‘And that’s what happened to Mrs Partridge?’
‘According to the post-mortem findings.’
‘As quickly as makes no matter?’
‘The hospital doctors said she was admitted with no recognizable signs of toxicity except that she was in a state of near collapse. She wasn’t vomiting, but there appeared to be depression of the central nervous system, so they gave her oxygen. They were able to question her at one point and she swore she had taken no food out of the ordinary and no drugs or medicines. They were extremely puzzled by the whole affair, I can assure you. Later she became a bit irrational and her pupils were grossly dilated, so then they did take precautions against poison—gastric lavage and catharsis—washing out the stomach and giving purgatives. But it was no use. She became comatose and died soon after.’
‘At the post-mortem, no signs of any toxin were discovered,’ Masters stated. ‘Is it possible that the gastric lavage and purgatives could have carried away all traces, leaving none to be found later?’
‘I don’t see what else could have happened,’ Meeth said. ‘It sounds unlikely, I know, that every trace should go. But if there was none discoverable in the organs after death . . .’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘If not, it means that she ingested a toxin with a delayed effect, which the body eliminated completely before the toxicity appeared.’
‘Do you know any poisons like that?’ inquired Green.
‘Poisons? No. Think of the characteristics of poisons. By their very nature they tend to kill rapidly after a single dose or, in the case of the so-called slow poisons, the victim has to be fed repeated doses over a long period. But during that time his condition is likely to deteriorate to the point where he is calling on his doctor long before the final stage is reached. Neither happened in this case, nor did we get any violent sickness and stomach cramps which are the classic signs of arsenical and such-like poisons.’
‘What about the toxic effects of such things as drugs, which aren’t harmful in normal therapeutic doses, but are toxic in big doses?’ Masters asked.
Meeth spread his hands. ‘Certainly. It’s a true saying and worthy of all men to be received that all drugs are dangerous—without exception. But this woman swore she hadn’t taken any. Now, unless she was contemplating suicide, it’s unlikely that she would say that if it weren’t true.’
‘We’re not considering suicide. The dogs rule it out. She wouldn’t dose herself and them and then take them to the vet.’
Green said: ‘Perhaps she did. In a fit of remorse.’
‘Without feeling any remorse for herself at the same time?’
‘I suppose it does sound daft.’
‘You’d say it was most unlikely if you’d met Mrs Partridge,’ Meeth said. ‘She’d struck it rich and, in my opinion, was going to enjoy it. Suicide would never enter her head.’
Masters said: ‘You sound certain enough, and all the facts point that way. But to go back a bit. She swore she’d taken no drugs. What if she had taken them unwittingly?’
‘In food and drink, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘It is just possible, but I think I would rule it out, because the drug would have to be disguised jolly well. And that’s not easy. Either from the point of view of taste or amount. What I mean is, I can’t think of a tasteless drug. Even a simple one like aspirin has a distinctive taste. And powerful ones usually have tastes to match their potency. Most of them taste ghastly. But just suppose it was a fairly weak drug and almost tasteless. Then you would need such a great amount of it that disguise would again be difficult. You couldn’t just trust to luck, you know. You’d have to be certain it was all taken—or at least a lethal dose. And then what are you left with? An overdose of practically every drug gives rise to some alteration in the blood count and to methaemoglobinaemia, leucocytosis or some such recognizable sign, which would immediately be picked up at a post mortem. There was nothing like this in Mrs Partridge’s case.’
‘Could she have been injected?’ Green asked.
‘Unbeknown to her?’
Green looked abashed. Masters said: ‘Well, doctor, you’ve left us with quite a problem. But thanks for the help.’
‘A pleasure. I can’t think that I’ve furthered your cause very much, but if we’ve finished our business, what about a drink? If you’d care to meet my wife and join us in a glass of something . . .’
‘We’d like that very much, as long as we won’t be putting Mrs Meeth to a lot of trouble.’
‘Meg’s a doctor, too. She’ll be interested in your case and furious if I let you go without meeting her. She made me promise I’d take you through because she’s interested in forensics.’
