Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 25, No. 2, August 13, 1927

“I need only tell you there is evidence that a cumulative poison, nux vomica in the form of a concentrated essence, had been introduced into a medicine chest that your father apparently kept in his bedroom.

“There is no doubt what the final result would be, if he unwittingly took that poison in several recurring doses. And no qualified medical man could really have been ignorant of the cause of death in such a case; not even the most obscure and backward country practitioner.

“On my first visit to Dunkillin, which you will remember, occurred just before Mrs. Renée McKellar had removed her belongings, I found traces — very slight one? — of a drug that seemed to call for investigation.

“It’s my experience that the most careful and far-sighted criminal will make a stupid slip somewhere, and fail to remove a clew that can sooner or later be unraveled. Like most criminal investigation department men, I have a working knowledge of drugs, but the home office pathologist has reported fully on those traces that came into my hands.

“And since then I have succeeded in adding several links of evidence to the chain which connects Renée McKellar with your father’s death. You have followed me closely, sir, and I need not labor that point.

“As to motive, it is clear that Mrs. McKellar had discovered something which your father intended to keep from her — that he had recently deposited with his lawyers a new will under which — whatever happened — she would inherit fifty thousand pounds. And in the event of your own decease, she would come into another three millions and the Dunkillin estate. Her reward, I’m glad to say, is going to be of quite a different nature.”

Inspector Maffet sat back in his chair, with the quiet satisfaction of a chess player who has mated his adversary.

“You will understand now, sir, that when I came down here to investigate the affair of the missing Harbord Chaytor — whom we didn’t know anything about except that he was missing — I then looked on that business as a hindrance and a nuisance.

“It might have turned out very awkwardly for you, and possibly prove an obstacle that would upset my case; though it’s likely we could have pulled you out of the mess. I am glad to say that the intelligence and decision of Miss Allister cleared that obstacle right out of the way. We are now concerned only with Renée McKellar — and probably with her partner, Laurence Drumont.”

Tommy, who had listened in silence, huddled in his chair and staring down at the carpet, raised his eyes to the inspector’s.

“I see,” he said slowly. “Then you believe — you have a certainty?”

“Yes. As far as anything can be certain in police work. Don’t you see it for yourself?”

“Yes,” said Tommy. “Yes — it does look complete.”

He stood up, with a little sigh.

“I have one request to make,” he said, “that I hope you’ll agree to. There’s one person in this house, inspector, who, though he only has a subordinate job, I’ve learned to place considerable faith in. I propose to have him come here and to get his view on this before we go any farther.”

“Who is it?”

“Gillespie,” said Tommy, pressing the bell.

“Your butler? Certainly have him in if you like. He is a witness, of course.”

“Ask Gillespie to come here,” said Tommy to the footman who answered the bell. The butler appeared in due course. He had apparently recovered from the weakness that had overcome him in the hall.

“Sit down, Gillespie. We should like to have your advice on a very serious matter.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Gillespie respectfully. “I prefer to stand.”

“Put as shortly as possible.” said Tommy, “it’s this.” He gave a brief outline of the charge Maffet had detailed.

Gillespie listened without remark. His glance traveled from Tommy’s face to Delia’s, and then to the inspector’s.

“Can you throw any fresh light on this case, Gillespie?” asked Maffet, a trifle ironically.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then let us have it.”

Gillespie paused.

“If what I say should give you any offense, sir,” he said, “I apologize beforehand. But I fear you will find it difficult to prove that Mr. John McKellar was murdered.”

“Why?”

“Because,” said Gillespie, “I am John McKellar.”

Chapter L Money Can Kill

Gillespie sat down in the chair that Tommy had placed for him. Inspector Maffet stared at him with an impression that the butler had suddenly become insane.

“I am John Herries McKellar,” said the old man, “some time of the McKellar Foundries, and of Dunkillin. Tom McKellar here, is my son. Miss Allister, I am proud to say, will soon be my daughter-in-law.”

Maffet continued to stare at him dumbly.

“As to the exhumation of my body,” continued Mr. McKellar, as though he were apologizing for some trifle, “the coffin which is stoned up in my family vault contains nothing more than a hundred and sixty pounds of pig-iron, which is not worth the cost of recovery.