February 2013
The year was 1847, a bright sunny day when Tom Arnold stepped off the train at Nethershott Common. He had been a police inspector until recently and was re-visiting the scene of one of the crimes he had been assigned to, some ten years ago.
It was not just idle curiosity that had brought Tom here or perhaps it could be interpreted as being just that. It hadn't really occurred to him that the chief suspect had possibly died or simply moved out of the area. No, he had a hunch that James Foxwell would still be occupying the same elegant house in Cresswell Street where he lived all those years ago.
Here it was, no 17, just as he remembered it when he had cause to enter it on several occasionsd in the course of his enquiries. The housemaid who admitted him this time was different of course; Arnold wouldn't have expected the servants to remain, given the history of the house.
She announced him to Foxwell who surprisingly was not averse to seeing the ex-policeman.
'Come in, inspector,' he said. 'I always wondered if one day I'd see you again. I suppose you've come to ask me about poor Hermione's death, off the record, as it were.'
'Yes, off the record, as you say. Oh, and I'm an ex-inspector now, by the way.'
'Anyway,' continued Tom, seating himself in a plush stuffed armchair, at Foxwell's unspoken bidding. 'I know damned well you murdered your wife to inherit her wealth, but I could never prove it, no matter how hard I tried. I'm sure you poisoned her, but though I combed all the chemists' shops in the area, I was never able to find any signature in the poison book matching your handwriting. Unfortunately no trace of arsenic was found in your wife's body, though I'm sure that's what you used and as you are no doubt aware a foolproof test for arsenic hasn't been developed. Sotell me, how did you do it?'
'Well, you were never one to beat about the bush, were you inspector?' said Foxwell, forgetting his guest was no longer with the force. 'As you can probably see from my appearance, I haven't got long in this world, so perhaps my sins will be forgiven in the next. Yes, I did poison my wife and you were right, I did use arsenic. Only a small amount was necessary, as you of course know in the course of your work.'
'But where did you get it from?' Tom asked. 'Did you purchase it from a chemist in Scotland or somewhere else far away – somewhere abroad?'
'No, Mr Arnold,' replied Foxwell triumphantly. 'I didn't buy it at a chemist, I bought it at a hardware store.'
'Oh, come on, Mr Foxwell. You can't tell me you can just walk into a hardware store and buy a bottle of arsenic. You know there are regulations for the sale of it.'
'Yes, but there's no regulations for the sale of fly paper!'
'Fly paper?' exclaimed the detective.
'Yes, fly paper. Didn't you know that fly paper contains arsenic? All I had to do was to boil it out of it and I had a supply that nobody could trace to me. No risk whatsoever.'
'Well, Foxwell, thanks for filling me in on how you did it. That's baffled me for ten years,' said Arnold, standing up and making his way to the front door. 'So you haven't long to go, have you?'
'That's right, Arnold. I'm eaten up with cancer, apparently, according to my doctor.'
'In that case I can only hope that you suffer twice as much as your poor wife must have done. Good day to you.'
And with that Parthian shot, the ex-policeman took his leave, never to return to no. 17 Cresswell Street.