The doctors’ sitting-room was the right kind of place to be on a warm, still night, not yet dark. The french windows were open, giving on to an old-fashioned flower garden, where so many blooms were cheek-by-jowl in the beds that the colour and perfume were strikingly apparent. The room, soft-lit by two standard lamps, was long, narrow and low. A square beam ran round the walls at the height of a picture rail. On it were resting plates of various shapes and sizes, but all, to Masters’s eye, worth displaying. The wallpaper was Regency stripe, silver grey and burgundy. The carpet was Indian cotton, off-white with a great central, raised medallion in the same burgundy shade. The oak blocks of the surround reflected the lights. The chairs, in a plain almond green, were big enough for Masters. He felt the room welcome him.
Meg Meeth was as comfortable as her room. She could have been called plump, but it was an overall adequacy of covering that kept everything in proportion. Masters—who on meeting people for the first time often had an irritating habit of mentally categorizing them—put her down as a cross-Channel swimmer type, who would win through on intellect rather than brawn. She was thirtyish and knew how to dress. Simply. Her frock was a brown slub linen, coarsely woven, cut square at the neck and full skirted. There were no sleeves, and the only decoration was a broad belt of the same material covered in signs of the Zodiac worked in brightly coloured threads. Her arms and legs were bare and strong. On her feet little sandals with tiny cross-overs. Her toe-nails red as cherries. Her face was handsome, devoid of make-up except a dark but brilliant dash of lipstick. Her hair, almost black, was brushed away from her forehead and held by an inch-wide red bandeau, the same red as her nails. Her voice clear as a bell, but not penetrating. Where Masters was appreciative, Green was overwhelmed. When introduced, he tried to be gallant. Clumsily. ‘Ma’am, if all doctors were like you, I’d never mind being ill.’
She took it as it was meant and laughed gaily. Almost as if she guessed his feelings, she invited Green to share the settee with her. He did so, and seemed to have some difficulty in knowing exactly where to put his feet. Meeth offered them a choice of drinks. They opted for beer from the fridge. As he poured out, Meeth said to his wife: ‘Know any good tasteless poisons that leave no traces, Meg?’
‘Not off-hand. I often feel I could do with one.’
‘Mr Masters is wondering whether Fay Partridge could have taken one.’
‘Why tasteless?’
‘It would have to be taken unwittingly,’ Masters said.
‘See what you mean. But you do realize that quite a lot of toxic substances that aren’t tasteless could be disguised in broth or beef tea, don’t you? That woman who was hanged in the thirties some time—Charlotte somebody or other—Irish prostitute—didn’t they say she’d put arsenic in her husband’s meat-extract drink, and that in such a medium it would be unnoticeable to the drinker?’
Green said: ‘Before my time, but I can remember reading about it. Thought to be a case of miscarriage of justice, that was. However, as you say, ma’am, experts said the arsenic would be tasteless and they also said that if put in water the colour wouldn’t be much affected.’
‘But the after-effects, once the poison had been ingested, were typical, weren’t they? Diarrhoea, sickness, cramps. And the organs? What about them? All stained pink, whic
h is typical of arsenical poisoning?’
Meg Meeth nodded. She said: ‘Anybody with a lethal dose of arsenic dies in agony, and a pathologist will have confirmation of arsenical poisoning as soon as he opens up the body. As you said, the organs turn pink, and show up very obviously inflamed and well preserved. Arsenic is a preservative, you know. They use it on hides and furs.’
‘We’ve got no such indications, unfortunately.’
Laurence Meeth offered cigarettes. His wife and Green took them. Meeth said: ‘Fay Partridge was not aware of having been poisoned. She suffered none of the agony of severe poisoning and she declared she hadn’t taken the dose herself. So you’re looking for what, exactly?’
Masters grinned ruefully. ‘You tell me, doctor. I’ve got stuck with a tasteless poison because I can’t see how any strong-tasting noxious substance could be disguised in toast and coffee.’
‘Why those?’
