."
"Nor I wouldn't like to say nothing no more than
what you wouldn't," replied Martha, " but there's no
telling what some folks might say about it, is there?"
Conversations of this kind, so expressively Saxon,
were becoming frequent in Lower Pydal. Folk
were saying a great deal about Mr. Pardicott and
Mrs. Cargoy.
However, the general attitude of the place was
decidedly sympathetic. Most of the people were
fond of the vicar, and sorry for his trouble. They
could not help regretting the marked attention he
was paying to Mrs. Cargoy, but those who were
tolerant found excuses for him. It is always possible
to find excuses for a man who is really popular.
But even the Misses Hedly-Puffyn were puzzled
when it became known that the vicar had presented
the widow with a wonderful dressing-case, complete
with all fittings, price twenty guineas. To do this
in any circumstances was perhaps unwise, but to do
it within a fortnight of Mrs. Pardicott's funeral was
positively insane. The most friendly apologist was
unable to get over the dressing-case. The most
reasonable supposition was that Mr. Pardicott had
149


proposed marriage, but you could not accept this
without supposing, at the same time, something far
worse than a mere lack of delicacy.
"Mind you," said Miss Susan Hedly-Puffyn to
Miss Emily, "our dear vicar would never do any-
thing that a gentleman would be ashamed of doing.
He would never do anything that was not right. He
may be mistaken"
"Or he may be misled," said Miss Emily. "You
know, I've never trusted that little woman. There's
something about her that I don't like at all. She's
clever—but she's common \"
"It's too dreadful, too dreadful! " replied Miss
Susan. "I hate all this talk. And yet—what has hap-
pened to the poor dear man? Why does he give people
such opportunities for saying such unkind things?"
"Yes; it really is very sad. An Oxford man, too.
Not as though he was one of the horrid new kind
who come from goodness knows where. Yes,
indeed; I can't understand it."
"Perhaps the awful shock has been too much for
him," said Miss Susan. "And yet he was so nice
and sensible about everything when he was here the
other afternoon—just like himself."
"Well, I don't know." Miss Emily was really
troubled. "We can only hope that—that it will
come all right in the end. Nothing can ever persuade
me that he's not a thoroughly good man."
She meant what she said, but it was not long
before Miss Emily was obliged to change her opinion
of the dear vicar.
150


2
Doctor Dick could not rid his mind of the im-
pression produced by the paraldehyde episode.
This episode now formed the basis of what he called
his Pardicott complex, and the complex became
exceedingly troublesome. Simple men, when they
are puzzled, are very seriously puzzled—they like
to be sure of everything, and nothing disturbs them
more than the insistence of a vague impression. The
doctor felt that there was something wrong some-
where, and he knew that he would not be easy until
he had got to the bottom of it.
And there is another peculiarity of the simple man
which is worth noting. He is quite ready to admit
a supposition which highly intelligent people, like
you and I, might too readily reject as an absurdity.
It is for this reason, thank goodness, that rogues are
so frequently detected by honest men.
You are not to suppose that the doctor suspected
Mr. Pardicott of having poisoned his wife. At this
time, he did not suspect anything of the sort. He
was merely bothered by something wrong in the
general behaviour of Mr. Pardicott—and something
which definitely suggested danger to others. Having
got so far, he felt that he was bound to proceed.
Either he was being grossly unfair to Mr. Pardicott,
or he was being grossly unfair to society, and it
was clear that no honest man could tolerate such
a position.
152


The line of the doctor's advance was finally
determined, though he was not aware of it, by a
conversation with his friend, Mr. Shipton Bellinger.
Mr. Bellinger was a British ideal. He had been
to Eton, to New College, and then to Ceylon. He
had lost a great deal of money, in a most approved
gentlemanly way, by a futile attempt to grow tea.
He had returned to England with a sound liver and
a spotless reputation and had married the daughter
of a bishop. After this, he became the father of two
sons, both of whom entered the navy. Having
inherited money from his uncle, Sir Penton Mewsey,
he had bought the Old Cedars, a very handsome
property at Lower Pydal. Continuing to live up
to the standards of a British ideal, he joined the
Belchester Unionist Association, accepted the presi-
dency of the cricket club, read the lessons in the
church, ordered his whisky from the local grocer
(Mr. Pyng), and graciously permitted his shirts to
be washed in the village. His wife entertained in
the most eminently respectable way, and her select
tennis parties were also ideal of their kind.
Bellinger had a broad, brick-red face, with a short
brushy moustache and a brief, unshapely nose. He
was fat, though not ungainly or repulsive. His man-
ner was jocular, confident, and a trifle loud. He
loved a simple joke, and frequently made a cachinna-
tory sound like the quick repetition of the letter k.
But, although he was unequal to the task of growing
tea, he was not a fool. He was a man of sharp
though prejudiced observation. He read biographies
lS3


on the table, sat down in his big dirty leather chair,
and began to muster his impressions.
They were very extraordinary impressions. Really
startling—monstrous! He frowned, tilting his head
to one side, and expressing his bewilderment by a
soft, whispering whistle.
All his experiences, up to the present, had been
the ordinary experiences of a rural practitioner.
Gastritis, influenza, girls in trouble, farm accidents,
neurotic ladies, more gastritis and more influenza.
Nothing in that.
But now he was up against something entirely
different. It was altogether new, for him, to enter-
tain suspicions of anyone. And what did these par-
ticular suspicions (for there was no denying them)
really amount to? The head of Dr. Apscombe fell
back upon the dirty leather of his chair and he closed
his eyes. He suspected a clergyman of—well, yes,
positively!—of murder. If there was anything at all
in the suspicion, it could be nothing else. But this
was too horrible! No one had ever heard of such a
thing!
Let him think clearly.
Mr. Pardicott's very curious behaviour about the
paraldehyde had first of all puzzled the doctor, and
had then planted in his mind a vague idea of some-
thing wrong. Then came the crude observations of
Mr. Bellinger. And now he discovered that a whole
series of latent impressions began to acquire a fresh,
appalling significance.
Dr. Apscombe remembered his surprise when,
157


during the fatal illness of Colonel Cargoy, the vicar
had made that strange enquiry about cyanosis. He
had put it down to sheer eccentricity, or the desire
to show medical knowledge. People did sometimes
talk to doctors^ike that. But the fact of Mr. Pardi-
cott saying such a thing, and saying it at such a time,
was certainly queer. Indeed, the whole behaviour
of the vicar at that time was extremely queer. He
was obviously excited, off his balance—one might
have thought he was apprehensive about something.
Had he not looked curiously relieved when he heard
that there would be no inquest? What did it matter
to him? Unless. . . .
Then he remembered the singular fainting fit of
Mr. Pardicott in the garden. Doctor Dick, when he
saw the vicar that afternoon, had noticed the striking
blueness of his lips—cyanosis of a very extreme
nature.
Now, there was no need to suppose a connection
between these events; still less was there any reason
to associate them with the sudden illness of Canon
Redwater. The canon's own doctor, Wyvell,
attended him frequently, and must have regarded
the illness as quite compatible with the state of the
patient. But the fact remained, that the canon had
been taken ill not many hours after lunching with
Mr. Pardicott. As far as Apscombe knew, there had
been no previous collapse of the same description.
True; there was nothing to go upon; there was
nothing, so far, to suggest the grim interference of
Mr. Pardicott. And yet there was one circumstance,
158


accidental or otherwise, which was the same in the
case of Cargoy's death and in that of the canon's ill-
ness—an interview, not long before the seizure,
with Mr. Pardicott.
Doctor Dick tapped the bowl of his pipe on the
corner of the mantelpiece. Was it only coincidence?
he thought. Then he began to recall other cir-
cumstances.
He had a very clear memory of the afternoon when
he had come across the vicar and Mrs. Cargoy in
the wood. He had observed the attitude of the vicar
and the widow, which was certainly the attitude of
lovers. When he cheerily approached them, he
remembered, Mrs. Cargoy was very pink, and Mr.
Pardicott very pale. Doctor Dick was not a malicious
man, but he had wanted to laugh; to him, the situa-
tion was merely funny. Such things went on in the
world, and it was no business of his. By virtue of
his training as a doctor he had learnt how to abstain
from gossip, and how to view with tolerance the
natural weakness of his fellows.
Were they actually lovers? In view of these new
suspicions, these awful suspicions, it was a matter
of some importance.
He came on to the death of Mrs. Pardicott. This
was precisely what he had anticipated for the past
two or three years; there were no symptoms that
were out of keeping with the diagnosis; there was
nothing which he was not prepared to find in such a
case. The death had every appearance of being
natural. No one had ever suggested that the vicar
159


and his wife did not get on well together. For the
life of him, Doctor Dick could not associate Mr.
Pardicott with a crime so beastly as that of poisoning
a wife, particularly in the absence of an apparent
motive; for it seemed evident that the vicar was
getting all that he wanted from Mrs. Cargoy.
Here, in spite of the paraldehyde affair, he had
no suspicions. Mr. Pardicott's anxiety about the
capsules had planted in his mind the fertile seeds of
a general suspicion, but not in connection with the
capsules themselves—certainly not after he had
taken the absurd trouble of opening one of them.
And besides, this worthy doctor did not take a
scientific view of the criminal; he believed him to be
a scheming monster, as sane as you or I, though
restrained by certain inherent decencies; he did not
think of him as essentially mad.
In addition to this, he was convinced of the reality
of Mr. Pardicott's grief, which he had witnessed
with his own eyes. No man could possibly have
acted sorrow in that way—and he was right, for Mr.
Pardicott was not acting.
And then, finally—when the man knew that his
wife might die at any time, and was not likely, in the
most favourable circumstances, to live for many
years . . . no: it was too absurd. . . .
From these reflections, Dr. Apscombe proceeded
to a review of Mr. Pardicott's recent appearance and
behaviour. Pardicott had always been an eccentric
fallow, even for a parson. Lately, he had been odder
than usual. He was nervous, overstrained, and had
160


a furtive way of looking at you. His movements
Were jerky, and suggested a loss of muscular con-
trol. All this, in the opinion of Doctor Dick, sug-
gested a man with something on his conscience.
And what was on his conscience? Could it really be
the assassination of Colonel Cargoy and the attempted
assassination of Redwater? Such fantastic things
might occur in bookstall fiction; but was it possible
they could occur in real life, in the dull, placid life
of Lower Pydal?
Just for the fun of the thing, thought Doctor Dick
(though really it is not funny at all), let me think how
he could have done it.
On the day of Cargoy's fatal illness, Mr. Pardi-
cott told the doctor that the colonel had visited him
the same morning. He had also told him that he
thought the colonel looked ill, and that he had said
so to Mrs. Pardicott. On the other hand, Mrs.
Cargoy said that her husband had never looked better
than he did that morning. Yes; he remembered it
distinctly. Dr. Apscombe took his pipe out of his
mouth, and again began his rhythmic whispering
whistle. Then, after an interval of silence, he
said aloud, with considerable vehemence, "By
Gad!"
The bits of his mental jig-saw puzzle were begin-
ning to fit together, but the picture was not a pretty
one.
Well, the colonel had been to the Vicarage, though
not for long. It was not likely that Mr. Pardicott
had offered him anything to drink . . . and now he
161


came to think of it, he remembered hearing that the
colonel and the vicar had been in the garage: Mrs.
Cargoy had told him that. Here, the bits no longer
fitted together. A garage was not the place for
hospitality, you did not keep your glasses and bottles
there. The doctor resolved to leave that part of the
picture alone, for the time being, and to turn his
attention to another corner.
Canon Redwater, not long before his collapse,
had been to lunch with the Pardicotts. The illness
had come on abruptly three or four hours afterwards.
If he had been poisoned at lunch—accidentally or
otherwise—you had to assume a poison of a rather
peculiar kind, a poison which allowed for a consider-
able interval between the administration and the
effects. But here again—by Gad!—there was mat-
ter for thought. If you did assume poisoning, there
was a similar interval in the Cargoy case. Another
piece fitted into the picture. The experience of Dr.
Apscombe could not provide him with any idea of
the particular lethal agent which might have been
employed, but he was right in suspecting a more or
less volatile substance, separated from, or associated
with, some kind of acid.
The worthy doctor, filling his pipe for the fourth
time, realised that he was on the track of a mystery.
He might be entirely mistaken; on the other hand
he could not possibly ignore the sinister tendency
of his reflections or the manner in which events and
observations, none of them very remarkable when
isolated, were beginning to form the unmistakable
162


