Free The Problem of the Green Capsule by John Dickson Carr Page A

Ingram without offence. “Of course he has. God help us, so have all of us! But doing our duty doesn’t mean getting at the truth; sometimes it means just the reverse. I don’t say there is any police plot against Marjorie Wills. I know there isn’t, though it seems a pity that the niece of a friend of mine cannot even walk down the High Street without danger of having mud thrown in her face by the very children. What real effort has been made to solve the problem of those poisoned chocolates? What approach has been made to it? What kind of crime is it? Why were those chocolates poisoned at Mrs. Terry’s?”
    He struck the arm of the chair.
    “Superintendent Bostwick,” he went on, “supports the soothing, sweeping doctrine that loonies are loonies; and there you are. And to bolster up their accusation against Marjorie, they cite the parallel case—a fine parallel, by gad!—of Christiana Edmunds.”
    Major Crow did not comment.
    “Similar? There never were two cases more wildly dissimilar, on the only grounds that are important: motive. Christiana Edmunds was mad, if you like, but she had as sound a motive as most murderers. This young lady, in the Brighton of 1871, fell violently in love with a married doctor who gave her no encouragement. She first attempted unsuccessfully to poison the doctor’s wife with strychnine. It was discovered; she was forbidden the house, and went away in a frenzy. To show that she was innocent, as she claimed— to prove there was a poisoner at work in the town, who could not be Miss Christiana Edmunds—she conceived the idea of doctoring the chocolate creams in a sweet-shop, and killing people wholesale. Very well; where is the parallel? Has anything like that ever been suggested about Marjorie? In heaven’s name, where is the motive? On the contrary, her own fiancé, after coming to Sodbury Cross and hearing what is being said about her, is on the point of getting cold feet and slipping away.”
    At this point Professor Ingram’s expression was what can only be called cherubically murderous, emphasised by the crackling of his shirt-front. He laughed a little, and grew more quiet.
    “Never mind,” he said. “ You were asking the questions.”
    “Has Miss Wills,” Elliot asked unexpectedly, “ever been engaged to anybody before?”
    “Why do you ask that?”
    “Has she, sir?”
    Again Ingram gave him that brief, indecipherable glance. “No, not that I am aware of. I believe Wilbur Emmet was and is intensely fond of her. But Wilbur’s red nose and his general—I am sorry—his general unattractiveness would hardly recommend him, even if Marcus had favoured it. I hope I am speaking in confidence?”
    Here Major Crow intervened. “Chesney, I am told,”he observed in a colourless voice, “used to discourage all possible suitors from coming here to see her.”
    Professor Ingram hesitated.
    “In a sense that is true. What he called caterwauling disturbed his smooth life. He didn’t exactly discourage them, but——”
    “I was wondering,” said Major Crow, “why this boy Marjorie met abroad got Chesney’s approval so easily.”
    “You mean,” the professor spoke bluntly, “you mean he was becoming anxious to get her off his hands?”
    “I did not say that.”
    “My friend, the devil you didn’t. In any case you’re wrong. Marcus liked young Harding; the boy has prospects; and his exaggerated deference towards Marcus may have helped. But may I ask why we are arguing about this? Whatever else is true or false in this world”—here Professor Ingram’s shirtfront gave a sharp crackle—“it is absolutely certain that Marjorie had nothing to do with killing her uncle.”
    Again it was as though the temperature of the room altered. Elliot took charge.
    “You know what Miss Wills thinks about it herself, sir?”
    “Thinks about it?”
    “That someone knocked out Mr. Emmet, played Mr. Emmet’s part, and used a poisoned capsule in the performance?”
    Ingram