‘They’re what she had for breakfast the day she died.’
‘What about the night before?’
‘For dinner? Surely a poison would work quicker than that. Twelve hours!’
Meeth grimaced. ‘You’re right. A lethal dose would have made her seriously ill in certainly less than four hours. So it’s got to be tasteless enough to be disguised in sugar or milk.’
His wife said: ‘Not milk, Larry.’
‘Why not, sweetie?’
Meg Meeth tucked her legs up and showed a deal of shapely thigh. Green moved further into his corner of the settee and turned slightly towards her to get a better view. ‘Because,’ she said, unconscious of the effect she was creating, ‘it is a known fact that completely tasteless substances are almost completely insoluble in water. Not absolutely true, but nearly so. So a tasteless poison wouldn’t dissolve in milk—at least not readily. Milk, you see, is very akin to water as a solvent.’
Masters said: ‘What does “not readily” mean? Could it be put in the milk hours before and gradually dissolve?’
‘It could, I suppose. But it would be tricky to make the solution long beforehand—for reasons which you would know better than I—and I’d like to bet Fay Partridge insisted on fresh cream in her coffee.’
Green sat up, suddenly. ‘What about if Mrs Partridge was taking some medicine? Three times a day after meals? A dollop after breakfast. Half an hour later she collapses.’
Meeth said: ‘She wasn’t on any medicine I’d given her.’
‘Perhaps not, doc. But what about some home remedy? A patent medicine bought straight from the chemist? Cough mixture, for instance. Some of them are strong-enough tasting to disguise gall.’
‘It’s a possibility.’
‘For getting a poison into her perhaps. But what about post-mortem traces?’ Masters said.
‘And there’s not much likelihood of her taking cough mixture in mid-summer,’ Meg added.
Green looked a bit abashed but his hostess grinned across at him. ‘I know there are summer colds and coughs, but in my opinion—and I can say this because Fay Partridge wasn’t my patient—no self-respecting cold bug would go near her. They’d be frightened of being gobbled up. She was more than a man-eater, she was a member of the bigger-busted male killer species.’
Green laughed. ‘I’m beginning to get the impression you didn’t like her.’
‘I loathed her.’
Meeth said: ‘Steady on, old thing. She’s just been poisoned in a mysterious way, you know. And there are sleuths present. They might begin to get ideas.’
‘So they might. I was forgetting.’ She turned to Masters. ‘You’re not much like detectives, are you?’
‘We try to be.’
‘But not all stuffy and strictly business and taking notes all the time.’
‘I think you’d be surprised, doctor. We learn quite a lot from the most unlikely conversations. But to get back to business . . .’ They both laughed. ‘. . . what about other common poisons?’
‘Common?’
‘Ones that can be obtained fairly easily. Like arsenic in weed-killer and phosphorus in rat poison or beetle powder.’
‘Lord, yes! Phossy! But here again there’s the question of taste and the after-effects to be seen in the body. Larry, what are they? Congestion in the gullet and gut, I think.’
Her husband said: ‘And discoloration of the liver. It turns from brown to yellow. No disguising it as far as I remember.’
‘That’s right.’
Masters filled his pipe. ‘Suppose we’re on the wrong tack . . .’
‘As both Meg and I think you are,’ Meeth said.
‘. . . what about slow-acting poisons? Something given several days before death. Are there any?’
Meg pouted prettily. Then: ‘Yes. I think so. Another weed-killer—sodium chlorate.’
Green said: ‘The stuff I buy for watering my garden paths?’
‘That’s it. White crystalline. Looks like granulated sugar.’
‘Ah!’ Green was onto it like a sparrow on to a crumb.
‘No use, I’m afraid. It has a salty taste, and you’d need about half an ounce—that’s two teaspoonfuls—to be lethal. You couldn’t be sure if you mixed it with sugar that it wouldn’t be noticeable in coffee, nor could you be sure the victim would get two teaspoonfuls of the poison. If it was well mixed in, as it would have to be to avoid detection, she might only get a few grains. And then finally to rule it out there’s the effect on the body.’
