46. Margaret Harrison to Harwood Lathom

15, Whittington Terrace, Bayswater

20.10.29

Oh, Petra, my dear, my own dear at last!

When I heard your voice on the ’phone this morning, telling me what had happened, I didn’t know how to believe it. It all seemed so strange. And when I hung the receiver up, I had to pinch myself to be sure it wasn’t a dream. I went upstairs, and there was the girl in her dressing-gown on the landing. She must have been hanging over the stairs, for she said, “Oh, ma’am. Whatever’s happened? I heard the telephone a-ringing and looked out and heard you talking. Has there been an accident, ma’am?” I said, “Yes; a dreadful accident. Mr. Harrison’s dead.” She stared at me, and I said, “He’s poisoned himself with eating some of those nasty toadstools.” She began to cry, “I knew he would! Oh, ma’am, what an awful thing. Such a nice gentleman as he was.” That seemed to make it real, somehow. “A nice gentleman”—well, she wasn’t married to him. She couldn’t know how I was feeling. That was just as well, wasn’t it, Petra? She hung about and brought me some tea, sniffing and sobbing over it. I couldn’t say anything, but that was all right. She thought I was stunned with grief, I suppose. I did feel stunned. I can’t realise, even now—though I’ve just seen it in the paper. Fancy that! People keep on calling, but I’ve said I can’t see them. I want to be alone with my freedom.

Oh, Petra—didn’t I tell you that God was on our side? Our love is so beautiful, so right—He had to make a miracle happen to save it. Isn’t it wonderful—without our doing anything at all! That shows how right it was. I am so glad, now, that we didn’t do anything of the terrible things we thought about. It would have been so dangerous—and we might—I don’t know—we might have wondered afterwards. It would have been like living over a volcano. And now, Heaven has stepped in and made everything all right for ever and ever.

How glad I am you weren’t there when it happened. That seems like a special providence, too, doesn’t it? Because you would have had to go for a doctor, and then he might have recovered. And besides people might have thought you had something to do with it—if they ever found out about you and me, I mean. Doesn’t it seem like a judgment on him, Petra? And I used to be so angry about his cooking and his toadstool book and everything—and all the while he was digging a pit for himself to fall into, like the wicked man in the Bible! It was all planned out from the beginning, to set us free for our beautiful life together. What was that thing people used to say—something in Latin about when God wishes to destroy anybody He first makes him mad. He was mad about the toadstools and things, you know. Sometimes, when he had those dreadful fits of temper, I used to think he was really and truly mad. I was afraid of him then, but I see now there was nothing to be afraid of. It was all meant to help us in the end.

And Petra—that other thing I was afraid of—you know—it’s all right! Nothing is going to happen! It was just a mistake. Isn’t that splendid? Because now we shan’t have to get married in such a hurry. That might have made people talk, you know. We only have to wait a little bit now—just a little patience, my sweetheart, and then—oh, Petra! Think of the happiness! Everything has come right at once, hasn’t it, my darling? All the clouds cleared away and the sun shining.

Well, now, darling—you won’t mind if I talk just a little bit of business? It seems horrid to think of it, when our love ought to be the one thing in our minds, but we must be a little bit practical. Of course, I had to send for the lawyer this morning and he showed me the will. There will be about £15,000 when it is all cleared up. Half of this goes to his son, Paul, straight away, and I get the other half for my lifetime, after which it would all go to my children—his and mine—that is, if there were any, and failing them, it goes to Paul when I die. So you see, I shall only be bringing you a small income, dear, but you are making money now, so we shan’t be so badly off, shall we? It’s funny—I suppose if you and I had really had a child, the law would have presumed it was his (think of that!), and then it would have inherited the money! But I think perhaps it is better as it is. It might not have seemed quite honourable to profit by anything that wasn’t quite true, and I should like to feel that everything about our love was absolutely clear and honourable, and that we had nothing to reproach ourselves about. Of course, narrow-minded people might think our love itself was wicked—but one can’t help loving, can one, darling? One might as well tell the sun not to rise. Because you and I belong to one another, and nothing in all the world can alter that. So you won’t mind about the money, will you, Petra? I was afraid he might have made some mean condition about my not marrying again, but I suppose he didn’t think of that.

You will have to stay for the inquest, of course. Shall I have to go? I don’t like the idea of standing up with everybody looking at me. Besides, I can’t tell them anything, can I? Do you think he ought to be buried down there or brought back to London? I want to do whatever you think would look right. I have cabled to Paul, but he is so far away in the wilds, I don’t know whether I shall get an answer in time. All these things are so absurd and hateful. We surround death with such a lot of hypocrisy and formality. It ought to be made just simple and beautiful, like the leaves falling. I shall have to order mourning and a widow’s veil—think of wearing black clothes when one is happy. I should like a robe made of the rainbow—I’m wearing it in my heart, darling—all for you!

Write quickly, dearest, and tell me what to do. And tell me that you are as glad as I am and that you love me, love me, love me as I love you!

Lolo

47. Extract from the “Morning Express” of Tuesday, October 21st, 1929

The little schoolroom in the remote village of Manaton in Devon was crowded to-day, when Dr. Pringle, the coroner for the district, opened the inquest on the body of George Harrison, aged 56, Head of the Accounts Department of Messrs. Frobisher, Wiley & Teddington, Electrical Engineers, who was found dead under extraordinary circumstances in his little cottage, “The Shack,” on Saturday night.

Evidence of the deceased’s curious hobbies was given by his friend, Mr. Harwood Lathom, the brilliant young artist, who had been staying with him in “The Shack,” and who discovered the body.

The deceased, who is the author of Neglected Edible Treasures, an interesting and highly original volume, dealing with the foodstuffs to be obtained from our native woods and hedgerows, was stated to have been fond of experiments in unconventional cookery, and it was suggested that he had fallen a victim to accidental poisoning, by consuming a dish of venomous toadstools, a portion of which, it is alleged, was discovered on the table in “The Shack” at the time of his death.

The inquest was adjourned for a fortnight, to enable a chemical analysis to be made of certain organs.

After formal evidence of identification, the first witness called was Mr. Harwood Lathom. Dressed in a suit of heathermixture plus-four tweeds and with an expression of anxiety and distress on his face, Mr. Lathom gave his evidence in a subdued tone.

