“The man Loveson?”
“I have not forgotten him. His will very probably turn out to be the largest outstanding mortgage. He may have had motive in addition to having opportunity. The probability, again, is remote, for it must surely have occurred to him, should any thought of killing Sir Randolph have crossed his mind, that his motive would be instantly perceived. Moreover, we have Davinson’s word for Sir Randolph’s lenience with his debtors, and this is given adequate support by the terms of Sir Randolph’s will, forgiving his mortgages. No, there is something else here of which we have as yet no inkling, something that induced his murdered to go to great pains to prepare a deadly pastille, secrete it among those on the table during the time of his visit with Sir Randolph — or his secret entry into the house, if it were that — and then be safely away when his victim by chance selected the poisoned pastille for use. it was all very carefully premeditated; there was nothing impulsive about it. That is why, patently, the papers have nothing to do with the matter, for whoever put the pastille into the box did so well before even Sir Randolph knew that he would be sent the papers for examination. By the same process of deduction, the foreign visitor lacked motive — if there were such a visitor.”
“And if not?”
“Then, I fear, we should have to put Davinson through it. But there is little reason to doubt Davinson’s story. A foreign visitor to Sir Randolph is not unlikely. And Davinson does not seem to me to be capable of so elaborate a plan.”
“Who then?”
“We must consider that Davinson was gone by night. Sir Randolph was alone. He could have given entry to anyone he pleased, regardless of what Davinson believes.”
“Well, then, we get back to motive.”
“Do we not?” So saying, Pons sank into a reverie, from which he stirred only to eat, with a preoccupied air, a lunch Mrs. Johnson sent up. He still sat, smoking pipe after pipe of his abominable shag, when at last I went to bed.
Pons’ hand at my shoulder woke me while it was yet dark.
“Can you spare the day, Parker?” he asked, when I sat up. “We have just time to catch the four o’clock from King’s Cross for Edinburgh.”
“Edinburgh?” I queried, getting out of bed.
“I have an unyielding fancy to learn what the late Sir Randolph and his niece had words about. We lose a day by travelling later. The four o’clock brings us into Edinburgh by one-thirty this afternoon. We shall have ample opportunity to make our enquiries of Miss Emily Curwen. You will have hours to sleep on the train.”
“Miss Emily!” I cried. “For five hundred pounds? Preposterous!”
“Unlikely, perhaps, but hardly preposterous,” retorted Pons. “Poison, after all, is primarily a woman’s weapon, so she is a suspect.”
Pons had already summoned a cab, which waited below. As soon as I had dressed and made arrangements for my locum tenens to call on my patients for the next two days, we were off for King’s Cross station, which we reached just in time to catch the train for Scotland.
Once in our compartment and northward bound out of London, Pons sank again into cogitation, and I settled myself to resume the sleep Pons had interrupted.
When I woke in the late morning hours, Pons sat watching the lovely countryside flow by. We had crossed the Scottish border, and soon the familiar heights of Arthur’s Seat, the Salisbury Crags, the Braid Hills and Corstorphine Hill would come into view. Here and there little pockets of ground mist still held to the hollows, but the sun shone, and the day promised to be fine.
The tranquil expression of Pons face told me nothing.
“You cannot have been serious in suggesting that Miss Curwen poisoned her uncle,” I said.
“I am not yet in a position to. make that suggestion,” replied Pons, turning away from the pane. “However, a curious chain of events offers itself for our consideration. There is nothing to show that Miss Emily visited her uncle at any time previous to her recent visit. Then she comes, they have words, she hurries off distraught. Does not this suggest anything to you?”
“Obviously, they quarreled.”
“But what about? Two people who have not seen each other for many years, as far as we know, can hardly, on such short notice, have much to quarrel about.”
“Unless there is a matter of long standing between them.”
“Capital! Capital, Parker,” said Pons, his eyes twinkling. “But what ancient disagreement could exist between uncle and niece?”
“A family estrangement?”
“There is always that possibility,” conceded Pons. “However, Miss Emily would hardly have come, in that case, unannounced and without an invitation to do so.”
“Perhaps, unknown to Davinson, she had been invited to come,” I said.
“Perhaps. I am inclined to doubt it. Miss Emily yielded to the impulse to confront her uncle to ask some favour of him. His failure to grant it angered her and she rushed off.”
“That is hardly consistent with the premeditation so evident in the careful preparation of a poisoned pastille,” I couldn’t help pointing out. As usual, it was superfluous.
“Granted, Parker, But there’s nothing to prevent such premeditation in the event that the favour she asked her uncle were not granted.”
“What could it have been that, failing its granting, only his death would serve her?” I protested. “If a matter of long standing, then, why not longer? No, Pons, it won’t wash, it won’t at all. I fear you have allowed your latent distrust of the sex to darken your view of Miss Emily Curwen.”
Pons burst into hearty laughter.
“Where are we bound for? Do you know?”
“Miss Emily lives in her father's house on Northumberland Street, in the New Town. I took time yesterday to ascertain this and other facts. She and her sister were the only children of Sir Randolph’s brother, Andrew. Her sister married unwisely, a man who squandered her considerable inheritance. Both the elder Lindalls are now dead, survived by an only son, Ronald, who is employed in a bookshop on Torphichen Street. But here we are, drawing into Edinburgh.”
Within the hour we stood on the stoop of the house on Northumberland Street. Pons rang the bell three times before the door was opened, only a little, and an inquiring face looked out at us there.
“Miss Emily Curwen?”
“Yes?”
“Mr. Solar Pons, of London, at your service. Dr. Parker and I have come about the matter of your uncle’s death.”
There was a moment of pungent silence. Then the door was opened wide, and Miss Curwen stood there, unmistakably shocked and surprised. “Uncle Randolph dead? I saw him within the month. The picture of health!” she cried. “But forgive me. Come in, gentlemen, do.”
Miss Emily led the way to the drawing room of the old-fashioned house, which was certainly at one time the abode of wealth. She was a woman approaching fifty, with a good figure still, and betraying some evidence in the care she had taken with her chestnut hair and her cosmetics of trying to retain as much of a youthful aspect as possible.
“Pray sit down,” she said. “Tell me of uncle’s death. What happened? Was it an accident?”
“Perhaps, in a manner of speaking, it was,” said Pons. “He was found dead in his study.”
“Poor uncle!” she cried, unaffectedly.
She seemed unable to fix her eyes on either Pons or myself. Her hands were busy plucking at her dress, or lacing her fingers together, or carrying her fingers to her lips.
“Perhaps you did not know he left you five hundred pounds?”