Sweet Poison

by Douglas Clark

  Resignedly, Syme started. ‘Well, first of all, I make out a programme, marking which dances are novelty and which have prizes. I give one copy to the maestro, one to Mr Compton, and keep one myself. The maestro arranges the music, Mr Compton arranges the prizes, and I arrange the novelties. This is done in the morning of the day of the dance . . .’

  Masters let him talk, only interrupting occasionally to steer him back on to the right course. After less than a quarter of an hour, he left the dance professional’s little room and made for bungalow 42.

  Sprott answered his knock.

  ‘Why, hallo there, Chief Inspector. Come along in and meet Emmy. And help me lower this brand-new bottle of Scotch I had sent up from the House.’

  Masters followed the American into the sitting-room of the bungalow. He shook hands with Mrs Sprott, whose appearance rather surprised him. Sprott, himself, though fifty, or thereabouts, seemed youthful, hard, in good trim and full of vigour. Emmy was small and rather faded—a woman that Masters would have taken to be the wife of a much older man. Not like most American women he had met, who take advantage of every aid to youth and beauty that the cosmetic and dress houses can dream up—and their husbands can afford. No dyed hair, no over-generous make-up, no nail lacquer. And a dress of indefinite mauve voile which seemed to be all of a piece with the colour of her cheeks and hair. Her hand-shake was gentle. He said: ‘I hope your headache is better, ma’am.’

  A gentle voice, too. ‘Much better, thank you. Thanks to Cy’s headache powder.’

  Sprott said: ‘I hope it stays that way, honey. We’re getting low on Sprotamol.’

  ‘Oh dear, you’ve been giving it away again.’

  ‘That’s what it was brought for, honey.’

  Sprott handed Masters a drink. ‘Now, Chief Inspector, you’ve come visiting at a very opportune moment. We’ve got Emmy up and about and a new bottle of Scotch. What could be better?’

  Masters smiled. ‘I really wanted a chance to talk to you.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Not necessarily, if it won’t inconvenience Mrs Sprott to have to listen to business.’

  ‘Sure, it won’t inconvenience Emmy none, will it, honey? To hear Mr Masters and me talk?’

  When Masters left the bungalow twenty minutes later he was carrying a few sheets of rotaprinted foolscap. He folded them carefully and tucked them into his inside breast pocket. As he walked towards Throscum House he noticed that fewer people were now outdoors, and most seemed to be making the same way as himself, for dinner or the ballroom from which already he could hear faint sounds of music.

  Green said: ‘This beer’s mawly warm. They should have some way of cooling it. It’s what comes of no longer keeping draught in a cool cellar. Everybody puts it in kegs on the counter or barrels just behind the bar.’

  ‘I’ll have one, nevertheless,’ Masters said.

  Garry Welton was so busy, Hill had to shoulder his way to the bar to get served. Masters waited until he had the beer in his hand before saying to Green: ‘I’ll come with you to see the Meeths.’

  Green’s face dropped. He stared at Masters’ face. He said quietly: ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘Don’t look so woebegone. I only want some information. I’m not thinking of charging Meeth with murder and his wife with being an accessory.’

  ‘That’s all right, then.’

  Masters turned to the sergeants. ‘Drink up. We’ll have something to eat, sharpish. After that I’ve got work for you two to do.’

  Brant said: ‘On a Saturday night, Chief? With a fresh load of talent here? Have a heart.’

  Hill said quietly to his colleague, ‘Hold your water, you thick.’

  His tone caused Brant to stare for a moment. Then he picked up his glass and drained it.

  *

  While they were at table Masters gave Hill and Brant their instructions. Immediately afterwards he phoned Dr Thurso, then he and Green made their way silently to the Meeths’ house.

  Mrs Meeth said: ‘You both look very solemn.’

  ‘We’re feeling solemn,’ Green replied. ‘The Chief Inspector wants your help.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘The substance which caused massive diffuse toxic necrosis in Mrs Partridge,’ Masters said, ‘caused the same disorder in her poodles, together with renal distal tubular necrosis in one and cerebral oedema in another. What substance was it?’