SWEALED HEDGEHOG

Mr. Lathom said that he had known Mr. Harrison and his family for a period of rather over twelve months. He had occupied the adjoining maisonnette to theirs in Bayswater, and had there formed an acquaintance with them, which had resulted in a considerable degree of intimacy. He had painted a portrait of Mrs. Harrison, which had been exhibited in the spring of 1929 at the Royal Academy. Financial and other considerations had resulted in his giving up the lease of the maisonnette in February, and going to live in Paris, but the friendship with the Harrisons had been kept up by correspondence and occasional visits.

Mr. Harrison had been accustomed to take an annual holiday “on his own” at “The Shack,” living a bachelor existence, and making the experiments in natural cookery in which he was interested. He also painted in water-colours. On Mr. Lathom’s return to England, in October, Mr. Harrison had suggested that he should join him in his residence at “The Shack.” They had gone down there together on Saturday, the 11th of October, and had passed a very enjoyable holiday.

The Coroner: Will you explain the arrangements made about obtaining supplies of food and so on?—Bread, meat and vegetables were brought, when required, by the carrier, who called on Monday and Thursday, and took the orders for his next visit. A supply of tinned food, including condensed milk, was kept in “The Shack.” There was no delivery of newspapers. Letters were fetched from the post-office at Manaton by anybody who happened to be walking that way, or brought by the carrier on his visits.

Who did the cooking and housework?—We shared the work of washing up, carrying wood and so on. Mr. Harrison did all the cooking. He was a first-class cook.

Did he supplement the fresh and tinned meat and so on, with what may be called experiments in natural diet?—Oh yes. One evening we had swealed hedgehog, for example. (Laughter.)

Was it good?—It was delicious. (Laughter.)

“I NEVER ATE ANY TOADSTOOLS”

The Coroner: Hedgehog—was that the only unconventional dish you saw prepared?—No. On two or three occasions Mr. Harrison gathered fungi of various kinds and had them for breakfast or supper.

Did these fungi include the ordinary mushroom of commerce?—On one occasion, yes.

Did you eat any of that dish?—I ate a small quantity. I do not care much for mushrooms.

And on the other occasions?—On, I think, two occasions, Mr. Harrison brought in other fungi, which, he explained, were good to eat. A great number of fungi are to be found in the valleys and damp, low-lying spots in the neighbourhood. One variety was called, I believe, Chantarelles, or some such name, and there was also a purple one, called “Amethyst” something-or-other.

These were fungi of a kind not usually eaten by the ordinary person? The sort commonly called toadstools.—Yes; common, wild fungi.

Was the flavour of them agreeable?—I do not know. They smelt very savoury, but I did not eat any of them.

How was that?—I did not think it was safe. I was afraid of eating something poisonous.

You knew that a great many edible varieties of fungi exist in addition to the common mushroom? There is a Government publication dealing with them, I believe?—I believe there is.

And Mr. Harrison was considered an authority on the subject?—I do not know if he was generally so considered. He had devoted much attention to the subject and had written a book on our natural food resources.

Had you read the book?—I had read parts of it.

But you did not feel sufficient confidence in the deceased’s judgment to partake of the toadstools yourself?—I suppose I did not. These things are largely a matter of prejudice. I did not care about the idea of eating toadstools.

UNHEEDED WARNINGS

The Coroner: But Mr. Harrison ate them and was none the worse.—Oh, certainly. He appeared to enjoy them very much and there were no ill-effects.

Did you ever remonstrate with the deceased about his habit of eating these dangerous fungi?—I told him I was afraid there would an accident some day. The subject had frequently been mentioned previously, when he was preparing his book. Mrs. Harrison and his friends often said, more or less jokingly, that there would be a coroner’s inquest on him one of these days.

And how did the deceased receive these warnings?—He laughed, and said it was all ignorance and prejudice. He said there was no danger at all for anybody who had thoroughly studied the subject.

Can you tell us how these dishes of fungi were prepared?—He had several methods. Sometimes he would grill them with butter and garlic, and other times he would stew them with condensed milk or in beef-stock. He was fond of inventing new methods of cooking things.

“I AM GOING TO HUNT FOR FUNGI”

The Coroner: Now let us come to the time of the death. You had gone up to London, I think?—Yes. I had occasion to consult my agents and to transact a few matters of business in town. I went up by the 8.13 from Bovey Tracey on the Thursday morning. I had ordered a taxi the day before.

Was Mr. Harrison quite well when you left him?—Perfectly. He was in particularly good spirits. He had risen early, with the intention of gathering a certain kind of fungus for his supper. It was one particular sort which he said he knew where to get.

Do you recollect its name?—I am not sure. I think he called it “Warty Hat.” (Laughter.) He said he knew of a wood where it was very plentiful.

I have here a copy of Mr. Harrison’s book. I see there is a fungus mentioned as being of an edible nature, called “Warty Caps.” Would that be the one? Its Latin name is Amanita rubescens.—I should think that would be the one.

Had Mr. Harrison started out before you left?—No. He saw me off at the gate into the lane.

POISONED DEATH AGONY

Mr. Lathom then stated that he had returned to “The Shack” late on Saturday night, bringing with him Mr. John Munting, a mutual friend of himself and the Harrisons, and the author of a successful novel.

Arriving at “The Shack” at about eleven o’clock, they found the place in darkness and the fire out. The remains of a dish of mushrooms was on the table in the outer room, together with the shells of some boiled eggs, a loaf of bread and a cup one-quarter filled with coffee.

On penetrating into the inner room, they discovered the body of Harrison, lying half-dressed on the bed. It was cold when found, and the features much distorted. Various articles in the room were flung about in a disorderly fashion and the trestle-bedstead was broken. Both in this and in the outer room there were signs that the dead man had vomited persistently. A bottle of whiskey and a tumbler were found beneath the bed.

As there is no telephone communication between “The Shack” and Manaton, Mr. Lathom was obliged to go on foot to summon assistance. The landlord of the inn at Manaton telephoned to the police-station at Bovey Tracey. Sergeant Warbeck, who received the message, communicated at once with Dr. Hughes, and proceeded in the doctor’s car to the scene of the tragedy.

