Deadly Nightshade by Elizabeth Daly Page B

skipping off.
    â€œShe just loves that funny Adelaide. Aren’t children queer?” Mrs. Bartram closed the lid of the jewel box, and hurried out, all smiles. This time Carroll Bartram managed to rise, and remained standing; one elbow on the mantelshelf, his head bent, and his eyes fixed on the embers in the fireplace.
    â€œThat’s off my mind,” he said. “I’m glad your good, kind little wife likes the things, George.”
    George Bartram cleared his throat. “It was mighty nice of you to dig ’em out, old man. I never should have thought of ’em.”
    â€œWhy should you? They’re not very important. Well, let’s get on with it.” He did not lift his head, and his fingers tapped the ledge of the chimney piece nervously. “Anything to tell us, Mitchell? Any ideas, Mr. Gamadge?”
    Gamadge said: “We seem to be wandering in a fog, Mr. Bartram, unless we decide to adopt the gypsy theory, and write the thing off as a tragic accident.”
    â€œBut will those poor devils of gypsies get into trouble if we do that?”
    â€œNot serious trouble, unless we find evidence against ’em,” said Mitchell. “Of course we couldn’t let ’em come back here, or any place within fifty miles of Oakport. The community wouldn’t stand for it.”
    â€œThat seems so brutally unfair.”
    â€œAnd the tribe might make some kind of a fuss about it; the men, I mean.”
    â€œThey hate trouble,” remarked Loring. “They wouldn’t fuss much.”
    â€œWe don’t exactly want to take advantage of that.”
    â€œWe don’t want to take any advantage of them at all,” said Bartram. “If it happened through one of their children, it’s a thing that wouldn’t happen again in a thousand years; I don’t believe it ever happened before—not in this part of the world.”
    â€œWell, if you don’t like the gypsy theory, we can consider Tommy Ormiston’s evidence about a lady in a car. A harmless lunatic—”
    Loring interrupted. “As a professional man, I can’t let you assume that all lunatics are necessarily well-intentioned; especially if they go about distributing poison.”
    â€œEven a layman doesn’t assume that, Doctor; but the point is that this second theory deals with a person without sane motive. Leaving it aside for the moment, we turn to theory number three—that a sane person had a definite reason for distributing the berries. Can you supply me with a reasonable motive which would embrace the Beasleys, the Bartrams, the Ormistons, and perhaps the gypsies? Or do I understand that there’s some doubt about little Elias having had any atropine?”
    â€œI’ll stake my professional reputation he hadn’t,” declared Loring. “Between you and me, Cogswell’s diagnosis was a pure case of wishful thinking; he wants to pin this business on the gypsies, and get rid of it.”
    â€œWell, how about the three other families?”
    â€œFantastic.”
    â€œThen we’re faced with the assumption that only one family was the real object of the attack; somebody had something to gain, or a grudge to work off. The other poisonings were carried out to confuse the issue, and keep investigation off the right trail.”
    There was a silence. Then George Bartram exploded:
    â€œThat’s the craziest thing I ever heard.” He glanced about at the others. “Carroll—Loring. Isn’t that the craziest thing you ever heard of?”
    â€œNo, George, it isn’t.” Loring turned narrow eyes on him. “It’s logic. Mr. Gamadge is simply going over all the possibilities. Do face it intelligently.”
    â€œI know what you think about my intelligence, Bob; but I say there never was any such plan as that carried out except in a dime novel.”
    â€œI must lend you some of my criminological treatises, George.