Dread and Water

by Douglas Clark

  “A good mouthful, that’s all,” said Partington. “Bearing in mind how much denser than ordinary water the D2O is.”

  “But,” expostulated Toinquet, “why should they drink this heavy water? D2O the doctor calls it. Even I know that ordinary water is H2O. Wouldn’t they know the difference?”

  “The two are virtually identical in taste,” said Crome. “And in looks. Possibly D2O tastes a bit like distilled water—a bit lifeless—but nothing more. The only thing which might give the game away is the weight of the water-bottle, and that problem could easily be overcome by not filling it completely.”

  “Thank you,” said Masters. “It all began with Doctor Silk. He went up the mountain alone as the result of a wager with Doctor Winter.”

  “Don’t tell me Winter …”

  “Director, please! I think the bet was fairly common knowledge. Particularly in Group Six. Thus was the opportunity created. That bet probably sparked off the whole sequence. But it wasn’t Winter’s fault. It takes two to make a wager. But once the method used had worked so effectively in Silk’s case, it was only a matter of time before it was used again and again. The perpetrators of such crimes have a habit of repeating themselves.”

  “But why? For what possible reason?”

  “Doctor Winter himself gave us the clue, Director. In your presence he told me that in his small way he needed to be a diplomat in order to keep the peace between factions within his own group. He said categorically that he had to offer support, when needed, to alternative approaches which even he, himself, did not view with particular favour.”

  “I remember him saying that.”

  “Director, I must tell you that Doctor Winter’s attitude, admirable as it may sound, has been the cause of great dissension in his Group. Where he was prepared to be diplomatic, other dedicated scientists were not. Many of them were, and are, openly critical of the lack of firm direction and the dissipation of the Group’s energies in following so many lines of approach—particularly as some are so unpromising as to be clearly seen as dead ends before they were embarked on.”

  Crome grimaced as though sceptical of this. Masters carried on.

  “I have a witness who states that Redruth and Bullock were preparing to approach you over the head of Doctor Winter to clarify the situation. Redruth died before they had their case for you fully prepared.”

  This time Crome looked dismayed.

  “Other witnesses state that Silk was openly critical. Mailer is thought to have tackled Winter in private. Drew is resigning because of the difficulties he encounters. Rutherford is getting up a petition …”

  “Please stop,” said Crome. His face had a determined look. “You can leave this to me—now I know of it. But of what in particular do they complain?”

  “What Doctor Winter described as the ultra-violet school.”

  “Doctor Clay’s project?”

  “Her colleagues are unanimously of the opinion that her theory is a non-starter. And have even proved it so. But as Doctor Clay works alone, she makes use, of necessity, of much more than her fair share of the juniors and technical assistants. She is Deputy Leader of the Group and such domestic arrangements are in her hands, so it is difficult for the others to alter things. This is apparently hampering unduly what is likely to be more fruitful work. Criticism has been rife and often outspoken. But, as Doctor Saunders put it, ‘Winter’s team is in disarray, and those who have dared to say so are gone. Dead.’ And it is widely appreciated among those scientists that there is what we can only describe as a special relationship between Winter and Clay.…”

  “Which you think accounts for his diplomatic support of projects he doesn’t believe in?”

  “Precisely. I repeat, criticism has been harsh and outspoken. You, yourself, spoke to me of psychic trauma where there is criticism of professional work. Think how great this trauma must be in a paranoic personality, and the length to which it will drive the unfortunate owner.”

  “To the mass murder of those who criticise?”

  Masters nodded.

  “Doctor Clay was the scientist who suffered.…”

  “You mean Dorothy Clay killed those men?”

  “I do.”

  “Unbelievable! Have you any proof to substantiate that she, and she alone, did it? I mean, you have shown the means employed to kill them, but …”

  “We have the proof. Doctor Clay looked after the climbing gear. She very carefully obtained two water-bottles for set number six. We found one in her room immediately after she left it this morning. The other I received last night with Mailer’s other belongings. I had wondered how she would get rid of the excess heavy water—that in the water-bottle which had not been drunk on each occasion. Bullock was very useful to me here. He remembered that by the time he had got to the bottom of the cliff his water-bottle had sprung a leak and he felt—as he put it—as if he had wet himself. The bottle had not sprung a leak. One of the number six bottles—the one we found in Clay’s room—is sound. The one we got from Mailer’s body has a small, neat hole drilled in the base. You will recall that army water-bottles are covered in felt. I imagine that Clay unstuck the felt on the bottom each time and plugged the hole with gelatine or some such substance which is slowly soluble in heavy water, and then replaced the felt. Bullock’s story is confirmed by Doctor Roslin who was himself wetted by Silk’s water-bottle after the first fall.