The Coroner: Was Mr. Harrison a man of cheerful disposition?—He was a reserved man of quiet tastes and behaviour on the whole, though subject to occasional fits of annoyance about trifles.

During the time you were with him at “The Shack,” did he appear to have anything on his mind?—Certainly not: he was in excellent spirits.

In your opinion, he was not a man likely to lay violent hands on himself?—Far from it. I was convinced at the time, and still am, that his death was a pure accident, due to some fungi he had eaten.

It came as a great surprise to you?—Well, of course, I was very much shocked and upset, but when I came to think it over—no, I cannot say I was greatly surprised.

Dr. Hughes gave evidence that he had examined the body of Harrison and formed the opinion that when seen by him at about 1.30 a.m. deceased had been dead seven or eight hours. He had had the body removed to Bovey Tracey for the purpose of an autopsy. Acting in collaboration with the police, he had sent certain organs, portions of bed-linen, and remains of food to be chemically analysed.

The Coroner: At this point of the inquiry, can you form any conclusion as to the cause of the death?—The appearances suggest that deceased was poisoned by some substance which produced violent sickness and diarrhœa, followed by prolonged delirium and convulsions, ending in coma and death. The pupils of the eyes were slightly contracted, suggesting also the action of a poison.

Would fugus-poisoning have this effect?—Yes, and so would certain other vegetable poisons; opium, for example. It is, however, unusual for the appearance to persist so long after death. I do not place much reliance upon this symptom.

Do the general symptoms, as noted by you, appear to point to poisoning by a deadly fungus?—They are consistent with that possibility.

Dr. Hughes added that there were no exterior signs of the application of physical violence.

WIDOW SHEDS TEARS

Mr. John Munting confirmed Mr. Lathom’s evidence in every particular.

A rustle of sympathy went round the little court when the widow, Mrs. Margaret Harrison, appeared in the box. Fashionably but quietly dressed in a black face-cloth costume and closely-fitting cloche hat, Mrs. Harrison gave her evidence in a voice so subdued as to be scarcely audible.

She declared that her husband had greatly looked forward to this country holiday. On such occasions he was accustomed to go to “The Shack” by himself, or with a male friend. She never accompanied him to “The Shack.” On previous holidays he had frequently taken as his companion his son by an earlier marriage, Mr. Paul Harrison, a civil engineer, now absent in Central Africa. She had always understood that the deceased cooked for himself at “The Shack,” and made experiments with unconventional foodstuffs.

She had warned him again and again of the danger attending such experiments, but deceased had great confidence in his ability to distinguish edible varieties of plants from the poisonous kinds, and always laughed at any remonstrance.

On being asked whether the deceased was a man who might be considered likely to take his own life, the widow replied indignantly:

“He had no reason to do such a dreadful thing, and I am sure he was the last person to think of it.”

The witness here broke down and sobbed violently, and had to be assisted to her seat.

The coroner then adjourned the inquest for a fortnight to permit of an analysis of the contents of the viscera and the various articles found in the house.

48. Extract from the “Morning Express” of Wednesday, November 5th, 1929

Startling evidence was given to-day at the resumed inquest at Manaton on the body of George Harrison, 56 years old, of 15, Whittington Terrace, Bayswater, who was found dead under mysterious circumstances in the lonely cottage known as “The Shack,” on Saturday, October 19th.

At the previous sitting of the coroner’s jury, evidence was given by the well-known artist, Mr. Harwood Lathom, of his finding of the body on returning with Mr. John Munting, author of I to Hercules, from a brief visit to London. Mr. Lathom, who had been spending his holiday alone in “The Shack” with Mr. Harrison, described the curious bachelor life led by the deceased at “The Shack,” and his habit of cooking and eating unconventional dishes of hedgehogs, mushrooms and other natural objects.

HOME OFFICE EXPERT AND “DEADLY FUNGUS”

Sir James Lubbock, the Home Office Analyst, was the first witness to be called at the resumed inquest. He stated that he had made an analysis of the contents of the stomach and other organs of the deceased, together with vomited matter obtained from the bedclothes and elsewhere. He had also analysed the remains of a dish of mushrooms and other articles of diet found on the table.

“From the stomach, the vomited matter, and from the unconsumed portion of the dish of fungus,” said Sir James, “I obtained by analysis a considerable quantity of a substance known as muscarine, which is the poisonous principle of a fungus, Amanita muscaria, or the Fly Agaric.”

Sir James added that, estimating the amount of the poison which had been rejected from the body in the course of the sickness, he came to the conclusion that deceased must have consumed a very large quantity of the poison.

Sufficient to cause death?—Certainly. Muscarine is an exceedingly deadly poison.

What would be the symptoms of poisoning by muscarine?—They vary in different cases. Generally speaking, a sensation of acute sickness would be experienced almost immediately after the meal, followed by violent vomiting and diarrhœa. There might also be a feeling of suffocation and dizziness, sometimes accompanied by blindness. The victim would suffer acute distress and intense depression and fear of death. Unconsciousness might supervene, or there might be violent convulsions and prolonged delirium. Death would probably ensue as a result of respiratory paralysis.

Will you explain that more simply to the jury?—The poison would paralyse the muscles of the throat and chest, and the victim would be unable to breathe and would die of suffocation.

You have seen that Dr. Hughes mentioned in his evidence that the pupils of the eyes were slightly contracted when he first saw the body. What conclusion do you draw from that?—I cannot definitely say. Myosis (that is, contraction of the pupils) is characteristic of the effects of certain poisons, including muscarine, but the contraction usually disappears at death, though, curiously enough, in the case of eserine, a pronounced myosis has been found five hours after death. I should regard a slight degree of contraction as consistent with muscarine poisoning, but not, in itself, conclusive evidence one way or another.

Have you ever seen a case of muscarine poisoning?—I have seen perhaps half a dozen cases in my own experience, mostly among children who had eaten the Fly Agaric in mistake for an edible mushroom. One case, I remember, was brought to the hospital too late for anything to be done, and the patient expired in convulsions after a period of unconsciousness. Three or four were treated by the injection of atropin and recovered completely. Another case was not brought to my notice till after the symptoms had cleared up of their own accord; in this case the amount eaten was very small.

