Sweet Poison

by Douglas Clark

  ‘That’s very kind of you, but I really didn’t ask in order to get a free gift.’

  ‘It’s either a free gift, Mr Masters, or none at all—for a period at any rate. Retailing won’t start in Britain for some little time.’

  ‘I see. In that case, may I accept your offer? It is rather important to me that I should get some.’

  ‘Stay right here, Chief Inspector. I’ll be back as soon as I can lay my hands on the right valise.’

  Sprott was back in a few moments. He handed Masters a sealed white carton, long and narrow, which went into his inside pocket easily.

  ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am, Mr Sprott.’

  ‘Forget it. Or alternatively, sit down and talk a spell in return. I’d like fine to hear how you famous detective boys set about things. Tell me, is it right that you fellers at New Scotland Yard can be asked for by any country in the world that’s having crime difficulties?’

  ‘The whole world? I wouldn’t be sure about that, but certainly states that have any connection with Britain—members of the Commonwealth, especially. Still, if the U.S.A. really wanted help . . .’ He laughed.

  ‘You’d come running. Good for you. But I suppose you co-operate with the States quite a lot?’

  ‘We have both official and non-official channels open with your federal forces at all times. And occasionally members from both sides cross the Atlantic. I remember . . .’

  *

  The talk—questions and reminiscences—continued.

  An hour and two pipes later, Masters got to his feet, thanked Sprott once again and left him to his reading.

  *

  Masters joined Green and the sergeants for tea in the Throscum House lounge. Green was looking with dismay at the anaemic-looking tea coming from the pot as he poured. ‘This here’s what my old mother used to call “water bewitched and tea begrudged”, meaning there weren’t enough tea leaves put in the pot and the water wasn’t boiling when it was mashed.’

  Brant said: ‘Mashed?’

  ‘The action of pouring boiling water on tea leaves.’

  ‘That’s brewing.’

  ‘No it’s not. You leave tea to brew after it’s mashed.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of it.’

  ‘Well if nothing else you’ve learned something today.’

  Masters said: ‘Any joy with the chemicals?’

  Green had the lid off the pot and was poking around morosely with a spoon. He said: ‘No wonder this stuff hardly has the strength to crawl out of the pot. It’s made with tea bags. Two of ’em for four of us.’ He put the lid back and turned to Masters. ‘There’s enough chemical here on the premises to kill half the neighbourhood, but only two or three sorts. Not a big variety. And young Honingham and his missus were mucking about round the sheds.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Gardening, I suppose. But it doesn’t signify, because everything was open and anybody who wanted to remove anything could have done—particularly those two now Becky’s one of the bosses.’

  ‘What about the ingredients? Did you see the Meeths?’

  ‘I left the list with them. They’re checking up in Martindale.’

  ‘That gives you an excuse to call again this evening.’

  Green bit into a scone covered in clotted cream. ‘As a matter of fact it does. It was what I was angling for—an invite for tonight.’ He wiped the cream from round his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Unless you’ve some other caper on?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. Has anybody seen Thoresby today?’

  Nobody had. Masters said: ‘I met Mrs Thoresby just before lunch, and you’ve seen the Honinghams. Can little Willy have been avoiding us?’

  Brant said: ‘Unless he’s scarpered.’

  Masters shook his head. ‘I don’t think he’s that big a fool. Still, we’ll call at the bungalow and make sure.’

  ‘Knowing his type, I’d have thought he’d have been lording it about the place,’ Green said, ‘now his wife’s one of the bosses. I can’t see him brooding all on his lonesome.’

  They left the lounge together. Masters said to Hill: ‘You and Brant see if Thoresby’s at home. It won’t do any harm to let him see you’re keeping an eye on him.’

  ‘Where’ll we find you?’

  ‘In the bungalow. I’m going to shower and put on a clean shirt.’

  Green said: ‘I’ll come with you. I haven’t read the Mirror today yet.’

  They walked in silence for a moment or two. Then Green said: ‘We haven’t really got a case, have we?’

