‘The matter is, Constable,’ said Cribb in a strange voice, ‘that I’ve made a fatal error of judgement. According to this telegram, our suspect died shortly after one o’clock.’
‘Died?’ repeated Thackeray. ‘It must be a mistake, Sarge. They mean “dined”.’
‘I’d believe you,’ said Cribb, ‘if it didn’t go on to ask for my instructions regarding the post mortem.’
CHAPTER 15
The drive to Horsham by police-van was distinguished by a total absence of conversation, Cribb hunched in the corner seat, eyes fixed on the window but seeing nothing of the passing countryside, Thackeray busying himself wiping his forehead with his handkerchief, straightening his necktie and retying his boot-laces. After a little over an hour the driver reined outside The Fortune of War, a small hotel on the Guildford Road, some three-quarters of a mile beyond the town. Cribb’s brown study came to a decisive end. ‘Come, Thackeray! We’re late enough on the scene as it is.’
The constable on duty in the foyer, not having seen the police-van’s arrival, raised a cautionary hand, which snaked resourcefully into a salute as Thackeray muttered, ‘The Yard,’ and Cribb stalked past. Ahead, a white card was suspended from the door-knob of one of the two lounges. It announced with apologies that patrons were temporarily requested to refrain from using the room. Cribb advanced on the door as if this were an invitation, opened it, and found a police inspector, a manifestly disconcerted hotel manager and Dr. Prothero.
‘Scotland Yard?’ echoed the inspector, after Cribb had explained who he was. ‘It was you that asked us to have men available, then. A notable feat of anticipation, Sergeant. I only wish that you had warned us to expect something as sanguinary as this. Had we known-‘ ‘Had I known, I’d have prevented the boy from leaving Brighton,’ said Cribb. ‘You’ve established the circumstances surrounding his death, I expect, sir?’
‘I have indeed. The facts are these, Sergeant. This gentleman, Dr. Prothero, and his son arrived here at about ten minutes after twelve o’clock and arranged for their horses to be watered. They then ordered lunch and had glasses of sherry in the ante-room while it was being prepared. At a quarter to one they took their places in the dining-room, which was otherwise empty. They were served the following-and I shall now refer to my notebook, because the details may well be important- tomato soup, followed by roast beef, with roast potatoes, buttered parsnips, Brussels sprouts, Yorkshire pudding, gravy and horse-radish sauce, followed by apple charlotte with cream, followed by coffee. It was some twenty minutes after the coffee was served that the boy displayed symptoms of unease-not indigestion, as one might suppose after a substantial meal, but shortness of breath. This seemed at first to be the consequence of an over-enthusiastic inhalation of snuff, but it soon became apparent that something much worse was the matter. Within ten minutes he was dead. There was nothing that Dr. Prothero or Mr. Wood, here, the manager, could do to save him. The doctor, I think, can best describe the nature of the collapse-if that is not too distressing, sir.’
Certainly the strain of a severe shock showed in Prothero’s face. He looked at no one, and addressed his account of his son’s death to the back of his hand, which he turned in several positions as he was talking, as if it held some clue to the tragedy. ‘Guy died of an acute attack of asthma. The onset was very sudden: a short period of restlessness, then accelerated breathing accompanied by coughing and retching. We supported him and loosened his clothing and endeavoured to calm him, but the respiration became progressively slower and more laboured, with severe broncho-spasms. Within minutes there were several convulsions and he stopped breathing.’
There was a pause before Cribb asked, ‘Were the first symptoms you described consistent with other attacks of asthma Guy had experienced?’
Prothero replied in the same automatic way, without a glance in Cribb’s direction. ‘Generally similar, yes. There had been nothing so severe before. On previous occasions I have injected atropine to prevent constriction of the bronchioles, but on this occasion I had none of my equipment with me.’
‘How do you account for so sudden an attack?’
‘There is no accounting for asthma,’ said Prothero. ‘We in the profession are only too conscious of the limitations in our knowledge. A hundred different things might have provoked the attack. The most negligible, intangible things-animal emanations, for example. The late Dr. Hyde Salter, the author of the standard work on the subject, was himself asthmatic and established a definite relationship between his own asthma and the presence of a cat.’
‘Our cats are never allowed in the lounges,’ protested the manager at once.
‘That was merely an example,’ said Prothero wearily. ‘There may be a hundred other agents of the complaint. Pollen, for instance, is known to induce hay-fever.’
The inspector looked up with the suddenness indicative of an inspiration. ‘Do you think that the horses-‘
‘He has ridden horses since he was a small child,’ said Prothero, ‘and never suffered a reaction. Nor is there likely to be any connection with the meal which you have recorded so slavishly in your pocket-book. Asthma is a respiratory disorder, not a digestive one.’
‘Are you quite sure, Doctor, that your son’s death was due to asthma?’ asked Cribb.
‘Haven’t I indicated that already? I know what I am talking about, Sergeant. I have written a dozen monographs on the subject. Examine the boy’s body and you will find the classic indications of asthmatic death: the slightly bluish tinge to the colouring, the clammy feel of the skin arising from the heavy perspiration and the quick drop in temperature, and the characteristic clenching of the hands.’
Cribb went to the ottoman, lifted the sheet that had been draped over Guy’s body and verified everything Prothero had said.
‘I shall therefore make out a death certificate indicating that he died from natural causes,’ said Prothero.
‘And I shall ask the coroner for authority for a post mortem examination,’ said Cribb. ‘The circumstances warrant it, sir, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate. And in the meantime I shall be obliged if you will advise me of all your movements so that I may keep in touch with you.’
‘I propose to return to Dorking,’ said Prothero, ‘and I shall be there until further notice.’ And he added in a lower tone, ‘With your permission, of course, Sergeant Cribb.’
After Prothero had left the room, with the manager in tow, probably mindful of the unpaid bill, the inspector asked Cribb, ‘What do you expect to get from a post mortem? It’s a clear case of asthma.’
‘Looks like that, sir.’
‘Surely you don’t expect to prove that it was induced in some way? You’d never convince a jury of that, Sergeant.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Well in that case I’m damned if I can see the point of going to the trouble of a post mortem examination.’
‘That’s where we differ, then, sir. I suppose I see it from another point of view. Today I was ready to arrest Guy Prothero for the Brighton beach murder. The boy was a homicidal maniac. I should have arrested him a week ago if I hadn’t had to grope my way through a welter of false statements invented by his family. Quite apart from any protective sentiments the Protheros had towards him, their own livelihood was at stake, you see. Respectable general practice in a country town-imagine the effect of a sensational murder trial on that. Now in my experience people of their station in life generally have a way of dealing with the member of the family who threatens to create a scandal; there’s private institutions that cater for almost any human aberration you can think of if someone’s prepared to pay. Guy Prothero would probably have been committed to some asylum for the well-to-do if he hadn’t gone as far as murder. That altered things. When it gets as serious as that, the law can’t be bought off, you see. Justice has to run its course. Oh, they wriggled and squirmed and tried to avoid it, but I was closing in day by day. And, as I tell you, I was ready to make the arrest today. What happens? The boy suffers a fatal attack of asthma on the way home. If that sounds like pure chance to you, sir, you’re entitled to believe it. If you tell me asthmatic death can’t be induced, I’ll take your word for it, but that won’t stop me from using every means at my disposal to ascertain whether it was asthma that killed Guy Prothero.’