Masters and Green Series Box Set

by Douglas Clark

  His wife said: ‘Not milk, Larry.’

  ‘Why not, sweetie?’

  Meg Meeth tucked her legs up and showed a deal of shapely thigh. Green moved further into his corner of the settee and turned slightly towards her to get a better view. ‘Because,’ she said, unconscious of the effect she was creating, ‘it is a known fact that completely tasteless substances are almost completely insoluble in water. Not absolutely true, but nearly so. So a tasteless poison wouldn’t dissolve in milk—at least not readily. Milk, you see, is very akin to water as a solvent.’

  Masters said: ‘What does “not readily” mean? Could it be put in the milk hours before and gradually dissolve?’

  ‘It could, I suppose. But it would be tricky to make the solution long beforehand—for reasons which you would know better than I—and I’d like to bet Fay Partridge insisted on fresh cream in her coffee.’

  Green sat up, suddenly. ‘What about if Mrs Partridge was taking some medicine? Three times a day after meals? A dollop after breakfast. Half an hour later she collapses.’

  Meeth said: ‘She wasn’t on any medicine I’d given her.’

  ‘Perhaps not, doc. But what about some home remedy? A patent medicine bought straight from the chemist? Cough mixture, for instance. Some of them are strong-enough tasting to disguise gall.’

  ‘It’s a possibility.’

  ‘For getting a poison into her perhaps. But what about post-mortem traces?’ Masters said.

  ‘And there’s not much likelihood of her taking cough mixture in mid-summer,’ Meg added.

  Green looked a bit abashed but his hostess grinned across at him. ‘I know there are summer colds and coughs, but in my opinion—and I can say this because Fay Partridge wasn’t my patient—no self-respecting cold bug would go near her. They’d be frightened of being gobbled up. She was more than a man-eater, she was a member of the bigger-busted male killer species.’

  Green laughed. ‘I’m beginning to get the impression you didn’t like her.’

  ‘I loathed her.’

  Meeth said: ‘Steady on, old thing. She’s just been poisoned in a mysterious way, you know. And there are sleuths present. They might begin to get ideas.’

  ‘So they might. I was forgetting.’ She turned to Masters. ‘You’re not much like detectives, are you?’

  ‘We try to be.’

  ‘But not all stuffy and strictly business and taking notes all the time.’

  ‘I think you’d be surprised, doctor. We learn quite a lot from the most unlikely conversations. But to get back to business . . .’ They both laughed. ‘. . . what about other common poisons?’

  ‘Common?’

  ‘Ones that can be obtained fairly easily. Like arsenic in weed-killer and phosphorus in rat poison or beetle powder.’

  ‘Lord, yes! Phossy! But here again there’s the question of taste and the after-effects to be seen in the body. Larry, what are they? Congestion in the gullet and gut, I think.’

  Her husband said: ‘And discoloration of the liver. It turns from brown to yellow. No disguising it as far as I remember.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Masters filled his pipe. ‘Suppose we’re on the wrong tack . . .’

  ‘As both Meg and I think you are,’ Meeth said.

  ‘. . . what about slow-acting poisons? Something given several days before death. Are there any?’

  Meg pouted prettily. Then: ‘Yes. I think so. Another weed-killer—sodium chlorate.’

  Green said: ‘The stuff I buy for watering my garden paths?’

  ‘That’s it. White crystalline. Looks like granulated sugar.’

  ‘Ah!’ Green was onto it like a sparrow on to a crumb.

  ‘No use, I’m afraid. It has a salty taste, and you’d need about half an ounce—that’s two teaspoonfuls—to be lethal. You couldn’t be sure if you mixed it with sugar that it wouldn’t be noticeable in coffee, nor could you be sure the victim would get two teaspoonfuls of the poison. If it was well mixed in, as it would have to be to avoid detection, she might only get a few grains. And then finally to rule it out there’s the effect on the body.’

  Meeth said: ‘Of course. It’s not a tissue poison like arsenic. It attacks the blood. Turns it noticeably brown. Affects its ability to carry oxygen so that in effect the victim dies of lack of oxygen—suffocation, in other words.’

