The Case of Naomi Clynes (14 page)

“I'll tell you what, Uncle Jim. I'll have you have a long serious talk with my friend, Inspector Richardson. He'll put you wise about it.”

A look of suspicion crossed the baby face as a puff of wind ruffles the surface of a pool. “You've been wasting your time running round with sleuths when you ought to have been at your desk.”

“That's where you've slipped up, Uncle Jim. The sleuth came to me to ask me to help him. You see, he found out that we were publishing the poor girl's stuff and that I knew her, and then one thing led to another. When he asked me to run over to Paris for him, what could I do? I had to go.”

“Had to go to Paris?” The suspicion had deepened-

“Yes, to trace the poor woman's history. There was no other way. I found an American woman who knew the whole of her story, and that's how I was able to trace the murderer.”

“Do you mean that they've caught the guy?”

“They've as good as caught him. They can lay their hands on him whenever they like, but they've got to hold this inquest first. You're just in time to come in for the thrills. We'll have a field-day at that inquest to-morrow morning.”

Mr. Hudson purred with satisfaction. “Say, Jim, what shall we do with ourselves to-night? Of course you'll dine with me at my hotel.”

“Nothing of the kind. You're not going to any old hotel: you're going to put up with me at my flat. You're going to dine with me at my club, and then we are going to see how London amuses itself.”

“No night dives for me at my age, my boy.”

“Who's talking about night dives? We are going to a good respectable show. I've taken tickets for this thriller at the Imperial that all the world's going to, ‘The Last Reckoning'—you must have read of it in the papers—the play where there's a dinner on the stage in the last act and the murdered corpse is lying in a chest under the table and the murderer cracks jokes about him to amuse the ladies. Then someone kicks against the chest, pulls it out, tips it up, and out rolls the body nicely dressed in a tuxedo. I thought it was the kind of show that would cheer you up, Uncle Jim.”

“Certainly, it sounds okay.”

There was no pressure for seats at the adjourned inquest in the Coroner's Court in Lambeth Road. Besides the witnesses and a sprinkling of Press reporters, there were not more than half a dozen people in the benches reserved for the public, for no rumours had leaked out that sensational evidence was to be given. It was the same jury of nine men and three women. Jim Milsom used the few minutes before the coroner took his seat to explain to his uncle who the various functionaries were.

“You see the tall man over there? That is Sir Gerald Whitcombe, the expert medical witness from the Home Office, who made the post-mortem examination, and the short man he's talking to is Wardell, the police surgeon. That young woman, sitting on the left, is the secretary to the people who have the office just overhead of the flat where the murder was done. I don't know why they've got her here. Most of the others are sleuths from Scotland Yard, but I don't see my particular man—Inspector Richardson. Ah, here he is. Capable-looking guy, isn't he?”

Richardson had been closeted with the coroner in his private room, going over the evidence and deciding which of the available witnesses were to be called. The coroner had decided to cut down the number to the most essential, explaining that, in his view, the jury ought not to be asked to find a verdict against any particular person, but only to establish the actual cause of death. He looked at his watch. “It is time for us to start.”

Within a few seconds of Richardson's appearance the coroner entered by the door behind his desk and took his seat. His officer called for silence and the court was opened.

The coroner addressed his jury. “Since we adjourned last week some important new evidence on the death of Naomi Clynes has come to light and will be laid before you this morning. A post-mortem examination has been made by Sir Gerald Whitcombe, the Home Office pathologist, and you will hear some of the results of the police inquiries. Sir Gerald Whitcombe.”

Sir Gerald rose and took the oath.

“You received from the police a coffee-cup containing some coffee grounds which was found in the kitchen in the deceased woman's flat. You made an analysis of the coffee grounds. What did you find?”

“I found traces of aconitina—the alkaloid base of the garden plant Monkshood, or Wolfsbane.”

“A poisonous drug?”

“Very poisonous owing to the presence of the alkaloid, aconitina.”