  ‘You’re asking us to tell you?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘It might take some finding.’

  Larry Meeth said: ‘If you could give us another clue—like what the substance is used for—pesticide or cough cure . . .’

  ‘I can even tell you that.’

  Chapter Eight

  It was ten o’clock. Masters was using the Meeths’ telephone to speak to Superintendent Mundy.

  Mundy said: ‘You want me over there at this time of night?’

  ‘If you please, sir. It’s your case.’

  ‘You mean it’s completed? You’ve made an arrest?’

  ‘I haven’t made the arrest. That’s your affair. You’ll need to bring the warrant with you. I’ll be in my bungalow. After you’ve heard what I’ve got to say, you and your people can do as you think best.’

  ‘Right. I’ll be there in half an hour or so.’

  ‘We’ll be waiting.’

  Masters rang off and turned to Green. ‘I don’t think we shall need the doctors again tonight. But please tell them you will be here to take detailed statements tomorrow. If you think you can fit your bathing parade in as well, don’t cancel it.’

  ‘I’ll join you at the bungalow.’

  Masters was thoughtful as he walked back to the camp. At the door of Throscum House he paused. Hill, sitting in one of the armchairs in the hall, looked up and saw him. Came across. Out of earshot of Cathy York, Masters said: ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘I’ve got it. Brant’s still on the job. He’s got him in view.’

  ‘Good, he can stay. You come along with me.’

  Masters had smoked a full pipe before Mundy arrived with a sergeant and a constable driver. Mundy said: ‘I didn’t ask who you’ve put the finger on over the phone, in case you didn’t want to say.’

  Masters ignored the implied question. ‘It’ll be a bit of a crush in here. Could your chaps stay in the car outside?’

  Mundy sent his people away. Hill arranged the chairs. Green handed round his Kensitas amid general chatter.

  Masters said impatiently: ‘Shall we begin, sir?’

  Mundy sat down. ‘Sorry. Please go ahead.’

  ‘The questions we’ve had to answer in this case are: What was the poison? When was it administered? How was it administered? By whom was it administered? For what reason? And finally, how was the poison obtained by the murderer?

  ‘Normally we would expect medical and forensic experts to give us the answer to the first, second and probably the third of these questions. This time they couldn’t help, because it appeared that whatever substance was used had apparently been totally eliminated from the body, leaving no sign of its actual presence in the liver or other organs, but causing the severe symptoms from which the victim later died. So we did not know what substance had been used.

  ‘Nor could the medical and forensic experts tell us when the toxin had been administered, except that for so much physical damage to have been sustained it was thought that the substance had been ingested more than just a few hours before the victim’s collapse.

  ‘You, sir, learned that Mrs Partridge hadn’t been away from Throscum for four days before her death, and yet she was reputed to be one who got out and about a lot. As this stay-at-home business appeared to be out of character it immediately interested me. Perhaps the reason for it had some bearing on her subsequent death. I learned that on the previous Friday she had suffered a severe bilious attack.’

  ‘Had she, by jove?’ Mundy said.

  Masters went on. ‘The doctors Meeth were very helpful at this
point. In a general discussion they mentioned second-stage poisons—those that don’t kill until days after they have been ingested. I was particularly interested in this. You will remember that from the beginning I was convinced that Mrs Partridge could not have been poisoned with a quick-acting poison at breakfast time on the day of her death, because her dogs were ill before then; nor could she have been poisoned with a quick-acting poison the night before, because she would have been ill much earlier had this happened. And as I have just mentioned, the severe necrosis which caused her death would normally take more than just a few hours to develop.

  ‘Now it is a feature of second-stage poisons that they cause a relatively minor illness shortly after ingestion, then the complaint appears to clear up for three or four days, after which lethal disorders flare up. If we accept that Mrs Partridge’s illness on the Friday before her death could have been the first phase of second-stage poisoning, I feel we have a classic example of this phenomenon, because I am assured by Syme that though still a little weak, she was able to move around and even to attend an Olde Tyme Dance on the Monday evening. This shows that she was conforming to the second phase of this type of reaction. The events of last Tuesday were the third phase.’ Masters looked towards Mundy. ‘Are you with me so far, sir?’