  Masters said: ‘But it is slow-acting?’

  ‘In healthy people. It may take up to four days to kill them.’

  ‘That’s the bit you’re interested in, isn’t it?’ Meg inquired.

  ‘The four days? Yes. At least, I’m interested in poison that doesn’t act immediately.’

  Meeth poured more beer. The darkness was now complete, and the garden through the open french window no more than a velvet backdrop to the long pool of light spilled across the grass by the standard lamps.

  Meg said: ‘But you can’t rule out first-stage poisoning altogether.’

  ‘Of course he can,’ her husband replied. ‘First-stage victims die quick and painful deaths. Fay didn’t. She lasted nearly ten hours in the hospital and she had no pain.’

  ‘I know. But what is quick? And what is pain? They’re relative terms. Ten hours from apparent good health to corpsicity would be too quick and uncomfortable for most of us. And you know how notoriously difficult it is to establish a pain threshold. A blow that one person wouldn’t notice will cause another to scream in agony. Fay was as tough as old boots. She certainly had a hide like leather. And don’t forget she was either in a state of collapse or was comatose most of the day. That would hide pain, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘You’re raving, woman. I still say our friends should concentrate on proving her a second-stage victim.’

  Green said: ‘I don’t know what second stage means—unless it’s a slow build-up of little doses rather than one thumping great dollop.’

  Meg leaned across and patted his knee. Green reddened, but appeared to like it. She said: ‘You’re way out, sweetie. Second stage is what we’ve just been talking about. Sort of delayed action. The poison is taken. The victim is ill—to a greater or lesser extent—then appears to recover for a day or two, but finally dies after five or six days.’ She turned to Masters. ‘And now I come to think about it, Larry may be right. The late lamented could have been a second-stage victim, but I reckon her first reaction must have been very mild, otherwise she’d have come and bared her soul—and not only that—to Larry.’ She turned to her husband. ‘Wouldn’t she, my love?’

  He grinned. ‘I must admit a chest cold for her was a weighty problem and, yes, she did expect me to use the stethoscope every time she came. I remember the cup of the diaphragm just fitted over . . .’

  ‘Quite,’ interrupted his wife. ‘I know you were going to say the mole on her back, but our friends aren’t to know that.’

  Masters grinned. Green said: ‘Being a doctor must have its moments.’

  ‘For the male doctors, love. Not for the likes of me. I get all the pregnancies and none of the beefcake in my surgery. Come to think of it, beefcake rarely does come to see a doctor. It’s usually so disgustingly healthy—if it’s good beefcake. But cheesecake finds its way into the men’s surgeries. And the more cheesecaky it is, the more likely it is to come—as that’s the type that men prefer to render hors de combat for nine months at a time every so often. If you see what I mean.’

  Green said: ‘It’s a pity about you.’ She grinned at him, and Meeth said: ‘Cut it out, you two. There’s company present.’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ Masters said, ‘but can we go back a bit to something you said a bit earlier? About completely tasteless poisons being completely insoluble in water—or nearly so. How does a poison like that work in the body?’

  Meg said: ‘Oh dear, what a man you are for information. It comes from being a detective, I suppose. So we’d better work it out logically. In the body the rate of absorption would be slow.’

  ‘But it would be absorbed?’
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br />   ‘Yes. Acids in the stomach would gradually break it down, unless . . .’

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘Unless the original substance was something that splits up in the gut into other substances, one of which is toxic.’

  ‘Would such a toxin leave any signs?’

  ‘Bound to. It would leave unchanged material and varying proportions of digested products.’ She looked at her husband. ‘You know, Larry, this is almost impossible, isn’t it? Gastric emptying time is approximately one hour. That means slowly absorbed material would be got rid of before any great damage could be done. Right?’

  ‘I should think so.’ He turned to Masters. ‘Gastric emptying time—that is from stomach to intestine—is very short. Muscle movement, mass of material, gases—they all force the food through very quickly. I mean the period is so short that the usual liquids like water or lemonade or the beer you’ve got there would go straight through. So if the victim were to take a very insoluble substance it would be too far through before the stomach juices had time to get to work on it.’