amateur. Mr. Pardicott seemed to know all about
it: he got me to make up a bottle of the nitro toner
the other day. I don't think I'd have done it for any
of my usual customers. It's rather tricky stuff, if I
may say so."
"Nitro toner? " said the doctor sharply. "Why,
what the dickens is that?"
"A somewhat peculiar formula, if I may say so,"
replied Mr. Blazey: " paradinitrotetramethyl."
Mr. Blazey had no sooner uttered this formidable
word than a whole group of pieces rattled quickly
into position in the doctor's mental jig-saw, and he
could not refrain from his usual ejaculation.
"By Gad!"
"Sir? " said Mr. Blazey.
"What a jaw-twister!" said the doctor.
"Volatile acid basis, eh? Never heard of it. Do
you mean to say they use things like that in
photography?"
"Not in ordinary photography, of course," Mr.
Blazey answered with some pride. "For the
specialist, if I may say so. Combined with a solution
of ordinary salt. . . ." And he proceeded to give a
highly technical description of the new process.
"Very pretty, no doubt," said Dr. Apscombe,
"but possibly a trifle dangerous, don't you think?
Have you seen any of Pardicott's results?"
"No," said Mr. Blazey. "I've been rather dis-
appointed, if I may say so, in regard to that. I
ventured to make one or two suggestions, and I was
anxious to see if another investigator had the same
164


he was afraid of that perfidious landlord, Sir Basil
Watkins. Then, with no previous warning or man-
oeuvre, Doctor Dick launched his aerial torpedo.
"Now, to change the subject. What about this
paradinitro, heh?"
He gave a short guffaw that was meant to be jovial,
but had a terrifying sound. At the same time, he
stared hard at Mr. Pardicott, with frightful intent-
ness, as though he expected to see something alto-
gether out of the ordinary. Nor was he mistaken.
A real torpedo could scarcely have had a more
shattering effect upon its target.
In one instant the sallow face of Mr. Pardicott
became of a dead, chalky whiteness. Little points
of moisture appeared on his brow. His jaw fell, dis-
closing the ivory and gold of his upper denture. In
his wide-open eyes there was the sudden fear of a
hunted beast. He raised both hands with a fluttering,
writhing motion. He rose from his chair and then
dropped back again. He presented a most pathetic
and yet a most awful spectacle. Then he spoke in a
high, quavering and hideous voice:
"What do you mean, doctor? What do you
mean? Paradinitrotetramethyl? I assure you, on
my honour, I know nothing about it, nothing at all.
You are wrong; oh, yes! you are absolutely wrong, I
assure you. It is—it is "He tried to recover
himself. "Forgive me. I am so nervous, so very
nervous. You can see that for yourself, can't you?
You can see that I am a mass of nerves—I am all to
pieces. I have no idea why I should be so much
167


upset by a word which conveys nothing to me. A
chemical, I presume. A little joke of yours. Quite.
Ah, ha, ha! Paradinitro! Of course! Ah, ha, ha,
ha! The name is not unfamiliar to me, after all.
Ha, ha! But I really cannot tell you how I came to
know it."
The doctor looked at him sternly. For a moment
he thought of making a bold accusation. Then he
saw the folly of doing anything of the sort. He found
himself practising what appeared to him a high de-
gree of diplomacy. He tried to be amiable, soothing
and sympathetic.
"I'm very sorry, Pardicott. Of course I had no
idea. I thought it was something used in photo-
graphy."
The vicar smiled in a ghostly way and nodded his
head.
"Yes, yes; so it is. I must have been thinking
about something else. The least thing upsets me,
entirely without reason. But I am all right now.
You startled me. You were so abrupt. Such an
odd thing to say. We won't mention it again, if
you please. . . ."
Dr. Apscombe was almost appalled by the success
of his own strategy. He had not anticipated such a
result. A more insidious approach might have put
the vicar on his guard, but this brutal stroke had
smashed him to pieces before he could even think
of defence.
It was clear enough now, thought Doctor Dick
as he drove away from the Vicarage; all that remained
168


what was going on, and then he surprised you by a
quick and proper decision. His movements were
never emphatic, he was incapable of excitement, and
always kept his temper (if he had one) under control.
He was now past middle age, but his bad health
made him look even older. In his waistcoat pocket
he carried a small bottle of tabloids, believed to
assist the digestion. His diet was carefully con-
sidered, and was entirely original. Barley-water was
his favourite beverage, and he went through a gentle
course of physical exercises before and after the
morning bath.
"How d'you do, Apscombe?" said the major.
"Take the chair by the desk. I have my inspectors
coming here at four, but I can give you a clear half-
hour." The voice, like the man, was entirely devoid
of colour—as though he was reciting something in
which he took no interest.
"Thank you," said Doctor Dick, rather chilled;
and he sat down. The major carefully arranged some
pieces of scribbling paper and took a pencil from
the desk.
"Now," said Pypard, " I expect you would like
to tell me in your own words about this case, or
whatever it is. I understand from your note that it
may be a matter of some importance."
"I should jolly well think so," said Doctor Dick,
rattled by this extreme coolness. "If I'm not mis-
taken, it's a case of murder."
"I see," replied the major in the same dull, even
voice. "Of course, as you know, the most essential
170


Pypard interrupted him frequently with a number
of shrewd questions: he showed the doctor that
some things were less important than he had im-
agined them to be, while others were extremely
suggestive. For instance, he was not greatly inter-
ested in the affair with Mrs. Cargoy, but he attached
a good deal of importance to the ordinary relations
between the colonel and the vicar. He had never
seen Mr. Pardicott, and he asked many questions
regarding his usual behaviour, the state of his nerves
and so forth. Once, in the middle of a long state-
ment by the doctor, he took his bottle of tabloids
out of his pocket, slowly unscrewed the top, delicately
tipped a tabloid into the palm of his hand and swal-
lowed it. He then looked more melancholy than
ever, and told Apscombe that, in his view, the out-
standing features of the case—if it was a case—were
psychopathological.
"Oh, but look here! " cried the doctor, "there
can't be much doubt, can there?"
"I think we may presume that it is a matter for
investigation," said Pypard. "I can hardly say
more at present. But go on.—No; stop a moment."
He frowned. "I suppose there could be absolutely
no reason for supposing that Mrs. Pardicott's death
was caused by this paradi-what's-a-name?"
"Absolutely none."
"Such a poison would have produced quite
definite symptoms—difficulty in respiration, for
example?"
172


"Certainly. And a more or less protracted state
of coma."
"Whereas, in this case, the symptoms were
entirely different, and — of course — altogether
compatible with your diagnosis?"
"Absolutely. Knowing Mrs. Pardicott as I
did, there could be no doubt as to the cause of
death."
"Well, that's fairly conclusive. Still, I don't
quite understand. . . . Do you happen to know if
Pardicott went away—up to London, perhaps—
shortly before his wife's death?"
"I should say not. But we can find out."
"Exactly. It may be as well. H'm. In any case,
there would be exhaustive enquiries in Belchester.
But that's quite easy."
Shortly before the half-hour was over, the doctor
had come to the end of his story and the major had
written his final notes.
"One minute," said Pypard, and he read through
his notes with no more apparent interest than he
might have shown in the correction of a school
exercise.
"Well, Apscombe, there's no doubt that we shall
have to go into this."
The doctor looked relieved.
"You have done wisely and bravely in coming
here. I congratulate you upon what has the appear-
ance of being a sound piece of deduction."
The doctor looked pleased. He felt that such
praise had a real value.
173


"One has to look at evidence as a whole, but the
critical point of this affair is your last interview with
Pardicott. His reaction to your most ingenious
though cruel test"—the major actually smiled —
"is most suggestive. We may possibly repeat the
experiment."
"And so you have really decided to take action?"
"Undoubtedly. I came to that decision almost
at once. It is not a case for my own good fellows at
present. You will probably see a stranger at Lower
Pydal before long, and—well, perhaps you will guess
what he is and what he is doing. Very likely he will
call on you."
Doctor Dick grinned broadly. It would be ex-
citing. Then he became intensely serious.
"I say, you know: if it got about"
"Don't be afraid of that. Even if anyone who
knew you saw you coming here, there is no reason
to suppose that your visit would give rise to any talk.
I know that I can rely on your own discretion, and
I hope there is no need to assure you that you can
rely on mine. Whatever may happen, keep your
own counsel. Let me know at once if you notice
anything. You will hear from me again—officially—
before long."
The worthy doctor began to change his opinion
of Major Pypard. By Gad! he was a fellow who
knew his job after all, and a fellow who wouldn't
let a fellow down, either. One of those quiet chaps,
taking everything in like a fish while you thought
they were half asleep all the time. One of those
174


deep ones. Good sort; though best to be on the
right side of him.
"Now, I don't think I have anything more to ask
you," said the chief. "You have made it as clear
as it can be. It's not my job to express an opinion,
beyond the fairly obvious one that the case demands
enquiry. I rather fancy this dry weather is going to
last for a day or two. Generally happens when you
get a north-east wind at this time of year." He rose
from the desk. "I suppose you know Watkins,
don't you? I meet him at the sessions. I don't
think I have met any of your other neighbours. Very
quiet place, Lower Pydal, isn't it? By the way, your
constable—George Davis—is quite a capable sort
of fellow, though not exactly brilliant. Ah! it's just
four, and I can see Inspector Batch coming up the
drive. So sorry, but I'm obliged to say good-bye
now. We should be delighted to see you here to
lunch or tea at any time when you are in this part of
the world. . . . Of course. . . . Well, good-bye; and
let me know if there are any developments."
*75


CHAPTER IX
1
The Affable Stranger was first seen in Lower Pydal
on an April afternoon. He came modestly riding
upon a push-bicycle, a very fine-looking young man,
wearing a pair of tinted glasses. It was understood
that he was staying at the Blue Swan in King's
Pydal, and that his name was Hilary Cuspit, which,
as everyone observed, was a very odd name.
No one seemed to know the Affable Stranger, but
he claimed acquaintance with Dr. Apscombe who,
he said, had come to the assistance of his aunt, years
ago, when she got into difficulties while bathing at
Margate. He let it be understood that he was a clerk
in the employment of the New Buffalo Insurance
Company Limited, that he had just recovered from
a serious illness, and that his employers, who were
models of decency and consideration, had sent him
into the country, on half pay, for a few weeks'
holiday. It was this part of his story which led many
people to suppose that he was not telling the truth.
Still, whether he was telling the truth or not,
people were disposed to like him. He was so cheer-
ful, and had such a nice way of smiling at you. He
was interested, he said, in "old churches and all
that sort of thing." His accent was a trifle homely,
176


his broad rosy face reminded you of a young farmer,
but you saw, through the tinted glasses, a rather
disconcerting gleam of intelligence. Although he
was supposed to be recovering from an illness, he
looked surprisingly robust. He was quite six feet
high, with a massive anatomy. You could not im-
agine why he should need those tinted glasses—it
seemed as if he had put them on for a joke.
Mrs. Berridge, the proprietress of the Blue Swan,
said that Mr. Cuspit was a very quiet, decent young
fellow, though on the night after his arrival he had
not come in till past eleven. He had a curious way
of shutting himself up in the telephone box and
holding long conversations with some one—perhaps
a young lady somewhere. Another curious thing
was his knack of getting on so well with everyone,
even with Police Inspector Holt, who was generally
so rude and stand-offish.
Mr. Cuspit hired his bicycle in the village, and
said it was his idea to potter about and have a good
look at " old churches and that sort of thing." One
day, however, he went to Belchester in a taxi, and
another day he was off somewhere by rail. For a
convalescent he was very active, and possibly in-
clined to do more than was good for him. Mrs.
Berridge, who was a motherly creature, ventured to
give him some advice, but he only smiled pleasantly.
When the Affable Stranger came for the second
time to Lower Pydal, he called respectfully upon
Mr. Pardicott.
"I hope you'll forgive me, sir, if I take a liberty,"
177


he said in his bluff, cheerful manner, "but I'm
interested in old churches and all that sort of thing,
you know. Yes; rather. And I was going to ask you,
sir, if I might look at this church of yours here—it's
an old one, isn't it?"
"Part of it is," said Mr. Pardicott, brightening
up at once: the young man looked so exceedingly
pleasant. "I should be delighted to show you over
it myself, if you care to wait a moment while I get
my keys."
"O.K.!" said the Stranger heartily. "That's
very good of you, sir. There's nothing I'd like
better."
So Mr. Pardicott left him standing in the Vicarage
porch while he went off for the keys.
But no sooner had the vicar gone into the house
than the whole demeanour of this hearty young man
changed in the twinkling of an eye. He sprang back
and looked rapidly over the front of the house. He
tripped lightly to one side and observed the garage
with extraordinary interest. He turned his quick,
searching eyes in all directions, up and down the
drive, across the lawn, along the garden wall. His
expression was no longer pleasant: it had the terrify-
ing effect of a grim, sudden concentration. The
Affable Stranger had gone, and in his place there was
a burly, hard-faced fellow—he could only have been
one of two things: a cracksman, or a real detective.
He seemed to be photographing upon his mind a
number of sharp, instantaneous pictures, full of
accurate detail; and that, indeed, is what he was
178


