by Charlot King
“I don’t know, do I? Like, if you loved him. Like were you happy. Like was everything rosy in the garden of marriage. Bex, I can’t protect you if you won’t let me. You need to open up. What has happened here? You haven’t been the happiest pair have you.”
Without moving his head he rolls his eyes straight down at his sister, waiting for her response.
Rebecca feels like she’s been stung by a swarm of bees. Her own brother, accusing her of practically being responsible. “How can you even think that now? What if the police are right? What if it really is him lying on that cold slab?” She wonders what he means about getting her story straight. Does she need to make up a story? Rebecca feels drained like a wilting flower, and shuts her eyes.
“I’m just warning you, be careful what you say. Blurt everything out to me, but not to the police. They’re not your friends, that’s all.” Jonathan stands up. He turns and looks towards the tourists who have begun to appear on the street. With an angry face Rebecca doesn’t see, he inadvertently glares at them, hoping that Edward hasn’t left all his worldly possessions to the starving Africans, so in love with that continent he was. And hopes that he has made provision for his sister, as Edward came from a wealthy family. Jonathan was only thinking what everyone else was thinking, he told himself. He also wonders if he will be able to have Edward’s tennis racket, as he has had his eye on it for the past year. Perhaps Rebecca wouldn’t mind as it was far too heavy for her.
Rebecca’s eyes remain shut as she speaks softly to Jonathan, who doesn’t hear.
“I think I will die. I will curl up into a tiny crumpled ball. I was not supposed to live as a widow.”
Jonathan slams her door shut and walks around to the driver’s side. The police officer in the car beside, impatient, watching his every move as Jonathan gets in the car, turns the key and starts the engine. The police car starts to pull away and Jonathan’s car begins to follow down King’s Parade. Rebecca panics, this is not the reality she is willing to accept.
“I can’t be in this car.” She starts to rattle at the seat belt hysterically to try to get out. “I hate being in the passenger seat. You know I can’t travel unless I’ve had my pills. I feel claustrophobic. I want to go back!”
Rebecca starts to scream loudly, so Jonathan slaps his sister on the cheek. “Calm down. I’ll open a window, see look. Fresh air. There you are.”
“I can’t breathe. Turn off the heat.”
“Okay. There it’s off. What Rebecca wants today, Rebecca gets today, and no questions darling.”
“You’ll be married to Kat soon. You don’t care about me. You’re never here when I need you.”
“I’m here now darling. My fiancée said she would be too. Where is she? Be strong Bex. You didn’t love him, truly love him, did you?”
“Stop it. Stop it!” She hits her brother’s arms, but her punches are so pathetic that he remains unmoved in his seat. “He’s not dead. Don’t let him be dead, Jonathan. Don’t let him be dead.”
Rebecca winds her seat back and lies with her eyes closed. She puts a scarf over her face to block out the world. Jonathan’s car turns into Lensfield Road, with a police car in front, the convoy heads towards the police station, as Jonathan plays over the logistics in his head. Edward was dead. He knew it. So what did they need to do to keep a lid on things? What objects always turned up when someone was dead, to reveal the truth, to blow things up in the press? CCTV, the bank details of what had last been spent, and the phone. He couldn’t do anything about CCTV, but if he could find the wallet, the phone. Try to sort this himself. Anything else? He ran this over as quick as he could in his head. He needed as few repercussions as possible.
“Did you find his phone upstairs, Bex?”
Rebecca’s eyes remain closed, her head dipped.
“No.”
“His passport?”
“No. Only his wallet.”
Jonathan thinks about asking Rebecca to lie to the police about the wallet. It makes sense. What will the wallet do other than make this into a bigger story than it is, with all its clues. She removes the scarf, opens her eyes and feels the wallet in her pocket.
“You know, I never really thought he liked you. But he had your number in his wallet, so he must have.”
She takes out the wallet from her pocket and shows Jonathan the piece of paper, which just has a number on it. Rebecca knows this is her brother’s by heart.
“Shall I take that?”
