Hook scratched his ear. ‘See what you mean. He’d explore for every poison he knew, but he might not test for emetics. That what you mean?’
Masters nodded.
‘Best thing to do is ring him up and ask. Hang on a bit. I’ll call you to the phone when I get him. Name’s Heatherington-Blowers. Likes both barrels.’
‘I’ll remember.’
Hook went to the telephone in the hall. Masters heard him dial and speak. Then he reappeared. ‘He’s on now.’
Masters picked up the phone. ‘I’m interested in emetics, Dr Heatherington-Blowers. I was wondering whether you had tested for them in the post mortem.’
‘No. I’m inclined to think it would be a waste of time to do so, Chief Inspector.’
‘Could you tell me why, sir?’
‘Because emetics are not usually metabolized. You know what that means?’
‘Absorbed into the living substance of the body?’
‘Roughly that. Of course some substances which are metabolized bring on nausea, but an emetic as such is usually an irritant to the gastric mucosa—stomach linings—to put it in layman’s terms. That’s what causes the vomiting. And if the vomiting is severe the emetic, being unmetabolized, is discharged from the body in the vomit. But had you any particular emetic in mind?’
‘I only know ipecac.’
‘Yes. That’s the most likely, but the dose would have to be a big one, and so I’m certain I’d have noticed if it had been given. You see, ipecac in a dose large enough to act as an emetic would also cause diarrhoea, and there was no sign of that.’
Masters paused before replying. He was so long silent that Heatherington-Blowers asked, ‘Are you still there, Chief Inspector?’
‘Yes, sir. Thinking.’
‘About what?’
‘You said that an emetic would be discharged in the vomit?’
‘Yes, almost certainly and in this case, almost entirely.’
‘Did you test the vomit by any chance?’
‘No. I wasn’t asked to, nor was I given a sample.’
‘But if she had been given an emetic there would be traces of it in the vomit?’
‘I should say so. But you’re too late. There is no sample. Never was as far as I know.’
‘There may be, sir.’
‘I understood the girl had vomited into the lavatory basin—however many times there was emesis—and had managed to flush it away. Very plucky young woman she must have been, because the amount she got rid of must have left her very weak.’
‘She certainly was plucky, sir, because we have found a floorcloth. It was hanging on the U bend behind the lavatory pan. And from the smell of it, she used it to wipe up vomit.’
‘You mean she may have splashed the floor and had enough hold on herself to clean it up?’
‘That’s my belief, sir.’
‘You may be right. Everybody feels a bit better—if only temporarily—after being sick. She may have mopped up during a short period of relief.’
‘Could that floorcloth be tested, sir?’
‘Yes. I suppose so. I’m not a forensic expert, you know, but Superintendent Hook could get it done, I feel sure. He’ll know the nearest forensic laboratory. Bristol, Birmingham maybe. Ask him.’
‘It couldn’t be done here?’
‘You mean you’d like me to try.’
‘If possible.’
‘In that case, my best bet is to ask the bacteriologist to assist. When can we have the floorcloth?’
‘Within half an hour.’
‘It’s Saturday evening. Wouldn’t tomorrow morning do? There’ll be a host of qualitative and quantitative analyses to be carried out.’
And with that Masters had to be content. He promised to send the cloth to the hospital in good time for an early start.
At dinner, Green asked, ‘So even Heatherington-Blowers has given you the thumbs-down sign, has he?’
Masters was waiting for a steak. It was being grilled by a chef who was tumbling it under a lighted gas jet at the end of the dining-room. He said, peevishly, ‘It takes a season to do a bit of meat. I ordered a quarter of an hour ago.’
‘It’s a thick one,’ Hill answered. ‘Black as the ace of spades on the outside and bloody inside. Me, I prefer minute steaks, thin fillets, not rump or porterhouse uncooked and looking like the result of a pile-up on the M1.’
‘Shut up. I’ve got to eat that.’
‘Not “got to”, Chief.’
‘Never mind. You know what I mean.’
The steak arrived.
‘Now you’ve got it,’ Green said, ‘perhaps you’ll tell us whether the pathologist was hopeful or pessimistic.’