"all the ashlar work is in Totternhoe stone, but the
walling is ironstone. How do you explain that?"
The young man was evidently at a loss. "Well,
sir," he answered, "I really shouldn't like to say
anything about it." He might have been referring
to some grisly scandal. "Now you come to speak of
it—putting it in that way—it's hardly what you
would have expected, is it, sir?" •
"I think you might have expected it," said Mr.
Pardicott rather severely. "But if that cusping
shows a late repair—and I think you agreed it did—
then how about the date of all this interior walling?"
The Stranger had no idea. He said, with truth,
that it was quite beyond him. Happily he recovered
his position with a random shot.
"Now this," he said—" this is awfully fine, sir,
isn't it?"
"Ah, yes!" Mr.^ardicott beamed. "A double
piscina with cinquefoiled arches. You are quite
right in assuming that they are by no means com-
mon in this area." And he went on to the late four-
teenth-century font, the lead stars (once gilded) on
the roof of the nave, the bits of old coloured glass in
the windows, with their heraldic mysteries, the
effigy of Thomas Ball, the rector in 1642, and the
brasses of the Kimpton family on an altar tomb of
brick.
The Stranger did not seem to possess any original
ideas on church architecture, or at any rate he did
not express them, but that may have been out of
deference to Mr. Pardicott. They had a look at the
180


outside of the church and then strolled back to-
wards the Vicarage.
"Very pretty place you've got here, sir," observed
the Stranger, increasingly affable. "I've always had
a fancy for a nice gar-din like this one. Really it's a
lovely gar-din—what I can see of it from here."
"Would you like to take a turn round it? " said
Mr. Pardicott, who was feeling well disposed to-
wards this simple, pleasant young fellow, who
agreed with him so readily.
"Oh; rather! That's very good of you, sir. If
it's not tioubling you too much," said the Stranger.
"There's nothing I'd enjoy more. I'm a bit of a
gardener myself, in quite a small way. I've got some
photos of our little villa, if you'd care to look at
them, sir."
He fished in his pocket and produced a couple of
shiny postcards, with a piece or tissue paper neatly
placed between them. He presented these cards to
the vicar, handing them to him one at a time—the
first with the picture side up, and the second with
the picture side down.
Mr. Pardicott took the cards, and after making
some flattering and appropriate comments he re-
turned them to the young man. Mr. Cuspit was
careful—particularly careful—to place the tissue
paper between his cards before he returned them to
his pocket.
Then they walked towards the garden.
And here the young man really did seem to know
what he was talking about. He spoke with real
181


appreciation of the lawn, the banks, the orchard.
From the way in which he stared at the house from
time to time, it might have been inferred that he
admired that also, though it was an extremely ugly
Victorian building.
As they returned from the kitchen-garden they
passed by the open door of the garage.
"Ah! " cried the young man. "So you've got
one of those little cars. My brother has one—just
similar to yours."
Without asking leave, the enthusiastic young
fellow darted inside the garage, looked with con-
siderable interest at the little dilapidated car, and
then at the mass of tools, jars, rags, boxes, tins,
bricks, ropes and indescribable rubbish which was
packed up against the walls. As he did this, he
smiled in a curiously fixed, metallic sort of way,
while he kept up a flow of trivial talk, ostensibly
about Austin cars:
"Jolly good—yes—and very fast for their size,
aren't they?—hold the road—keep 'em at it—quite
wonderful how they hop along—just put in the oil
at one hole and the petrol at another, and away we
go—some say forty-seven to the gallon—lucky if
you do"
But while the affable fellow was rambling along in
this apparently idiotic style, he was actually doing a
very remarkable thing. He was stamping indelibly
upon his mind a list of about one hundred and
twenty-five different objects which he perceived in
various parts of the garage, and he was, at the same
182


time, recording mentally their exact position. It
was this peculiar faculty of his which had won his
rapid promotion in a very honourable service.
Mr. Pardicott smiled indulgently. Then, as the
young man began to look more closely at the car, he
felt impatient. After all, it was a very small car, a
very common one and a very old one; surely it was
not in any way unusual.
"Leaves plenty of room, too," said the Stranger.
The vicar merely nodded.
"You'll forgive me, sir. Not taking any liberty,
I hope? I'm a bit of a mechanic myself—and my
brother having one of these—take an interest—
same year as this one, 1924—never give you any
trouble, I suppose?"
"No, no; none at all," said Mr. Pardicott,
smiling at the curious simplicity of his visitor.
"Certainly a most reliable little car. Now Mr.—
Mr."
"Cuspit," said the young man.
"Mr. Cuspit. You must forgive me. There are
various parish duties which demand my attention."
"Oh, rather; of course!" cried Mr. Cuspit
heartily. "I'm afraid I've really been most awfully
rude, sir. Didn't mean to take liberties at all. You
see, I'm so fond of the country and old churches and
gar-dins and things of that sort"
"I am very glad you came here," said Mr. Pardi-
cott. "Your appreciation of this remarkable,
though ill-treated, church—very glad—well; good
morning to you."
183


dignity he would accost his pals with droll forms of
greeting; the old people spoke of him as "a regular
card."
But now this popular man was entirely trans-
formed. He was gruff and serious. When Sally
Morgan or Betty Smith greeted him with their
usual tee-hee-hee, Mr. Davis merely stared at them
in a sullen, forbidding manner, and said " morning"
or " evening " in the stern voice of one who is not
to be pestered with trifles. Even with Jack of the
Hall Farm, his old friend, he was dark and reserved.
People thought he was ill, or crossed in love, or in
trouble of some kind, but to those who dared ask
questions he only said " What are yer getting at?"
in such a style that all enquiry was baffled.
3
Before Mr. Cuspit had been at the Blue Swan for
a week, his uncle came to see how he was getting on,
and to spend a few days with him.
This uncle was a heavy, slow man, elderly, pale
and portly, but his eyes had the same sharp gleam
of intelligence that you saw in those of his nephew.
He dressed like a prosperous tradesman, very
neatly, and he wore a bowler hat. Although he was
nearly bald, his mouth was completely hidden by
an enormous grey moustache which fell in two
crescentic curves towards the edge of his big
jaw. He spoke in a pleasant, even, confidential
185


voice, such as you would have associated with the
porter of a college or a butler in the employment
of a nobleman.
Evidently this uncle had money. As he was un-
able to go about on a bicycle, but had a great desire
to see as much of the country as possible, he hired
a car and a driver for three whole days. On all
his little excursions he was accompanied by his
nephew.
It was supposed that he had served at one time in
Colonel Cargoy's regiment: otherwise it was diffi-
cult to explain why he should have called (with his
nephew) at Kandahar Lodge, and spent quite a long
time talking to the widow. When he left, he was
carrying a large, soft, brown-paper parcel under his
arm.
Mrs. Cargoy was greatly upset by this visit; so
much so, that she decided to go away for a change
two days later, without even saying good-bye to
Mr. Pardicott.
On the last day of Mr. Cuspit's holiday, he went
with his uncle to the Pydal golf links, and they had a
long talk with the secretary in the club-house. Per-
haps they had some idea of joining the club on a
future occasion, though it had to be admitted that
they were not quite up to the social standard of the
links. At any rate, the secretary did not see fit to
explain the nature of the interview until some time
later.
It was a busy day for the uncle and nephew. They
drove about all over the place. Evidently the old
186


man was determined to give Mr. Cuspit a real treat.
They had short though friendly conversations with
all sorts of people, and were considered to be nice
gentlemen, though rather gossipy.
Their departure from the Blue Swan coincided,
oddly enough, with the disappearance of a young
Durham miner, out of work, who had been for some
time in the neighbourhood and said that he was
looking for a job. He was a tall, powerful lad with a
sandy moustache, and clothes that were dreadfully
dirty and tattered. He took a fancy to Mr. Pardi-
cott's cook, though she was nearly old enough to be
his mother, and had a particularly long conversation
with her in the Vicarage kitchen one Saturday after-
noon when the housemaid was out, and Mr. Pardi-
cott was visiting in the parish. Although the cook
protested that there was " nothing in it," and that
she was only sorry for the young fellow and had
mended a shirt or two for him (which was true), she
was obviously upset when he went away, and the
housemaid saw her crying in the scullery.
Then there was an obscure story of a " big man"
having been seen at dead of night prowling in the
Vicarage garden. He was supposed to have been
one of the unemployed. Mr. Pardicott spoke to
P.C. Davis, and P.C. Davis promised that he would
keep a sharp look-out, and said that he already had
his eye on a rum-looking bloke who was hanging
about in a suspicious manner. For this ingenious
falsehood Mr. Davis was afterwards commended
by Major Pypard, the Chief Constable.
187


4
"Well, if you was to ask me," said Jack of the
Hall Farm to Mr. Blair the postman, " I should say
there was something funny about them two blokes.
I should say they was detectives or summat of that
sort, if you was to ask me. Two of these here
detectives, I should say. Yes; I should have said
them two blokes was two detectives."
"Ho, really!" replied Mr. Blair. "And what
was they detectin', I should like to know?"
"Ah, that's it, isn't it? They might a been
detectin' summat that you and me has no idea of.
No offence, Mr. Blair, of course."
"Granted," said Mr. Blair, who knew his man-
ners. "But you don't half get some bloomin' ideas
in your head, Jack. It's all this here bally broad-
castin' and pictures that does it. Now I never see
nothing peculiar in them blokes."
"They was too friendly," said Jack, with the
native perspicacity of the peasant. "Talkin' so nice
to people and standin' them drinks and all that.
Why should London gents be botherin' of them-
selves with us country folks? 'Tisn't election time.
They was askin' a lot about Colonel Cargoy, I be-
lieve. The old 'un was in his regiment. 'Oh,' he
says, ' he was a real good gentleman,' he says, ' and
I expect you was all very sorry to lose 'im,' he says,
'a popilar man like that,' he says, ' and so useful in
188


the parish and all.' I reckon there was some as told
him a thing or two."
"Well, that's all natural enough," said Mr.
Blair. "If he was in the regiment, as you say, that's
natural enough. You're a smart lad, Jack, but you
ain't seen much of life, you know."
5
We are in Room 467, S.D., New Scotland Yard.
Sitting in front of an enormous desk, on which
stand three telephone receivers, there is a frigid man
with hard, sharp and yet nervous features; he is not
unlike the pictures of Sherlock Holmes. At a large
table on the right of the desk, and looking towards
it, is a pale, trim young man wearing spectacles.
The young man has books and files and masses of
paper in front of him, all very neatly arranged, but
there is no typewriter. On the left of the desk, and
a little behind it, are two comfortable chairs, occu-
pied, at this particular moment, by Mr. Cuspit and
his uncle. The only thing about the room which does
not suggest the office of a managing director is a
smart policeman sitting by the door with his cap on
the floor beside him.
The man at the desk turns to Mr. Cuspit's
uncle.
"Certainly, Inspector: a very odd case indeed.
The reports are here. In common with all your
reports, they are models of their kind. But, as you
189


know, I attach great importance to direct personal
accounts of these investigations.—Mr. Bissett!"
"Sir! " replies the young man at the table, and
he immediately places before him a big pad of paper.
There is a general alertness on the part of everyone
in the room.
"Now," says the man at the desk, " kindly give
me a full account of your procedure from the very
beginning."
The man previously known to us as the uncle of
Mr. Cuspit, but who is really Chief Inspector Hill,
now gives a formal though extremely clear descrip-
tion of his preparatory researches in the Pardicott
affair. He goes at some length into the official
report on the various preparations of nitrobenzene,
in order to explain his methods.
"I then gave instructions to Inspector Staverton,
and I may say that he carried out those instructions,
and developed several lines of his own, in a highly
satisfactory manner."
The young man who was given the odd name of
Cuspit looks extremely pleased, as well he may, for
he has now every prospect of further promotion.
"If you approve, sir, I should like to ask Inspector
Staverton to tell you how he went to work."
"By all means. Go ahead, Staverton, will you?"
Staverton begins by describing his first investiga-
tions in Belchester, where he had interviews with
Mr. Blazey the chemist, and with every other
chemist in the town. He saw Mr. Blazey's poison
book, and there he found, under the date of Sept-
190 ,


ember nth, 1928, due record of a sale of para-
dinitrotetramethyl "for photographic purposes,"
signed for by G. V. Pardicott. Mr. Blazey and his
assistant were accordingly warned.
After this, Inspector Staverton tells them how he
got to work in the Pydal district, always keeping in
touch with Chief Inspector Hill, who presently
joined him.
"It was really quite easy, sir," he smiles pleasantly,
"because no one suspected me. I had also quite a
lot of help from Police-Constable Davis of the
Buckfordshire Constabulary, who is stationed at
Lower Pydal—more help than we generally get
from those fellows, if I may be allowed to say
so."
"Stick to your narrative, please," says the sharp
man at the desk, firmly though not unkindly.
"Beg pardon, sir.—I had no difficulty in get-
ting in touch with Mr. Pardicott. He showed me
round the church, and then round the Vicarage
garden. I was able to get a pretty accurate idea of the
house. I noted the garage in particular, following
Inspector Hill's instructions. I got excellent im-
pressions of the thumb and first two fingers of the
right hand by means of the special glossy cards which
I am now using. I entered the garage with Mr.
Pardicott, and at once noticed the bottle mentioned
in the report: it is an ordinary wine bottle with a
label bearing the single word 'Chablis' in gold
letters. I made an excuse for returning to the garage,
and took a small sample of the liquid contained in the
191


