Ackroyd’s housekeeper is a tall woman, handsome but forbidding in appearance. She has a stern eye, and lips that shut tightly, and I feel that if I were an under housemaid or a kitchenmaid I should run for my life whenever I heard her coming.
‘Good morning, dr Sheppard,’ said Miss Russell. ‘I should be much obliged if you would take a look at my knee.’
I took a look, but, truth to tell, I was very little wiser when I had done so. Miss Russell’s account of vague pains was so unconvincing that with a woman of less integrity of character I should have suspected a trumped-up tale. It did cross my mind for one moment that Miss Russell might have deliberately invented this affection of the knee in order to pump me on the subject of Mrs Ferrars’s death, but I soon saw that there, at least, I had misjudged her. She made a brief reference to the tragedy, nothing more. yet she certainly seemed disposed to linger and chat.
‘Well, thank you very much for this bottle of liniment, doctor,’ she said at last. ‘Not that I believe it will do the least good.’
I didn’t think it would either, but I protested in duty bound. After all, it couldn’t do any harm, and one must stick up for the tools of one’s trade.
‘I don’t believe in all these drugs,’ said Miss Russell, her eyes sweeping over my array of bottles disparagingly. ‘drugs do a lot of harm. Look at the cocaine habit.’
‘Well, as far as that goes-’
‘It’s very prevalent in high society.’
I’m sure Miss Russell knows far more about high society than I do. I didn’t attempt to argue with her.
‘Just tell me this, doctor,’ said Miss Russell. ‘Suppose you are really a slave of the drug habit, is there any cure?’
One cannot answer a question like that off-hand. I gave her a short lecture on the subject, and she listened with close attention. I still suspected her of seeking information about Mrs Ferrars.
‘Now, veronal, for instance-’ I proceeded.
But, strangely enough, she didn’t seem interested in veronal. Instead she changed the subject, and asked me if it was true that there were certain poisons so rare as to baffle detection.
‘Ah!’ I said. ‘you’ve been reading detective stories.’
She admitted that she had.
‘The essence of a detective story,’ I said, ‘is to have a rare poison – if possible something from South America, that nobody has ever heard of – something that one obscure tribe of savages use to poison their arrows with. death is instantaneous, and Western science is powerless to detect it. Is that the kind of thing you mean?’
‘Yes. Is there really such a thing?’
I shook my head regretfully.
‘I’m afraid there isn’t. There’s curare, of course.’
I told her a good deal about curare, but she seemed to have lost interest once more. She asked me if I had any in my poison cupboard, and when I replied in the negative I fancy I fell in her estimation.
I should never have suspected Miss Russell of a fondness for detective stories. It pleases me very much to think of her stepping out of the housekeeper’s room to rebuke a delinquent housemaid, and then returning to a comfortable perusal of The Mystery of the Seventh Death, or something of the kind.