  Mundy nodded vigorously. ‘Amazing. The complete jumping-off point.’

  Masters was pushing Warlock Flake into his pipe. His slim fingers never faltered at this compliment, but he smiled at Mundy’s enthusiasm. After lighting the pipe, he went on: ‘I have now answered—in general terms—the second question, which was “when was the poison administered?” The answer being not entirely specific, but a general one—namely before Friday lunch-time. I also knew the category of poison—second stage. But the first question remained—“What was the poison?” I’ll admit that this had me worried. It linked in so closely with question number three—“How was it administered?” It seemed obvious that Fay Partridge had taken the toxin unwittingly. That meant that to all intents and purposes it had to be tasteless and odourless, or else disguised so heavily as to cause her to suspect nothing when she took it. Now remember that she was sick by two o’clock on Friday after eating fish and chips. An unlikely vehicle for poison. And she had been in her own flat all morning where there was very little in the way of food. But I reckoned that to be sick by two o’clock, the poison would have necessarily to be ingested during the preceding four to six hours at the most.

  ‘I could see no likely disguise for poison in anything she could have eaten or drunk, unless the poison had been tasteless. Again the Meeths were helpful. They assured me that if a substance is tasteless it is almost always insoluble—complementary characteristics—and that insoluble substances are discharged from the body usually before they can cause harm. Besides no taste and no smell, the poison I was looking for had to have one other characteristic—it had to be invisible . . .’

  Green said: ‘Now I’ve heard everything!’

  ‘. . . invisible in so far as Mrs Partridge could not see that she was taking a foreign substance—such as a white powder mixed in brown sugar for example.

  ‘I am now willing to admit that I was led astray at this point—not deliberately—but nevertheless by two witnesses, Syme and Doctor Thurso. Syme told me that Mrs Partridge ate lots of dessert, and in corroboration, Doctor Thurso said that she confessed to eating lots of fruit. So I hared off on the track that she had probably ingested some pesticide on fruit. This seemed a particularly valuable line to follow on the face of it, because the husbands of the two stepdaughters—the only two beneficiaries under the will—both had what appeared to be suspicious connections with this theory. Honingham manufactures pesticides, while Thoresby imports dessert fruits and nuts, and has been in the habit of sending samples here to Throscum House.’

  Mundy whistled in amazement. ‘By jove, it doesn’t take you very long to rake up a bit of good-looking muck.’

  ‘One moment, sir, please. I said “on the face of it”. There were the dogs to consider. Would they eat fruit?’

  Green said: ‘I never gave the little darlings a thought.’

  ‘Of course not. It was too tempting a theory to throw away just because dogs don’t normally eat fruit. I suppose some enjoy an apple, perhaps, where dessert figs and oranges might not be to their liking. But to get on. I said I was led astray, and I began to suspect that this had happened when Dr Thurso told me he had forbidden Mrs Partridge to eat fruit, while Syme said she continued to take dessert. There were no signs of fruit in the flat, and yet I didn’t think Jessie Bell had been lying. The clue was there, but I failed to grasp it. Thurso explained how much difficulty he had encountered in getting a full story from Mrs Partridge because of her pseudo refinement. She spoke of soupçons and modicums and all the rest of it. And I encountered the same thing in Syme. Where I referred to “the settee in the sitting-room”, he said “the divan in the lounge”. I noted it, but thought nothing of it at the time. After all, where I say napkin, others say serviette, and it breaks no bones. Nevertheless, I was deceived until I came upon my colleagues bursting with ribald laughter because two children had referred to inviting-looking sweets as choice spice.’

  Hill said to Green: ‘What did I say at the time? I knew he went broody then.’

  ‘Nobody disbelieved you.’

  ‘No? What did you say? Gobstoppers!’

  Mundy smiled. ‘Go on, please, Mr Masters.’

