Chapter 7
A fter a brief conference on the pavement in Park Lane, Stokes dispatched O’Donnell to take the poison packet to Findlay and sent the constables from the search party back to their normal posts, leaving Morgan with a small group to maintain a cordon around the house.
A bevy of reporters were currently cooling their heels in a loose gathering under the trees on the other side of the street, kept at that distance by two watchful constables.
Several of the press had perked up at the sight of the investigative team, but were being actively discouraged from calling out questions, which, regardless, Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope ignored.
After seeing O’Donnell rumble off in a police wagon with the returning constables, Stokes joined Barnaby and Penelope in their carriage.
Barnaby had already directed Phelps to take them to Chifley’s Chemist Shop. No further information was needed, and mere minutes after rolling away from Moran House, the carriage drew up in Piccadilly, just before the corner of Old Down Street.
Connor dropped to the pavement and opened the carriage door. Barnaby descended first, before the wide front window of Chifley’s Chemist Shop. The place was a fixture in Mayfair, well known to most residents and their households.
Barnaby gave Penelope his hand and assisted her down the carriage steps, then Stokes climbed out, and the three of them paused to take in the colorful window display and the well-lit shelves and counters beyond.
A shrewd and canny businessman, Chifley worked to make his shop welcoming and reaped the commensurate rewards.
For Stokes’s edification, Penelope stated, “Everyone in Mayfair uses Chifley’s to supply their medicines and tonics.”
Stokes glanced at her, then looked at Barnaby. “So you’re customers?”
Barnaby nodded. “Especially now we have the boys. Cough tonics are one of Chifley’s specialties.”
“And they work,” Penelope said and started for the door. “Come on. Let’s see what Chifley can tell us about the packet of strychnine bought on April seventh.”
Penelope swept into the shop, and a bell tinkled melodiously, drawing the attention of the middle-aged man—neatly dressed in a suit and with a well-groomed head of brown curls—who was standing behind the main counter that ran the length of one side of the shop.
As Penelope approached, Barnaby and Stokes at her back, Chifley beamed. “Mrs. Adair! And Mr. Adair as well. How delightful to see you. And how are your two mites?”
“The boys are thriving, thank you.” Penelope halted before the counter. “And how are you and Mrs. Chifley?”
“We’re both very well, and I’ll tell her you asked.” Chifley’s eyes shone with good humor.
Halting beside Penelope, Barnaby nodded cordially to Chifley. “Good afternoon, Chifley. As it happens, we”—Barnaby gestured to Stokes, who’d come up on Penelope’s other side —“and Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard are here on a matter in no way connected with our household.”
“Oh?” Chifley was openly curious. “And what might that matter be?”
Penelope knew that the best way to engage Chifley’s ever-inquisitive heart was to enlist him as a helper, so she hurried to explain, “We’re trying to trace the source of some poison—strychnine powder, as a matter of fact—that was found in a nearby house, and we believe the poison was purchased at Chifley’s. ”
“The packet we found bears your shop’s name and also a date,” Stokes stated. “The seventh of April, which was last Thursday.”
Chifley’s expression turned grave. “I must state that we’ve been very much against allowing the populace such easy access to the powdered form.
There’s a much higher danger of accidental poisoning, and strychnine is not a poison that affords much leeway, so to speak.
” He stepped back, his gaze lowering to the area beneath the counter.
“Because of that, we’ve instituted a system that we always follow when selling the more dangerous powders.
” He reached down and drew out a scarlet-cloth-covered ledger.
“We keep a register of all purchases of the more dangerous substances.”
Stokes came alert. “A register?”
“Indeed.” Chifley set the scarlet ledger on the counter and opened it. “Substance, amount, name of purchaser, date of purchase, and a signature.” He started flicking over pages. “Now, let me see. Strychnine, strychnine—here we are.” He ran a finger down one column. “April seventh, you said?”
Penelope held her breath and was sure Stokes and Barnaby were holding theirs, too.
Chifley flicked over another page, then his finger halted on one entry. “Ah. Yes.” He straightened and read, “A quarter ounce of strychnine powder, sold on April seventh to Mr. F. Fitzhugh.”
Chifley swung the ledger around so they could see the entry for themselves. He tapped the last column. “As I mentioned, we insist the purchaser signs.”
Together with Barnaby and Stokes, Penelope stared at the neat figures of the entry—plainly made in one hand, presumably that of the vendor—and the signature at the end, which was in a very different script.
Barnaby straightened and nodded to Chifley. “Thank you, Mr. Chifley. That’s a great help.”
