Green felt uncomfortable at Meeth’s tone, but relieved to hear so authoritative a denial of the possibility of Nonavom being the culprit. He felt this helped to exonerate both Meeth and his wife. He said: ‘We didn’t really think Nonavom was the cause. We couldn’t reject it on medical grounds, of course, because we didn’t know enough about its action. But as there was only one tablet missing from the bottle . . .’
‘One tablet? It wouldn’t hurt a baby.’
‘That’s what we thought.’
‘Then why come here and question me about it?’
‘Because she might have had another bottle before the one we found. If so, there was the possibility that she could have overdosed herself.’
‘I see. You boys don’t miss a trick, do you? All I can say is I never prescribed Nonavom for her.’
Meg said: ‘Nor me.’
Green scratched one ear. ‘You do see our difficulty, don’t you?’
‘What difficulty? Nonavom didn’t kill her.’
‘I’ll accept that. But Nonavom is a schedule four poison. She couldn’t have got it legally without a doctor’s prescription, and you’re her doctor. If you didn’t let her have it, who did? And did whoever supplied Nonavom also supply something else on the side? Something which did her a lot of no-good?’
Meeth helped himself to a second cup of coffee and refused one of Green’s cigarettes. ‘I’ve only one suggestion to offer as to where she got the Nonavom—one of her pals gave it to her. Somebody who thought she’d no further use for them. I’m sure no doctor would let her have them if she wasn’t on his permanent list or temporarily under his care, and no pharmacist would sell them to her without a prescription.’
Meg Meeth said: ‘Lots of pep pills that are neither prescribed nor sold do go the rounds, though. Could she have got them from a pusher?’
‘My lovely, Nonavoms aren’t amphetamines. They don’t make you feel good—except by suppressing early-morning sickness. Pushers wouldn’t bother with them.’
Green said: ‘So we’re no nearer the answer—unless, as you said, a pal gave them to her, which I find difficult to believe. I mean, handing medicines around!’
‘You’d be surprised. All the old dears swop their sleeping pills. “Here you are, love. You have one of my pink ones and I’ll have one of your green ones.” Sometimes they even quarrel because one colour is bigger than another and a one for one exchange isn’t fair—or so they think. You’ve no idea the dangers they’re submitting themselves to.’
‘I’ll take your word for it. But what about your other point? Had Mrs Partridge been away on holiday this year?’
‘Not that I know of. Why?’
‘She might have got collywobbles on holiday and consulted another doctor.’
Meeth shook his head. ‘All the Throscum folk go on holiday out of season. Even Fay Partridge, though she played no active part in running the show. She liked to keep her eye on how the dibs were rolling in, that one.’
‘Besides, she’d have had to give her name and Larry’s name to the other doctor, so that the other man could claim the fee, and he would have informed Larry of what he’d done for her, more than likely.’
Green leaned back in his chair. ‘I’m getting nowhere fast. Tell me why you didn’t like Mrs Partridge.’
The sudden question took Meeth aback, but Meg smiled. ‘I knew you were going to ask that sooner or later. I guessed, last night. I think Larry did, too, didn’t you, my pet? When you warned me to be careful.’
‘Don’t go making a mystery of it, Meg. Tell the nice policeman.’
Meg Meeth turned towards Green. Her face was earnest. He found himself liking it as much in repose as when smiling. The small furrow of concentration across the brow. Her hands, lying still in her lap. Her legs and feet outstretched together, because she was sitting on the front edge of the chair and needed to balance. She said: ‘Larry and I came here on spec. There’d never been a G.P. in Throscum before. But after we married we wanted to be away on our own, working together. And vacancies for doubles in practice are never easy to find in the sort of place where we wanted to live. So it was a gamble coming here, breaking new ground. One of the things that helped us choose Throscum was the holiday camp. When we were prospecting in this area we stayed there. Molly Partridge—Claud’s first wife—was really sweet to us, and when she got to know what we were doing she helped us a lot. One of her greatest worries about the camp was its lack of medical facilities, particularly as there was no local G.P. She’d set up a first-aid room and had a nurse in attendance, but she could only staff it during the day for five days a week. At nights and weekends, the nurse wanted to be away—naturally. And she couldn’t get a second and a third to work shifts, which was what was really needed.
