Slight Mourning by Catherine Aird Page A

numbers from the bottles, and then turned over another page in his notebook. “The barbiturate—how much was there of it?”
    â€œGood question,” said Dr. Dabbe.
    â€œEnough,” replied Writtle, “to make sure that he didn’t see morning. I’ll let you have the full quantitative analysis on paper.”
    â€œThank you, Doctor.” Sloan looked from one to the other. “I think you’ve told me everything I need to know to begin with except one thing …”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œWhether he took it himself or had it given to him.”
    â€œAnother good question,” observed Dabbe.
    Writtle stroked his chin. “That’s more difficult to say, Inspector.”
    â€œYour department, anyway, Sloan,” said Dabbe mischievously. “Not ours. We’re only the humble legmen, aren’t we, Writtle? Hewers of detective wood and drawers of forensic water.”
    â€œAnd,” went on Sloan crisply, refusing to be drawn, “whether, if he did take it himself, it was on purpose or by mistake.”
    â€œAh,” said Writtle thoughtfully.
    â€œOr, come to that, gentlemen, if someone else gave it to him by mistake.”
    â€œWe don’t know that either, Dabbe, do we?” said Writtle.
    The pathologist turned a look of bland innocence in Sloan’s direction. “We know hardly anything about anything.”
    â€œI have heard,” said Sloan firmly, “of cases where a person having taken a sleeping tablet is a bit confused by its effect. Then he can’t remember if he’s had his tablet or not and so he takes another.”
    â€œAutomatism,” said Writtle. “That’s the name for that.”
    â€œAnd then he takes another tablet after that one,” agreed Dabbe, “to be quite sure he’s had his dose. It happens.”
    â€œNot as a rule until the patient is either in or near to going to bed,” pointed out Writtle. “And not before setting out on a drive.”
    â€œHe didn’t know he was going to have to go out in the car,” Sloan informed him absently. “Do I take these bottles away with me now, Doctor?”
    â€œThese? Oh, no, Inspector. These are only half our workings. We’re keeping the other half with these meantime.”
    â€œFor the Defence,” added Writtle.
    Dr. Dabbe waved a hand at the collection of specimen jars on the laboratory bench. He was quite serious now. “But that barbiturate, Sloan …”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œI should say that it could constitute ‘a destructive thing’ within the meaning of the Act.” The doctor looked at him. “What you need now for a watertight case is the ‘malice aforethought’ bit.”
    It was half an hour after they left the church before the chief mourners got back to Strontfield Park. Half an hour in which the coffin had been lowered into the grave, the rector had spoken the words of the Committal, and the funeral cars had driven back through the village. As they passed, Herbert Kelway lifted the blinds of his shop-window and then got back to work.
    Back at the house duty called, too.
    If Mrs. Helen Fent wanted nothing more than to shut herself away in her room she did not say so. Instead she moved slowly around among those present, politely responding to well-meant condolences. Always pale-faced, she was now almost without colour at all. She had chosen to wear a loose-fitting linen dress in a shade of charcoal grey which went well with her raven hair but which also served to heighten her pallor. She wasn’t tall but even so she stood out in the present company because people fell back a little as she moved. In deference to grief, no one’s back was turned to her.
    Like stage royalty, thought Annabel Pollock involuntarily, making her own escape to the dining-room. Cold luncheon had been set out there by Milly Pennyfeather for those who wanted it. Annabel busied