  Masters grimaced. ‘What you’re telling me is that it wasn’t a tasteless, insoluble poison at all?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. Sorry to splash the vinegar on your chips, but there it is.’

  ‘Don’t apologize. If you’ve put me right, you’ve helped. At least I know what I’m not looking for.’

  ‘Rather you than me. Have a refill.’

  As Masters accepted his newly filled glass, he said: ‘Some things must be insoluble, and yet are taken as medicines. I’m thinking of oily substances. Castor oil, for instance. Oil isn’t soluble in water.’

  Meg Meeth said: ‘You’re getting on the ball. The route through the body is stomach, intestine, large intestine and then through the liver, into the bloodstream, to be filtered out by the kidney and away in the usual manner. Castor oil is inert and non-irritant. But the body acids split it up rather quickly in the small intestine into glycerine and ricinolic acid. And this latter is highly irritant to the mucous membranes—hence its purgative action. This is one of the actions that can take place, and which you will have to consider. But don’t try to claim that castor oil is either tasteless or the type of substance that could get by unnoticed when mixed with a bowl of sugar.’

  Masters laughed. ‘I was only thinking of the principle.’

  ‘Keep on thinking. You’ll need to if you’re going to crack this one.’

  Her husband said: ‘Don’t bet on it that he won’t. After all, with our help . . .’

  Masters got to his feet.

  *

  As they walked back the short distance to Throscum House, Green said: ‘You didn’t hear what she told me about the last time her husband called on Mrs Partridge, professionally.’

  ‘When I was talking to Meeth in the hall? I could hear the two of you were having a high old time in the room while we were waiting for you.’

  Green said: ‘There’s no need to be narky. She’s a fine woman.’

  ‘A smasher.’ As they came to the gate they could hear the beat of the band. All the windows of the ballroom were open, and the gay laughter and happy shouts could be heard quite clearly.

  ‘D’you want to hear what she told me, or not?’

  ‘If it’s so good—yes.’

  ‘Evidently Mrs Partridge had flu. She sent for Meeth, who was met, when he called, by one of the female staff who was looking after Partridge. They went into the room together and Meeth saw Mrs P had one of the poodles on the bed with her. He said to the other woman: “You get one of these bitches out of here and I’ll look after the other one.”’

  Masters said: ‘I’ll forgive you for laughing. I suspect the story is apocryphal, but none the less amusing for all that. I can see Meeth doing it, too. But it raises a query—if it is true.’

  ‘What, for instance?’

  ‘Would you keep a doctor who spoke about you or addressed you in those terms?’

  ‘Not bloody likely.’

  ‘Don’t you think Meeth would know that the likely result would be the immediate transfer of his patient to another doctor?’

  Green sucked his teeth. ‘He wasn’t born yesterday. D’you think he wanted to be shut of her?’

  ‘I’d like to know. If he did, it must have meant there was trouble between them of some sort.’

  ‘Oh, I dunno. Doctor-patient relationships often go a bit sour if the patient doesn’t co-operate.’

  ‘But Mrs Meeth said she loathed Mrs Partridge and was pretty scathing about her in general. If that’s what she felt, what did her husband think of his patient?’

  ‘The same, probably.’

  ‘Could you find out why? It would be an excuse to call on the lady doctor again.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘O.K. Although I don’t see what you’re getting at.’

  ‘Neither do 1. But check up on one specific point for me, will you? The little anecdote you’ve just told took place during Meeth’s last domiciliary visit to Throscum House. Find out when that was and if Mrs Partridge has ever made a surgery call on Meeth since then. Can do?’

  ‘You’re the boss.’ Green looked at his watch by the light streaming through the open main door of Throscum House. ‘Half ten. Feel like a last one before bed?’

  Masters turned into the door. ‘On those two cowboys of ours. See if you can catch the eye of one of them and invite them into the bar to buy us a drink.’

  *

  Hill said: ‘There’s more basic raw material round here than I’ve ever met in my life. I could have been fixed up for tonight ten times over. You two don’t know what you’re missing.’