“No. The police have already asked me to give it to the constable who was with me. I forgot, but he knows I have it. What do you want it for?”
“Oh, nothing. Great minds think alike, that’s all. I was going to do the same thing.” Jonathan covers his own thoughts.
Rebecca is angry at Edward still, especially as the wallet also has Susan’s phone number in it, clearly written on the back of a photo of Susan. This makes her blood boil. Susan is so ugly.
“But no phone?” Jonathan digs again as he knows he heard Rebecca say there was no phone, but pushes to see if there is more information about where it is.
“No.”
Jonathan realises this is not good news. It will track where Edward was that night, it will have evidence of his calls, where he went. This will be enough for the police to find a story, for the media to tease it out day by day. It will be enough to ruin his chances of the Cabinet. This is the worst day for him. He’d better get that tennis racket.
The police car comes to a halt on Gonville Place, realising Jonathan is not following at the Hills Road lights. They hit their horn to encourage him to move. He puts the car in gear and slowly pulls away, unsure of what both he and Rebecca will face at Parkside police station.
“You look exhausted, my tiny mouse. I am sorry for hitting you.”
“My cheek hurts. Maybe you killed Edward, you’ve always had a violent temper.”
Jonathan looks at his sister with derision and drives on past Parker’s Piece, full of happy people sitting eating sandwiches, chatting, and playing football.
7. A Fine Mind
Wearing a light fawn linen jacket and cream trousers, Elizabeth peers over the top of her spectacles and lifts her head from her notes as she delivers her lecture to a packed auditorium of undergraduates on the topic of UK non-native invasive poisonous plants. Perched on their wooden seats that steep up high to the back of the room, not a whisper is heard, only scribbles and concentration fill the centuries old hall. This is the esteemed Cambridge Department of Plant Sciences on Downing Street, a street lined with buildings so tall they block out the sun on the pavements below, leaving a whistle and whip of the wind through innocent pedestrians travelling its length, buildings so austere and full of such intelligence they might melt the brains of lesser mortals who take a wrong turn. Downing Street is the preserve of the elite, rushing to and fro, with their important thoughts and discoveries. Plant Sciences holds botanical collections of global significance, houses experts with knowledge spanning from rainforest ecosystems to molecular genetics, is highly selective, highly exclusive and only admits the cream of the country. Elizabeth’s students have worked hard to earn the right to hang on her every word as she clicks through slides on an old fashioned roller projector, revealing plants from around the world and recites with enthusiasm and passion the detail of their specific attributes. Like for no other lecturer in the department, all the spotty, lanky youths never miss the opportunity to hear Professor Green tell stories of imaginary triffids and real life murderous individuals in the kingdom Plantae. Little do they know that Elizabeth, with her thirty years of experience, can easily multi-task and while taking a lecture can also be thinking about things she has to do in the day, whether it be shopping for food, or gardening jobs when she gets home. Today she thinks about Edward. Since she left home his grisly death has brought a trail of questions. Nothing adds up. Where had he come from? Jesus Green,
or further up river? It must have been further up, or his hat would not have drifted past her lawn. If it was further up, then why hadn’t he got out earlier? He could swim well, he could have swam to the side, or got out at Sandymee’s punts by Magdalene College. Maybe he’d been pushed over the boards further down, had a fight. Maybe he’d been walking. But to where? He lived in college. She knew that. So where was he going which would have taken him further away? And at that time of night? It wasn’t the water that caused him to die. It wasn’t polluted, it was clean. She knew that too, being a keen and active member of the local river conservation group. And whose was the bright red and black beaded necklace and why did Edward have it? It seemed as puzzling as the little empty bag in his hat and the last words he uttered, ‘Serve us tip’. Elizabeth clicks to a slide of the hemlock plant. She was more sure than ever that he had meant to come to her. Meant to find her. If she could just think, think woman. It was all in front of her.
“As you will know, hemlock is also known as conium maculatum. The whole plant is poisonous. Anyone tell me more?”
A boy puts his hand up in the front row: Mr Jenkins, a cocky lad Elizabeth rather likes for his ‘have a go’ optimism. She walks right up to him and almost leans over him.
