Harper did this.
“It’s a bad blunder,” he said. “What good would it do him? Suppose you’d both been killed? I mean, it’s foolish. Is it panic or spite or both?”
“Neither, I imagine. I see it as a last attempt to bolster up the accident theory. The idea is that in the same mysterious way as cyanide got on the dart so it got into the decanter. The decanter, you see, was brought out from the corner cupboard. Mrs. Ives had washed it in about two dozen changes of boiling water. I don’t think anybody but Nark and Abel were aware of this. We were no doubt supposed to think the decanter was tainted by being in the cupboard.”
Superintendent Harper uttered a vulgar and incredulous word.
“I know,” agreed Alleyn. “Of course it is. But if Fox and — or — I had popped off, you’d have had a devil of a job proving it was murder. Oh, it’s a blunder, all right. It shows us two things. The murderer must have kept a bit of cyanide up his sleeve and he must have visited the private bar after Abel decanted the sherry at a quarter to one this afternoon. We will now search their rooms. We won’t find anything, but we’d better do it. I’ll just see how Fox is getting on.”
Fox, white and shaken, was sitting on the edge of the bath. Dr. Shaw was washing his hands.
“He’ll do all right now,” said Dr. Shaw. “Better go to bed and take it easy.”
“I’m damned if I do,” said Fox. “Excuse me, sir, but I’m damned if I do.”
Alleyn took him by the elbow.
“Blast your eyes,” he said, “you’ll do as you’re told. Come on.”
Fox consented, with a bad grace, to lying on his bed. Alleyn and Harper searched the rooms.
ii
At first Harper said that the rooms, in all essentials, were as he had found them on the day after Watchman’s death. In Cubitt’s they found an overwhelming smell of studio and the painting gear that had engendered it. There were bottles of turpentine and oil, half-finished works, Cubitt’s paint-box, and boxes of unopened tubes. Alleyn smelt the bottles and shook his head.
“We needn’t take them,” he said, “their stink is a lawful stink. You can’t put turpentine or oil into vintage sherry and get away with it.”
“What about prussic acid? It smells strong enough.”
“Of almonds. A nutty flavour. Do you remember the account of the murder of Rasputin?”
“Can’t say I do,” said Harper.
“Youssoupoff put cyanide in the wine. Rasputin drank several glasses, apparently with impunity.”
“But—”
“The theory is that the sugar in the wine took the punch out of the poison. That may account for Fox’s escape. No doubt the sherry had a fine old nutty aroma. By God, I’ll get this expert!”
“What are we looking for?”
“For anything that could have held the stuff he put in the decanter. Oh, he’ll have got rid of it somehow, of course. But you never know.”
They went into the bathroom. In a cupboard above the hand basin they found Abel’s second first-aid outfit. Alleyn asked Harper if there had been a bottle of iodine there on the day after the murder. Harper said no. He had checked the contents of the cupboard. They separated and took the rest of the rooms between them, Alleyn going to Legge’s and Parish’s, Harper to the others. Alleyn took a small empty bottle from Parish’s room. It had held pills and smelt of nothing at all. In Legge’s dressing-table he found a phial half-full of a thick pinkish fluid that smelt of antiseptic. Mr. Legge’s ear lotion… He kept it and searched all the drawers and pockets but found nothing else of interest. Abel’s room was neat and spotless, Will’s untidy and full of books. The wearisome and exciting business went on. Down below, in the private bar, Oates and his mate kept company with the patrons of the Plume of Feathers. They were very quiet. Occasionally Alleyn heard the voices of Parish and of Mr. Nark. Ottercombe clock struck ten, sweetly and slowly. There was a moment of complete quiet broken by a violent eruption of noise down in the bar. Alleyn and Harper met in the passage.
“Somebody cutting up rough,” said Harper.
A falsetto voice screamed out an oath. A table was overturned and there followed a great clatter of boots. Harper ran downstairs and Alleyn followed. Inside the private bar they found Legge, mouthing and gibbering, between Oates and a second uniformed constable.
“What’s all this?” asked Harper.
“Misdemeanour, sir,” said Tates, whose nose was bleeding freely. “Assault and battery.”
“I don’t care what it is,” screamed Legge. “I can’t stand any more of this—”
“Shut up, you silly chap,” admonished Oates. “He tried to make a breakaway, sir. Sitting there as quiet as you please, and all of a sudden makes a blind rush for the door and when we intercepts him he wades in and assaults and batters the pair of us. Won’t give over, sir. You’re under arrest, Robert Legge, and it is my duty to warn you that you needn’t say anything, but what you do say may be used in evidence. Stop that.”
“Persecuted,” whispered Legge. “Persecuted, spied upon, driven and badgered and maddened. I know what it means. Let me go. Damn you, let me go!”
He kicked Oates on the shin. Oates swore and twisted Legge’s arm behind his back. Legge screamed and went limp.
“You’ll have to be locked up,” said Harper sadly. “Now, are you going to behave or have we got to put the bracelets on you? Be a sensible chap.”
“I’ll resist,” said Legge, “ ’till you kill me.”
“Oh, take him away,” said Harper. “Put him in a room upstairs, both of you.”
Legge, struggling and gasping horribly, was taken out.
“Ah, it’s at his wits’ end he is, poor wretch,” said Miss Darragh.
Cubitt said: “Look here, this is ghastly. If he’s not guilty why the hell—?”
Parish said: “Not guilty? I must say that for an innocent man, his behaviour is pretty fantastic.”
Will Pomeroy crossed the room and confronted Alleyn and Harper.
“Why’s he arrested?” demanded Will.
“Assaulting a constable and interfering with the police in the execution of their duty,” said Harper.
“My God, he was drove to it! If this is justice the sooner there’s a revolution in the country the better. It’s enough to send the man mad, the way you’ve been pestering him. Haven’t you the sense to see the state he’s got into? Damme if I’m not nigh-ready to take on the lot of you myself. Let that man go.”
“That’ll do, Will,” said Harper.
“ ‘That’ll do!’ The official answer for every blasted blunder in the force. Bob Legge’s my comrade—”
“In which case,” said Alleyn, “you’ll do well to think a little before you speak. You can hardly expect Mr. Harper to set up constables in rows for your comrade Legge to bloody their noses. While his mood lasts he’s better in custody. You pipe down like a sensible fellow.” He turned to Harper. “Stay down here a moment, will you? I’ll take a look at Fox and rejoin you.”
He ran upstairs and met Oates in the landing.