After the Funeral - Agatha Christie [33]
The doctor stirred uneasily.
“I wouldn’t use the word impossible. After his son’s death life no longer held the interest for Abernethie that it had done. I certainly don’t feel that suicide is likely—but I can’t say that it’s impossible.”
“You are speaking from the psychological angle. When I say medically, I really meant: do the circumstances of his death make such a suggestion impossible?”
“No, oh no. No, I can’t say that. He died in his sleep, as people often do. There was no reason to suspect suicide, no evidence of his state of mind. If one were to demand an autopsy every time a man who is seriously ill died in his sleep—”
The doctor’s face was getting redder and redder. Mr. Entwhistle hastened to interpose.
“Of course. Of course. But if there had been evidence—evidence of which you yourself were not aware? If, for instance, he had said something to someone—”
“Indicating that he was contemplating suicide? Did he? I must say it surprises me.”
“But if it were so—my case is purely hypothetical—could you rule out the possibility?”
Dr. Larraby said slowly:
“No—not—I could not do that. But I say again. I should be very much surprised.”
Mr. Entwhistle hastened to follow up his advantage.
“If, then, we assume that his death was not natural—all this is purely hypothetical—what could have caused it? What kind of a drug, I mean?”
“Several. Some kind of a narcotic would be indicated. There was no sign of cyanosis, the attitude was quite peaceful.”
“He had sleeping draughts or pills? Something of that kind.”
“Yes. I had prescribed Slumberyl—a very safe and dependable hypnotic. He did not take it every night. And he only had a small bottle of tablets at a time. Three or even four times the prescribed dose would not have caused death. In fact, I remember seeing the bottle on his washstand after his death still nearly full.”
“What else had you prescribed for him?”
“Various things—a medicine containing a small quantity of morphia to be taken when he had an attack of pain. Some vitamin capsules. An indigestion mixture.”
Mr. Entwhistle interrupted.
“Vitamin capsules? I think I was once prescribed a course of those. Small round capsules of gelatine.”
“Yes. Containing adexoline.”
“Could anything else have been introduced into—say—one of those capsules?”
“Something lethal, you mean?” The doctor was looking more and more surprised. “But surely no man would ever—look here, Entwhistle, what are you getting at? My God, man, are you suggesting murder?”
“I don’t quite know what I’m suggesting…I just want to know what would be possible.”
“But what evidence have you for even suggesting such a thing?”
“I haven’t any evidence,” said Mr. Entwhistle in a tired voice. “Mr. Abernethie is dead—and the person to whom he spoke is also dead. The whole thing is rumour—vague, unsatisfactory rumour, and I want to scotch it if I can. If you tell me that no one could possibly have poisoned Abernethie in any way whatsoever, I’ll be delighted! It would be a big weight off my mind, I can assure you.”
Dr. Larraby got up and walked up and down.
“I can’t tell you what you want me to tell you,” he said at last. “I wish I could. Of course it could have been done. Anybody could have extracted the oil from a capsule and replaced it with—say—pure nicotine or half a dozen other things. Or something could have been put in his food or drink? Isn’t that more likely?”
“Possibly. But you see, there were only the servants in the house when he died—and I don’t think it was any of them—in fact I’m quite sure it wasn’t. So I’m looking for some delayed action possibility. There’s no drug, I suppose, that you can administer and then the person dies weeks later?”
“A convenient idea—but untenable, I’m afraid,” said the doctor drily. “I know you’re a reasonable person, Entwhistle, but who is making this suggestion? It seems to me wildly farfetched.”
“Abernethie never said anything to you? Never hinted that one of his relations might be wanting him out of the way?”
The doctor looked at him curiously.
“No, he never said