bottle by means of a glass phial which I was carry-
ing in my pocket. It smelt peculiar."
"It may interest you to know," says the man at
the desk, " that I have just received the report from
our analyst. He says the liquid is undoubtedly a
form of nitro-benzene. You made a lucky shot,
though I am bound to say that your method was a
trifle irregular. Go on."
"Acting on my instructions, I gained admission
to the Vicarage without the knowledge of Mr.
Pardicott. I used one of my stock disguises—miner
out of work. I became friendly with the cook, Miss
Hilda Brown. I said I was greatly interested in
books, and she let me have a look at the study. She
accompanied me there. In the study I saw nothing
remarkable except the book mentioned in the report,
which was on a shelf among the other books: it is
called Poisons: A Manual of Practical Toxicology.
Inside the cover of this book I saw the label of
Messrs. Tully and Moore, Gower Street. Some of
the pages were marked in pencil."
"That was another lucky shot," observes the
man at the desk, " though we should probably have
got the book later, in any case. But this discovery
has certainly impressed the Director of Public
Prosecutions. The assistant who sold the book has
been questioned, and remembers a conversation
with a clergyman whose face he is prepared to
identify. You were a bit irregular here, too; but we
shall get this evidence in the ordinary way, and I
must congratulate you on a neat piece of work.
192


tetramethylbenzene had been applied to the coat and
well rubbed in. A residue of dirty lubricating oil
could also be traced. It's a crazy murder, if it really
is a murder, but we can certainly make out a case,
and a pretty strong one, too. Your investigations
in regard to motive were not entirely satisfactory?"
"Not entirely, sir. Colonel Cargoy was not a
popular man, though he was not strongly objection-
able. He was always finding fault and bickering
with people; not in a loud sort of way, but foolishly.
He did not pay much attention to his wife. There's
been a lot of talk about the vicar and Mrs. Cargoy—
rather a hot affair, I think, sir. On the other hand,
Mr. Pardicott seems to have been fond of his wife,
and they got on well together."
"There is nothing to suggest improper relations
between Mr. Pardicott and Mrs. Cargoy?"
"The suggestion is there all right, sir; but there's
nothing which could very well be followed up."
"I see. And there's another point. You found
nothing which, if you were following another line,
might have led you to suppose that Mrs. Pardicott's
death was not due to natural causes?"
"As a matter of fact, sir, I am not quite satisfied
about that. I was puzzled by one or two things; but
of course there's nothing I should care to put in as
evidence."
"Ha, yes! Then again—about the illness of this
old man—Redwater is the name, I think?"
"I understand that, in the event of death, the
doctor would have asked for a post-mortem. But
194


the old gentleman recovered. I did not come across
anything which could fit in with a theory of at-
tempted murder. There was an opportunity for
such an attempt. I was not directed to make any
special investigations, but I have got some general
notes, both in regard to this and to the death of
Mrs. Pardicott, which might be useful if we decided
to work on those lines. The old man had lunch with
Mr. Pardicott on the day of the seizure, and there
would be at least two witnesses—Miss Cubitt, the
sister of Mrs. Pardicott, whose particulars are now
in my possession, and the parlourmaid, Jane Web-
ster, who is no longer at the Vicarage, but whose
address I have obtained as a matter of course, be-
cause we shall need her in the present case."
The man at the desk closes his eyes, puts the tips
of his fingers together just under his chin, some-
what as if he is praying, and remains for a few
seconds without sound or movement. The other
people in the room are evidently accustomed to this:
they all sit as still as images. Then, as he opens his
eyes, they come to life again.
"Right. I shall not keep you any longer. Hill,
you will continue to be in charge of this business.
Staverton, you will assist; but in the meantime I am
sending you to Exeter, where you will make some
enquiries of the greatest importance—you will be
entirely on your own, and I may as well tell you that
I have chosen you for this because of your special
abilities. Bissett; will you hand me the Q file?
Hayes!"
!95


The policeman by the door springs to attention.
The two inspectors rise to their feet.
"Good morning, sir," says Hill.
"Good morning, sir," says the gratified Staver-
ton. "And thank you very much, sir."
The shadow of a smile illuminates the face of the
man at the desk as he takes the file which Mr.
Bissett is handing to him. The scene is over.
196


CHAPTER X
I
The awful thunderbolt fell upon Lower Pydal on a
bright May morning.
Mr. Pardicott was having his breakfast when a
fine saloon car drew up at the door of the Vicarage
and three tall, heavy men got out of it. The ringing
of the bell and the sound of manly voices in the hall
gave Mr. Pardicott a sensation of curiosity, but not
of alarm. Then the parlourmaid came into the room.
She was vaguely agitated.
"If you please, sir, there are three gentlemen to
see you. They won't give their names, but they say
it's very important. They are in the drawing-room,
sir."
Mr. Pardicott put down his napkin by the side
of his unfinished toast and marmalade.
"Dear me! I wonder what the trouble is?"
He got up, crossed the hall and entered the
drawing-room. As he walked rather slowly towards
the middle of the room, one of the men moved
quietly behind him and closed the door. The vicar
observed this with surprise and a little resentment.
He said:
"Good morning. I understand you have come to
see me"
197


enough to tell him who they were and what they
wanted?
The military person made a slight movement with
his right arm, thus drawing attention to the fact
that he held a large, oblong envelope. Then he
spoke again, in a voice curiously dry and hollow,
as though it was being produced by a piece of heart-
less mechanism:
"You are the person mentioned in this warrant.
We are police officers. It is now my duty to warn
you that anything you say may be taken down and
used as evidence in later proceedings." The man
with the pale face almost imperceptibly drew a note-
book from his pocket. "I arrest you on a charge of
murdering Colonel George William Juniper Cargoy
by administering to him a certain poison, to wit,
nitro-benzene, on the twenty-seventh day of Sept-
ember, 1928."
Mr. Pardicott laughed.
"Is that all? " he said.
An even deeper shade of gravity passed over the
faces of the men.
This was too much for Mr. Pardicott. If they had
been more human, if they had shown some interest
or some concern, he might have given way to fear or
called passionately on heaven to witness his inno-
cence. As it was, he was merely amused by the
absurd solemnity of these people and the nature of
their fantastic charge. Who would believe it? He
laughed again.
"I am Superintendent Neil of the Buckfordshire
199


I am charged with murdering Colonel Cargoy. But
that is too childish—it is mere nonsense. Do you
expect me to take it seriously?"
"I'm afraid the Crown is taking it very seriously,
Mr. Pardicott."
"The Crown! Oh, ha, ha, ha! This is really
beyond the limits of belief. Do you mean to say that
the Crown is backing you up in this little joke of
yours? Why, my good fellow, you might as well
accuse me of murdering the Emperor of Japan!
On my honour, you will drive me crazy if you go on
like this. It is a good job that I possess a sense of
humour, or I might be furiously angry with you.
My solicitor will soon put you to rights. Are you
taking this down? Is this what you call a statement?"
The Superintendent spoke to the man beside him.
"We had better be off. Is Davis outside? Right.
I shall remain here with Inspector Staverton in order
to search the house. You will accompany the
prisoner to King's Pydal and will take Davis with
you. Send the car back here immediately. You know
what to do at the station."
"Very good, Superintendent," replied the other,
and he made a slight movement towards Mr. Pardi-
cott. At the same time, there was a sound of clink-
ing metal.
"No; there's no need of that," said the Superin-
tendent; and he addressed the vicar: "Now, Mr.
Pardicott, I must request you to proceed with this
officer. I will ring this bell, and you will perhaps
instruct the maid to bring you a hat and overcoat.
201


had put them on the scent? He could get away with
it easily enough, but what about the consequences?
Well, never mind! Sufficient for the day. And he
could see already the outlines of a perfect defence.
How could the Crown be so foolish! Everything
would be on his side: public opinion, his past
record, the holy nature of his calling, the palpable
absurdity of the charge, the plain veracity of his own
evidence.
So the car sped comfortably along, and the four
men inside it sat in grim, unbroken silence. No one
had any particular reason for wishing to talk.
2
If you had walked into the drawing-room of the
Misses Hedly-Puffyn and had assured them that
London had just been completely destroyed by a
tidal wave, or that Mr. Stanley Baldwin had taken
a part in musical comedy, you would not have sur-
prised and shocked them as much as you would have
by telling them that Mr. Pardicott had been arrested
on a charge of murder. When the maid ran up just
before lunch and blurted out the story of the arrest,
they looked at her with considerable anxiety.
"What is the matter, Martha? " said Miss Susan.
"Are you not feeling well? You had better come
with me, and I'll give you some"
"It's true, ma'am!" cried Martha desperately.
"The police are in the Vicarage, and they won't let
203


anybody past the gate—not even the gentleman
from the Daily Post."
"Even if that is so, it must be something entirely
different. Perhaps they are asking the vicar for his
advice, or something of that sort. Martha! Clergy-
men don't kill people. Don't be such a silly girl."
"It's murder, ma'am; indeed it is. Colonel
Cargoy"
"Colonel Cargoy!"
"Mr. Pardicott, ma'am ... he done it. They've
took him away to Pydal and locked him up and
chained him to the wall with great irons on his feet
and all, and they've took all his things and put them
in a great van"
"The Almighty knows best," said Miss Emily,
"but I don't understand this at all. I think the
girl is mad. Still, I'm afraid something unpleasant
has really taken place."
The door-bell rang.
"Run down, Martha, and see who it is."
There was a sound of excited voices in the hall.
Then someone came bounding up the stairs and
burst into the room. It was Mrs. Woosingdale, the
professional gossip of Lower Pydal.
"Oh—ohl" She was nearly breathless. "Have
you heard? The dear vicar—some awful mistake—
accused of murder\ True: absolute fact! In custody!
Police all over the house and garden, and one at the
gate, to stop people from going in."
Then Miss Amelia, that most venerable woman,
slowly raised her hand. A silence fell upon the group.
204


"What I say is this," and she spoke as one having
entire confidence in her own opinion. "No decent
person would dare to believe such a thing. It cannot
be so. The least we can do for Mr. Pardicott, if he
is really in trouble, is to help him by positively
refusing to believe anything against him. I don't
know what he is accused of, but I shall certainly
deny it, whatever it is, and I hope you will all have
the decency to do the same."
3
With hardly one exception, the people of Lower
Pydal were vigorously incredulous, or angry, when
they heard the news. Most of them refused to be-
lieve that Mr. Pardicott had been arrested. As for
the charge, it was the last imaginable degree of
absurdity. How, when, where, and why should the
vicar have killed the colonel? No one with any sense
in his head would even trouble to find an answer to
these fantastic questions. The magistrates would
dismiss the case.
But the magistrates did not dismiss the case.
4
On the morning after the arrest, the little town of
King's Pydal was in a state of the most extraordinary
confusion. A number of active gentlemen, repre-
205


from the rest of the court, were the fifty members of
the public, the lucky Pydal public, all standing close
together, shuffling, multi-odorous and terribly ex-
cited. The inspectors, and Mr. Pynch-Beckett, sat
on one side of Mr. Oxford - Tomkins; and Mr.
Pardicott's defender, Mr. Worle-Bellows, on the
other. Mr. Worle-Bellows was a short, agile man
with rusty hair and a pointed, foxy face: he had the
reputation of being a bit too sharp.
As Mr. Pardicott came into the dock, with a
uniformed policeman on each side of him, there was a
dead silence. Nearly everyone felt horribly embar-
rassed. He knew the men on the bench, and most of
the people in the public part of the court. They all
wanted to look at him, but were anxious to avoid
his glance.
Mr. Pardicott, however, did not appear greatly
concerned. He smiled faintly, and bowed to Sir
Basil Watkins, who was immediately struck by a.
purple confusion and pretended that he had not
seen anything. He then looked with mild amiability
at several acquaintances, and they, poor people!
looked at the Royal Arms above the head of the
chairman, or out of the windows. There was a
general sense of relief when the clerk rose to his
feet.
"Gregory Virgil Pardicott is charged for that he,
the said Gregory Virgil Pardicott, on the twenty-
seventh day of September, nineteen-hundred-and-
twenty-eight, in the parish of Lower Pydal in the
county of Buckfordshire, murdered George William
207