‘To have us close by seemed the answer to her fears, as you’d be surprised how many small accidents there are in a holiday camp with busy kitchens and so on. Anyhow, Molly was prepared to pay for service, and in return for our promise to be available—one of us—at all times between April and September, she offered us a retainer—quite small, but more than enough to pay the rates—plus a fee for each visit to the camp, whether for emergency treatment or hygiene purposes.
‘This was quite a happy arrangement for us. It helped, financially, to get us started. And it also justified two G.P.s in the area. Claud was quite happy about it, too. For though he was a bit of a rogue, he was a pleasant one. He’d pull clever deals, but he’d never do you down. In fact, he was instrumental in getting us this house at our price—but that’s another story. As long as he was alive we got our retainer and fees.
‘Fay was a different kettle of fish. Out for every penny she could get. She knew that legally and ethically we couldn’t refuse treatment to anybody needing it, and also that if we have names and N.H.S. numbers we can claim official payment for casual treatments. So she stopped our money from Throscum House. We’ve still had as many surgery calls—more, in fact—since then, and only a few less calls for visits to the camp.’
‘So you missed the money,’ Green said.
‘A bit. Not all that much, perhaps, because we were established in the area, thank the lord, before she took over. But we resented the nastiness of it, the way it was done, and the fact that it was done by a common prostitute. And one other thing. In her this year’s brochure she states that there are first-aid facilities within the camp and medical help close by. That’s us! She advises holidaymakers to bring their medical cards in case of need, or at least to make a note of their N.H.S. numbers before leaving home. Can you beat that for impudence? I know we’re servants of the public and all that, but we don’t like being taken a loan of in that way.’
‘I can see you had every reason to dislike her.’
‘It wasn’t only her actions, it was her character, too. She was a tart, pure and simple.’
Larry said: ‘Can a tart be pure and simple?’
‘You know what I mean. A tart may be immoral, and no matter what the rest of her anatomy is like, can have a heart of gold—or so I’m led to believe. But Fay Partridge was amoral, with a heart of flint. Everything about her was vulgar. Nasty.’ Meg Meeth shuddered involuntarily. It said more to Green than her forthright words. He reckoned that if a woman like this doctor was revolted—even allowing for differences in temperament—Fay Partridge must have been the scum of the earth. He wondered how Masters would react to this information.
He needn’t have bothered. Masters was learning for himself what manner of person the victim had been.
Chapter Four
Masters had left the sergeants to go over the flat systematically soon after inspecting Fay Partridge’s store of goodies. He went down the wide staircase slowly, and carefully replaced the barrier cord after he had passed through. He made his way to Compton’s office.
The manager and his secretary were both busy. Masters said: ‘End of the week rush of paperwork?’
Compton took off his glasses and got to his feet. ‘Not end of the
week. Beginning of the week.’
‘No bills for those who leave tomorrow?’
‘No bills here. Not for guests who stay for a holiday. Everything is paid for, either before they start, or in cash while they’re here. Motel guests—usually one- or two-nighters—do pay, as with an hotel bill.’
‘I haven’t seen your motel chalets.’
‘There are sixteen of them—but not all separate. If you go to the square and turn left behind the garages you will come across what I believe was called a spider block by the Army. There are five wings to it, each divided into two cabins. The other six are separate and were, I believe, safe stores for instruments. At any rate they are concrete built and have been landscaped very pleasantly by our gardening staff.’
