Not to be Taken by Anthony Berkeley

about, Angela?’ I asked.
    Angela explained. She had written a private – a most private – letter that morning, and given it to the parlourmaid to post. And the parlourmaid, instead of posting it, had carried it straight to Cyril, who had opened it – and found himself well rewarded.
    ‘Cyril opened it?’ I repeated incredulously.
    ‘Yes. He’s like that, you know.’
    ‘But whom was it to?’
    Angela actually bridled.
    I will not recount the twists and mental wrigglings in which Angela indulged during the next ten minutes, obviously anxious to tell me about the letter and ask my advice, and yet at the same time unbearably coy about it. In view of the importance which was attached to this letter later I will give its text now, just as it was read out in the coroner’s court a fortnight afterwards:
    D ARLING B OY :
I am in great trouble and very unhappy. Please come at once and tell me what to do. You know that John died last week – most unexpectedly! – of some internal trouble from which he had been suffering for a long time.
Now his brother is down here, acting very strangely. He seems to think there was something wrong about John’s death and has insisted on a post-mortem. I am so frightened. He is treating me as if I were a criminal. If he finds out about us, I don’t know what he might do. For God’s sake don’t say anything to anyone about the France trip – and remember, I wasn’t in London at all that week; I was in Bournemouth all the time. You could come and stay in Torminster, and Peters could drive me over. Nobody could know, and I must have your advice, now more than ever .
All my love, darling boy, still,
Your distracted
    A NGELA .
     
    And the letter was addressed to Philip Strangman, Esq., St Joseph’s Hospital, London, EC.
    The gist of this precious communication I gathered then from Angela, and it did not need a fool to see that if Cyril’s suspicions, whatever they might have been, had not proved groundless and appearances at the post-mortem had been ominous, the information which this letter afforded might have been capable of a most sinister interpretation. Even as it was, I thought the lack of trust was bad enough, and I scolded Angela suitably.
    She hung her head and tried to look ashamed, but there was a curiously triumphal glint in her eye which made me feel a little disgusted. Nor was this disgust lessened when I learned, in answer to further questions, that this Philip Strangman was not, as I had imagined from the ‘Esq.’ after his name, a surgeon on the hospital’s staff, but a mere unfledged medical student.
    ‘Were you mad, Angela?’ I said without sympathy.
    Angela bridled. ‘Don’t take that tone, please, Douglas. I know I’m older than Philip, if that’s what you mean; but age isn’t everything. We love each other.’
    ‘You mean you’re lovers,’ I said somewhat brutally.
    ‘We’re that, in the vulgar sense of the word too,’ Angela answered, not without dignity.
    ‘And what would John have thought about it? I wonder,’ I demanded a little hotly, for I resented the silly woman’s betrayal of my friend.
    ‘John knew. And he quite understood.’
    ‘John knew?’ I echoed.
    ‘Certainly he knew. I told him. Only a few weeks ago. I didn’t wish to deceive him, and offered to leave here. We talked it over. He was fond of me, in his way, but he knew he’d never suited me – any more than I’d ever suited him. He advised me to stay here with him, on a purely friendly basis, until Philip was earning enough to keep us both. It was very generous of him and I was grateful and agreed. John always was very generous, you know.’
    ‘He certainly was,’ I agreed, rather nonplussed. The gesture did undeniably sound like John. And yet…
    ‘So, seeing that the whole thing had John’s approval, will you please get into touch with Philip for me (since apparently it isn’t safe to write a letter while Cyril’s still in the house) and ask him –’
    ‘No, I