Juniper Cargoy, against the peace of our Lord the
King, his Crown and Dignity."
It was the impression of the public that the Crown
would have no case at all, and that everything was
due to some monstrous error which would be
quickly dispelled. But the speech of Mr. Pynch-
Beckett for the prosecution gave quite another turn
to affairs. People began to wonder if their impres-
sions were really worth anything after all.
Mr. Pynch-Beckett said that he did not propose
to do more, at the present stage, than merely to out-
line the case for the Crown. He would then ask for
a remand, and they would see, after listening to the
extremely serious nature of the evidence, that a re-
mand was desirable. At the end of a week, he would
be able to give the result of further investigations.
He did not propose to call any evidence in addition
to that of the police; and in this he was partly
actuated by a sense of his duty towards the defence
—Mr. Worle-Bellows inclined his head—but he had
taken a series of important depositions, and was pre-
pared to put them in, if it was considered necessary
by the bench. He then addressed to the magistrates
a few timely words on law, conscience and responsi-
bility, at which some of them visibly perspired.
Now, said Mr. Pynch-Beckett, he would give them
an account of the circumstances which had led the
Crown to take action.
He told them how, on the 5th of September, 1928,
the accused had gone to a bookshop in Gower
Street, London, and had asked for the latest and
208


most complete work on poisons. (This was a great
shock to the accused, who nervously wrote something
on a scrap of paper. It was also a shock to the public.)
The accused had purchased a certain book which
was now in the hands of the prosecution. There
was evidence to show that he had read it carefully
and had marked certain passages dealing with a
poison of the most deadly sort, known as para-di-
nitro-tetra-methyl-benzene. (The magistrates were
immediately overcome.) What did he do then? He
purchased the chemicals necessary for his terrible
design, alleging that he desired to use them for
photographic purposes, and he made up a consider-
able amount of this poison—a poison so deadly that
death is caused by merely breathing it for a few
seconds. In order to assure himself of the effect of
this preparation, he carried out a series of experi-
ments—experiments, it was hardly necessary to
say, which were in no way related to photography, but
intimately related to the art of killing. The evidence
for this statement was also in the hands of the prose-
cution. (Shudders and a faint murmur among the
public, instantly suppressed by an angry glance from
Mr. Oxford-Tomkins.)
What then? He placed in his garage a wine bottle
containing this poison—they need not trouble to
remember the name of it—and a new clean duster.
The bottle and duster would, of course, be produced.
The rest was easy. Colonel Cargoy was invited to
the garage, an oily cloth was pressed to his coat, and
the stain was removed by a rapid though vigorous
209


and copious application of this terrible poison, under
the pretence that it was benzene. The coat and
waistcoat worn by the deceased were in the posses-
sion of the Crown, and an examination had proved
this beyond all possible doubt. But they were going
a stage further, they were resolved to leave no stone
unturned (his words were grimly appropriate), and
in a week's time they would present the results of an
extremely important though painful investigation.
And now, although they were not going to lay too
much stress upon the question of motive, he might
say that he had evidence which would justify him
in alleging the strongest motive of all. It was enough
at present for him to indicate that such evidence was
available, and would be produced at the proper time
and place. (Mr. Pynch-Beckett glanced obliquely
at the expectant faces of the pressmen, and could
not refrain from giving a short sniff.) That, in brief,
was the case for the Crown, and he would now ask
for a remand for one week.
Mr. Worle-Bellows, for Mr. Pardicott, said that
the case put forward by the prosecution was incred-
ible to any man of common sense: however, it was
the duty of the Crown to make out their case, and
they had set about the task with considerable skill
and—from the legal point of view—with commend-
able fairness.
He did not want to suggest that the case ought to
be dismissed. Far from it. He would press for the
earliest possible communication of the entire evi-
dence—he understood that a certain investigation
210


minds of those who read our penny papers, full
accounts of exhumations appear to be particularly
gratifying: the picture of policemen with lanterns
in a churchyard at midnight conveys to these poor
minds a vivid impression of drama. With what
hideous pleasure they learn that "certain organs
were removed"! Let us be content to leave to the
vulgar this distressingly vulgar sort of enjoyment.
6
"I suppose," said Mr. Pardicott, looking dim
and forlorn in the grey light of the cell, " I suppose
that we can be reasonably sure of the result of these
ridiculous proceedings?"
"Foregone conclusion, absolutely, my dear sir!"
replied Mr. Worle-Bellows with a cunning doggish
grin. "Yes, absolutely, of course. Mind—you
know what these country justices are; only fit to talk
about a parish wall or a stolen chicken, if you ask
me—and then you have to tell 'em what to do. Why,
the pressmen have frightened them out of their wits
already. They'll commit you to the assizes—they
can't do anything else. We shall probably reserve
our defence. Not a course that I would recommend
in every case, but it's best here. I shall need experts,
you understand. They will certainly have the Home
Office men, Boydell and Pulver; and you know the
effect these fellows have upon a jury. We shall have
to smash them absolutely, or"
212


"But any man can see for himself that the whole
thing is wickedly absurd! " cried Mr. Pardicott.
"Ah, yes! " said his defender with another grin.
"But the very absurdity of the charge will dispose
many people to think it's true. They'll say, ' Well;
the police would never dare to bring up a charge like
this if there was no proof.' We've got to knock 'em
flat; we've got to hammer 'em into believing us,
positively."
"And that means delay, expense, inconvenience,
and notoriety of the most dreadful kind. Think of
the papers !" The poor man, when he thought
of the papers, could only groan. He could see
already those awful, spotty photographs—" Pardi-
cott arriving at the court," " A studio portrait of the
accused man," and so forth.
"But you'll come through with colours flying,
positively. All the bells ringing, and all the people
singing, and all that. Now look here, sir; there's no
use pretending it's not a serious business, though
we know how it's going to end—:how it's bound to
end. I propose to write at once to Sir William
Plasquet, or better still, run up and see him—the
best counsel in the world for a case of this kind.
With a smart young barrister like Timball to assist
him"
"But the bill, Bellows! Think of the billl"
"A clergyman who is falsely accused of a capital
offence can raise what he pleases—in fact it will be
raised for you, if there's not a move in that direction
213


had been entrusted with the examination of the
contents of the bottle found in the garage of the
accused, and also with the examination of a certain
duster and of the coat and waistcoat worn by the
deceased. He would only call the evidence of these
two eminent scientists, and of those persons who
were officially concerned with the exhumation, and
with the finding, identification and conveyance of
the objects mentioned. At the close of the proceed-
ings, which he trusted would be brief, he would ask
for a committal.
Mr. Worle-Bellows, for the accused, stated that
he had no objections to make, though he regretted
that the prosecution had found it necessary to resort
to such distressing expedients. He did not intend to
call witnesses on his side, but would certainly cross-
examine the witnesses for the prosecution.
On hearing this, Mr. Pynch-Beckett smiled in a
faint though not unfriendly manner. Mr. Worle-
Bellows, observing the smile, twitched up one corner
of his foxy mouth and jerked back his head, to imply
that he accepted the challenge.
And although Mr. Bellows could not cite a
parallel case, because there was no parallel case, he
questioned Professor Pulver and Dr. Boydell with
remarkable cunning. He astonished the doctor (who
afterwards congratulated him) by the way in which
he exposed the ambiguity of certain results and the
obviously controvertible nature of certain patho-
logical features, equally valid for a theory of murder
or a theory of disease. He did more: he gravely
215


CHAPTER XI
I
It would not be impossible to describe the excite-
ment in Belchester during the trial of Mr. Pardicott,
but to do so adequately would require many
words.
The court was packed on every day of the hearing,
and all the available rooms in the town were booked
a week in advance. Indeed, several eager ladies,
willing to pay as much as ten guineas a night, had
to go away disappointed, or find accommodation in
very inferior hotels thirty or forty miles distant.
Even the representative of the Daily Post, with all
the resources of money and intrigue at his command,
had to be content with a mean attic. Applications
from the American press were refused.
Business in the town had never been so good. All
the Belcastrians gave themselves airs of importance
and looked uncommonly cheerful. Everyone was
making money. Those with rooms facing the town
hall, where the trial took place, hired them for the
day at exorbitant rates. Most of the county families
were anxious to be represented at the trial, and they
bitterly resented the incursion of those who had no
decent excuse, but were merely impelled by an
unwholesome curiosity. There were many disputes,
219


The rudeness of the accommodation was a little
trying at first, but it was not long before Mr. Pardi-
cott had a nice supply of books, and comforts.
The jury, who were to decide whether Mr. Pardi-
cott was a murderer or not, consisted of two farmers
and three tradesmen, an estate agent, a retired naval
officer, a publican, two elderly gentlemen of inde-
pendent means, and two ladies—vMrs. Lake, the
wife of a sausage manufacturer, and Mrs. Vandeleur
Smythe-Browne, the widow of that famous Com-
modore Smythe-Browne who perished so gallantly
in a typhoon in i<)i2.
As the constituent parts of a jury there was nothing
to object to in these people: they were certainly
intelligent enough to follow the directions of a judge.
When Mr. Pardicott stepped firmly into the box
on the first day of the hearing he felt a pleasing sense
of importance. He had always longed for a wider
field, a more general recognition and a larger public
—and here they were. There might be a certain
stiffness about some of these people, but there was
nothing to suggest hostility. He was a sensitive
man, and he knew at once that he was the object
either of pure curiosity or of a friendly concern. Mr.
Pardicott made a little bow to Mr. Justice Berecastle,
who was not sufficiently courteous to respond. He
then glanced with a smile at the decorous, blank
221


faces of the jury, and then at the wigged counsel, the
clerk, the pressmen, the dense, hot mass of the
audience. He could see the tops of the High Street
houses through the windows, and even had a distant
view of the cathedral tower, an emblem of hope. He
noted also the dusty but glorious flags of the Buck-
fordshire Light Infantry and the life-size portrait of
Admiral Tighe, standing with his back to the siege
of Alexandria, as though it was a little episode quite
beneath his notice.
Then the proceedings began.
The clerk of assize, holding a paper in his hand,
read the charge:
"Gregory Virgil Pardicott, you are charged on
indictment that you, on the twenty-seventh day of
September in the year nineteen-hundred - and-
twenty-eight, feloniously, wilfully, and of your
malice aforethought did kill and murder George
William Juniper Cargoy. Are you guilty or not
guilty?"
"Not guilty," replied Mr. Pardicott, anxious to
infuse those two words with all the protest, vehe-
mence, sincerity and indignation they could possibly
convey.
The jury was sworn, the charge read, and Sir
Arthur Corribourne got up to make the opening
speech for the Crown.
Sir Arthur had a long but humorous face. He
spoke in a rich, even voice, and his one gesture con-
sisted of an occasional movement, from the wrist
only, of an extremely flexible hand. He began thus:
222


"May it please your lordship, gentlemen of the
jury, this is a case without parallel in the history of
English law. It is a case that will demand what I
know you are prepared to give—your most serious
and most concentrated attention. The nature of the
evidence on which you will be asked to find the
accused man guilty is of the most peculiar kind.
Before examining this evidence you will have to
clear your minds of every kind of prejudice, whether
in favour of or against the accused; you will have
to put on one side any considerations that might be
suggested by the calling of this unhappy man—for
he is unhappy from any point of view; and above
all you will have to ignore anything that you may
have read in the newspapers. A case is decided
upon the value of the evidence, the reliability of
witnesses, the careful weighing of one circumstance
against another, and finally by the effect of these
things upon the minds of reasonable and intelligent
persons. I think I can best discharge my duty at
the present stage of the proceedings by narrating
to you the facts of the case in their proper order.
You are to remember that the evidence in this, as in
practically all cases of poisoning, is of the sort
known as circumstantial, it is not the direct evidence
of eye-witnesses incriminating the accused man.
It is for this reason that I will ask you to consider,
not so much what may seem to be surprising,
irrelevant, or sensational, in isolated particulars of
the evidence, but rather what is the unavoidable
conclusion which you perceive when you are able to
223


relate one fact with another and to feel the accumu-
lated weight of the evidence as a whole."
He then proceeded to give the leading facts in the
case, very much as they had been given by Mr.
Pynch-Beckett at the police court, but with fuller
detail and a more rotund eloquence.
Of course, when they searched the Vicarage, the
police had found the traces of Mr. Pardicott's
experiments. They had the Lyle and Fergusson,
with the fatal pages heavily scored in pencil. They
had the bottle from the garage and the duster—
most fortunately recovered from the ditch by Chief
Inspector Hill. They would produce witnesses to
prove the purchase of the book and the poison.
One thing would lead to another. . . .
Sir Arthur gave a long and careful account of
Colonel Cargoy's movements on the day of the
assassination. It was really astonishing that he
knew so much. Mr. Pardicott followed his narrative
with true admiration, nor could he refrain from
giving occasional affirmative nods of the head. Being
tried for your life—when you knew perfectly well
that you were dead sure of an acquittal—was truly
a great experience.
Now, said Sir Arthur, they would probably have
to give due importance to a conversation between
Doctor Richard Apscombe and the accused which
took place when Colonel Cargoy was dying. It was
a very peculiar conversation. (Sir William Plasquet,
fc* the defence, looked as though he wanted to say
something; but contented himself with merely
224