Masters helped himself to mushrooms. ‘He didn’t say.’
‘Judging from your attitude, he didn’t have to. You’re not hopeful. You’re crabby.’
‘Sorry. Perhaps I was. But I’m beginning to think I’ve no reason to be.’ He turned to Hill and Brant. ‘I don’t suppose Sally Bowker’s handbag or that little aluminium box have been tested for prints. I’d like that done tonight.’
‘We’ve all handled the box,’ Green pointed out.
‘I know. Pity. But it can be tested.’
‘What if she’s more than one handbag?’ Hill asked.
‘Try them all. And get a set of her own prints for comparison. There should be plenty of sets about.’
Green said, ‘You’re letting that bloody steak get cold—if it was ever hot through.’
Masters forked a piece into his mouth. ‘It’s a lovely steak. Just lovely.’
They set out for the Dent house at a quarter to nine.
Masters asked Brant, ‘How long is it going to take you to get those prints?’
‘Half an hour.’
‘Right. Come back here as soon as you’ve got them, and wait outside. We may be longer than you, but I’ll make it as short as possible.’
He and Green walked up to the Dents’ front door. It was still full daylight and warm. But not uncomfortably so, as it had been earlier in the day. The night-scented stock was perfuming the air beside the path, and the Livingstone daisies had closed up for the night. A midsummer evening. Not the time to be thinking of murder and hell-brews. Masters felt a surge of distaste for his job. He wondered what Green was thinking about.
Brian Dent opened the door and showed them into the same sitting-room. Harry Dent was in dark grey trousers and a cream linen jacket. Mrs Dent was on the sofa with her feet up. She made no attempt to rise to greet them. Masters eyed her well. He felt she ran true to type. Blue-rinsed hair, an overpowdered face with sharp features. Shrewd eyes with wrinkled peripheries. Large dangling earrings in yellow metal and a long chain of the same material round her neck. The dress was thin wool—blue—cut square at the neck, with short sleeves. Her hands showed her age. On the third finger of her left hand she wore three rings. The nails were red and too long for Masters’ liking. Her stockings had the modern, anaemic white sheen; her shoes were blue suede with a large bow at the instep. She offered her hand. Masters would have preferred not to take it, but he did so, bowing slightly more in the effort to get down to it than out of courtesy.
‘Sit down, Mr Masters. We have waited for coffee until you came. Brian, darling, bring in the trolley.’
When they had all been served, Masters began, ‘I’d like to learn exactly what Miss Bowker did and ate between teatime last Saturday and the time when she left here. But first one other minor point which concerns both you gentlemen.’
‘What’s that?’ Harry Dent said.
‘The master key to Wye House. It is, I understand, in your possession.’
They both stared at him for a moment. He watched them closely. They didn’t appear to be following the drift. ‘Anybody with a master key to the block could have entered Miss Bowker’s flat at will.’
‘What for?’ Brian Dent asked.
‘To doctor her insulin, maybe.’
‘Are you accusing us of entering her fl
at?’ Harry said angrily.
‘No. I merely want to satisfy myself that the key was not used.’
‘You must see that a spare key could be important,’ Green added.
Brian Dent looked at his father, who said, ‘Our key wasn’t used, either by Brian, myself or anybody else.’
‘How d’you know?’ Green asked him.
‘For one thing, we haven’t access to it.’
‘Your firm is the agent.’
‘We own the block. We manage it for ourselves. But that’s not the point. Our firm is divided up into watertight compartments. Brian here is the architect and does property surveys. I’m the auctioneer. Anything for sale, from a second-hand bath to a thousand-acre farm, is my pigeon. Property management is another department, and neither Brian nor myself ever hears about it except at board meetings. I don’t know where pass keys are kept, but I’d guess they’re in the property-department safe to which neither of us has access.’
Masters looked at Brian. ‘Do you confirm that?’
‘Certainly. When the police wanted the key last Monday night we had to roust out Joe Little, the property manager, to get it for us.’
Masters turned to Green. Green said, ‘That sounds fair enough—for the moment.’
