“You couldn’t even see whether it had been printed in black or in red?”
“Well, now.” Mrs. Bulfinch considered. “Well, no, I couldn’t say that. Now you mention it, I do seem to recollect that there was something red about the packet, somewhere, but I can’t clearly call it to mind. I wouldn’t swear. I know there wasn’t any name or printing of any kind, because I looked to see what it was.”
“You didn’t try tasting it, I suppose?”
“Not me. It might have been poison or something. I tell you, he was a funny looking customer.” Parker and Wimsey exchanged glances.
“Was that what you thought at the time?” enquired Wimsey, “or did it only occur to you later on – after you’d read about the case, you know?”
“I thought it at the time, of course,” retorted Mrs. Bulfinch, snappishly. “Aren’t I telling you that’s why I didn’t taste it? I said so to George at the time, what’s more. Besides, if it wasn’t poison, it might be ‘snow’ or something. ‘Best not touch it,’ that’s what I said to George, and he said ‘Chuck it in the fire.’ But I wouldn’t have that. The gentleman might have come back for it. So I stuck it up on the shelf behind the bar, where they keep the spirits, and never thought of it again from that day to yesterday, when your policeman came round about it.”
“It’s been looked for there,” said Parker, “but they can’t seem to find it anywhere.”
“Well, I don’t know about that. I put it there and I left the Rings in August, so what’s gone with it I can’t say. Daresay they threw it away when they were cleaning. Wait a bit, though – I’m wrong when I say I never thought about it again. I did just wonder about it when I read the report of the trial in the News of the World, and I said to George, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if that was the gentleman who came into the Rings one night and seemed so poorly – just fancy!’ I said – just like that. And George said, ‘Now don’t you get fancies, Gracie my girl; you don’t want to get mixed up in a police case.’ George has always held his head high, you see.”
“It’s a pity you didn’t come forward with this story,” said Parker, severely.
“Well, how was I to know it was important? The taxi-driver had seen him a few minutes afterwards and he was ill then, so the powder couldn’t have had anything to do with it, if it was him, which I couldn’t swear to. And anyhow, I didn’t see about it till the trial was all over and finished with.”
“There will be a new trial, though,” said Parker, “and you may have to give evidence at that.”
“You know where to find me,” said Mrs. Bulfinch, with spirit. “I shan’t run away.”
“We’re very much obliged to you for coming now,” added Wimsey, pleasantly.
“Don’t mention it,” said the lady. “Is that all you want, Mr. Chief-Inspector?”
“That’s all at present. If we find the packet, we may ask you to identify it. And, by the way, it’s advisable not to discuss these matters with your friends, Mrs. Bulfinch. Sometimes ladies get talking, and one thing leads to another, and in the end they remember incidents that never took place at all. You understand.”
“I never was one for talking,” said Mrs. Bulfinch, offended. “And it’s my opinion, when it comes to putting two and-two together to make five of ’em, the ladies aren’t in it with the gentlemen.”
“I may pass this on to the solicitors for the defence, I suppose?” said Wimsey, when the witness had departed.
“Of course,” said Parker, “that’s why I asked you to come and hear it – for what it’s worth. Meanwhile, we shall of course have a good hunt for the packet.”
“Yes,” said Wimsey, thoughtfully, “yes – you will have to do that – naturally.”
Mr. Crofts did not look best pleased when this story was handed on to him.
“I warned you, Lord Peter,” he said, “what might come of showing our hand to the police. Now they’ve got hold of this incident, they will have every opportunity to turn it to their own advantage. Why didn’t you leave it to us to make the investigation?”
“Damn it,” said Wimsey angrily, “it was left to you for about three months and you did absolutely nothing. The police dug it up in three days. Time’s important in this case, you know.”
“Very likely, but don’t you see that the police won’t rest now till they’ve found this precious packet?”
“Well?”
“Well, and suppose it isn’t arsenic at all? If you’d left it in our hands, we could have sprung the thing on them at the last moment, when it was too late to make enquiries, and then we should have knocked the bottom out of the prosecution. Give the jury Mrs. Bulfinch’s story as it stands and they’d have to admit there was some evidence that the deceased poisoned himself. But now, of course, the police will find or fake something and show that the powder was perfectly harmless.”
“And supposing they find it and it is arsenic?”
“In that case, of course,” said Mr. Crofts, “we shall get an acquittal. But do you believe in that possibility, my lord?”
“It’s perfectly evident that you don’t,” said Wimsey, hotly. “In fact, you think your client’s guilty. Well, I don’t.”
Mr. Crofts shrugged his shoulders.
“In our client’s interests,” he said, “we are bound to look at the unfavourable side of all evidence, so as to anticipate the points that are likely to be made by the prosecution. I repeat, my lord, that you have acted indiscreetly.”
“Look here,” said Wimsey, “I’m not out for a verdict of ‘Not Proven.’ As far as Miss Vane’s honour and happiness are concerned, she might as well be found guilty as acquitted on a mere element of doubt. I want to see her absolutely cleared and the blame fixed in the right quarter. I don’t want any shadow of doubt about it.”
“Highly desirable, my lord,” agreed the solicitor, “but you will allow me to remind you that it is not merely a question of honour or happiness, but of saving Miss Vane’s neck from the gallows.”
“And I say,” said Wimsey, “that it would be better for her to be hanged outright than to live and have everybody think her a murderess who got off by a fluke.”
“Indeed?” said Mr. Crofts, “I fear that is not an attitude that the defence can very well adopt. May I ask if it is adopted by Miss Vane herself?”
“I shouldn’t be surprised if it was,” said Wimsey. “But she’s innocent, and I’ll make you damn well believe it before I’ve done.”
“Excellent, excellent,” said Mr. Crofts, suavely, “nobody will be more delighted than myself. But I repeat that, in my humble opinion, your lordship will be wiser not to betray too many confidences to Chief-Inspector Parker.”
Wimsey was still simmering inwardly from this encounter when he entered Mr. Urquhart’s office in Bedford Row. The head-clerk remembered him and greeted him with the deference due to an exalted and expected visitor. He begged his lordship to take a seat for a moment, and vanished into an inner office.
A woman typist, with a strong, ugly, rather masculine face, looked up from her machine as the door closed, and nodded abruptly to Lord Peter. Wimsey recognized her as one of the “Cattery,” and put a commendatory mental note against Miss Climpson’s name for quick and efficient organisation. No words passed, however, and in a few moments the head-clerk returned and begged Lord Peter to step inside.