  ‘Against Thoresby, you mean?’

  ‘Him, or anybody else.’

  ‘I thought you were sold on him?’

  ‘I am. But you said yourself we’ve no proof.’

  ‘True enough. But I don’t believe our work so far’s been wasted. After all it’s only forty-eight hours since we arrived.’

  ‘You’ve always said that unless you’ve got a lead inside forty-eight hours the case could take a long time.’

  Masters looked across at his companion. ‘By the Lord Harry, I believe you’re hoping we’re going to have a protracted stay here so that you can see a bit more of your lady doctor.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘If that’s what you want.’

  ‘She’s coming here to swim tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Then you will be seeing a bit more of her—literally. Bikini or one-piece? D’you know?’

  Green grinned. ‘I didn’t ask. I’m waiting to be surprised.’

  Masters had bathed and was dressing when Hill and Brant came to the bungalow. Hill said: ‘Not a sign of him at his bungalow, nor in the more obvious places like the swimming pool, tennis courts and what-not.’

  ‘No? Did you see his wife?’

  ‘Nobody.’

  ‘Never mind. I’ll go down to the stores block and see if she’s in the confectionery kitchen. She’ll probably know where he is.’

  Hill said: ‘Isn’t that where the shops are?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I’ll come, too. I need some fags.’

  ‘Me, too,’ Green said.

  Brant decided to join them. The day was still hot, even though the sun had begun to wester. This was obviously a favourite time for everybody to be out of doors, some sitting, others playing various games. Happy shouts came from the swimming pool, and the plop of balls from the tennis courts. Several rinks of bowls were in progress on a crown green. Clock golf, croquet, swings and roundabouts for children, even a model boating pool . . . all the fun of the fair. Holidays, jollity and murder.

  Masters said: ‘You people get your cigarettes. I’ll see her alone.’ He was just about to leave them, when he turned to Green. ‘See you get those trunks big enough.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I saw you’d got two packets of Kensitas in the bungalow. But if Mrs M. is swimming tomorrow . . .’

  Green had the grace to blush.

  Lorna Thoresby said she didn’t know where her husband was. She was dressed in a white overall and cap and looked a little hot and tired; but she also appeared happier and, Masters thought, more alive and eager. There was a smell of hot sugar intermingled with other aromas, and on a long, zinc-topped table, several shallow aluminium trays of sweets and a little board of the same metal, about eighteen inches square. Masters was wondering about its use, particularly as it was etched all over with the words Throstlecombe House, repeated over and over again like the background to some bank cheques.

  She divined his interest. She said: ‘Haven’t you ever looked at the bottom of a chocolate and wondered how they put the maker’s name on?’

  ‘They do them on plates like these?’

  She gave him a practical demonstration. Placed a single centre, coated in molten chocolate from a double porringer, on to the plate. ‘It’ll take a few minutes to harden. But here’s a finished sample.’ He took it and examined the base.

  ‘Satisfied?’

  ‘Absolutely. I’m mor
e pleased than I can say that you took my advice and came here, alone, and amused yourself.’

  She laughed. ‘And I’m pleased you told me to come. It’s acted like a tonic. I feel so much better.’

  ‘I’m glad. And it should get even better. I expect Mr Compton has seen that things have been run as well as possible while you’ve been away.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘You don’t sound sure.’

  ‘Well . . . he’s always been interested, or should I say he always appeared to be in the old days. He’d always come in and lend a hand if necessary. He got quite good at it. But from what I can see he must have lost interest in confectionery these last few years. Things aren’t quite what I’d hoped.’

  ‘Probably your stepmother’s influence, or he grew busier. There could be any number of reasons.’

  ‘Of course there could. I’m being unfair to him. But he was so good at it and interested . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry about him. I told you this morning to make this your very own show. I repeat that advice now. Go to it, entirely on your own account. And with that to think over, I’ll leave you.’

  He was near the door when she said: ‘Oh, Mr Masters . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What are you . . .? I mean . . . you were looking for him.’