Meeth said: ‘Of course. It’s not a tissue poison like arsenic. It attacks the blood. Turns it noticeably brown. Affects its ability to carry oxygen so that in effect the victim dies of lack of oxygen—suffocation, in other words.’
Masters said: ‘But it is slow-acting?’
‘In healthy people. It may take up to four days to kill them.’
‘That’s the bit you’re interested in, isn’t it?’ Meg inquired.
‘The four days? Yes. At least, I’m interested in poison that doesn’t act immediately.’
Meeth poured more beer. The darkness was now complete, and the garden through the open french window no more than a velvet backdrop to the long pool of light spilled across the grass by the standard lamps.
Meg said: ‘But you can’t rule out first-stage poisoning altogether.’
‘Of course he can,’ her husband replied. ‘First-stage victims die quick and painful deaths. Fay didn’t. She lasted nearly ten hours in the hospital and she had no pain.’
‘I know. But what is quick? And what is pain? They’re relative terms. Ten hours from apparent good health to corpsicity would be too quick and uncomfortable for most of us. And you know how notoriously difficult it is to establish a pain threshold. A blow that one person wouldn’t notice will cause another to scream in agony. Fay was as tough as old boots. She certainly had a hide like leather. And don’t forget she was either in a state of collapse or was comatose most of the day. That would hide pain, wouldn’t it?’
‘You’re raving, woman. I still say our friends should concentrate on proving her a second-stage victim.’
Green said: ‘I don’t know what second stage means—unless it’s a slow build-up of little doses rather than one thumping great dollop.’
Meg leaned across and patted his knee. Green reddened, but appeared to like it. She said: ‘You’re way out, sweetie. Second stage is what we’ve just been talking about. Sort of delayed action. The poison is taken. The victim is ill—to a greater or lesser extent—then appears to recover for a day or two, but finally dies after five or six days.’ She turned to Masters. ‘And now I come to think about it, Larry may be right. The late lamented could have been a second-stage victim, but I reckon her first reaction must have been very mild, otherwise she’d have come and bared her soul—and not only that—to Larry.’ She turned to her husband. ‘Wouldn’t she, my love?’
He grinned. ‘I must admit a chest cold for her was a weighty problem and, yes, she did expect me to use the stethoscope every time she came. I remember the cup of the diaphragm just f
itted over . . .’
‘Quite,’ interrupted his wife. ‘I know you were going to say the mole on her back, but our friends aren’t to know that.’
Masters grinned. Green said: ‘Being a doctor must have its moments.’
‘For the male doctors, love. Not for the likes of me. I get all the pregnancies and none of the beefcake in my surgery. Come to think of it, beefcake rarely does come to see a doctor. It’s usually so disgustingly healthy—if it’s good beefcake. But cheesecake finds its way into the men’s surgeries. And the more cheesecaky it is, the more likely it is to come—as that’s the type that men prefer to render hors de combat for nine months at a time every so often. If you see what I mean.’
Green said: ‘It’s a pity about you.’ She grinned at him, and Meeth said: ‘Cut it out, you two. There’s company present.’
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ Masters said, ‘but can we go back a bit to something you said a bit earlier? About completely tasteless poisons being completely insoluble in water—or nearly so. How does a poison like that work in the body?’
Meg said: ‘Oh dear, what a man you are for information. It comes from being a detective, I suppose. So we’d better work it out logically. In the body the rate of absorption would be slow.’
‘But it would be absorbed?’
‘Yes. Acids in the stomach would gradually break it down, unless . . .’
‘Unless what?’
‘Unless the original substance was something that splits up in the gut into other substances, one of which is toxic.’
‘Would such a toxin leave any signs?’
‘Bound to. It would leave unchanged material and varying proportions of digested products.’ She looked at her husband. ‘You know, Larry, this is almost impossible, isn’t it? Gastric emptying time is approximately one hour. That means slowly absorbed material would be got rid of before any great damage could be done. Right?’
Sweet Poison Page 4
