Too Many Cousins

Deanery Street, by the Dorchester. The driver saw Dresser right under his lamps, stood on his brakes, skidded, and hit him sideways. Dresser’s head was crushed in, and he was killed instantly. Our people say the man wasn’t really to blame at all. There were a couple of quite sound witnesses, and they both state Dresser didn’t look round. He could see the Lane was clear, and he forgot traffic coming down Deanery Street. That’s all there is to it, Tuke. What put you on to it, and why?”
“I hadn’t much doubt it was an accident,” Harvey said. “You people don’t often slip up over that sort of thing.”
“Nice of you to say so,” Wray said sarcastically.
“What do you know about the late captain’s family?”
“His family? Why? He is described as having no parents living. The nearest relative they could find seems to have been a French cousin. Name given here as Mile Boulanger.”
Mr. Tuke took out a cigar. While he pierced and lighted it with care, Wray drummed impatiently on his table.
“Yes, cousins,” Mr. Tuke went on. “The operative word. Captain Dresser’s death has started a train of coincidences that are a little too odd for my simple faith.”
“What coincidences? There’s nothing more here.”
“As I suspected. Apparently there is not always that close co-ordination between our police forces which would seem desirable.”
Wray’s sandy eyebrows drew together. “Indeed? What have we missed?”
“I am going to tell you. Dresser was one of six cousins. The six were, and the survivors are, joint heirs to an estate said to amount to over £200,000——”
“What exactly do you imply by survivors?”
“Ah, the implication has not escaped your nimble brain. It’s like the old rhyme. Six little cousins were very much alive. One was run over, and then there were five. That was only six months ago. It may interest you to know that there are now only three. And apparently there were very nearly only two.”
Wray stared for a moment. He laced his bony fingers together and made them crack in a startling manner.
“I presume you consider this some concern of ours, or you wouldn’t have brought it up.”
“Well, you can work it out for yourself, Wray. £200,000 divided by six. Now by three. And the deceased beneficiaries all died by accident.”
Wray drew a pad towards him. “Come on, Tuke,” he said. “How do you know all this? Give me the details.” For the second time that morning Harvey recited the story of the Shearsby family. Wray took notes, pausing only to light another cigarette from the stub of the first. At the end he picked up one of the telephones on his table and rapped out brisk instructions. He turned again to Harvey with a rather sour smile.
“I agree with you. Obviously this must be looked into. We shall hear in a moment if Records have anything on these other cases. I shall be surprised if they have. Your crack about co-ordination, Tuke, was beside the point. You know perfectly well that inquests outside the metropolitan area are not our concern, unless the locals have their doubts and call us in. Hertfordshire and Surrey have not done so. Presumably both are satisfied with the verdicts of accidental death.”
“Presumably also they haven’t linked the two cases, or connected them with Dresser’s. Neither have you.”
“What do you expect?” Wray rejoined acidly. “The name is different in each case. We haven’t the time, if we had the staff, to collate obituary notices from all over the country, like your friend Parmiter, and then run round asking the local people if they’re satisfied. Damn it, what are they for?”
“I have sometimes wondered.”
“I often do,” said Wray, rather unfairly. “But there it is.”
“Well, this time you have a locus standi,” Harvey pointed out. “Dresser was killed in your sacred metropolitan area. Accident or not, his case gives you a lever with the country bobbies.”
The telephone buzzed, and Wray listened for a moment. As he put the instrument back he shrugged at Harvey.
“Records have nothing on either of the cases. Which means we were not asked to trace or notify any next-of-kin. Both Hertfordshire and Surrey must have known of one living outside the London area. Obviously the chemist at Bedford. This Mrs. Porteous was his sister, and Beds and Herts touch, so no doubt he saw something of the writer chap. The Bedford police would be asked to notify him in both cases.”
Mr. Tuke, lying back in his chair, had closed his eyes. Without opening them, he said:
“Ah, chemistry. What do you know about sodium nitrite? ”
“Nothing. But I can find out.” Wray picked up the telephone again. “Inspector Tapp,” he said.
During a brief colloquy with Inspector Tapp, he made more notes. His gingery eyebrows rose a little.
“Dear me,” he remarked. “Thank you, inspector.” His cigarette smouldering between his fingers, he looked meaningly at Harvey. “The formula is NaNO2 One of the alkaline metal compounds. Extremely soluble in water. Has never been employed, to our knowledge, for criminal purposes. But, last September, a whole family in Bedford died of sodium nitrite poisoning because the stuff was mistaken for common salt and the potatoes were boiled with it. The man was employed by Imperial Sansil—sodium nitrite is used in dye-making—and he must have taken a dollop home. Probably as a fertiliser. It was the first known case of its kind, and was reported in the London press. If I saw it, I’ve forgotten about it. At the inquest, a witness from Imperial Sansil said the man handled the stuff in the course of his work. He could have got it elsewhere, and apparently it can be brewed by anyone with an elementary knowledge of chemistry.”
“Which has been denied me,” Harvey observed. “I was on the classical side. There is something to be said for a classical education. Catullus or Virgil can be safely boiled with the potatoes. I note by your expressive eyebrows, Wray, that the coincidence of the scene of the catastrophe has not escaped you.”
“Bedford? And Imperial