snapping his fingers.) His lordship would decide
presently whether the actual words could be
admitted as evidence. In any case, the gist of that
conversation would be revealed by the examination
of a principal witness, and it would be seen that the
accused was anxious to prove that Colonel Cargoy
was looking very ill on that particular morning.
Other witnesses would prove that there was no such
appearance of illness, but rather the reverse. Then,
it was alleged, there was a question put by the
accused to the doctor
Mr. Justice Berecastle (to Sir William Plasquet):
"Are you objecting to this?"
Sir William Plasquet: "If my learned friend
calls it an alleged question, I do not object."
Mr. Justice Berecastle: "I don't think this is the
proper place to go into this alleged question. It is
not material evidence. I don't think I shall allow it
here."
Sir Arthur Corribourne (sourly): "As you will,
my lord."
Continuing his speech, Sir Arthur said he did not
propose to deal with the technical aspects of the
medical evidence. That evidence would be given by
two gentlemen who were the greatest authorities in
such matters. He would only point out that they
were dealing with chemical data of an extremely
unusual kind. ... In choosing this lethal medium
it was obvious. . . .
Mr. Pardicott was rather bored. Sir Arthur was
telling him nothing that Lyle and Fergusson had not
225


told him already. It was gratifying to know that
this case would probably be included in the next
edition of that famous book.
But Mr. Pardicott was anything but bored when
Sir Arthur brusquely turned to the question of
motive. On the contrary.
Sir Arthur reminded the jury that evidence of
motive had always been considered essential,
although it was something which could not be
interpreted as the proof of a crime. They would,
however, be careful to bear in mind this question
of motive when they were considering the incon-
trovertible evidence of action. He then proceeded
to give a brief though interesting account of Mr.
Pardicott's relations with Mrs. Cargoy.
There was evidence to show that the accused was
on intimate terms with Mrs. Cargoy during the
lifetime of her husband. Observing that Sir William
Plasquet was again becoming restive, he added that,
by the term " intimate," he did not mean to imply
improper relations of any kind—indeed, they were
to rid their minds, once and for all, of any such idea.
He did, however, suggest on the part of the accused
an extraordinary degree of infatuation, the sort of
infatuation which led people to actions of wild
extravagance or to the most revolting of crimes. On
the part of Mrs. Cargoy herself there had been no
such infatuation; she had merely regarded this
amiable and persuasive gentleman as an intimate
friend—a friend, it might be admitted, whose
position in her life was unique. He would call Mrs.
226


crime. We shall endeavour to prove that the crime
was the outcome of no sudden impulse, but of
careful research, experiment and preparation. We
shall endeavour to show you, clearly and conclu-
sively, how the accused made himself familiar with
the nature and effects of a subtle and deadly poison,
how he prepared and administered that poison, and
how he afterwards betrayed himself by incautious
words and actions. . . . The evidence, in the
submission of the Crown, affords abundant proof
of the guilt of the accused. But the responsibility
for a decision, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, will
rest with you. If, when you have considered the
facts in all their bearings, and when you have
listened carefully to all that my learned friend will
say in favour of the accused, you are convinced that
the prisoner was guilty of an act of murder, it will
be your duty to return a verdict in accordance with
that conviction. You are to do justice. But if you
are not satisfied by the evidence, then you have only
one course before you: to acquit the prisoner. The
life of this man is in your hands. But remember,
in your hands, also, is a thing far greater than
the life of a man—the everlasting cause of truth
and justice. May heaven guide you to a true
conclusion."
This speech had a profound effect. At the
conclusion of it the heads of the jury were all bowed
towards the floor, as if they had only now realised
the full importance of their task. Mrs. Vandeleur
Smythe-Browne said afterwards that it felt like being
228


the heart. Yes; most of the conditions which might
have produced apoplexy were present.
Coming to the fatal illness of the colonel, he said
he had found all the symptoms of an apoplectic
stroke. It would be correct to say that he noticed in
particular the appearance of blueness—what they
called a highly cyanosed condition. He advised
Mrs. Cargoy to send for Dr. Wyvell, and she did
so. Oh yes! he had perfect confidence in his own
diagnosis, but he was anxious to confer on the
question of treatment.
He saw the accused at Kandahar Lodge. . . .
The accused put to him a certain question
Mr. Justice Berecastle: "I have been thinking
about this. We may as well have the exact words,
unless Sir William has any objection to make."
Sir William Plasquet: "I do not know why it
should be suggested that I have an objection to
make. I have already said that if my learned friend
is willing to refer to this as an alleged question, I
have no objection. Really, I attach no great import-
ance to this point."
Mr. Justice Berecastle: "Very well, Sir William;
don't get excited."
Sir William Plasquet: "I never get excited.
But I do not see why it should be suggested that I
am an incorrigible quibbler."
Mr. Justice Berecastle: "Sir William Plasquet!
You are making the suggestion yourself. No one
else has done so. Let us have the exact words—that
is, of course, the alleged exact words."
230


aoooooooooooooo
the heart. Yes; most of the conditions which might
have produced apoplexy were present.
Coming to the fatal illness of the colonel, he said
he had found all the symptoms of an apoplectic
stroke. It would be correct to say that he noticed in
particular the appearance of blueness—what they
called a highly cyanosed condition. He advised
Mrs. Cargoy to send for Dr. Wyvell, and she did
so. Oh yes! he had perfect confidence in his own
diagnosis, but he was anxious to confer on the
question of treatment.
He saw the accused at Kandahar Lodge. ...
The accused put to him a certain question-
Mr. Justice Berecastle: “I have been thinking
about this. We may as well have the exact words,
unless Sir William has any objection to make."
Sir William Plasquet: “I do not know why it
should be suggested that I have an objection to
make. I have already said that if my learned friend
is willing to refer to this as an alleged question, I
have no objection. Really, I attach no great import-
ance to this point.”
Mr. Justice Berecastle: “Very well, Sir William;
don't get excited.”
Sir William Plasquet: “I never get excited.
But I do not see why it should be suggested that I
am an incorrigible quibbler.”
Mr. Justice Berecastle: “Sir William Pla
You are making the suggestior
gestior ef.
else has done so. Let us have
is, of course, the alleged



Examination continued. The accused was aligger
to have said, "Were there any traces of comess"
“He used that particular word comes
“Yes."
“And that aroused your suspicions. "_"Nor at
the time.**
“But afterwards? "_" Afterwards; res."
“And there were other circumstances?"
Mr. Justice Berecastle: "Come, come
Arthur! I can't have witnesses led about like this
I am sure that Sir William has an objection to that
We don't want to know anything about me
suspicions. Where are we going to stop? The
are people who are ready to suspect anytime. Det
no
us stick to matters of fact, if you please. The cdo
object to this, Sir William, don't your languee these
sure that you do...."
uicide,
Sir William Plasquet (angrily): "Wyland of such
don't object at all. I have a reply toni fisas Jeffect
likes to go on. ..."
to sugges-
Mr. Justice Berecastle: "I want the y for me to
of the Court wasted. It is modder totam
had every
evidence which is not sttractivement
that particular
of the case. We don't want to die
gossip. I won't let
c is already suffi-
Sir Arthur
pleases."
argoy, came to see
Certain
husband, and by her
his death. There was
in his manner.
tle (to the witness): “A
233


anas
little peculiar? What do you mean? I can't have the
time of the Court wasted with these little peculiari-
ties and suspicions and all this tittle-tattle. What do
you mean by telling us that he was peculiar? It is
neither here nor there.”
Mrs. Cargoy looked as if she was going to cry,
and Sir Arthur quickly came to her rescue. She was
then cross-examined by Sir William Plasquet.
Sir William, of course, was in a predicament not
unlike that in which Sir Arthur had been placed.
He could not stress his points, for fear of playing
into the hands of the other side. It is well known
that a fool is the most difficult of all witnesses. He
could easily have reduced Mrs. Cargoy to tears,
but he was far too clever to do that. Nothing tells
against you more than making a witness cry-
especially when that witness is a pretty woman.
As Sir William could not tell how far Sir Arthur
was prepared to go in re-examination, he was very
discreet in his questions about Mr. Pardicott. He
tried to prove that Mr. Pardicott's behaviour had
not been incompatible with the privileged position
of a clergyman, a friend, a spiritual guide. He did
not deny a warm affection, leading to an honourable
proposal of marriage.
But now—the day of Colonel Cargoy's death.
Was Mrs. Cargoy in the habit of observing her
husband's health very closely?-Oh, yes.-And
that was because he was liable to sudden changes:
very well at one moment and very unwell the next?
-Yes.—He might be quite healthy and bright in
234


aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
the morning, and before the end of the same day he
might be looking ill and depressed?--Oh, yes;
quite!-So there was nothing remarkable about the
fact that he was looking well on this particular
morning?-Oh, nah!-She had merely happened
to notice it?-Yes; he seemed better than usual.-
So that if anyone said he was looking extremely ill
that morning, it would be due to a mistake of some
kind?-Oh, yes; certainly.—Although he was
liable to these sudden changes?
Well, there was another point. Did she remember
two visits from Mr. Pardicott, one on the day of the
colonel's illness, and one on the following day?-
Yes, quite distinctly.--He was very deeply dis-
tressed, was he not?-He was deeply distressed;
oh, yes!—There was nothing in his manner which
could not be accounted for by this acute distress! -
Oh, nothing.
“Now, Mrs. Cargoy,” said Sir William in his
friendly way, “pray do yourself justice. I put it to
you (and I know that you could not have been
deceived in such a matter) that Mr. Pardicott was
genuinely and deeply grieved by the loss of his
friend."
Mr. Justice Berecastle: “ If you want to put
that at all, you must put it in the form of a question.”
Sir William Plasquet: “ Am I not right in
supposing that no one in their senses could have
doubted the depth and sincerity of this gentleman's
grief at the sudden illness and the death of his
friend?"
235


and I'm sure the jury don't follow either. What
do these signs indicate?"
The witness: "They indicate the fact of death
being caused by suffocation: the state of the blood
indicates the presence of an active poison, paralysing
the respiration, and so causing death."
Boydell was cross-examined by Sir William
Plasquet and questioned sharply by the judge, but
he stuck to his guns.
Professor Pulver was the next witness. He had
a long dirty brown beard and a rather stuttering
muffled delivery; but he knew what he was talking
about. He had examined the boxes in which Mr.
Pardicott had made his experiments, the clothes
worn by Cargoy, the bottle found in the garage, and
the duster. He had made a careful analysis—one
might say a classic analysis—of the relics of the
poor colonel. He produced in court a neat series
of glass tubes, which he called mirrors, in which
were solutions of different colours, displaying, either
by comparison or direct evidence, the presence of
paradinitrotetramethylbenzene in various parts of
the body. As they examined them, the jury were
not a little shaken to observe on these tubes labels
which bore the words: "liver," "duodenum,"
"right kidney," "left kidney," and so forth. The
examination of Professor Pulver was not finished
when the court adjourned at five o'clock.
237


4
Somehow or other, Mr. Pardicott was extremely
depressed when he returned to his quarters in the
jail. He had no idea that the prosecution could
have made out such a strong case, and he was aware
of a change in the attitude of the court. The people
were not against him, but they had become doubtful,
critical.
He could not be convicted, of course; but it was
not going to be a walk-over, and it would be rather
trying. The evidence of Mrs. Cargoy and the
appalling disloyalty of Dr. Apscombe struck him
to the heart. He would never have believed that
people could be so base, cunning and treacherous.
It was enough to discourage anyone. The only
relief, the only real pleasure, had been provided by
the chemical and physiological information of the
experts. He had appreciated all that. He looked
forward to hearing Professor Pulver again, and could
not help expressing a hope that the case would be
brought to the notice of those devoted toxicologists,
Chesterton, Brill and Rawlings.
Mr. Timball, accompanied by Mr. Worle-
Bellows, visited Mr. Pardicott very soon after the
adjournment. They were quite cheerful, and their
demeanour helped to restore the confidence of the
poor clergyman.
"Well! " cried Mr. Timball breezily (and he was
a beaming, facetious young man). "They've shot
238


their bolt, and there's nothing we are not prepared
to answer as far as I can see. Plasquet was antici-
pating a much heavier case. He will try to see you
after dinner."
"I'm glad to hear you say that," replied Mr.
Pardicott, "I felt very uncomfortable. I was
looking at the jury"
"Looking at the jury!" Mr. Timball shook his
head. "Everybody does that. Look at 'em again,
my dear sir, when Plasquet makes his opening
speech."
"But the other side have the last word, haven't
they? " said the vicar.
"Last word—they'll need it, too! There won't
be any case left for them to talk about. As a
matter of fact the judge really has the last word,
and old Berecastle is not quite such a fool as he
looks."
Mr. Timball, chubby and vivacious, spread
about him a sort of optimistic radiance.
"I agree with my friend," said Mr. Worle-
Bellows, with a flash of his brilliant teeth. "So far,
they have produced nothing which we did not
anticipate. I doubt if they were well advised in
putting up Mrs. Cargoy, though I suppose they
couldn't help themselves. Plasquet's cross-examina-
tion was a masterpiece."
"Very pretty, wasn't it?" said Mr. Timball.
"I don't know a man with a more sensitive hand on
the tiller when he's sailing close to the wind. He
had to get the idea across to the jury without making
239