Such cases are not always fatal?—By no means. If the proper treatment can be given immediately, the prognosis is favourable. Without such treatment, however, and where a large quantity of the poison is consumed, recovery would be less likely.

The Coroner: In your opinion, what was the cause of death in the case of Mr. Harrison?

Sir James Lubbock: I have not the slightest doubt that he died of poisoning by muscarine, taken in the dish of fungus submitted to me for analysis.

Sir James further added that the Fly Agaric, Amanita muscaria, was frequently found in woods and sheltered places, and was liable to be eaten in mistake for another member of the same family, Amanita rubescens, or Warty Caps, an edible fungus which it very closely resembled.

Reference was made to the Government publication, Edible and Poisonous Fungi, and to the book Neglected Edible Treasures, written by the deceased, and pictures of the fungi in question were passed round among the jury.

Questioned with regard to the eggs, bread, coffee, whiskey and other articles of diet found in “The Shack,” Sir James said he had subjected them all to careful analysis, without discovering anything of a deleterious character.

DECEASED SEEN GATHERING FUNGI

Dr. Hughes of Bovey Tracey, who performed the autopsy, said that he had found the heart of the deceased very greatly dilated, a symptom characteristic of poisoning by Amanita muscaria.

Harold Coffin, a labourer, gave evidence that he had met with deceased on the morning of October 17th. He had a satchel slung over his shoulder, and appeared to be searching for something on the ground. The time would be about 8 a.m. Deceased was then entering a small wood situated in the valley below Manaton. The witness had frequently seen deceased wandering about the country, sometimes with a sketching-easel and sometimes gathering plants and roots. Deceased had sometimes conversed with the witness about making a meal of unnatural things, such as nettles and toadstools, and witness had always supposed him to be a little peculiar in his head.

Henry Trefusis, a carrier, stated that he had delivered a loaf of bread, a pound of shin of beef and other provisions to “The Shack,” at 10.30 a.m., on Thursday, October 17th. Deceased had called out to him from the outhouse to put the goods on the window-sill. As far as he could see and hear, deceased was then in his usual health and spirits.

Mr. Lathom, recalled, confirmed his previous statement that Mr. Harrison had spoken to him on the Wednesday evening about his intention of gathering fungi the next day, and had mentioned a name resembling “Warty Hats” or “Warty Caps.”

The coroner, in summing up the evidence to the jury, laid stress on the danger of experimenting in unusual articles of diet. It was notorious, he said, that other nations, such as the French, were accustomed to eat many natural products, such as frogs, snails, dandelions and various kinds of fungi, which in this country were considered unfit for human food. Such experiments, when conducted by highly expert persons, might sometimes turn out well, but, on the other hand, nobody was infallible, and undoubtedly a wise caution was in most cases to be preferred. Sir James Lubbock had cited some very sad instances of unfortunate children who had succumbed to the effects of accidentally eating those dangerous toadstools which unhappily grew in such great profusion in many parts of the country, and he would like to urge on all parents the advisability of strictly forbidding their boys and girls to tamper with anything which they might pick up on their rambles. The present case would serve as a terrible warning, which he hoped would not soon be forgotten. It was most unfortunate that, owing to the remote situation of “The Shack” and the unlucky absence of Mr. Lathom in London, there should have been no help at hand when the deceased was overtaken by this terrible accident. The circumstances of his lonely and agonising death were such as to arouse the deepest compassion for the widow and son of the deceased.

The jury, after a few minutes’ consultation, brought in a verdict of Accidental Death, due to poisoning by Amanita muscaria. The foreman said that the jury desired to express their deep sympathy with the bereaved family. They would also like to add a rider to the effect that teachers in the schools of the surrounding districts should be encouraged to warn their pupils against the eating of toadstools, and that charts displaying the various kinds of poisonous fungi should be hung in the classrooms.

49. Statement by Paul Harrison

I was in Africa when the news of my father’s death reached me. The work on which I was engaged was nearly completed, and I at once made arrangements for handing over the concluding portions of the job and returning to England. It took a little time to settle all this and to arrange for my journey to the coast, and it was not till the 6th of January, 1930, that I arrived in London.

From the moment that I heard the cause of death assigned, I was positively convinced that there was no accident about it. My father’s expert knowledge of fungi was very great; and he was a man of almost exaggerated precision in matters of this kind. It was entirely incredible to me that he could ever have mistaken a stool of Amanita muscaria for Amanita rubescens, even in the gathering of it; far more so that he could have peeled and prepared the fungus for eating without noticing the difference. To the average coroner’s jury, accustomed to dealing with schoolchildren and trippers, such a mistake would no doubt seem perfectly natural; but my father was no more likely to take Muscaria for Rubescens than to take a piece of cast-iron for a piece of chilled steel. I immediately scouted the whole idea of accident. Two possibilities remained for me to investigate. Either my father, in his unselfish devotion to the worthless woman he had married, had destroyed himself by a painful method which would look like accident and so disarm suspicion; or else he had been murdered. In either case, I was determined that the woman should not benefit by the crime which she had caused.

Feeling as I did towards Margaret Harrison, I could not bring myself to take up my residence at my father’s house. I therefore took a room at an hotel in the Bloomsbury district, which has the advantage of being central, and set myself to examine the problem under all its aspects.

I read and re-read carefully all the newspaper reports of the inquest, and also all the letters which my father had written to me during the last two years. The most important of these latter I have included among the documents submitted to you. There was another, the essentials of which are covered by Mr. Munting’s statement, which mentioned that Miss Agatha Milsom had had to be “put away,” and that the character of Mr. Munting was accordingly considered to have been cleared from suspicion.

I fastened at once upon this incident. I had naturally never believed that Miss Milsom’s version of this episode was the true one. I believed my father to have been quite correct in his original suspicions. Miss Milsom’s illness had, I decided, enabled Munting to pull the wool over his victim’s eyes very nicely. Margaret Harrison and Munting had been corresponding all along, until the convenient decease of my father set them free to come together again after a decent interval.

