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Twenty
I
Over the telephone, Craddock’s voice came in sharp disbelief.
“Alfred?” he said. “Alfred?”
expect that?”
“No, indeed. As a matter of fact, I’d just got him taped for the murderer!”
him all right. Yes, looked as though we’d got our man.”
“Well,” said Craddock flatly, “we were wrong.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then Craddock asked:
“There was a nurse in charge. How did she come to slip up?”
“Can’t blame her. Miss Eyelesbarrow was all in and went to get a bit of
sleep. The nurse had five patients on her hands, the old man, Emma,
Cedric, Harold and Alfred. She couldn’t be everywhere at once. It seems
old Mr. Crackenthorpe started creating in a big way. Said he was dying.
“Arsenic again?”
“Seems so. Of course it could have been a relapse, but Quimper doesn’t
think so and Johnstone agrees.”
“I suppose,” said Craddock, doubtfully, “that Alfred was meant to be the
victim?”
Bacon sounded interested. “You mean that whereas Alfred’s death
wouldn’t do anyone a penn’orth of good, the old man’s death would bene-
fit the lot of them? I suppose it might have been a mistake—somebody
might have thought the tea was intended for the old man.”
“Are they sure that that’s the way the stuff was administered?”
“No, of course they aren’t sure. The nurse, like a good nurse, washed up
the whole contraption. Cups, spoons, teapot—everything. But it seems the
only feasible method.”
“Meaning,” said Craddock thoughtfully, “that one of the patients wasn’t
as ill as the others? Saw his chance and doped the cup?”
“Well, there won’t be anymore funny business,” said Inspector Bacon
grimly. “We’ve got two nurses on the job now, to say nothing of Miss Eye-
lesbarrow, and I’ve got a couple of men there too. You coming down?”
“As fast as I can make it!”
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