‘What the hell d’you mean?’ Harry Dent growled. ‘For the moment?’
‘It means we’re taking your word for it unless and until we have reason to think otherwise.’
Dent was about to reply, but his wife prevented him. ‘Now, Harry. Don’t lose your temper. These gentlemen are only doing their job.’
‘Maybe they are. But it’s obviously so bloody silly to think Brian or myself killed Sally.’
Masters said, ‘Somebody did. Can you suggest who, Mr Dent?’
‘No, I can’t. If I knew who it was I’d scrag them myself.’
‘That’s what I thought. You were fond of her.’
It was a statement. Dent didn’t deny it. Masters waited a moment and then said, ‘Mr Brian told us of Miss Bowker’s activities in the afternoon up to the time he brought her here for tea, at which time, I understand, you both made them very generous offers of help with the house they intended to buy.’
‘Oh, he shouldn’t have mentioned that,’ Mrs Dent said.
‘Why not, ma’am?’
‘It was a little family secret.’
‘Maybe. But it showed me very vividly the regard in which you held Miss Bowker. And that is of great interest to me.’
Mrs Dent gave him a little smile. He was impressed by the quality of her false teeth.
‘Now. Tea. What was on the menu?’ he asked.
‘Very ordinary. A plate of sandwiches—cucumber I think. But Sally didn’t have any of those, poor dear. She just had biscuits. Semi-sweet, you know. Thin arrowroot and Marie. That sort of thing. You see, I knew what she could eat, and with her parents not being near to look after her, I took care to see she got the right food—at any rate when she was here.’
‘It does you credit, ma’am. No cakes with fillings or icing that might have upset her?’
‘Dear me, no. A Victoria sponge with raspberry jam in the middle. But she didn’t have any, although she could have. It wouldn’t have done her any harm.’
Masters turned to the men. ‘You both ate everything without feeling any ill effects?’
‘I didn’t touch the biscuits,’ Harry Dent said. ‘Never do, except with cheese.’
‘I had one or two off Sally’s plate,’ Brian said. ‘She said mother had overloaded her a bit.’
‘Oh, Brian, I didn’t. She could have left the ones she didn’t want.’
‘Of course, Mum. Sal was only joking.’
‘Can we move on a bit? What happened after tea?’
‘Sally and I washed up,’ Brian answered. ‘Then while mother got dinner ready, we went in for a swim.’
‘In your own pool?’
‘Yes. Here, I say. You don’t think the chlorine in the water upset Sal, do you?’
‘Why? Was it strong?’ Green asked.
‘No. Not very.’
‘I’m sorry to be so pernickety,’ Masters continued, ‘but let us go through step by step. You washed up in the kitchen?’
‘Yes.’
‘When did you decide to swim?’
‘I don’t know, really. We do it so often.’
‘It’s become a ritual?’
‘Yes.’
‘But Miss Bowker would need a swimsuit.’
‘She always carried one at weekends—in her bag. A wispy bit of a thing. Bikini.’
‘Oh, Brian, it was beautiful,’ Mrs Dent said. ‘It was thin cotton in one of those soft, deep-plunging styles without any pads or bones. It made her look so young and lovely. It was turquoise and green and went so well with her fair complexion. And with the colour of the water in the pool, too. It crumpled up into no more than a handful, and then sprang out without a crease. I always admired it and wished I dare wear one like it.’
‘She certainly looked marvellous in it,’ Brian said.
‘Where did she change?’ asked Masters.
‘In the downstairs cloakroom. Mother used to put towels in there …’
Mrs Dent interrupted, ‘It sounds awful, giving them the downstairs cloakroom as a changing-room, but honestly, Chief Inspector, you should see the mess they make of everything. They just come out of the water and traipse through the house, dripping water on the carpets and polished floors. I had to put a stop to it. And besides, the cloakroom is very handy. Just next to the kitchen, and the floor in there doesn’t matter because it can be mopped.’
‘Very wise, ma’am,’ Masters said. He turned to Harry Dent. ‘And you, sir, where were you at this time?’
‘Watching the box. I wanted to see the last half-hour of the Test, and I just sat there until seven, when I went up to change before Alderman and Mrs Bancroft came.’