a scene or giving the others a chance of jumping on
him, and he did it amazingly well."
"Then again," said Mr. Pardicott, more hopeful
but still gloomy, " the effect of the opening speech."
"Oh, that" replied Mr. Timball, as though he
referred to a mere formality. "That was just the
usual thing. All the best phrases were out of the
recipe-book. I never heard a more cooked-up
affair. Old Berecastle was bored stiff."
"The jury were very attentive," said Mr. Pardi-
cott.
"The jury again!" cried Mr. Timball with
friendly exasperation. "We lawyers don't bother
our heads too much about juries. You wouldn't
look at 'em so closely, my dear sir, if you had my
experience. What does matter is the effect on the
judge, and all that he listens to is the evidence: he
doesn't care a hoot for all this rhetoric."
"That's right," said Mr. Bellows, with a grin that
was meant to be intensely amiable. "You can go to
sleep to-night, Mr. Pardicott, in perfect confidence.
Unless they have something up their sleeve, we have
them beat—positively."
5
"Now, Joe," said Mr. Crick the publican to his
fellow-juryman, Mr. Hubb the draper: "what's
your opinion, honestly?"
They were in the common-room reserved for the
240


male jurors at the White Hart, and guarded by a
constable.
"I don't hardly know what to think, really," said
Mr. Hubb, a mousy little man with weak eyes,
"indeed I don't. I've been worrying all the time
about the traveller from Bradford. There isn't one
in the shop I can trust for choosing, and it's now I
buy most of my stuff for the winter, you know. Very
hard on me, indeed it is. . . . This Pardicott—he
looks all right, doesn't he?"
Mr. Crick, a portly man of the world who
breathed with a good deal of noisy suction, became
heavily superior. He tapped Mr. Hubb rhythmi-
cally upon the chest with a forefinger nearly as big
as a sausage.
"Looks all right?" he said. "That isn't the
point. Did you hear what them doctors were
saying?"
"Yes, I heard them all right," said Mr. Hubb,
"but I'm not an eddicated man—not like you, Mr.
Crick—and I didn't properly understand what they
were getting at. You know ... all those tubes
and things."
"Well," said Mr. Crick, "they made it pretty
clear who done it, didn't they?"
"They didn't say so," replied Mr. Hubb.
"It's not for them to say so," Mr. Crick snorted.
"It's for us to say so. That's what they've got us
here for, isn't it?"
Mr. Hubb looked exceedingly grave. "I
wouldn't like to go so far as to say that, Mr. Crick.
241


We shall have to wait until his lordship tells us
what to do. We mustn't have no prejudice."
"Far be it from me to have any prejudice,"
replied Mr. Crick. "To my mind, the man's as
good as hung already. I wish they'd get a move on
with that supper, or whatever it is."
6
We can review very briefly the proceedings of the
second day.
Professor Pulver's evidence, neatly presented,
won the sincere admiration of the accused, who made
copious technical notes for his own information.
In cross-examination, the professor admitted that
apoplexy was an excusable diagnosis, and that a
superficial post-mortem examination might have
suggested poisoning by hydric or potassic cyanide.
He stated definitely, however, that there could be
no doubt as to the poison which was actually
present. The singular constitution of this poison
gave unmistakable chemical reactions in the
laboratory.
Mr. Pardicott's cook gave evidence of the con-
versation in the kitchen, when the vicar had spoken
to his wife about the sickly appearance of the
colonel. Her evidence was independently supported
by that of the housemaid.
Mrs. Cargoy's maid told them about the very
frequent visits of Mr. Pardicott to Kandahar Lodge.
242


CHAPTER XII
On the third day of the trial, Mr. Pardicott's
defence was opened in the most brilliant fashion by
Sir William Plasquet. The whole appearance of
the case underwent a complete change.
Sir William was not unduly grave. The Crown,
he submitted, had got no case at all: they were
relying upon a false interpretation of harmless
circumstances; they had made the best of a bad
job-his learned friend knew very well how to do
that-but they could not really suppose that the
evidence they had produced would satisfy any jury
in the world. His learned friend had done his best;
he had conducted his case with his usual skill and
fairness, and in such a way as to add to the great
reputation which he enjoyed, and rightly enjoyed,
at the English bar. But, in this particular case,
what evidence had he got? Or rather, even if they
admitted every fact (and they would do nothing of
the sort), what did the evidence imply? In his
opinion it implied anything but the guilt of the
accused: he would show that it might involve
the possibility of a rather unfortunate mistake; and
that, indeed, was his case.
Now, said Sir William, it had been suggested
245


that this man, a respected clergyman, loved by all
who knew him and going quietly and happily about
his duties, killed a neighbour of his in order that he
might enjoy for longer periods and with fewer
interruptions the conversation of that neighbour's
wife. There could be, at the time, no question of
marriage, because his own wife was still living, and
evidence would be called to show that the accused
man was a most affectionate husband. There was
no suggestion of anything illicit.
He would ask them, as a plain man addressing
sensible people, if they could really believe this
kind of nonsense? Of course not.
But then, it might be urged that the question of
motive was not material. That was quite a proper
view to take, but since motive had been strongly
insisted upon it had been necessary for him to deal
with it.
Very well, they might say; but how about the
facts relating to the death?
"Well," said Sir William placidly, " what about
them?"
He would first call an eminent toxicologist, who
would explain to them the difficulty of reaching a
satisfactory conclusion by the tests employed by
Professor Pulver. He would then call the chief
pathologist of a great hospital, a man widely known
in the world of science and literature, who would
question the whole theory of the prosecution in
regard to the cause of death, and would show that
Dr. Apscombe's diagnosis had probably been
246


correct. He would not say that a certain poison
had not been found in the body of the dead man,
but he was going to question, first the amount
actually found, and secondly whether it had any-
thing to do with the collapse and death of that
unfortunate gentleman. He would show that the
idea of the accused intentionally administering the
poison with the knowledge of what he was doing
and with the intention of committing a murder was
too fantastic to be seriously entertained for a moment.
They would remember that the bottle alleged to
have contained a lethal mixture of nitric acid and
benzene had been found by the police in Mr.
Pardicott's garage. Could they believe that he would
have left it there, had he been aware of its contents?
It had been said, or suggested, that the accused
had made no use of the chemical for the purpose he
had alleged at the time of purchase. Sir William
would not dream of hinting at such a thing as a
deliberate suppressio vert, but it was clear that the
prosecution had not looked very far for the evidence
of legitimate use.
He was going to produce for the inspection of the
court a selection of most attractive photographic
prints made by the accused with this very chemical,
and found in the Vicarage by his friend, Mr. A. G.
Timball, accompanied by the Chief Constable of
Buckfordshire. He would call evidence to prove
the origin of these prints, and to explain the technical
process by which they had been toned. Other
expert witnesses would tell them all about this
247


interesting and beautiful process, and would explain
how these prints could be tested, if such a test was
considered desirable, in order to establish the
indisputable fact that they had been prepared with
strong solutions of paradinitrotetramethyl.
Thus, whatever plausibility there might have
been in the extraordinary case put forward by the
prosecution was, he submitted, entirely destroyed.
. . . He would call first of all his two medical
witnesses, because they were both busy men and
were anxious to be released as soon as possible;
then he would call Mr. Pardicott, and then six
other witnesses. He would address the jury again,
and he would then be fully justified in asking for an
acquittal.
Dr. Bruce Gainsford and Dr. Riley Thwaite,
standing up for the defence, did indeed play Old
Harry with Boydell and Pulver. The most that
could be done with them in cross-examination
was to show that they were not positively certain;
but they had already shown that the other men could
not be positively certain either.
Dr. Gainsford treated the antiquated mirrors of
Professor Pulver with something not unlike sheer
flippancy, and Dr. Thwaite proved that the pul-
monic block of Dr. Boydell was an ordinary post-
mortem condition in cases of apoplexy. They agreed
that a form of nitro-benzene had been found in the
body, but they maintained that it was quite impossi-
ble to estimate the amount of vapour which had
been inhaled. They delighted Mr. Pardicott by
248


quoting from his dear Lyle and Fergusson some
cases which proved that relatively enormous quan-
tities had to be inhaled before the results were fatal.
Without waiting until the judge and the jury
had recovered from the effect of this evidence, Sir
William cleverly produced Mr. Pardicott himself.
He was extraordinarily skilful in such matters.
At first the vicar was nervous. His mouth was
dry. He was afraid of being sick. He looked in the
most appealing way at the dull, hard faces of the
jury-
But Sir William questioned him so quietly and
pleasantly, in a tone so amiably conversational, that
he soon found himself quite at his ease. As they
carried on their pleasant conversation, Mr. Pardi-
cott was almost persuaded of his own innocence.
Everything was explained. He had bought the
book on poisons because he was interested scientifi-
cally in paradinitro and other chemicals which he
was using in photography, and in no other book was
there such a full account of these things. The
preparation of ethylised paradinitro had been
obtained, as already stated, for photographic pur-
poses, and used for those purposes. The experiments
on beetles were childish, certainly; but he had read
of similar experiments in the book, and had amused
himself by trying to reproduce them. He had a
bottle of ordinary benzene in the garage: it was
used for removing stains. He also used benzene for
the treatment of glossy photographic prints, quite
an ordinary procedure. An exactly similar bottle
249


(produced) had contained a solution of paradini-
trotetramethyl, and was kept among his photo-
graphic chemicals.
Here he was obliged to admit the possibility of
an act of carelessness. He had taken the bottle of
benzene from the garage, and had used some of the
benzene for cleaning a batch of prints. It was now
obvious to him that he must have poured back a
quantity of paradinitro into the benzene bottle,
which was about half full. Both bottles were known
as half-bottles, and were labelled "Chablis." He
had returned the benzene bottle to the garage.
Probably he had had no occasion to use it since: he
could not remember. The bottle had remained
there until it was found by the police.
Mr. Justice Berecastle (to the accused): "Do be
so good as to speak up. We are all very anxious to
hear what you have to say, and you must not lower
your voice like that."
The accused: "I will do my best, my lord. I am
in a very trying position."
Mr. Justice Berecastle: "I quite appreciate
that."
Had he suspected that the bottle contained a
deadly poison, said Mr. Pardicott, it was evident
that he would not have left it there.
Colonel Cargoy came to look at his car on the
morning of the 27th of September, 1928. It seemed
to him that the colonel was very unwell, and he
afterwards remarked on this to his wife. In exam-
ining the car, Colonel Cargoy got some oil on his
250


statement which could not be disproved, owing to
evaporation).
In regard to the circumstances of the fatal
morning, Mr. Pardicott was not to be shaken. The
trouble with the car was a loose tappet: he had
afterwards found this, and put it right himself.
No, no, no. . . . He had not observed a peculiar
smell. He had not flung the duster away. No, no,
no. . . .
The result of the questioning was not satisfactory
to either side.
If Mr. Pardicott had kept clear of the chief
pitfalls, he had not succeeded in explaining one or
two things which obviously told against him. On
the other hand, he had cleverly defeated the sugges-
tions of motive. Sir William Plasquet was greatly
relieved on this score: he had feared an emotional
collapse, and was much pleased with the cool,
grave manner in which the vicar had spoken of his
friendship with Mrs. Cargoy.
2
Before they retired to bed that night, Mr. Crick
and Mr. Hubb had another short conversation on
the case.
"He done it all right," said Mr. Crick austerely.
"When it come to that bit about the wood, it were
all up with him, I reckon."
255