This suggestion led me directly to the idea of suicide. In some way my father’s eyes had been opened to what was going on; and the agent must undoubtedly have been Lathom. He was Munting’s friend and, deliberately or unconsciously, he must have let fall some words during his stay at “The Shack” which made the situation plain. I thought it probable that this young man had played a double-faced part, and forwarded Munting’s interests under pretence of being friendly with my father. As regards the idea of murder, Munting appeared to have an alibi. His arrival with Lathom on the Saturday night had been witnessed, and I did not think it likely that he could have made any earlier appearance in that sparsely-populated district without being seen. It seemed possible that he and Lathom had been confederates, and committed the murder in collusion; but at the moment I was inclined to think that my father had been hounded into self-destruction by this precious pair, or rather trio.

It seemed to me that any first step must be to see Margaret Harrison. She would learn before long that I was in London, from my father’s solicitors, with whom I necessarily had business. It was better, therefore, to call on her at once, both to prevent her from suspecting my suspicions and to keep up appearances in the eyes of the neighbourhood.

Accordingly, I went round to Whittington Terrace on the day after my arrival. I sent up my name by the maid (a new girl since my time), and, after a short interval, Margaret Harrison came down to me. She was dressed in deep mourning, very fashionably cut, and came up to me with the gushing manner which I had always so greatly disliked.

“Oh, Paul!” she said, “isn’t this terrible? How dreadful it has been for you, poor dear, all that long way away! I am so glad you have managed to get home!”

“If you are,” I said, “it must be for the first time on record.”

Her face took on the sulky look I knew so well.

“I knew you never liked me, Paul,” she said, “but surely this is hardly the time to bear a grudge.”

“Perhaps not,” said I, “but it hardly seems worth while to pretend that you are delighted to see me.”

“As you like,” she replied. “We may as well sit down, anyway.”

She sat down, and I went over and stood by the window.

“You are staying here, of course?” she inquired, after a short silence.

I replied that I preferred to live at an hotel for the present, because it was more convenient for business.

“Of course,” she said, “you will have a lot of things to see about. I quite understand. I kept the house on, because I didn’t know what your plans would be. But perhaps you think it would be better to give it up?”

“Do just as you like,” I answered. “The furniture is yours, I believe?”

“Yes; but this place is really more than I want when I am by myself. Besides”—here she gave an affected shudder—“it seems, well, haunted, rather. If you are not coming here, I think I shall give it up and take a couple of rooms somewhere. I can look after your things till you get settled.”

I thanked her, and asked if she had made any plans for the future.

“None at all,” she said. “I feel rather stunned, just at the moment. It has been such a shock. I shall wait for a little time, anyhow, and see how things turn out. I shall be rather lost at first. We saw so few people—I have rather lost touch.”

“You have all my father’s friends,” I said.

“Oh, but they are not my friends. They only used to come to tea and dinner and so on. They wouldn’t want me. I should only be an intruder. And, of course, they are all much older than I am. We should have really nothing in common.”

“Yes,” I said, “you are a young woman, Margaret. You will probably marry again before very long.”

She made a great display of indignation.

“Paul! How can you say such a heartless thing, and your poor father only just passed away! Anybody would think you don’t care for him at all. But I suppose a father isn’t the same thing as a husband.”

I was nauseated.

“You need not trouble to display all this feeling on my account,” I said. “It was quite enough to make him as unhappy as you did while he was alive, without playing the broken-hearted widow.”

“You are very like him, you know,” she observed. “You have just his way of snubbing and repressing people. You don’t seem to understand that everybody can’t keep their feelings bottled up as you do. It was not my fault that he was unhappy. I think he had an unhappy nature.”

“That is nonsense,” I said, “and you know it. My father was a most simple, friendly, companionable man—only you never would be a real wife to him.”

“He wouldn’t let me,” she said. “I know we didn’t hit it off very well, at the end, but I did try, Paul. I did indeed. In the beginning I was ready to give him all the love and affection that was in me. But he didn’t like it. He dried me up. He broke my spirit, Paul.”

“My father was not a demonstrative man,” I said, “but you know quite well that he was proud of you and devoted to you. If you had heard him speak of you as I have heard him—”

“Ah!” she said, quickly, “but I never did. That was the trouble. What is the good of being praised behind one’s back if one is always being scolded and snubbed to one’s face? It only makes it worse. Everyone thinks one has such a good husband, and that one ought to be so happy and grateful—and all the time they never know what one is suffering from unkind words and cold looks at home.”

“Many women would envy you,” I said. “Would you rather have had a husband who was all charming manners at home and unfaithful the minute your back was turned?”

“Yes,” she said, “I would.”

“I can’t understand you,” I said. “You ought to be ashamed to speak like this.”

“No,” she said, “you can’t understand. That’s it. Neither could he.”

“All I understand is that you ruined his life, and drove him to a dreadful death,” I burst out. I had not meant to go so far, but I was too angry to think what I was saying.

“What do you mean?” she said. “Oh, no—you can’t think that he——But why should he?”

I had gone too far now to retreat, and I told her what I thought.

“You are quite wrong,” she said. “He wouldn’t have done that.”

“He would have done anything for you,” I cried angrily, “anything. Even to laying down his life to set you free——”

“Even to sacrificing his reputation as a connoisseur of fungi?” she interrupted, with an unpleasant smile.

“Even that,” I answered. “It’s all very well for you to sneer—you never cared for his interests—you didn’t understand them—you understand nothing at all, and you care for nothing except your twopenny ha’penny emotions.”

“I do know this,” she said steadily, “that if your father had thought that I wanted to be free of him—which he didn’t, because he had too good an opinion of himself—but if he had, he would have taken care I didn’t get rid of him without a row. He loved making rows. He wouldn’t have made things easy for me. He wouldn’t have missed the opportunity of rubbing it in.”

Her expression was as ugly and common as her words. I felt that I could not control myself much longer and had much better go.

“I repeat,” said I, “that you never understood my father, and you never will. It isn’t in you. I don’t think it’s any good prolonging this discussion. I had better be going. Can you give me Mr. Munting’s address?”

I hoped to have frightened her by the sudden question, but she only looked mildly astonished.

“Mr. Munting? I’m sure I don’t know. I’ve only seen him once since he was married, and that was at the Royal Academy. And at the—the inquest, of course. I think he lives in Bloomsbury somewhere. I expect he’s in the telephone-book.”

