Compton said: ‘I’m here all the time. But if you could see your way clear to leaving it till tomorrow I’d be grateful. I’ve the weekly fancy-dress ball to arrange for tonight and I’ve the beginnings of a headache.’
‘Tomorrow, then.’
‘But if you’d care for an aperitif now—in my office?’
‘Why not, Mr Compton? Very kind of you.’ Masters didn’t particularly want the drink, but he was by no means loath to have a squint at the office. He followed the manager across the hall into a passage that led to the dining-room. The office door was on the left. From his window Compton had a full view of the comings and goings on the road outside and the front steps of Throscum House. One wall was taken up with a talc-covered plan of the Motel lay-out. For the rest, the office was very much the same as all other offices—safe, typing table, desk, filing cabinets and all the etceteras.
Compton said: ‘I always stick to Williams and Humbert sherries. I hope you don’t object?’
‘Not in the least. A good house.’
‘So I think. But you see, here at Throscum, we make a point of using and selling as many locally produced items as possible. Obviously, for our better wines and spirits, we have to go outside the county, but you’d be surprised how readily our guests fall in with our chauvinistic gimmick. Devon cream teas, Devon cream toffee, Devonshire ice cream, Devonshire cider . . . Devonshire everything. So my personal stock of sherry is carefully hidden.’
‘Does such insistence pay off?’
‘Remarkably well. The guests like it . . . on the principle of when in Rome, I suppose . . . and we benefit in our marketing. Mr Partridge, when he first started here, soon learned that he could drive a better bargain with suppliers if he promised them an exclusive outlet.’ He poured two glasses of medium dry. ‘Oh yes. Business is business.’ He handed Masters his glass. ‘Your good health, sir.’
‘And yours.’
Compton took two aspirins with his sherry.
As he sipped, Masters decided he liked this little man: pompous, pedantic, but professional, he seemed an ideal man to run a show like the Throscum Motel.
Chapter Two
Masters didn’t stay long with Compton. Excusing himself as soon as he’d finished the one glass of sherry, he returned to the bar. Green said: ‘You’ve got rid of Mundy, then? I knew you wouldn’t have an easy moment till he’d gone. But I’ll say this for you, you didn’t push him off quite as quick and hard as you usually do.’
‘You’re very observant. And quite right. There’s so much background material here I wanted to get most of it before we cut loose.’ He turned to Hill and Brant. ‘You two have got about half an hour in which to rig yourselves out for a fancy-dress ball.’
Hill said: ‘We have? Have a heart, Chief. What can we go as?’
‘Coppers,’ Green suggested.
‘There’s a nice little girl in reception. Cathy York. She’d love to fit you up.’
Brant said: ‘What’re we waiting for? See you at dinner.’
Masters turned to Green. ‘I take it you’re not too keen on dressing up as Ali Baba or Sherlock Holmes?’
‘You’re darn right I’m not. And I can’t see what you want those two cavorting round, body-clutching, for.’
‘Because there’s a masked ball every Thursday night and outsiders can pay to come.’
Green sat up. He lit a Kensitas slowly and flicked the match over towards a standard ash-tray in the corner. He said: ‘See what you mean. But if you’re now thinking as far back as Thursday . . . no, it doesn’t make sense. A poison with a delayed-action fuse five days long that leaves no trace just isn’t possible.’
‘It does sound ridiculous, but we’ve got to try everything. Scrabbling for a foothold’s hell at the best of times. In a case like this, with no apparent leads, it can be as tough as Billy Whitlam’s bulldog.’
‘So what do we do while the lads are morrising about?’
‘Go to see the doctor—if he’ll allow us. I’ll phone now.’
*
While they dined, Masters gave Hill and Brant their instructions. They were quite brief. ‘Try and find out if anybody—guest or outsider—did anything unusual last Thursday. Mrs Partridge, too. Did she put in an appearance? If so, when and for how long. I want everything it is possible to learn about the dance and the people who attended it.’
