Poisoned Chocolates Case by Anthony Berkeley Read Free Book Online Page A

sipped delicately at his whisky - and - soda. “You know what I think, Mr. Sheringham, sir.”
    “Indeed I don't,” Roger retorted. “I only know what you've told me you think.”
    “I haven't been in charge of the case at all, Mr. Sheringham,” Moresby hedged.
    “Who do you really think was trying to murder Sir Eustace Pennefather?” Roger repeated patiently. “Is it your own opinion that the official police theory is right or wrong?”
    Driven into a corner, Moresby allowed himself the novelty of speaking his unofficial mind. He smiled covertly, as if at a secret thought. “Well, Mr. Sheringham, sir,” he said with deliberation, "our theory is a useful one, isn't it? I mean, it gives us every excuse for not finding the murderer. We can hardly be expected to be in touch with every half - baked creature in the country who may have homicidal impulses.
    “Our theory will be put forward at the conclusion of the adjourned inquest, in about a fortnight's time, with reason and evidence to support it, and any evidence to the contrary not mentioned, and you'll see that the coroner will agree with it, and the jury will agree with it, and the papers will agree with it, and every one will say that really, the police can't be blamed for not catching the murderer this time, and everybody will be happy.”
    “Except Mr. Bendix, who doesn't get his wife's murder avenged,” added Roger. “Moresby, you're being positively sarcastic. And from all this I deduce that you personally will stand aside from this general and amicable agreement. Do you think the case has been badly handled by your people?”
    Roger's last question followed so closely on the heels of his previous remarks that Moresby had answered it almost before he had time to reflect on the possible indiscretion of doing so. “No, Mr. Sheringham, I don't think that. Farrar's a capable man, and he'd leave no stone unturned - no stone, I mean, that he could turn.” Moresby paused significantly.
    “Ah!” said Roger.
    Having committed himself to this lamb, Moresby seemed disposed to look about for a sheep. He re - settled himself in his chair and recklessly drank a gill from his tumbler. Roger, scarcely daring to breathe too audibly for fear of scaring the sheep, studiously examined the fire.
    “You see, this is a very difficult case, Mr. Sheringham,” Moresby pronounced. “Farrar had an open mind, of course, when he took it up, and he kept an open mind even after he'd found out that Sir Eustace was even a bit more of a daisy than he'd imagined at first. That is to say, he never lost sight of the fact that it might have been some outside lunatic who sent those chocolates to Sir Eustace, just out of a general socialistic or religious feeling that he'd be doing a favour to society, or Heaven by putting him out of the world. A fanatic, you might say.”
    “Murder from conviction,” Roger murmured. “Yes?”
    “But naturally what Farrar was concentrating on was Sir Eustace's private life. And that's where we police - officers are handicapped. It's not easy for us to make enquiries into the private life of a baronet. Nobody wants to be helpful; everybody seems anxious to put a spoke in our wheel. Every line that looked hopeful to Farrar led to a dead end. Sir Eustace himself told him to go to the devil, and made no bones about it.”
    “Naturally, from his point of view,” Roger said thoughtfully. “The last thing he'd want would be a sheaf of his peccadilloes laid out for a harvest festival in court.”
    “Yes, and Mrs. Bendix lying in her grave on account of them,” retorted Moresby with asperity. “No, he was responsible for her death, though indirectly enough I'll admit, and it was up to him to be as helpful as he could to the police - officer investigating the case. But there Farrar was; couldn't get any further. He unearthed a scandal or two, it's true, but they led to nothing. So - well, he hasn't admitted this, Mr. Sheringham, and you'll realise I ought