“Well, if you eat it you puke, dribble, seize up and snuff it.” He says. There is a ripple of giggles.
“Thank you, Jenkins. Yes, as Mr Jenkins so eloquently put it, this is not a plant to be trifled with, and can on the rare occasion be fatal. As you should know, hemlock contains piperidine, alkaloids, coniine, N-methylconiine, conhydrine and pseudoconhydrine, which attack the central nervous system. Hemlock goes as far back in records as Socrates, who was poisoned with it, and of course it was mentioned in King Lear and Hamlet.”
Mr Jenkins then fiddles about in his pocket and pulls out a brown paper bag, very crinkled and old. He holds it up for many to see and asks Elizabeth a question.
“Professor Green, what are these?”
Mr Jenkins then hurriedly takes out a dried mushroom for Elizabeth and the lecture hall to see. He twirls it in his fingers, as there are some ‘ohs’ and scuffling in the auditorium, as students strain to see what he has in his hands. Elizabeth snatches the mushroom and holds it up for everyone and responds to his question.
“You tell me? A rather shrivelled specimen now. But in its glory, a shiny prolific wonder.”
Mr Jenkins stands up and coyly builds his part, looking forward to the reaction he’ll get from the room with his next words.
“A good friend of mine told me,” the boy sniggers, “they’re shroomies, Professor.” There is a small round of tittering in the room as Elizabeth takes a better look at the shrivelled up specimen.
“You mean, you think these are psilocybe semilanceata, or the liberty cap as it is more commonly known, Jenkins? The little beauties containing compounds called psilocybin and psilocin. Of the world’s psilocybin mushrooms, the most common in nature and one of the most potent. It has a bell shaped cap and a small nipple-like protrusion on the top, though these must have lost that through age. I’m sure you were just testing me, Jenkins, to see if I’d mention how if ingested they give you a mild hallucinogenic trip, some say psychedelic, where you hear colour and see sounds, and all the rest of it.”
“Really professor. I had no idea they did that.”
More laughter from the room as Jenkins smiles, faking innocence and then wiggling his eyebrows up and down to reveal he knew exactly the effect.
“I will take those thank you. Because now I must ring the police as you have a class A drug in your bag.”
“What?”
Elizabeth takes the paper bag with the dried mushrooms from Jenkins’s hand, much too quickly for him to stop her. She walks back up on stage.
“Did you not know that the 2005 Drugs Act amended the Misuse of Drugs Act of 1971 to clarify that fresh, dried or stewed magic mushrooms that contain psilocybin are class A, under clause 21? I guess not. Has anyone got a phone?”
A number of gasps in the audience at the implications of what has happened, and a couple of Jenkin’s enemies hold up their phones. Elizabeth pauses.
“No, in fact we don’t need to phone the police on this occasion, but perhaps suggest you lay off picking fungi for a hobby. As you are not very good at it. These are not psilocybe semilanceata, Jenkins. No, that would have been slightly less of a worry. They are in fact dried amanita phalloides, the deadly death cap. There are a number of gasps from the more intelligent in the hall, who realise Jenkins’s error and the dangerous implications. This particular fungus has been the cause of most mushroom poisonings, possibly including the death of Roman Emperor Claudius. The principal toxic constituent is a-amanitin, which damages the liver and kidneys, often fatally. Just half a mushroom is enough to kill you, and there is very little anyone can do once you have ingested it. The death cap grows fresh from August to November usually, but drying mushrooms like this can sometimes also concentrate the poison and certainly make them harder to identify. So, you have escaped possible death today, Jenkins. Let’s be thankful for that. Where on earth did you pick them, and where have you been storing them?”
“In the woods behind my lodgings and in the fridge with my sausages.” says a worried Jenkins.
“A seven year stretch in prison for magic mushrooms, or death. I’d stick to the grocers for your fungi in future.” Elizabeth raises her eyebrows at him. There are more gasps and gossiping in the room.
“Are you keeping those now then?” says Jenkins.