‘How certain—or hopeful—are you that there is anything to learn?’ Hill said.
‘We’re not,’ Green replied. ‘It’s just to keep you two boys out of mischief while the men get on with the job.’
‘We’re in the dark, then?’
‘Dark? This case is as black as Old Harry’s nutting bag. Not a glimmer, so far. By cripes this sparrow-grass is stringy. Why can’t they serve just the tips and keep the rest for soup?’ He picked up a fat stick and held it, dripping with butter, above his mouth. ‘What’s left after I do this always reminds me . . .’
Masters interrupted. ‘No similes, please.’
Green grunted and sucked. As he put the chewed remains on his plate edge, he said: ‘By the way, what are you two boyos going as? To this do, I mean?’
Brant said: ‘Cowboys.’
Green pushed the rest of the asparagus aside and wiped his fingers. ‘Well, don’t try to ride too many of ’em.’
*
Dr Meeth saw them in his surgery. He was a man of forty, square built and chunky, with a boxer’s nose and ears. His hair was already greying and receding in front in a half moon. His fingers, when he shook hands, felt hard and thick. Masters, who disliked shaking hands, consciously categorized him as a practical man. A doctor who would never be other than considerate of his patients, but who would put up with no temperament.
‘It’s good of you to see us at this time of night, doctor,’ Masters said.
‘Nonsense. When else can a G.P. get a moment for a natter?’ He offered them seats. Masters took the patients’ chair opposite the doctor. Green drew one up from beside the records cabinets, and sat at the end of the desk.
‘Mrs Partridge! She’s your patient, I believe?’
‘Was. She’s dead—without my help.’
‘From massive, diffuse, toxic necrosis.’
Meeth nodded.
‘Are you surprised?’
‘Very. She hadn’t been on the sick list. And for an apparently healthy woman of not much more than thirty to die suddenly of such a complaint is surprising. What I mean is, if it were not a surprising occurrence, our life-expectation would be considerably less than it is now.’
‘I see your point. Would you mind telling me what necrosis is, exactly?’
‘Necrosis is the death of a cell as a result of disease or injury.’
‘Not from a poison?’ inquired Green.
Meeth turned to him. ‘Oh, certainly. Injury from a toxin just as much as injury from any other cause.’
Masters said: ‘So massive, diffuse, toxic necrosis of the liver means . . .?’
‘I’d better explain fairly fully. You know that every part of the body, every bone, every organ is made up of cells?’
Masters nodded.
Meeth went on: ‘This includes the liver. A great mass of tiny cells. Well, one of the functions of the liver is to metabolize any drug that is taken. You know what metabolize means?’
‘Turn into a form which the living flesh can accept as part of the body or as being useful to it,’ Green replied. ‘We learned all about it when we were investigating the death of a diabetic girl.’
‘It’s a pretty broad definition, but it shows you’re on net. So what do we get? The drugs go to the liver for it to metabolize them. But if for any reason it can’t deal with them, there is the strong possibility that they will deal with it instead. Do you see what I mean?’
Green said: ‘No. That last bit. Why shouldn’t the liver be able to deal with the drug?’
‘For one of two reasons. The first may be because whatever arrives in the liver is not capable of being metaboli
zed no matter how big or small the amount of it ingested.’
‘You mean something that won’t dissolve—like sand?’
‘Could be.’
‘The second is that the substance is capable of being metabolized in certain specified, reasonable amounts—such as the stated doses on medicines—but not if it comes in such great amounts that the liver is overwhelmed. In either case, the substance defeats the ability of the liver to cope and necrosis results. Cells lose their shape and become loaded with fat, just like a honeycomb gets loaded with honey. The cells can’t function in this state, and if there are enough of them affected—in other words if the necrosis is massive and diffuse—the liver packs up. And when that happens the unfortunate owner dies, ack dum.’
‘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 subst
ances 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, which 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.’
Masters and Green Series Box Set Page 56
