"Arthur Fane needed that money. So he—"
"He helped in the disposal of the body?" interposed Ann.
"That's right, my wench. The little scene you witnessed, of Arthur comin' to the door in his shirtsleeves, didn't suggest an assignation. It suggested work: spade-work.
"What they did with the body we don't know and we're not likely to. The only thing we can be sure of is that it's not buried near Leckhampton Hill, where
Hubert later said it was. But you can't wonder that Arthur Fane talked about murder in his sleep." H.M. looked at Vicky.
"From then on dates Hubert's changed place in the household — which you, ma'am, misinterpreted. Y'see, we tend to forget that there are certain advantages about the position of a person who's bein' blackmailed. He can demand a better room in the house, and the sort of food he wants at table. He can say, 'Burn it all, if I'm being bled to the tune of a couple of thousand pounds, I'm going to get something out of it.' Also, he can make the blackmailer pretty uncomfortable too.
"He can keep remindin' the blackmailer, by sly little digs (as Hubert did), that they're in the same boat together. If Hubert Fane was a murderer, he could make ruddy sure Arthur kept in mind how a respectable solicitor helped dispose of the body and raked in the cash for doin' it. Think back over everything you ever heard Hubert say, and see if it doesn't sound different now.
"But Hubert had already decided that the blackmailer was goin' to die."
A stir went through the group.
"Ah!" murmured Rich. "Now we come to it."
"In a minute, son. Don't hurry me.
"Hubert's original idea, I think, was a straight-out business of shovin' strychnine into a grapefruit. Arthur, as we've heard, was partial to grapefruit."
Courtney interposed here.
"Wait. Where did he get the strychnine? And has this anything to do with your mysterious trips in buying horse liniment from all the chemists in Cheltenham?"
H.M. looked modest.
"Well, y'see, son, it occurred to me that if I ever wanted to poison anybody in a small town or village…" "Heaven help the victim if you ever do!" H.M. glared him down.
"As I said," he continued with dignity, after a suitably withering interval, "I'd never be so fatheaded as to buy poison and sign the register. I wouldn't need to.
"Most small-town chemists, in my experience, are friendly souls who like to talk. They don't mind you loiterin'. If they know you, they don't even mind your hangin' about in the dispensary while they make up prescriptions.
"I've never forgotten — long ago — discoursin' philosophy myself in a dispensary, while the chemist went from room to room, or attended to the shop outside. And I looked round, and there at my elbow was a five-ounce bottle of strychnine.
"Usually it's the most conspicuous thing on the shelves: a clear glass bottle of white powder, with a red label. You can't miss it. I sort of thought then that I could have tipped out a little of that stuff in my hand, and the chemist'd never know the difference unless he came to check over his stock. And by that time it'd be too late to remember who in blazes might have got at the bottle."
Sharpless shook his head.
"You know, sir," Sharpless remarked, "you really are an old son of a so-and-so, and no mistake." H.M. drew himself up.
"I'm the old maestro," he said, tapping his own chest; "and don't let any would-be criminal ever forget it.
"So I sort of wondered whether anybody might 'a' tried that dodge. Hubert Fane was a friendly soul who got on good terms with everybody.
"It might be interesting to do a bit of snoopin', and find out what chemists encouraged loiterin'. I had to have prescriptions filled, of course. I couldn't ask any questions, or the chemist would have shut up like an oyster. The police could do the questioning when I'd weeded out my list of possibles.
"But stop side-trackin' me! I was goin' on about Hubert Fane.
"His original plan, I think, was a straight-out murder with strychnine. But two things happened. First: he ran into his old friend Richard Rich. And, second: Mrs. Fane came in and tackled him about the murder of Potty Allen.
"Now this last thing put him in one awful awkward position. When she asked him if Arthur had killed the girl, he couldn't say: 'No; I did it myself.' And he couldn't deny the whole thing altogether, or she'd only investigate further and then there might be the devil to pay.
"So he shut her up by agreein' with what she thought, supplying such extra details as his fancy thought up, and pretendin' to be the harmless blackmailer she believed he was. The dear old gentleman again.
H.M. pointed a raw-burning cigar at Vicky, and raised his eyebrows.
"I'd just like to bet, ma'am, that the first words he said to you, in a good deal of a nervous and apologetic way, was something like this: 'Why don't you talk the matter over with Arthur?"
Vicky nodded.
"Yes, he did," she cried. "But I couldn't! I couldn't have mentioned it to Arthur. At least, not then. Not yet. Not till I'd had time to think."
"Right," said H.M., "and very well he knew it. And by the time you might have screwed up your courage, it'd be too late. For this ingenious feller, who knows the names of Sergeant Cuff and Hamilton Qeek in a day when most people have unhappily forgotten 'em, had now planned Arthur's murder down to the last detail.
"Hubert invited Rich to this house. He knew the conversation was bound sooner or later to get round to hypnotism. If it didn't, he could always drag it there. But he got his opportunity in the persistence of an argumentative young chap like Sharpless. Then Rich-"
H.M. paused, sniffed, and stirred uncomfortably.
"Scenting another good dinner," supplied Rich curtly. "Go on. Don't be afraid. Say it"
"Rich offered to do his parlor trick. It was Hubert (remember?) who insisted that you should all get together for dinner again on the followin' night. And so the scheme was ready.
"The important thing to remember about this 'experiment,' as Rich told me himself, was that it never varied and it could be timed to a second. Correct, son?"
Rich nodded. "Yes. Any entertainer will tell you the same. It becomes automatic. If possible, I always began at nine o'clock."
"Now, ladies and gents, where Hubert learned about the trick we don't know and your guess is as good as mine. But he must have seen it, probably more than once. He had it taped and he had it timed.
"To plan his details wasn't difficult. If you tell a Scottish-Jew bookie—"
"There are na' any Jews in Sco'land," interrupted Dr. Nithsdale. "They canna mak' a living there."
"Shut up. If you tell a Scottish-Jew bookie, whom you owe five pounds, to be at your house at a certain time to collect it, the one thing in this good green world you can be sure of is that he'll be on time to the tick. Donald MacDonald was timed to arrive durin' the pause, or breather, after Mrs. Fane had been put to sleep. And out went Hubert."
The summer dusk was deepening outside the windows. The ceiling lights were on in the back drawing room, making a brilliant glow where formerly there had been only the bridge lamp. All H.M.'s listeners were bending forward with gratifying absorption in what he said.
"Next," pursued H.M., "lenune ask you a question. What was the one time in the whole 'experiment' when you could be certain — absolutely certain — that every witness would have his eyes glued on either Mrs. Fane or Arthur Fane, and wouldn't have looked round if a bomb had gone off?
"I'll tell you. It was the time when Mrs. Fane was asked to pick up the revolver, walk over while Rich gave her a little lecture, and shoot her husband. Now wasn't it?"
"Yes," admitted Ann.
The others nodded.
"Hubert Fane went out into the hall, and to the front door. There he stood talkm' to the bookie, with one eye on his wrist-watch. When he judged the time was approaching, he sent Donald MacDonald away.