“That might be a good idea.”
“My flat mate was actually going to make mushroom pasta tonight. Thanks Professor.” Jenkins looks as white as a sheet and returns to his seat. Suddenly Elizabeth thinks whether it was something Edward ate? He had all the classic symptoms of poison. Vomiting. Spasms. It was staring at her in the face. Why the hell not? Omphalotus olearius, jack-o’-lantern, might have been used in place of chanterelle mushrooms, had he eaten suchlike. Yet could this have been enough to kill him? There were no news reports of accidental poisonings in restaurants of Cambridge last night. What if it hadn’t been accidental? Any attempt on a person’s life would have to assume the victim was going to eat the mushrooms, liked mushrooms. Elizabeth thinks perhaps he’d eaten dinner with someone he knew well, someone who wished him harm. Someone who knew his tastes. What had happened to them? She realised Godric had mentioned Rebecca, but she didn’t know her, nor did she know the rest of Edward’s family. For a colleague she admired, she realised she didn’t know much about Edward outside of work. Then there was still the question of how he ended up in the river. If he’d been poisoned surely there would be no need to push him in as well. Unless to confuse matters. Perhaps he staggered and slipped in the dark? Elizabeth’s mind cannot stop racing over the ‘what ifs’. She has to get to the police station to talk to Inspector Abley about the post-mortem report. She feels a sudden wave of urgency to find out what had happened to Edward.
“Professor?” Jenkins looks at Elizabeth, who appears now miles away in her own thoughts.
“Serve us tips.” She mutters. How Inspector Abley expected her to stay off the case was ludicrous. It happened right under her nose.
“Professor?” Jenkins raises his voice which snaps Elizabeth out of her thoughts.
“Thank you Jenkins. Thank you all. So, next week, we will go back to plant adaptation and environmental change, looking at the rhododendron in Snowdonia. Read up, read on.” Elizabeth leaves the stage and rushes out, fifteen minutes early, as the students start putting their notebooks away and standing up to leave, not thinking anything of the abrupt departure by this particular eccentric tutor. More chatting about the deadly death cap. Professor Elizabeth Green stuffs the bag of fungus into her briefcase. She would dispose of it later.
8. A Loving Brother
At Parkside police station Rebecca and Jonathan are guided into a rather sterile
room, adjacent to where bodies are stored in preparation for post-mortems. A police liaison officer hands Rebecca some photographs of distinguishing marks on Edward’s body. A mole above the right cheek of his buttock, a scar on the left side of his neck where he had an infection once and it had to be drained. Photographs supposed to make it easier for Rebecca to be sure it is Edward, but making it ten times worse as she can already see him, knows the body in front of her. Rebecca throws herself on the viewing window, behind which Edward lay on a display table, for identification purposes. Uncontrollable moans bellow from Rebecca. Jonathan stands beside her, staring at Edward through the glass. Jonathan’s voice resonates like a hiss around the deathly silent walls in which they are presently trapped.
“I’ve just told the office, Sis, that I’m going to stay up here with you. I can’t leave you now.”
Rebecca’s tears stream down her nose and attach themselves to the glass, bereft now that a positive identification has been made.
“He looks so small.” She stares at Edward, adding, “He is very tanned, isn’t he? I didn’t notice before.”
Jonathan doesn’t take his eyes off Edward.
“Well he was in Nakuru, it’s hot there.”
“How did you know where he was?” She asks her brother.
Jonathan comes across all guilty.
“He told me before he went away. Why?”
Rebecca looks at Jonathan and can’t work out why, then Jonathan’s phone starts to ring and he picks it up.
“Yes, hello Katie. No I can’t. I can’t come back now. What is it, ten o’clock? Haven’t you heard? Okay, yes it’s bad news. Very bad.”
From the corner of his eye Jonathan notices Rebecca flinch, so he moves away to the furthest corner of the room and turns his back for the remainder of the call, muttering quietly into his mobile phone. Rebecca still leaning on the glass leaves a finger print trail on the window as she presses both hands against it, talking to Edward.