‘That’s very clear. Now, what time did you come out of the pool, Mr Dent?’
‘Sally got out about seven. She changed first and gave herself her injection. I came out when she called to say she was clear.’
‘I see. Now, her injection. She always carried a box with her syringe and bottles I believe?’
‘In her bag. With the bikini and the usual junk you find in women’s handbags. Sally always used the sling variety. They seemed to suit her, and they had the capacity she needed.’
‘Where did she leave her bag? At the side of the pool?’
Mrs Dent said: ‘She always kept it with her, poor dear. It was so important to her.’
‘Usually, Mum. But not when we went swimming. She always left it in the cloakroom.’
‘Why was that, Mr Dent?’ Masters asked. ‘So it didn’t get splashed?’
‘No. Nothing like that. She couldn’t have cared less. But she never swam unless it was pretty warm. Dr Sisson told her to be very careful about catching cold. Any infection is about ten times worse in a diabetic than other people, apparently. So, for it to be warm enough for Sally to swim, the flags round the pool had to be hot to the feet. And that’s too hot for insulin. She’d never leave her bag on the pool surround or lying out in the sun. She left it in the cool of the cloakroom.’
‘I see. Thank you, Mr Dent. So Miss Bowker injected herself. Now, according to my information, that injection should just have finished one phial.’
‘That’s right,’ Mrs Dent said. ‘She dropped an empty one into the pedal bin in the kitchen when she went to call Brian.’
Masters thanked her for the information and then asked, ‘You sat down for supper at what time?’
‘Prompt on half-past seven,’ Mrs Dent replied. ‘We had to be very strict about times with Sally. She had to have her meal exactly half an hour after her injection.’
‘What was on the menu?’
‘It was a very ordinary meal.’
‘Nonsense, Mum. It was a splendid meal,’ Brian Dent exclaimed. He turned to Masters. ‘You’re wondering whether the meal could have ups
et Sally?’
‘Yes, Mr Dent, I am. I must. She felt sick when you took her home, didn’t she?’
‘Yes. But it couldn’t have been Mother’s food. We all ate it. Melon—Sally had glucose on hers. Thin, lean steaks, with no fat. New potatoes which Sally didn’t have …’
‘Why?’
‘Because she had her weekly drink on Saturdays and she had to leave some of her calorie and carbohydrate allowance to make up for it.’
‘I see. Go on with the menu, please.’
‘New carrots and peas. Followed by stewed plums and cream, biscuits and cheese. Sally had no cream.’
‘Coffee?’
‘Sally had black with saccharin. And her liqueur. The drink I told you about.’
‘Liqueur?’
Mrs Dent said, ‘Yes, poor lamb. She said that if she was restricted to one drink a week she might as well have the sort she liked best. She loved liqueurs. Before she became diabetic she always liked liqueur chocolates, didn’t she Brian?’
‘Yes, Mum.’
‘I can always remember the first gift you took her was a box of liqueurs. I remember thinking how sweet it was of you to find out in advance what she really liked.’
Brian coloured as his mother spoke. It obviously embarrassed him. Masters remembered how that afternoon he had said that his mother thought no girl good enough for him. He thought she would obviously make a fool of the lad if he hadn’t had enough good sense to stop her.
‘What liqueur?’ he asked.
‘Well, she liked Benedictine most of all,’ Mrs Dent answered.
‘A very good choice. Did she take Benedictine last Saturday?’
‘Unfortunately, no. We’d run out.’
‘My fault,’ Harry Dent broke in. ‘We’d run out of everything except Anisette. I’m responsible for drink and I didn’t cotton on that we were so low in liqueurs. You know how it is. You buy whisky and gin regularly, but replenish with liqueurs once in a blue moon. But Sal didn’t mind. Said she rather liked it in fact, though it’s not to everybody’s taste.’
‘Did everybody take liqueurs?’
‘Only the women. We three men took brandy.’
‘And after dinner?’
‘We sat round and talked until Sally said she’d like to go home,’ said Brian. ‘I took her.’
Sick to Death Page 10