  “To all intents and purposes, she would have issued a sound bottle to her intended victim. She would take along the heavy water in another container. She would transfer the heavy water just before the day’s business started, and substitute the charged bottle for the one already filled with pure drinking water and strapped on to the gear.”

  “Wouldn’t that be risky?”

  “Would it? Two little buckles to undo and fasten again? If caught in the act she could say she saw one side was loose and was just tightening it up as she didn’t want to lose any of her precious gear, etcetera, etcetera. And, of course, we don’t know how many times she went out prepared to put her plan into action and came home foiled because the necessary opportunities did not arise. She was successful only four times in over a year!”

  “Of course. I’m not thinking clearly at the moment.”

  “She needed to get rid of the residue of the heavy water—just in case somebody should suspect the water-bottle. After so long—say forty minutes—the gelatine plug would have dissolved, and the contents would then leak away. Could anything be more natural than a water-bottle which had been strapped to a fallen climber leaking after he hit the ground? Nobody would be surprised. In Bullock’s case it leaked and wet his trousers. In Silk’s case it wet Roslin. In the case of the others it would seep into the ground.”

  “She’d got it all thought out then,” said Toinquet, “even though she was mad.”

  “Mad?” said Green in disgust. “She’s as mad as a hatter. And not only over her science project. Over men, too. She’s run poor old Winter something rotten. Mothered him, petted him … but she didn’t pet me. She took a swing at me last night—and connected.”

  “She did what?” asked Crome incredulously.

  “DI Green went along to question her. We had to be sure exactly what her relationship with Winter was, She objected so strongly that the DI was left in no doubt that she regarded Winter as her own. When he made his view clear to her, she assaulted him. He withdrew without retaliating.”

  “Poor old girl!” said Partington. “What now? Are you going to arrest her?”

  “I have no choice.” Masters turned to Toinquet. “I instructed your guards to stop her if she attempted to leave the Centre and to inform me direct. Similarly, the Custodian in the laboratory complex is to inform me if she attempts to leave the Group premises.”

  Toinquet started to protest at orders being given to his men without his knowledge, but he caught Green’s belligerent eye and thought better of it.

  “But you can’t arrest me. I’m an important scienti
st. The government won’t allow you. My research …”

  “The government will give you all the time in the world for research, where you’re going,” said Green.

  “Oh, will they? But I shall need assistants.”

  “There’ll be assistants, too. Bags of ’em.”

  “That’s good. So long as they’re men. I find male assistants so much more pleasant to work with.”

  “I’ve noticed they all fall for you.”

  “Talking about falling,” said Green an hour and a half later as they were on their way back to London, “what about Doctor Sin?”

  “What about her?” asked Brant.

  “Well … I mean, you can’t be in one place while she’s in another. Too much like old Winter and his missus to be comfortable.”

  “We don’t intend to be,” said Brant. “As there doesn’t seem to be much likelihood of promotion in the force, I might as well get out.”

  “Don’t do that,” said Masters. He looked across at Green. “Don’t you think that if Toinquet were to go, and Inspector Mercer were to take his place as Security Chief at the Centre, there’d be quite a nice opening for an intelligent young copper as his second-in-command?”

  Green said: “I’m way ahead of you.”

  “Really?’

  “Yeah! Last night, after I’d heard that story about Widow Twankey, I did a bit of phoning. It’s remarkable how much harm one can do by asking just one simple question about somebody’s suitability for the job he holds.”

  “Especially in government security jobs, you mean?”

  “Yes. Particularly when there have been three murders on his patch in little more than a year.”

  “Black marks on the dossier?”

  “And a subtle hint that three men and two young lads might all have been in the best of health just now if he’d done his job properly—whether true or false—doesn’t help.”

  Brant kept his eyes on the road, but he asked: “Is this true, Chief?”

  “It’s all fixed,” said Masters. “For the first of June.”

  “You what?” asked Green, astounded.

  “It’s our different way of doing things,” explained Masters. “While you were trying to do Toinquet down, I was trying to fix up something positive for Brant. I think you prepared the ground and I sowed the seed. Anyhow, it appears we both succeeded.”

  “Oh, yes?” said Green. “Well remember, young Brant, there are two guards there who threatened me yesterday. Your first job will be to give them the old heave-ho! Your second …”

  “He won’t have much time for that sort of thing,” said Hill. “Not if he’s a newly married man by then.”

  “And newly promoted,” added Masters.

  Green grunted disgustedly and helped himself to a bent cigarette.

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