Masters asked if he might smoke, refused an offer of cigarettes, and started to fill his pipe. Compton, who seemed slightly ill at ease during the silence, said: ‘No. Our work today is for next week. Bungalows were allocated weeks ago, of course. But the paperwork is not confined to guest lists. Oh, no. Laundry lists are terrible. Terrible. A list for each steward and stewardess on how many items to draw up. It differs each week—three in a bungalow now, four from tomorrow. And breakages and losses! Electric light bulbs! You’d never believe the number we go through.’
Masters struck a match. ‘I’ve seen a bit of vandalism, Mr Compton.’
‘I’m sure you have. It affects even the people one might expect better of. No consideration for other people’s property. It’s a malaise, Chief Inspector. A malaise.’
Masters said: ‘I’m sure you have your troubles. When can I talk to you?’
‘Well, I’m very rushed. The funeral’s today on top of everything else. The arrangements were left entirely in my hands. Just at the busiest part of the season.’
It sounded to Masters as though the little manager were accusing his former employer of being inconsiderate in getting herself murdered in July. If she’d have waited until November she wouldn’t have caused nearly as much inconvenience.
‘I appreciate how busy you must be, Mr Compton, so I’ll call in again this evening. But tell me, before I go, just how long you’ve been manager here?’
‘Over fifteen years.’
‘That long? You worked for the first Mrs Partridge then?’
‘I certainly did. And a finer woman you couldn’t find, Mr Masters. A lady. Businesslike but refined. And considerate—always.’
‘And the second Mrs Partridge?’
Compton puffed up slightly and reddened. ‘Really, Mr Masters, you shouldn’t ask me my opinion of an employer so recently dead and not yet buried.’
‘Why not? You discussed Mrs Molly. Why not Mrs Fay? Or are you a believer in nil nisi bonum?’
‘To some extent, yes.’
‘And there’s nothing good you can say about Mrs Fay?’
‘Please! I have no doubts that the second Mrs Partridge had her good points, but we are making a comparison between her and the first Mrs Partridge.’
‘And comparisons are odious. I know. Thank you very much, Mr Compton.’
‘For what?’
‘For allowing me some of your time. I’ll go now and return later. But there’s just one thing you can help me with. A personal thing.’
‘Anything I can do for you . . .’
‘Micro-encapsulated perfume strips.’
‘What?’
They stared at each other for a moment. Masters thought Compton looked put out: astounded. Because he was floored by the question? And little men of his type don’t like being beaten by questions on their home ground? Masters couldn’t tell. He said: ‘They obviously mean nothing to you, Mr Compton. Sorry I mentioned them.’
He left immediately.
He said to Cathy York: ‘Where do I find the dance professional?’
‘Ernie?’
‘I don’t know his name.’
‘Ernie Syme. In the ballroom, I expect.’
Masters made his way through from the hall. The dance floor had been cleared. Chairs stood on tables round the sides. While Masters stood at the door half hidden by a curtain, a lone figure in an orange shirt and chocolate trousers came through a door in the orchestra shell on the far side of the dais. He didn’t exactly mince along, but Masters got the impression he was a little fairy-like. Something in the way he carried the long sprinkler cylinder in his left hand. Away from the body.
Syme, he judged, must be nearing forty, but wearing well from a distance, like an ageing matinée idol. He was dark tan in colour—probably from long hours in the sun beside the pool. The hair was curly, short, dark and greased. As he gazed, unnoticed by the dancer, Masters realized that the lines on his face were more deeply etched than they appeared to be at a first glance. The figure was well-built, but slim and lithe, like that of a man who takes care. The little spring from the dais, which was low enough for a short step down, indicated good muscle tone.
Masters continued to watch. Syme held his canister high and wide and started to sprinkle a white powder on the floor, waltzing as he did so, through the dusting, as if to rub it into the boards with the buff-soled dancing shoes he was wearing. Masters wondered what this treatment could be. French chalk, perhaps, to make the surface easier for gliding on? He watched for a few seconds more. Syme took a few steps, military two-step-wise, in the peculiar gait that makes dancers look as if they’re trying to march while sitting down. He finished up with a little flick of a salute which, Masters thought, would cause any self-respecting sergeant-major, unfortunate enough to witness it, to first shoot the performer and then himself.