Pardicott for her deceased sister and to the
untroubled harmony of their married life.
At half-past eleven Sir William Plasquet rose to
make the closing speech for the defence.
There was no need, Sir William said, to make a
long speech. Where was the case for the prosecu-
tion? He would say that it no longer existed. He
would urge that the prosecution had failed to pro-
duce one shred, one tittle, one scrap of evidence
which could prove their case. . . . The case had
been destroyed, in his view, because the circum-
stances, when you came to look at them closely,
were incompatible with the allegation. There might
have been carelessness, even gross or culpable
carelessness, but that was not for them to decide.
"To-morrow," said Sir William impressively,
"you will have returned to your ordinary duties,
your ordinary lives. You will be freed of the
tremendous responsibility which, at this moment,
rests upon you. Now, think. Where will the accused
be? He will either be a free man, or he will be in
prison under sentence of death. It is for you to
decide. And I ask you this—can you be happy in
your daily occupations, can you be ready to face the
great Judge of our hearts, if, with even the shadow
of a doubt in your minds, you have condemned a
man unjustly to a tragic, a miserable and humiliating
form of death? You, in any case, will be free. Let
him be free also. If, after what you have heard, you
consider this man guilty of the awful crime with
which he has been charged, then I can only say that
257


he had released his own experts, and that it would be
most improper to introduce it at this stage of the
proceedings.
The judge admitted the objection to the experi-
ment, but he admitted also the evidence of Professor
Pulver. They could take it, he said, that a man of
the professor's eminence would not make such an
important public statement if it was liable to
contradiction. Sir William agreed to this, and asked
leave to recall the accused. Leave was granted.
Mr. Pardicott, examined briefly by his leading
counsel, said that he naturally had no definite
recollection of having poured paradinitro into the
wrong bottle, but had merely assumed that he must
have done so. If this had been done in the red light
of the dark-room he would not have noticed any
immediate colour-changes, and he might have left
the room as soon as he had corked the bottle. Yes;
very little could be seen clearly in the dark-room,
except close to the lamp. That obscurity probably
accounted both for the mistake and for his inability
to perceive it. He was not sharp of hearing.
It was admitted by Professor Pulver, in answer
to questions by the judge, that the ultimate appear-
ance of the mixture could not be distinguished by
the eye from pure benzene, and that it could not be
assumed that the cork would be blown out of the
bottle by the rapid generation of gas. The mixture
would settle down, and become limpid, in about ten
minutes.
Sir William Plasquet: "I think we have dealt
259


with this matter. I have no desire to add anything
to my speech."
For all that, it was a nasty shock to the defence.
Mr. Pardicott, totally unprepared, and knowing the
truth of what the professor had told them, stam-
mered badly and made a most unfortunate impres-
sion. Sir William and Mr. Timball could hardly
conceal their chagrin, and they were glad of a timely
adjournment for lunch.
The closing speech for the prosecution was brief.
The jury, said Sir Arthur, had only got to make up
their minds on two points: Did the accused inten-
tionally administer poison to the deceased and was
that poison the cause of death? ... It had been
suggested by the defence that the poison had been
unintentionally administered, as the result of a
series of mistakes and coincidences almost beyond
belief. He would ask them to say, in fact, that such
mistakes were actually incredible. Let them con-
sider. . . . And could they accept this? . . . and
that? Then again . . . and again. . . . Were
they not irresistibly led to one conclusion, painful
as it might be? It was his duty to suggest most
earnestly that the defence was not an answer to the
evidence produced by the Crown. The defence, in
his opinion, had failed signally to demonstrate the
absence of motive. . . . They had failed. ... .
And they had failed. . . . The jury must arrive
at their verdict without fear or favour; he could
not dictate to them; it was a matter for them to
decide.
260


4
It was generally considered that the summing-up
of the judge was hostile to the accused. The jury,
he said, would have to distinguish clearly between
the allegation of motive and the positive nature of
evidence. Let him give them an example. . . .
The Crown had brought forward certain facts
which, they said, proved the guilt of the accused,
and they had forcibly directed attention to what
they considered conspicuous weaknesses in the
defence. The defence, while admitting the greater
part of the Crown evidence, had given it a totally
different interpretation, and had strongly criticised
the findings of the medical experts. Now, the jury
were not to be confused. It was the duty of the
Crown to present a case; it was the duty of the
defence to destroy that case, if they could, and to
present another. One side was right, and the other
was wrong, and yet both were performing the
highest of all moral duties—they were trying to
discover the truth. Was the truth plain to the jury?
He hoped it was. In a few minutes they would be
called on to decide the most serious question which
they might have to consider in the whole course of
their lives. He could not suggest to them any
opinion of his own; he could only direct them in
matters of law. . . . Let them examine those parts
of the evidence which might be regarded as critical.
His lordship then proceeded to toss the evidence
261


yachtsmen, more experienced, showed him that he
was wrong.
He went to the bowling green, and watched the
slow rolling of the wooden pieces. Here were these
placid elderly men, playing this quiet game in the
shade of the trees—and there, rising above the
clipped edges of the shrubbery, was the clock tower
of the town hall. Most of these men would certainly
be interested in the result of the trial, but now they
were much more interested in the silent rolling of
their wooden pieces. When they had finished their
game they would put on their coats and go home to
tea and then they might send out for an evening
paper. Sir William looked at his watch. Four
o'clock.
Well, if he knew anything about juries they would
be a good two hours, or more, in coming to an
agreement. It was a pleasant, mellow afternoon.
He would follow that path, down there by the river.
On the sedgy bank, opposite the park, were two
or three fishermen, their floats only disturbed by the
occasional rippling wash of a punt or a slim canoe.
In these punts there were jolly young men and
women, looking fresh and merry in their white
shirts, clean flannels and nice dresses. That peculiar
keen light scent which you always notice by a river
gave the air a most grateful subtlety and fragrance.
Nursemaids were sitting on the benches, or begin-
ning to turn the prows of their perambulators in a
homeward direction. It was altogether a charming
scene, thought Sir William, soothing, luminous and
263


if that's not murder! . .. do they call it justice?
... jolly glad ... never believed ..." He
observed a quiet young man walking by himself in
the roadway.
“I beg your pardon,” said Sir William to the
young man,“ but I wonder if you would be so kind
as to tell me the verdict.”
“ Certainly, sir," replied the young man. “ I was
in the court. They've acquitted him. Not guilty.”
265


the others politely declined to argue, and poor Mr.
Bellinger could only retire muttering.
The doctor's manner, formerly so hearty and
cheerful, was hearty and cheerful no more. People
were not so ready to accept his winter diagnosis and
his summer diagnosis, and they began to suggest
that he was not good enough. Those who could
afford to do so had doctors from King's Pydal or
Belchester, and the others bought patent medicines
which did them a world of good. At his time of life,
and after the wide publicity of this dreadful case, it
would not be easy for Apscombe to find a new
practice; so it was no wonder that he began to look
surly and miserable and doubled his orders for
whisky.
Sir Basil Watkins, dropping poor Apscombe
without a word, now employed Dr. Tullaby of
King's Pydal, and caused it to be understood that
his dependants were to follow his example. In
terms of bitter vehemence, though without origin-
ality, Sir Basil denounced the wretched man who
had been the cause of all this trouble and scandal
and expense. If the police had only come to him,
declared Sir Basil, he would have dashed soon put
a stop to the whole dashed proceedings, and he
could not understand how Pypard had been such a
dashed fool. They should have remembered, he
said, that Pardicott—though he was a dashed rum
bird in some ways—had always been a gentleman:
he was not the sort of chap who would go messing
about and killing people.
267


So the miserable doctor had to face all the
discordant music of righteous braying, and had to
endure the loss of honour and income and fellow-
ship. He began to think desperately of ships and
colonies, of pestilential stations in Africa or the
Straits, of lonely hospitals full of disordered negroes.
Anything would do. And something must be done,
or he would drink himself to death.
2
On a cold October evening the doctor sat by the
fire—a big red roaring fire that ought to have
promoted cheerfulness. But there was nothing to
bring cheerfulness into his cloudy mind. A bottle,
a tumbler and a siphon stood on the table by his
side. He was trying to think of an advertisement by
means of which he could offer his services to the
world.
There came a rap at the door, followed by the
ugly, middle-aged woman who had been his house-
keeper for many years.
"If you please, sir, there's something I ought to
tell you, I think."
The doctor nodded, without interest and without
looking at her. He went on staring at the fire.
"It's been on my mind for a long time, sir; but
I didn't like to say anything. I don't want to get
myself nor anyone else into trouble."
He nodded again, rather impatiently.
268


his face in the glass over the cupboard, and I was
frightened and went away again."
"Mary! Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't like to. Seemed as if I had been spying.
And I couldn't be sure—I thought perhaps you had
told him to take them. If it hadn't been for his
face"
"Tell me this, Mary; would you know that
bottle if you saw it again?"
"Oh, yes, sir; I've often seen it. A blue bottle
with three sides, marked poison."
They looked at each other.
Dr. Dick was pulling himself together, trying to
think clearly. That curious episode of the paralde-
hyde capsules flashed like a revelation across his
mind. Then he recalled the death of Mrs. Pardicott.
"My God! " he said again, but this time he said
it quietly. "What a fool I've been. Mary, will you
swear to this? I have the date, because I entered
that medicine for Barlow."
"Yes, sir, it's the absolute truth I'm telling you."
"Thank you, Mary. That will do now. I shall
have to think."
3
Still trembling a little, the doctor went to the
dispensary and switched on the light. The capsules
were still there—most of them. He had given
some to—who was it?—Mrs. Brown of the South
270


people within a few miles of him who believed him
guilty, and who were so incautious as to hint openly
at other crimes yet to be revealed. But the good
folk of Lower Pydal knew this, and although they
had at once repelled the dangerous gossip with a
fiery burst of indignation, they were becoming
only too conscious, not of positive doubt, but of a
growing uneasiness in their own minds. The single
outward proof of this uneasiness was a tendency to
be less rude to Dr. Dick.
So Mr. Pardicott stood in the aisle, talking in a
cheerful whisper to Mr. Bob Smith.
"Filled up with a little plaster—yes," he said.
"But don't let it be too white. Can you give it a
sort of yellowish tint, so as to harmonise it with the
coping?"
"Oh, yes; easily enough," replied Mr. Smith.
"I was thinking of that myself. Then, after we've
put back the Aldworth tablet"
He broke off. His attention was diverted by two
strange gentlemen who had just come into the
church.
"After we've put back the Aldworth tablet,"
continued Mr. Smith, " we can fix the pews in their
proper places, and then there won't be much more
to do."
He looked again at the two gentlemen. They were
big, heavy, serious persons, with an almost exag-
gerated appearance of respectability.
"Yes," said Mr. Pardicott. "I think we shall be
able to decide the date of the ceremony at the next
272


council meeting. His lordship wants to know as
soon as possible."
The two strangers, holding their hats in their
large hands, were drifting softly towards him.
They did not seem to be interested in the chancel,
but fixed their eyes with a dull intentness upon Mr.
Pardicott himself. As Mr. Smith looked at them
he suddenly felt all cold down his back. He would
have felt even colder had he known that they had
just been inspecting closely the grave of Mrs.
Claudine Pardicott.
"Good morning, sir."
The vicar turned towards the two solemn faces
with a smile. He had no suspicions. "Good
morning," he said.
"I must beg the favour of a word with you, sir,"
said the elder of the two men.
"One minute, Smith," said Mr. Pardicott, and
he led the way out of the church.
"It may be rather a long affair, sir," the spokes-
man resumed. "If you will be so kind, we will step
down to the Vicarage."
"I am rather busy," said the vicar with a touch
of annoyance.
"I'm afraid I shall have to request your attention,
sir," replied the other. "It will be to your own
advantage. I am Police Superintendent Nash, and
this is Inspector Hocking from Belchester."
At once the unfortunate man felt a loosening of
his joints. He felt as though his inwards were being
dissolved in chilly water. He staggered along the
273


Vicarage drive between the two men, who were now
silent, entered the house, and took them to the
study. Here, by a quick adjustment, an evocation
of courage and resource, he recovered the firmness
of his speech and manner.
The superintendent began: "It is my duty to
warn you. ... In consequence of certain informa-
tion and in view of the prevalence of certain rumours
the police have applied to the Home Office for
permission to exhume the body of the late Mrs.
Pardicott, and this permission has now been
granted."
Mr. Pardicott looked at him dreamily. He was
making up his mind. He noted the positions of the
two men, and calculated how long it would take him
to reach the door.
"I have therefore to ask you if you desire to
make any statement. Of course you may decline
to do so; but I would suggest that it would be
entirely to your own advantage. This is naturally
very painful, sir, and I am anxious to do all in my
power. . . . Here! Look out, Hocking!"
In a flash, the vicar had bolted through the door.
The two officers, springing up to pursue him,
got in each other's way. By the time they were in
the hall, Mr. Pardicott was leaping up the staircase.
"Quick, Hocking!" cried the superintendent.
"He's after a gun or something. Go for his legs
and bring him down!"
But the vicar was flying so lightly up the creaking
stairs that Hocking never got a chance. The whole
274


pursuit lasted only for a few seconds. It was hope-
less. The airy speed of the maniac kept him yards
ahead of the clattering rush of his pursuers. The
sudden thunderous charge of these heavy men,
shaking the entire house, was accompanied by
hysterical yells from the kitchen. Mr. Pardicott
gained his work-room attic and slammed and bolted
the door behind him.
Only just time! There—in the developer bottle
—the two pink tabloids—the two he had kept
over.
"Down with it! " cried the superintendent.
The officers, instinctively organising their effort,
pitched themselves together against the door. The
lower hinge gave way, and the door sagged.
"Again! One, two"
The lock tore away from the jamb, and the door
hung, obliquely slanting, from the top hinge.
Crouching, the men rushed into the room.
Mr. Pardicott was quietly standing by the table.
They knocked the table to one side and grasped
him by the arms.
"You have no need to be so violent," said the
vicar, giving to each in turn a glance in which malice
and triumph were hideously united. "I shall give
you no assistance, and I require none myself. I
have nothing to say."
And in half an hour he was dead.
275





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