I thanked her, and took my leave. Married! My father had never thought to mention that. It upset all my ideas. Because, if Munting was married, then what object could there have been in my father’s suicide—or murder, whichever it was? His death would have left Margaret no nearer to marrying Munting. And any other relation could have been carried on perfectly well, whether my father was alive or not. Certainly, he might simply have destroyed himself in sheer despair and misery, unable to bear the dishonour. But it did not seem so likely.

This news made me alter my plans. I determined not to go and see Munting at once. It would be better, I thought, to get hold of Lathom, and see if I could obtain any light on the question from him.

A little inquiry among the dealers produced Lathom’s address. He was living in a studio in Chelsea. I presented myself at the place the next morning, and was received by a vinegary-looking elderly woman in a man’s cap, who informed me that Mr. Lathom was still in bed.

As it was already eleven o’clock, I handed her my card and said I would wait. She ushered me into an extremely untidy studio, full of oil-paint tubes and half-finished canvases, and waddled away with the card towards an inner door.

Before reaching it, however, she turned back, sidled up to me and said in a glutinous whisper:

“Begging your pardon, Mr. ’Arrison, but was you any relation to the pore gentleman wot died so mysterious?”

“What business is that of yours?” I snapped. She nodded with ghoulish enjoyment.

“Oh, no offence, sir, no offence. There ain’t no need to take a person up so sharp. That was a funny thing, sir, wasn’t it? You’d be ’is son, per’aps?”

“Never you mind who I am,” I said. “Take my card to Mr. Lathom and say I should be glad if he could spare me a few minutes.”

“Oh, ’e’ll spare you a few minutes, sir, I shouldn’t wonder. Look funny if ’e didn’t, sir, wouldn’t it? There’s lots of things as ’ud look funny, I daresay, if we knew the rights on ’em.”

“What are you getting at?” I said, uneasily.

“Ho, nothink, sir! Nothink! If you ain’t a relation it ain’t nothink to you, is it, sir? People do go off sudden-like, sometimes, and nobody to blame. There’s lots of things ’appens every day more than ever gets into the papers. But there! That ain’t nothink to you, sir.”

She sidled away again, grinning unpleasantly. I heard her talking and a man’s voice replying, and presently she shuffled back again.

“Mr. Lathom says ’e’ll be with you in five minutes, sir, if you will be so good as to wait. ’E’ll come fast enough, sir, don’t you be afraid. A very agreeable gentleman is Mr. Lathom, sir. I been doin’ for ’im over three months, now, ever since ’e come over from France. Some time in October that would be, sir, before this ’ere sad accident ’appened. Mr. Lathom was very much upset about it, sir. You’d ’ardly ’ave known ’im for the same gentleman w’en ’e came back after the inquest. Looked as if ’e’d been seein’ a ghost—that white and strange ’e was. A terrible sight the pore gentleman must ’a’ been. A crool way to die. But there! We must all die once, sir, mustn’t we? And if it ain’t one way it’s another, and if it ain’t sooner it’s later. Only some folks is misfortunit more than others. Would you care for a cup of tea, sir, while you’re waitin’?”

I accepted the tea, to get rid of her. The stove, however, turned out to be in a corner of the studio, and having lit the gas and put the kettle on, she returned. All the time she was speaking, she rubbed one skinny hand over the other with a curious, greedy action.

“Very strange ’ow things turns out, ain’t it, sir? There was a gentleman lived down our street, a cats’-meat man ’e was, and the best cats’-meat in the neighbourhood—thought very ’ighly of by all, ’e was. ’E married a girl out of one of them shops w’ere they sells costooms on ’ire purchase. They ain’t no good to nobody, them places, if you asks me. Well, ’e died sudden.”

“Did he?”

“Ho, yes! very sudden, ’e died. A very ’ot summer it was, and they brought it in ’e’d got the dissenter, with eating somethink as didn’t agree with ’im. So it may ’a’ bin, far be it from me to say otherwise. But afore the year was up she’d gone and married the young man wot was manager of the clothes-shop. A good marriage it was for ’er, too. Ho, yes! She didn’t lost nothink by ’er ’usband dyin’ w’en ’e did, if you understand me, sir.”

I made no answer. She took the kettle off and filled the tea-pot.

“Now, that’s a nice cup o’ tea, sir. You won’t find nothink wrong with that. That’s ’olesome, that is. I knows ’ow to make the sort of tea that gentlemen like. Cutts is my name, Mrs. Cutts. They all knows me about ’ere. I been doin’ for the artists this thirty year, and I’m up to all their goin’s-on. I know ’ow to cook their breakfisses and look after their bits of paintings and sich, an’ w’en to speak an’ w’en to ’old my tongue, sir. That’s wot they pays me for.”

“Thank you,” I said, “it’s an excellent cup of tea.”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir. My name is Cutts, if you should ever be a-wantin’ me. Anybody in these studios will tell you w’ere to find Mrs. Cutts. ’Ere’s Mr. Lathom a’comin’, sir.”

She lurched away as Lathom emerged from his bedroom.

I will admit that the first impression he made upon me was a good one. His appearance was clean, and his manners were pleasant.

“I see Mrs. Cutts has given you a cup of tea,” he said, when he had shaken hands. “Won’t you have a spot of breakfast with me?”

I thanked him, and said I had already breakfasted.

“Oh, I suppose you have,” he answered, smiling. “We’re rather a late crowd in these parts, you know. You won’t mind if I carry on with my eggs and bacon?”

I begged him to use no ceremony, and he produced some eatables from a cupboard.

“It’s all right, Mrs. Cutts,” he shouted. “I’ll do the cooking. This gentleman wants to talk business.”

The noise of a broom in the passage was the only answer.

“Well now, Mr. Harrison,” said Lathom, dropping his breezy manner, “I expect you have come to hear anything I can tell you about your father. I can’t say, of course, how damned sorry I am about it. As you know, I wasn’t there at the time——”

“No,” I said, “and I don’t want to distress you by going into details and all that. It must have been a great shock to you.”

“It certainly was.”