Masters stepped inside.
Syme, startled by his appearance, halted in mid-pirouette, sprinkler still at arm’s length.
‘I say, you did startle me, whoever you are.’
‘My name is Masters, Mr Syme. I’m from Scotland Yard.’
‘Yes. I’ve heard about you. I saw two of your officers last night. They’re big men, too.’
‘I’d like a word with you, Mr Syme, please.’
‘Oh, yes? Well we’d better go into the office where we can be private. You can’t say anything round here without somebody listening. Nosey as they make them.’
Masters followed him on to the dais, through the little curved door in the shell and into a room that might at one time have been a butler’s pantry. The deep sink was still there, the silver cupboards, the tiled cooling gantry and a slate corbel. Apart from a table, chair and coatstand, the room seemed to be piled high with cardboard boxes variously stencilled ‘Snowballs’, ‘Streamers’, ‘Balloons’, ‘Carnival Hats’ and the like.
Syme offered the chair. As Masters sat down he became aware of the same perfume in here as in Mrs Partridge’s rooms. At first the paper odour of the carnival toys had overwhelmed it, but near the desk it was sufficiently strong to come through. He looked about him. Across the foot of the dressing-room type mirror on the wall were three of the by now familiar pink strips.
Masters said: ‘Can I smoke a pipe in here with so much combustible material about?’
‘Please do. I like a pipe. It does something for a man, don’t you think?’
‘So they tell me.’ Masters rubbed Warlock Flake in the palm of his left hand. ‘Mr Syme. You were very friendly with Mrs Partridge.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘Oh very friendly. Dear, darling Fay. Such a lovely woman. Junoesque, I called her. We’re really desolated with grief at her going.’
‘Are you?’
‘But of course. It’s a tragedy for all of us, and particularly for me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we were so very close.’
‘You intended to marry her?’
‘Good gracious, no. Nothing like that.’
‘But when a man and a woman—both without marriage partners . . . I take it you’re not married, Mr Syme . . . no? When a man and a woman are very close it usually means they are thinking of marriage.’
‘Not in our case. Our friendshi
p was on an entirely different plane. Fay loved dancing, and she used to play music to me for hours . . .’
‘I didn’t see a piano, or any other instrument in her flat.’
Syme sounded a bit snappy. ‘On the record player.’
‘That was in the library when I went up. Not in the sitting-room.’
‘No. I moved it out the other day.’
‘What other day?’
‘You are precise.’
‘Very, Mr Syme, whenever possible.’
‘Oh, well I shall have to think back. Yes. I’ve got it. It was last Friday afternoon.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘Because I went up to see Fay soon after lunch. I always do go up early on Fridays. It’s the only day we have a thé dansant, you see. Lots of our guests go home on Saturday early so they don’t want to be out late on Friday. We have the thé dansant from half past three to half past six so that they can enjoy themselves without being late. And the boys in the band can have the evening off, too. It’s a change for them, you know. Only the one night off a week in the season.’
‘Why did you go to see Mrs Partridge early on Fridays?’
‘Because I had to be down here again by three.’
‘Why go up at all?’
‘Because it’s my night off, too.’
‘That’s not much of an answer.’
‘Well, you see, I’d go up to see Fay because I might not see her in the evening.’
‘Because you were going out?’
‘It’s nice to get off the camp site sometimes.’
‘I think I understand. You visited Mrs Partridge every day?’
‘Yes. She was lonely, poor woman, after her husband died.’
‘And she played you records?’
‘Ever so often.’
‘What about last Friday?’
‘Well, I went up—about two o’clock it would be—and I found her prostrate. Simply prostrate.’
‘Just a moment, Mr Syme. If she was prostrate, who let you in?’
‘I let myself in, of course.’
‘You have a key of your own?’
‘Fay trusted me.’
Sweet Poison Page 7