  ‘I was. I don’t want to frighten you, Mrs Thoresby, but your husband really did cut a most unsatisfactory figure when I spoke to him yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘I guessed. He didn’t tell me, but I guessed.’ She came closer to him. ‘Mr Masters, Bill’s been like that for two or three years now. He used to be quite different. But he’s been worried. Financial worries. And they’re the worst there are. Believe me, because I’ve experienced them with him. Not knowing where to turn next. And that changes a man. Affects his personality. It made a grumpy, ill-tempered bore out of . . .’

  ‘Out of what, Mrs Thoresby?’

  ‘Out of the man I loved, Mr Masters.’

  ‘Genuinely loved?’

  ‘Oh, yes. At first I thought he might be a bit bumptious. He is, you know, with other people. But never with me and the children. Or wasn’t until he found things getting on top of him.’

  ‘Thank you for telling me, Mrs Thoresby. I’ll remember, and try to make allowances for him.’

  ‘Will you? You’re a very nice person.’

  Masters went out, feeling very pleased with himself.

  He found his three colleagues on the covered way in front of the shops. Green was carrying a plastic bag with the trunks inside under one arm and grinning like a riven dish. Hill and Brant were laughing aloud.

  Masters said: ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Those kids,’ Green said. He pointed to two boys about ten years old, one carrying a highly coloured beach ball, each with a box of toffee in hand, and a generous lump in mouth.

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘They were looking in each shop as they came along. One hopped into the toy shop to buy the ball. The other wandered down here to the sweet shop. He stood looking in till the other reappeared. Then he called him over.’

  ‘And that was funny?’

  Hill said: ‘You’d have laughed if you’d heard him. North country voice—Lancashire or somewhere. “Here, kid, see these spice, they’re choice.”’

  Masters grinned. ‘Not Lancashire. Yorkshire. And Sheffield for a bet. Did he say “see these” or “sithese”?’

  “Well, I suppose it was “sithese”.’

  ‘All right. Ask them where they come from.’

  Hill was back in a moment. ‘Sheffield it is.’

  Green said to Masters: ‘I thought you said you were no Henry Higgins when we were talking about Jessie Bell.’

  ‘I’m not. “Sithee Kid” is virtually peculiar to Sheffield. And so’s the word spice for sweets and choice for what another child would call lovely or nice. I like it. You get the word choice used in all sorts of ways elsewhere—choice pears, choice grapes—and spice, well, think of the names different people use for sweets—goodies, candies, lollies. You could go on all day. I know . . .’ He stopped in mid-sentence. They all appeared to think the pause significant. All remained quiet for several seconds. Then Green said: ‘You know what?’

  Masters took his time. He turned towards the sweetshop window. Looked at the display for a moment and then said slowly: ‘I know all sorts of names for sweets.’ Then he pulled himself together. ‘Here they are. Look at them. Liqueur chocolates, marshmallows, butterscotch, caramels, marzipan . . . the lot.’ He turned away from the window abruptly. ‘Now, let’s go.’

  He strode away. The other three stared after him for a moment. Then Hill said: ‘He’s gone broody. By God he’s on to something.’

  Green said: ‘Gobstoppers! What the hell could he get out of choice spice? He thinks it’s time for a drink. That’s all.’

  ‘Think what you like, but I reckon you were a bit premature hiring those trunks tonight,’ Hill said.

  They hurried after Masters. When they caught him up, Green said: ‘What’s the hurry?’

  ‘I’ve not interviewed the vet. It’s only six o’clock so he may still be at his surgery. We might catch him if we hurry.’ He turned to Brant. ‘Sprint and get the car.’

  *

  As they went down to Throscum village, Masters said to Green: ‘If she’s there, question the receptionist, Carol Astor. Anything Partridge said or did or hinted may be important. I’ll see the vet himself.’

