Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 48, No. 1, January 2003

He spoke in bursts in a lilting Welsh accent, nodded to Pole and Darwin, helped himself without asking to a glass of wine, and went to stand by the window, where he bobbed up and down like a round windup toy.

Wentworth waved his hand. “Colonel Jacob Pole, Erasmus Darwin.”

“Good afternoon — Colonel, Doctor. Now then! Would that be Dr. Darwin of Lichfield?” Arbuthnot stooped and peered at Darwin as at a biological specimen. “Your fame precedes you, sir. Did you not affect that amazing cure of the Vicar of Northesk? And one yet more remarkable of Lady Buxton?”

Darwin smiled his ruined smile. “Remarkable, Dr. Arbuthnot, only that in the latter case there was nothing at all wrong with the lady. She merely needed to be told that, and firmly.”

“Like a fifth of my wealthy patients, while genuine sickness in the poor goes untreated.” Arbuthnot leaned forward and helped himself to one of the few remaining raspberries. “So what is it, Collie? Military matters — medical matters — or more of this morning’s claptrap?”

“Dr. Darwin would value your opinion regarding the last mentioned.”

“John Chevallier still sitting with his head in the sand, eh? Barton blown off the roof — stuff and nonsense. I hope, Dr. Darwin, that the Master has not been troubling you.”

“No. I have yet to meet the gentleman.”

“Keep it that way.”

“But I would like to ask your opinion regarding the death of Elias Barton. You saw his corpse long before I did.”

“Early this morning. Already dead. Condition of the body, hmm, dead, say, six hours.”

“And in your examination, did you inspect his hands?”

“Of course. Ah, see where you’re going. ’Course I did, hands often revealing. Fingers and thumbs, you mean? Blackened and stained. But old marks, those. Played no part in his death. He jumped from the roof of Third Court, simple as that. No one on Earth — including the Master, stupid man — ever persuades me Barton slipped. Blown over, even more stupid. Landed feet-first, he did. Like he decided — bit too late — he didn’t wish to die.”

“I concur completely. And the blackened and stained fingers. Might you suggest a cause?”

“No more than speculation. But — hmm. Discoloration and burning — definite burning, no whorls on some of the fingertips — accidental minor injuries. Careless use of acids and bleaches, maybe? For weeks or months.”

“And not, conceivably, burns caused by a lightning strike?”

“Poppycock!” Arbuthnot, aware of a possible breach of etiquette, rushed on, “Of course, if you know facts of which I’m ignorant—”

“Not at all. Again, we concur completely. Suppose, however, we add to the list of substances that Elias Barton may have handled. What if, in addition to the corrosives that burned and discolored his fingers, he had worked with other materials? Heated mercury, say, or elements of the medical pharmacopoeia, such as digitalis, foxglove, and aconite?”

“Then he was playing with fire. Might not notice at once, but over time—” Arbuthnot stopped his energetic bobbing and stood totally still. “My God. Mercury vapor poisoning?”

“The evidence was there. Go to the body, and you will see a blue line on the gums. And his teeth were loose.”

“Long-term use, then. So — effects on brain. Fits of madness — mistrust of others — outbursts of violence — excessive gaiety — apparent drunkenness. Any and all have been recorded.”

“All those, plus hallucinations and a conviction of invincibility. A man whose brain is affected by mercuric vapor poisoning might well feel that he could tame a lightning storm — or fly, if he chose, safely down from the highest of places.”

“Ye gods.” Arbuthnot slapped himself hard on the forehead. “John Chevallier — a pox on the man — was right after all. No deliberate suicide for Elias Barton. Death by misfortune and ignorance. But Barton — he was an archivist. Right, Collie? Not skilled in science. Dabbling in subjects far from his competence?”

“His great learning led to his downfall. As a charitable act to a young scholar for whom he served as tutor, he managed to locate a set of papers written by Isaac Newton. I assume he discovered them in neighboring Trinity College. He had been seeking Newton’s mathematical writing, but he found much more. As Newton himself has said, he minded mathematics and science more as a young man than an older one. After forty, his interests turned to other pursuits. To the interpretation of scripture, and to—”

“Alchemy!” The word exploded from Arbuthnot. “He left a mass of alchemic writing.”