  ‘We were discussing the various names for sweets in front of the shop window. We were talking about liqueur chocolates, marrons glacés etcetera when it hit me like a bomb that every item in that shop was described as “dessert”. Dessert chocolate, dessert mints, dessert this, dessert that. I knew immediately where I had gone wrong. The pseudo refinement had been at work again. Dessert to Partridge and Syme meant sweetmeats—not fruit. It fitted like a glove. Thurso had made the same mistake and taken Partridge off fruit. And yet she was sick two days later. Not from fruit—there were no signs of it—but from sweets. And Syme had told the truth. Partridge had eaten sweets that Friday evening. I knew it had to be right, because it fitted together as perfectly as carefully machined parts.

  ‘Mrs Partridge had confessed to Dr Thurso that she was accustomed to eating lots of dessert. Syme said she ate dessert at every touch and turn. We learned that if she didn’t win a prize at every dance she attended she grew cross. And the prizes were always sweets. We found boxes of sweets in her drinks cupboard. Sweets! Sweets! Sweets!’

  Mundy said: ‘You’d got the answer to question three. The poison was administered in sweets.’

  ‘It seemed obvious, sir—once I’d got the lead. The only things now remaining were to discover what the poison was and who had put it in the sweets.

  ‘The field was still wide open. The sweets are manufactured on the premises. To begin with I thought of the sweet-makers themselves, then I realized that this particular batch would have been made specially. It would be difficult for a member of a group in the kitchen to manufacture just one box and then be able to ensure that that particular box reached Mrs Partridge.

  ‘It was this problem that I gave my mind to next. How would the sweets reach Mrs Partridge? It seemed likely that if she expected to win a prize at every dance, her staff would earmark one box of her favourite goodies especially for her every time she came down to the ballroom.’

  Mundy said: ‘How did they make sure she won every time?’

  ‘Quite easily. Syme told me that they can cook up all sorts of excuses for giving a prize away. “Any lady wearing black suede shoes with silver buckles.” That sort of thing. It’s easy to decide on something when you know exactly what the lady you wish to pick out is wearing.’

  ‘So Syme did the picking out—as M.C.?’

  ‘Yes. But it wasn’t quite as easy as that. Compton provided the prizes.’

  ‘Who designated them?’

  ‘Compton. It was a simple matter to sort out first, second and third for each dance, b
ecause whether the winners were male or female they all got Throscum-produced sweets. But Mrs P’s special had to be dessert peppermint creams, and that meant the box had to have her name on it to make sure it was kept aside.’

  ‘Then Compton . . .?’

  ‘Not necessarily. The name couldn’t be stuck on. Evidently Mrs P. wouldn’t have liked the idea of just being given a prize. She liked to think she’d genuinely won it. So the label had to be removable—to be taken off without leaving any trace before it was handed to her.’

  ‘You mean the blasted label could have been changed from one box to another at any time by anybody?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Suffering cats!’

  ‘However, before I ever reached that stage I began to have my suspicions. Syme was always in her flat. Had a key to the place. He could have switched boxes up there at any time he liked. So could the maid who took up her food and cleaned the place. But I could get no proof that Syme had ever been near the confectionery kitchen, where I had proof—from Mrs Thoresby—that Compton had often helped her there, and had become quite a dab hand at sweet-making at one time.

  ‘So I considered Compton. His attitude had struck me as odd. At the outset he was co-operative, even though tremendously busy with his ordinary work and the funeral arrangements as well. But later he seemed to become less co-operative. He appeared to want to avoid me. I wondered why. What had caused the change in his attitude?

  ‘I went over in my mind everything I had said to Compton. Only one thing had appeared to disconcert him, and that was a private question of mine—nothing at all to do with the investigation—a question about micro-encapsulated perfume strips. At the time I had thought it was just his natural discomposure at being asked about something entirely strange to him. But on second thoughts I realized that he must have been familiar with them. Maybe he had not seen them plastered all over his employer’s flat, but he must have noticed them in Syme’s little boudoir—on the mirror—where they had been displayed for six or eight weeks. Why was Compton so worried by an innocent question?