“He didn't by any chance take a lethal dose?”
“No. Apart from what the post-mortem revealed, the housekeeper—she's there still, by the way—testified that when she dusted his room the morning before, she noticed that only one tablet was left in the bottle he kept on the bedside-table. Another bottle, unopened, was found in his medicine-chest.”
There was a very alert look in the Chief Inspector's face. “So that although he had the means to his hand to commit suicide in the easiest and most pleasant way possible, he chose to gas himself? That seems to me quite an interesting point, sir, if you don't mind my saying so.”
“You mean it's a point we should have gone into.”
“I wouldn't go so far as to say that, but it does rather strike one, doesn't it?” said Hemingway apologetically.
“It didn't. And in justice to Inspector Thropton, who was in charge of the case, I must say that there was no reason why it should have. It's quite possible that Walter didn't know what the lethal dose was, or what its immediate effect might be. I don't think it's surprising that he should have preferred to take his usual dose, to send him to sleep, and turned on the gas. Surely that was as pleasant a way of killing himself as any other?”
“I should think it would be,” agreed Hemingway, “if the tablet sent him to sleep in a matter of a minute or so. But if it was like any sleeping-draught I ever heard of, and took about half an hour to act—well, then I don't think it was such a pleasant way of dying. And, what's more, I don't see what he took it for at all.”
The Colonel laid his pipe down. “Damn you, Hemingway!” he said, with an uncertain laugh. “You're beginning to make me feel uncomfortable! I suppose we ought to have considered that—but there didn't seem to be the smallest reason to suspect that there had been foul play! It's true that Gavin was his half-brother's heir, but Plenmeller wasn't a rich man! There's the house, and what's left of the estate, but I can tell you with certainty that Plenmeller found it hard to make both ends meet. Would Gavin have murdered his brother just to possess himself of a dwindling income, and a house he can't afford to run as it should be run?”
“Well, sir, I take it that would depend on what the state of his own finances were,” said Hemingway. “Judging by that letter, they weren't any too healthy. "You only want to come here for what you can get out of me," seems to show that he was trying to get money out of Walter. Did anything come out about that at the inquest?”
“No. I don't think anything much was said about it. It was so obvious—it seemed so obvious that things had got to be too much for Walter. It wasn't as though he'd never had such an idea, you know. He'd often said that he was tempted to put an end to himself. No one thought he meant it—it sounds an unkind thing to say, but he was so wrapped up in his ailments that he was sometimes quite maudlin about himself, and damned boring, too!—but it turned out that he had meant it. Or so we believed.”
“Yes, I see, sir. But you said a minute or two ago that he didn't hate his brother. This letter looks to me as though he did.”
“Yes, but you didn't know him,” the Colonel said. “To me, this reads like Walter in one of his rages—Dr. Warcop called 'em nerve-storms. I can't tell you the number of flaming rows he had with people. He flew out at me once, in the Club, over something quite trivial. I didn't pay any heed, and it soon blew over. He was like that with Gavin, but I'm quite sure that he was fond of him, in his way. He was a good bit older, you know, and in the days before his own health was wrecked he was always very sorry for Gavin. He was proud of him, too. Used to talk a lot about his books, and how clever he was. There was nothing he liked better than hearing Gavin scoring off people. Only, of course, sooner or later, Gavin would score off him, and then the fat was in the fire again. It's fair to say that no one could amuse him more or infuriate him more. I can't tell you the number of times he's sworn he'd never have Gavin to his house again, and blackguarded him to anyone he could get to listen to his grievances. But it always ended in smoke. As soon as he'd cooled off, he used to start missing him, I think. You can imagine that he hadn't many real friends. People naturally shied off, and it's my belief he was lonely. Anyway, I can assure you that this sort of wild diatribe—” he flicked the letter with one finger—”didn't make much impression on those of us who'd known for years just how much his furies were worth. Why, it can't have been more than three weeks before he died that he had some sort of a row with Gavin, and bored everyone in the smoking-room one afternoon by talking in exactly the style of this letter, and swearing that this time he meant what he said, and that he wasn't going to see Gavin again, much less allow him to come down to Thornden House. Well, I can only tell you that about three days before his death he was here in Bellingham, to meet Gavin at the station, and to take him out to Thornden in a hired car, and as pleased as possible about it!”
“That's interesting,” said Hemingway. “And what did Gavin do, in three days, to drive his brother into committing suicide?”
“It does sound extraordinary, of course,” the Colonel admitted. “Dr. Warcop—yes, I know what you feel about him, but, after all, he was Walter's medical attendant, and he must have known a good deal about him!—Dr. Warcop, as I say, considered that the balance of his mind was disturbed at the time. How much Gavin may have had to do with that, no one can tell. He certainly thought that Walter exaggerated his ailments, and the letter Walter wrote indicates clearly that he didn't scruple to say so. He himself said at the inquest that Walter had complained of migraine on that last day. He described him as "more than ordinarily on edge". I remember that he was asked if there had been any quarrel between them, and he replied quite frankly that he had become so impatient with his brother for indulging in what he called "querulous self-pity", that he had spoken his mind on the subject. Dr. Warcop's opinion, which he expressed privately to me, was that this might well have been enough, in the mood Walter was then in, to have pushed him right over the edge. You can say, morally speaking, that Gavin was at least partly responsible for his brother's death. There's no doubt he behaved quite heartlessly to him. Whether he hoped to goad him into committing suicide is a question which, thank God, lay beyond our province! In fairness to him, I should tell you, perhaps, that his subsequent conduct was meticulously correct.”
“I expect he made a good witness,” said Hemingway thoughtfully.
“A very good witness, under extremely trying circumstances,” said the Colonel. “One could scarcely have blamed him had he destroyed that letter, but he did no such thing. He put it immediately into Inspector Thropton's hands. Of course, it's true that it was the housekeeper who first saw the letter, and gave it to him, but she gave me the impression of being fonder of Gavin than of Walter, and it's my private opinion that she might have been coaxed or bribed to say nothing about it. It's to Gavin's credit that he made no attempt to conceal it from us.”
An odd little smile flickered in Hemingway's eyes. “Very proper, sir, I'm sure.”
“Now what's in your mind?” demanded the Colonel suspiciously.
“Well, sir, it was the letter which made you all take it for granted the unfortunate gentleman had committed suicide, wasn't it?” suggested Hemingway.
A buzzer sounded in the room; the Colonel picked up one of the two telephones on his desk, listened, and said shortly: “Send him in!” He then laid the instrument down and said: “Harbottle, wanting you.”