“I can see that,” I added, noticing how white and strained his face looked. “I only wanted to ask you—after all, you were the last person to see him——”

“Not the last,” he interrupted, rather hastily. “That man Coffin saw him, you know, gathering the—the wretched fungi—and the carrier saw him later still, after I had left the place.”

“Oh, yes—I didn’t mean quite that. I mean, you were the last friend to see and talk to him intimately.”

“Quite, quite—just so.”

“I wanted to hear from you whether you were, yourself, quite satisfied about it—satisfied that it really was an accident, that is?”

He put the bacon into the pan, where it sputtered a good deal.

“What’s that? I didn’t quite catch.”

“Were you satisfied it was an accident?”

“Why, of course. What else could it have been? You know, Mr. Harrison, I hate to say anything about your father that might seem—to blame him in any way, that is—but, of course, I mean it is a very dangerous thing to experiment with wild fungi. Anybody would tell you the same thing. Unless you are a very great expert—and even then one is liable to make mistakes.”

“That is what is troubling me,” I said. “My father was a very great expert, and he was not at all a man to make mistakes.”

“None of us are infallible.”

“Quite so. But still. And it was odd that it should have happened just at the very time you were away.”

“It was very unfortunate, certainly.” He kept his eyes on the bacon, while he prodded it about with a fork. “Damnably unfortunate.”

“So odd and so unfortunate that I cannot help thinking there may have been a reason for it!”

Lathom took two eggs and cracked them carefully. “How so?”

“You are aware, perhaps, that my father was—not altogether happy in his married life.”

He gave an exclamation under his breath.

“Did you speak?”

“No—I have broken the yolk, that’s all. I beg your pardon. You are asking me rather a delicate question.”

“You may speak frankly to me, Mr. Lathom. If you saw much of my father’s family life, you must have noticed that there were—misfits.”

“Well, of course—one sees and hears little things occasionally. But many happily-married people spar at times, don’t they? And—well—there was a difference of age and all that.”

“That is the point, Mr. Lathom. Without necessarily saying anything harsh about my father’s wife, it is a fact that a young woman, married to an older man, may, not unnaturally, tend to turn to someone more of her own age.”

He muttered something.

“In such a case my father, who was the most unself-regarding man who ever breathed, might have thought it his duty to give her back her liberty.”

He turned round swiftly.

“Oh, no!” he said, “surely not! That’s a dreadful idea, Mr. Harrison. It never occurred to me. I am sure you can put it out of your mind.” He hesitated. “I think—” he went on, with a troubled look, “oh, yes, I am sure you need not think that.”

“Are you quite sure? Did he never say anything?”

“He never spoke of his wife except in terms of the deepest affection. He thought very highly of her.”

“I know. More highly than she—more highly than any woman perhaps could deserve.”

“Perhaps.”

“But,” I said, “that very affection would have been all the more reason for him to—to take himself out of her life in the most complete and unanswerable way.”

“I suppose so—from that point of view.”

“And, if it was so, I should like to know it. Will you tell me, Mr. Lathom, on your honour and without concealment, whether there was anything between my father’s wife and your friend Mr. Munting?”

“Good Lord, no!” he said, taking the pan off the fire and shovelling the eggs and bacon out into a plate. “Nothing of the sort.”

“Just a minute,” said I. “Mr. Munting is your friend, and you want to be loyal to him. That’s obvious. And I’m aware I’m asking you to do one of those things which people with public-school educations don’t do. I am not a public-school man myself, and you must excuse me if I suggest that just for once you should come down to brass tacks and cut out the Eton-and-Harrow business. My father has died, and I want your personal assurance that he did not kill himself on your friend Munting’s account. Can you give it to me?”

“On my word of honour, there was not the very slightest attachment or understanding of any kind between Mrs. Harrison and Jack Munting. They rather disliked each other, if anything. Jack was married last Easter to a very charming woman, with whom he is much in love. He never gave a thought to Mrs. Harrison, or she to him.”

I felt sure he believed what he said.

“Wasn’t there a disturbance of some kind?” I asked.

“Oh, yes.” A cloud passed over his face. “There was. That wretched potty woman, Miss Milsom, invented some sort of story. But it was the most absolute rubbish. And Mr. Harrison came to see what utter nonsense it all was. My dear man, the woman’s in an asylum.”

“There was no foundation for it, then?”

“None whatever.”

“Then why did your friend Munting take it lying down, and let himself be kicked out of the house?”

“I wish you wouldn’t keep on calling him ‘my friend Munting,’ as if you took us for a pair of undesirables,” he retorted, irritably. He picked at his eggs and bacon, and pushed the plate away again.

“What else could he do but go? Your father was perfectly unreasonable—wouldn’t have listened to the Archangel Gabriel. Anyway, the more you protest about these matters, the less you’re believed. Munting did the right thing—cleared out and married somebody else. Couldn’t have a row with a man twice his age, you know.”

I got up.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Lathom. I’m sorry to have troubled you. I am very glad to have your assurance. Mr. Munting is in town, I suppose?”

“You’re not going to rake it all up with him?”

“I should feel more satisfied if I had had a word with him,” I answered.

“I wouldn’t. You can take my word for it. I mean to say, there’s Mrs. Munting to be considered.”

“I shouldn’t say anything to her. After all, it’s surely natural enough that I should wish to have Mr. Munting’s account of the business.”

“Yes—oh yes, I suppose it is.” He still looked worried and dissatisfied. “Well, good-bye. If you really must see Munting, here’s his address.”

As I opened the door of the studio, I nearly tripped over Mrs. Cutts, who was washing the linoleum. She came and let me out at the house-door.

“Puttin’ yer money on the wrong horse, young man, ain’t you?” she whispered.

“Look here,” I said, “you know something about this.”

“That’s as may be,” said she, slyly. “Mrs. Cutts knows ’ow to govern ’er tongue. An unruly member, ain’t it, sir? That’s wot the Bible says.”

“I’ve no time to waste,” I answered; “if you have anything to say to me, you will find me at my hotel.” I mentioned the name, and then, with a certain disgust at the business, slipped half a crown into her hand.

She curtseyed, and I left her bobbing and dipping on the doorstep.