“Would it be tasteless if taken in coffee?”

“Quite tasteless, until fifteen to twenty minutes after drinking it.”

“What is its effect, then?”

“The throat and mouth become parched: there is numbness in the limbs: the power to stand up is lost.”

“You made a post-mortem examination of the body of the deceased?”

“I did—in company with Dr. Wardell.”

“What did you find?”

“We found traces of aconitina in the stomach.”

“Apart from that was the deceased a healthy woman?”

“She was. All her organs were normal, except that they showed traces of the poison.”

“What dose would be sufficient to cause death?”

“The dose varies with individuals. Speaking generally, one-tenth of a grain of the pure alkaloid would prove fatal, but there is a case recorded in which one-fiftieth part of a grain nearly proved fatal to an elderly woman.”

“Thank you, Sir Gerald.”

A juryman put up his hand. “May I ask the doctor a question?” he asked the coroner. He was one of those jurymen to be found at inquests who asks questions in order to be taken as a man of high intelligence.

“What is your question, sir?” asked the coroner, who had had experience of this kind of juryman.

“It's this, Mr. Coroner. If this poison destroys the power of walking, couldn't the deceased woman have put the stuff into her coffee in the kitchen herself, turned on the gas, lain down on the floor, and put her head into the oven? D'you see what I mean, sir?”

“That is scarcely a medical question, but perhaps you'll answer it, Sir Gerald?”

“My answer is that it might have been possible.”

The juryman looked to right and left of him, seeking the applause of his colleagues.

“Call Malcolm Richardson,” said the coroner.

Richardson stood up and held up the testament while the oath was administered.

“You are a detective inspector in the Metropolitan police?”

“I am.”

“You have been in charge of the police inquiries into this case?”

“I have, sir.”

“You searched the deceased's room, I think?”

“I did, sir.”

“Will you tell the jury what you found?”

“When I searched the room the body had been already removed to the mortuary. I made a careful examination of the floor. Half hidden by the fringe of the carpet I found this cigarette.” He held up a gold-tipped cigarette which was handed to the jury for examination. “The tobacco in the cigarette was still fairly moist, and in my opinion it had not long been lying in the place where I found it. On the carpet near the middle of the room and near an armchair I found cigarette-ash which I judged to have been dropped by a smoker sitting in the armchair.”

“Couldn't the cigarette and the ash have been dropped by the deceased herself?”

“I judged not, sir. All the people I have questioned who knew her agreed that she never smoked, and there were no cigarettes nor any ash-tray anywhere in the flat.”

“What else did you find?”

“Continuing my examination of the floor, I found in the doorway of the kitchen a tack which had been driven in to hold down the cork carpeting. Under this tack I found a minute strand of green wool. I compared this with the jersey dress of the deceased and found that it matched it exactly, and on the back of the jersey I found a little tear which might have been caused by the body having been dragged from the sitting-room into the kitchen. On the kitchen table was the coffee-cup which was produced by the last witness.”

“Was there only one coffee-cup in the flat?”

“No, sir, there were two; the other was clean and was lying on a shelf.”

“Then the cigarette and the fragment of wool were your only reason for thinking that the deceased had not been alone.”

“No, sir; I had other reasons. A portable typewriter was standing on a table, and in the holder was a half-written typed letter addressed to ‘All whom it may concern.'” The witness handed the letter to the coroner's officer and the coroner read it to the jury.

“Have you any reason to think that this letter was not written by the deceased?”

“Yes, sir. I have here a specimen of the deceased's typing.” The specimen was handed to the coroner. “You will notice, sir, that the specimen is beautifully typed, whereas in the half-finished letter the pressure on the type is very uneven; that some of the characters are blacker than others, and that in two places one letter has been struck over another. I then examined the spacing-bar of the machine and found on it a fingerprint which can be shown to you if you desire it. I took the fingerprints of the deceased. Another witness, the head of the identification office, will testify to the difference between them.”