“Indeed,” Stokes said. “This idea of yours of a dangerous-substance register is an excellent one.” He nodded approvingly to Chifley. “I’ll be mentioning it to the Commissioner.”
Chifley beamed. “I’m delighted to have been of help.”
But… Penelope studied Chifley, then asked, “I’m sure you must be acquainted with Mr. Fitzhugh—Mr. Frederick Fitzhugh?”
Chifley nodded. “I know the gentleman by sight, but it’s more often his wife who comes in to make purchases for their household.”
“Do you recall serving Mr. Frederick Fitzhugh last Thursday?” Barnaby asked.
Chifley’s face fell. “I have to confess it wasn’t I who served him.” He tapped the ledger entry. “Judging by the writing, it was Joseph, my assistant, who handled the sale.”
“May we speak with Joseph?” Penelope promptly asked.
“Of course.” Chifley looked toward the rear of the shop, where a high counter cut off a section of the shop’s space.
Beyond the counter, several white-jacketed staff could be seen, filling packets with pills and bottles with prepared tonics.
Among them was Joseph, whom Penelope had dealt with before.
Chifley caught Joseph’s eye and beckoned him to join them.
After shrugging off his white jacket, the younger man hurried out from the rear through a side door and continued behind the long counter toward them. “Yes, Mr. Chifley?”
In avuncular fashion, Chifley placed a hand on Joseph’s shoulder. “Joseph, you know Mr. and Mrs. Adair. This other gentleman is Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard, and he and the Adairs are trying to trace a packet of strychnine powder, which seems to be one you sold last week.”
Alarm flared in Joseph’s eyes, and Barnaby quickly assured him, “There’s no suggestion of any wrongdoing on your part.”
Penelope smiled encouragingly. “Mr. Chifley has shown us this quite excellent register”—she laid her hand on the open ledger and tapped her finger on the pertinent entry—“and we wanted to ask if you could describe the gentleman, Mr. F. Fitzhugh, who bought this packet of strychnine last Thursday.”
Joseph glanced at his employer. When Chifley nodded his approval, Joseph returned his gaze to Penelope’s face. “Mr. Fitzhugh was a well-dressed man, definitely a gentleman.”
When Joseph seemed to think that was description enough, Penelope prompted, “How tall was he?”
“Tallish—over six feet, I would say,” Joseph replied and added, “Not heavily built, though. More on the lean side.”
Penelope nodded. “Hair color?”
“Dark hair. Very dark brown,” Joseph said and obligingly went on, “He had a pale complexion—notably pale—and black eyebrows and blue eyes.”
Penelope paused. Joseph’s description fitted Frederick and Christopher and, indeed, all four of the older Fitzhugh nephews. She glanced at Barnaby and Stokes and, from their expressions, deduced they’d come to the same conclusion.
As if sensing their conundrum, Joseph glanced at Mr. Chifley and said, “I did speak with the gentleman for several minutes. If I saw him again, I’m sure I could with certainty say that it was him.”
Along with Stokes and Barnaby, Penelope beamed.
Stokes tapped the counter. “Excellent!” He nodded to Joseph. “It may not be necessary, but it’s possible that, at some point, we might need to call on you to do that. But for now”—he inclined his head to Chifley—“thank you both. That’s all we need to this point.”
To Chifley, Barnaby said, “Please keep this register safe. It might be needed as evidence.”
Chifley bowed and assured them that he, and Joseph, too, were more than happy to assist in whatever way they could.
Leaving both Chifley and Joseph patently chuffed at being involved in an investigation, with Barnaby and Stokes, Penelope quit the counter and made for the door, which Joseph hurried across to open for them.
With a gracious nod for the young assistant, Penelope walked out onto the pavement and paused, raising her face to the afternoon sunshine.
When Barnaby and Stokes joined her, she observed, “Chifley’s is not at all far from Frederick’s home in Hertford Street.” She tipped her head and went on, “That said, Piccadilly is not far from any of the houses of those involved in this case.”
“True,” Stokes said. “And given we were planning to interview the families this afternoon, I suggest we go to Hertford Street and see what Frederick Fitzhugh is willing to tell us.”
Penelope stood beside Barnaby on the doorstep of the Fitzhugh house in Hertford Street and watched as Stokes plied the knocker with authority.
Less than a minute later, the door was opened by a sober, quietly assured butler, who, on hearing their names, stepped back and bowed them into the house. “The master and mistress mentioned you might drop by.”