I cursed myself for a fool as I set off to find Munting. Undoubtedly Lathom would have warned him by telephone of what to expect. I was sure of it when I saw him. He struck me as conceited and pretentious—the usual type of modern literary man.

He was perfectly polite, however; assured me in a tone of the utmost sincerity that the story about himself and Margaret Harrison was entirely unfounded, and referred me back to Lathom for evidence as to my father’s state of mind in the week preceding his death.

Finding myself quite unable to penetrate this polished surface of propriety, I took my leave. The manner of both men left me in no doubt that there was something to conceal, but I could get no farther than a moral certainty.

Mrs. Cutts seemed to offer the best hope of information, but I could not as yet reconcile myself to handling so dirty a tool. It occurred to me that it might possibly be worth while to get hold of Miss Milsom. I was not at all clear in my mind that her madness might not have some method in it.

At first I could not think how to trace her. I could have asked Margaret Harrison, of course, but I did not want to do that. Finally, I decided to call on the local padre, the Rev. Theodore Perry, and see if he knew where his lost sheep had strayed to.

I knew him well, of course, and it did not seem unnatural that I should ask after the welfare of a woman who had been for some time in my father’s employment. I sandwiched the question in, in the course of a casual conversation, and he told me at once what he knew.

“Poor woman, I’m afraid she is not altogether normal. One hopes it is only a passing phase. I don’t quite know where she is—one of these nursing-homes of the modern sort, I think. Her sister, Mrs. Farebrother, would be able to tell you. No, I don’t suppose they are very well off. The fees in these places are high. In the days of faith—or superstition, if you like—a convent or a béguinage would have provided the proper asylum for such a case, with some honest work to do and a harmless emotional outlet—but nowadays they make you pay for everything, not only your pleasures.”

He gave me Mrs. Farebrother’s address, and I said I would see what could be done. He smiled at me in a futile, clerical way, and said it would be a work of charity.

I left him, feeling anything but charitable, and went to see Mrs. Farebrother. She seemed to be a good, honest, sensible woman, worried by family and financial cares, and accepted gratefully my suggestion of a small pension, during the period that her sister might be requiring medical care.

The interview with Agatha Milsom was a painful one to me. The woman is undoubtedly quite unbalanced, with a disagreeable sex-antagonism at the bottom of her mania. According to her, my father had treated his wife with abominable cruelty, and I was obliged to listen for a long time to her rambling accusations. The name of John Munting roused her to such excitement that I was afraid she would make herself ill; unfortunately, I could get nothing reliable out of her. For one thing, she was obsessed with the idea that he had had designs upon her maiden modesty, and for another, many of her statements were so ludicrous that they cast suspicion over the rest.

As regards my father, however, I obtained one thing. I suggested that her memory of certain domestic incidents might be at fault, and in proof of her assertions she promised to get back from her sister, and send to me, all the letters she had written home during the previous two years.

It seemed to me that, since her mental deterioration had come on only gradually, the letters written at the time might possibly be considered to attain a reasonable level of accuracy. She kept her promise, and from this correspondence I selected the letters of relevant date, and these are the documents included in this dossier. It will be seen that great allowance must be made for bias; that much conceded, the statements may, I think, be accepted as having a basis in fact.

I need not say how distressing they were to me. They cast a light upon the miserable domestic conditions which my father had had to endure. I regretted most bitterly that I had taken over that work in Central Africa, thus leaving him to the undiluted companionship of a selfish, discontented wife and a semi-demented and vulgar woman. My father was not the man to go abroad for the sympathy he could not find at home, and it was no wonder that he had welcomed the acquaintanceship of two young men who could, at least, make some pretence of entering into his interests.

But the thing which emerged from the letters with startling illumination was the intimate footing upon which Lathom had stood with the whole household. As may be seen by the few letters included above, my father was by no means a gossipy correspondent, and I had not realised that Lathom had become so much of a tame cat about the drawing-room. I had thought of him as being my father’s friend almost entirely, and I believe that my father himself took that view, and, wittingly or unwittingly, gave me that impression. But it now seemed clear to me that this was not so, and that, what with my father’s innocent pleasure in the apparent admiration and friendliness of this brilliant young man, and what with the perverse misconception of the wretched Agatha Milsom, we had all been “led up the garden,” as the expression is.

I saw now why both Lathom and Munting, standing by one another in a conspiracy of silence, had been able to deny with such obvious sincerity that there had ever been an undue intimacy between Munting and Margaret Harrison. Lathom had said that my father’s last days had been free from suspicion; I saw now that this was possible. I also saw why Lathom had been so unwilling that I should ask Munting the same question, and why Munting had referred me back to Lathom for the answer. Munting must, I thought, be considered cleared of any offence except a refusal to betray his friend’s confidence; and I was obliged to confess that most people would think he had acted rightly. Lathom, too, had kept to the code of what is usually called honour in these matters. As for Margaret Harrison—but from her I had never expected anything but lies.

But if this was the truth, why should my father have committed suicide? For I still did not believe in the theory of accident. Either something must have opened his eyes during Lathom’s visit to town, or else that other, darker suspicion, which I had hardly liked to glance at, was only too well-founded.

I am a business man. I have the business man’s liking for facts. To me, an expert’s knowledge is a fact. Experts occasionally make mistakes, but to me it appears far less probable that an expert should be mistaken than that an artist and a woman should be unprincipled. And I cannot make it too clear that my father’s expert knowledge in the matter of fungi was to be trusted. I would as cheerfully stake my life on the wholesomeness of a dish prepared by my father as on the stability of a girder-stress calculated by my chief, Sir Maurice Berkeley. But I would not venture a five-pound note on the honesty or virtue of such people as Lathom and Margaret Harrison.

But to prove the truth of my suspicions, I needed more facts—the sort of facts that a jury would accept. To them, my father’s knowledge of fungi would not be a fact at all.

I turned the matter over in my mind, and eventually came to the conclusion that, whether I liked it or not, I must see the woman Cutts. I hoped that she would come to me, but several days passed and I saw nothing of her. Either the creature had no facts to sell, or she was holding off in the hope of securing better terms. I saw through her artifice well enough, but I saw also that she had me at a disadvantage. Eventually, and with great reluctance, I wrote to her as follows, addressing the letter to Lathom’s studio.