  The shed behind Wintle’s house was some sixty feet long, and divided into waiting-room, surgery, office, storeroom and animals’ quarters. Behind it was a compound made from chain link fencing, again divided into smaller runs, with a series of hutches and kennels. There were no animals to be seen. What struck Masters as he entered was the absolute clinical cleanliness of the place. He doubted whether he had ever seen premises catering for human ailments any cleaner.

  A girl of twenty, or thereabouts, in a spotless white overall coat, came to greet them. She was fair, with a healthy outdoor look combined with a well-scrubbed air that had an immediate attractiveness. Masters introduced himself and noted that her face dropped slightly. He said: ‘We’ve come at an inconvenient time?’

  She blushed when she realized her disappointment at seeing them had been obvious. ‘Only because it’s Saturday night. We were about to close because there’s been no rush of clients this evening.’

  ‘We promise not to keep you long. Can I see Mr Wintle?’

  She showed him into the office. Wintle was a studious-looking man in his mid-thirties, with close-cropped hair and big spectacles. He rose to meet Masters and Hill, who came on behind.

  Wintle said: ‘I wondered whether you’d call.’

  ‘It all started here, sir.’

  ‘No. It came to light here, but it didn’t start here.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. After the news of Mrs Partridge’s death came, and it appeared likely that the dogs had died from the same causes as their mistress I did post-mortems.’

  Masters took out his pipe and started to fill it. ‘That’s what I wanted to hear, Mr Wintle. What did you find?’

  ‘Massive diffuse toxic necrosis in both livers.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘In addition, one poodle had renal distal tubular necrosis, and the other had cerebral oedema.’

  ‘I think you’d better explain in lay terms.’

  ‘Renal means pertaining to the kidneys. Tubular means what it sounds like—in this case the little winding canals which make up the substance of the kidney—and distal means furthest from the centre. O.K.?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘Oedema means an abnormal accumulation of fluid in intercellular spaces—in this case of the cerebrum or larger part of the brain.’

  ‘Water on the brain?’

  ‘That would be one way of describing it.’

  ‘These two conditions are significant in some way, Mr Wintle?’

  ‘I’m not a
doctor. But I know enough about humans and other animals to assure you that disorders like these don’t come about overnight. That’s why I’m stating that nothing started here in this surgery, thank God.’

  Masters said: ‘You’ve been a great help. Thank you.’

  Wintle smiled for the first time. ‘Actually—apart from Mrs Partridge’s death—I was pleased to have the excuse to do a bit of real work for once. There’s often the opportunity with dead animals, but rarely a good reason for going to the trouble.’

  Masters took his leave. Green and Brant were waiting for him. Green said: ‘The girlie wanted to rush off. She had a date. But she told me one thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘When Mrs Partridge arrived she said the reason for her visit was because the poodles had been sick on the Friday before, and hadn’t seemed to pick up properly after it.’

  ‘Thanks. That confirms Syme’s evidence that they were too out of sorts even to growl at him when he was helping Mrs Partridge get over her own attack.’

  They said goodbye to Wintle. In the car, Green said: ‘Does it help?’

  ‘Immensely, I think. It gives us two more conditions which the substance caused. That should help the medics pin-point it.’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘I’ve got several things to do. If I could meet you in the bar in about half an hour’s time?’

  ‘We’ll line one up for you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Syme was wearing a black tie and white sharkskin dinner jacket. Masters thought he looked twee. He sounded it.

  ‘Really, Mr Masters, you can’t expect me to talk to you now. It’s seven o’clock. The ball begins at half past. And this is the first dance for the new visitors. It must start on time to give a good first impression.’

  ‘I won’t take half an hour. In your office. Now.’

  The little room smelt of Turkish tobacco. Masters said: ‘You don’t do much of the arranging for the dances, do you?’

  Syme looked affronted. ‘I do the programmes and novelties and . . .’

  ‘Mr Compton told me he did all the arranging.’

  ‘Oh, prizes and that sort of thing. Yes. But I do the lion’s share.’

  Masters thought Syme was some lion. But he said: ‘I want to know exactly how everything is done. In the smallest detail. Now start talking if you want to ring up your curtain on time.’