“You mean that the last person who used this machine was not the deceased?”

“Yes, sir. Then I made a search of all the papers in the cupboard and drawers in the flat. They consisted almost exclusively of typed manuscripts; there were no private letters except one from a firm of publishers.”

“What do you assume from that?”

“You will have evidence to show that a number of private letters addressed to the deceased were found the same night in the cab of a taxi-driver whose last fare that night had been a man who engaged him a few hundred yards from the deceased's flat. He was carrying a parcel at the time.”

“Thank you. Superintendent Willis!” called the coroner.

The head of the identification office took the oath and awaited the coroner's question.

“I understand that the last witness brought you a typewriter bearing a fingerprint on the spacing-bar, and a set of fingerprints which had been taken from the fingers of the deceased woman.”

“Yes, sir, I have them here. This is a photograph of the print on the spacing-bar; this contains the ten prints of the deceased's fingers.”

“Have you compared them?”

“I have, sir: they are quite distinct. In my opinion the single print is the impression made by a man. I have the typewriter here, sir.”

“You might show it to the jury, but I must warn you gentlemen not to touch it, otherwise you may be leaving your own fingerprints on the machine.”

Superintendent Willis picked up the machine, took off the cover, and carried it along the line of jurymen who gaped at it much impressed, though all they could see was a splotch of white powder adhering to the spacing-bar.

“John Reeves,” called the coroner, and a weather-beaten, broad-shouldered man entered the box.

“You are a taxi-driver?” asked the coroner, when he had taken the oath.

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“Do you remember taking a packet of letters addressed to Miss Naomi Clynes to the Lost Property Office at Scotland Yard?”

“That's right, sir.”

“Where did you find them?”

“Found them in my cab, sir.”

“Were they tied up or loose?”

“They was scattered over the floor of the cab.”

“Do you remember picking up your last fare that night? Where was it?”

“A little way down King's Road it was. The gentleman had a parcel in his hand. He told me to drive to the corner of the Edgware and the Euston roads.”

“What time was it?”

“About half-past ten.”

“Do you mean to say that you didn't get a fare after half-past ten?”

“That's right. I didn't try for one. I knocked off early because I had a cold.”

“Do you remember anything particular about your last fare?”

“No, sir. It was dark. He seemed a bit excited and nervous, and when I pulled up at the corner he paid me my fare and went off with his parcel. I found the letters when I got back to the garage and, of course, I took them down to the L.P.O. at the Yard next morning.”

None of the jurymen having any questions to ask, the coroner proceeded to address them.

Jim Milsom looked at his uncle and noted with satisfaction that he was absorbed while listening to the evidence of the police witnesses and the taxi-driver who followed them. He breathed heavily when the coroner began to speak.

“That is all the evidence, gentlemen of the jury, that I propose to lay before you. The point you have to consider is whether this woman who, as far as the police inquiries go, had no apparent reason for taking her life, but rather the contrary, did in fact meet her death by her own act, or whether poison was administered to her by another person and she was finally killed by having her head placed in a gas-oven when she was incapable of resisting. If you incline to the view that the death was self-inflicted; that she first drank this potent poison and then put her head into the gas-oven, how are you to account for that letter in the typewriter, typed by an unskilled hand; for that fingerprint on the spacing-bar; for the removal of all her correspondence which was afterwards left in a taxi-cab by a man of whom no good description is available? We have, it is true, no motive suggested for her murder, but neither have we any motive suggested for her suicide. You will not overlook the fact that the murderer, if there was one, took the trouble to remove her correspondence, since that might well prove to be the motive for the murder-- that his object was to remove and destroy some letter which was damaging to him. It is no part of your duty to establish the identity of this man; you may rest assured that the police, whose duty it is, will not neglect it; that their inquiries are being actively pushed every hour, and that in the end the identity will be established. Your duty begins and ends with declaring how this woman died. Gentlemen, consider your verdict.”