  ‘Be you age,’ Green said. ‘It’s because we know precisely what we’re missing that you two are there instead of us.’

  The ordinary bar was almost empty. The steady drinking was being done at the bar in the ballroom. The four were able to take a secluded corner table. Brant called Garry over to take the order. When the drinks had arrived and the bar-tender was back behind his counter, Masters said: ‘Apart from the opportunities already mentioned, what else have you learned?’

  Brant, wearing a cow-puncher’s hat down his back, eased the thong round his Adam’s apple and said: ‘She attended the Thursday night dances as regular as clockwork. Never missed. And quite a lot of the casual hops they hold most nights of the week. Especially Olde Tyme on Mondays. She liked the round waltz.’

  ‘Who said so?’

  ‘The drummer. It cost me a pint to find out.’

  ‘She was definitely at the masked ball last Thursday?’

  ‘So he said. Dressed in black with lots of scalloped frills—all different lengths from the waist to the floor—edged with silver. She had her hair done up like Pompadour and had a black mask studded with diamanté. But he said it was easy to see who it was. Evidently there was no disguising her bosom and the amount of it she was prepared to show. She said she painted her upperworks and back with something he called wet-white. Used to put it on with a two-inch brush. That’s what he said. Honest. One of the maids who helped her told him.’

  Green said: ‘She was pulling his neb. Two-inch brush! They dab it on with cotton-wool or powder puffs. When I did those raids on strip clubs I saw one of those girls doing it all over. She said it looked clean under the spotlights. And by god, she needed it. She hadn’t had a real wash since the midwife did her, that one.’

  ‘Have it your way,’ Brant replied. ‘That’s all I got. Except that she seemed all right at the end of the party. Oh—and I was told to ask the dance professional to confirm that last part if I didn’t believe it.’

  ‘Did the drummer say why you should ask the professional?’ Masters inquired.

  ‘No. But from the way he said it I gathered the dancing boy was in the habit of seeing a bit more of her after the ball was over.’

  Masters turned to Hill. ‘Anything to add?’

  ‘Not much. I had a word with one of the girls behind the bar
. They give lots of prizes on these carnival nights. Seventy or eighty of them. Nothing much, of course. Just boxes of sweets and chocolates. Evidently it’s not the value of the prize that counts, it’s the winning . . .’

  Green growled: ‘Oh, for Pete’s sake, get on.’

  ‘O.K. Mrs Partridge liked winning prizes, and the staff running the dances always made sure she got at least one, otherwise she was pretty nasty about it.’

  ‘You mean she got mardy if she didn’t walk off with one of her own do-dahs? No wonder somebody saw her off.’

  Masters said: ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Sorry, Chief,’ Hill replied. ‘With this crowd a week ago’s a long time. They can’t remember that far back. There’s too much going on.’

  ‘Maybe. But did you establish whether Mrs P won a prize last week?’

  ‘Yes. Two. The one they fiddled her and a genuine spot prize.’

  ‘Thanks. Well, I’m going to bed. You two had better get back to the revels and see if there’s anything else to be had. But don’t make a row when you come back to the bungalow.’

  As they walked along the main road of the camp—well lit by ordinary lamp standards augmented with strings of coloured lights and floodlights gilding flowering bushes, Green said: ‘Have we got anywhere?’

  ‘The doctors gave us something to think about.’

  ‘There’s a whole campful of people here. Are you forgetting them?’

  ‘Largely, I think. I don’t believe ordinary holidaymakers come to a place like this armed with the equipment necessary for murdering the owner. I feel sure we’ll find the culprit among the permanent staff or her family.’

  ‘Stepdaughters?’

  ‘That’s who I meant. But I wonder if she had any other family—of her own? Not by marriage. That’s something the lads can ferret out tomorrow.’

  ‘The stepdaughters are coming for the funeral. They should know.’

  ‘I expect so. But first off tomorrow I want to have a look round her flat.’

  Green grunted. ‘We should have done it earlier. Tonight.’

  ‘What? And missed seeing your lady doctor?’

  As he ribbed Green, Masters opened the bungalow door and switched on the passage light. He noticed Green was frowning slightly.