Sick to Death

by Douglas Clark

  ‘Thank you.’

  Green went on: ‘But it doesn’t mean we’re very happy about you. You should have told me …’

  ‘I couldn’t. I’ve been in a gloom for months now. I just couldn’t.’

  ‘We understand,’ Masters said. ‘Now did you see anybody else near the Dent house other than the maid?’

  ‘No. And I’m not saying it was the maid. You know, I’ve never given her a thought since the moment I saw her, but since you’ve been here, talking about her, I’ve began to feel that I might have seen her somewhere else, before. But I can’t think when or where.’

  ‘Try the hospital in Gloucester,’ Masters suggested. ‘When you went there to design the curtains and decorations.’

  She stared at him for a moment and then said slowly, ‘Yes. That’s it. In a nurse’s uniform. Her hair was under a cap then. That’s what fooled me. But now you mention it I can remember the no-eyebrows effect at a few paces. You’re very clever, aren’t you! And how did you get to know about the hospital curtains? You haven’t been talking to Brian about me, have you?’

  Masters smiled. ‘Of course not. We’re not so dim. Alderman and Mrs Bancroft told me how well you’d treated them.’

  ‘I see. Would you like a drink? Cyprus sherry or vin rosé’s all we’ve got.’

  ‘Sherry, please. I’m not a great wine drinker.’

  ‘You can refuse if you want to.’

  ‘I’ll do that only if the bottle’s empty.’

  She turned to Green. He said, ‘Me, too. I like Cyprus sherry. I buy it myself. I don’t know enough about it to buy the dear stuff.’

  ‘You’re both gorgeous men. Thank God for a bit of sanity and understanding.’

  As she handed him his glass, Green said, surprisingly, ‘Thanks. You’ll feel better now, you know.’

  ‘I feel better already. Cheers!’

  It was ten past nine when Heatherington-Blowers finally rang. Masters was called to the phone from the garden where the four of them were sitting to get what cool the still-bright evening offered.

  ‘Ah! Masters,’ Heatherington-Blowers said. ‘I think we’d better meet rather than gas on this thing.’

  ‘Right, sir. Where and when?’

  ‘What about the pub you’re in? Both Bruce and I could do with a drink.’

  ‘We’re in the garden at the moment. I can organize a private room if you like.’

  ‘The garden sounds wonderful after being cooped up all day in this shed of a laboratory. Ten minutes suit you?’

  ‘Fine, sir. I’ll line them up ready. Beer or whisky?’

  ‘Beer for both of us—at any rate to begin with.’

  Hill and Brant moved away at Green’s suggestion to leave room at the table for the two newcomers. When they came—met by Masters at the front door of the Bristol-Hill, keeping his eyes open, collected the tankards of Worthington.

  Heatherington-Blowers was dressed in old grey slacks and a cream bush jacket. He was, Masters judged, about fifty-five, very bald, with a sunburned pate fringed with grey hair. Little broken veins dotted his cheeks and nose end. He was a fair-sized man, running to girth through age rather than any other reason. Bruce looked like a bespectacled schoolmaster. Pale, thin face, heavy-lensed glasses, a hooky nose and dark hair. He wore a brown suit, and carried a large book tucked into his shoulder, like a parson carrying his Bible into the pulpit to deliver a sermon.

  Masters led them through to the garden and introduced them to Green. They sat at the table. Heatherington-Blowers drank deep. Bruce sipped.

  Heatherington-Blowers said, ‘I’ve been cursing you for many hours, Masters. You and your bright ideas! But you were right. Zinc. And you’ll kindly note that zed comes right at the end of the alphabet.’

  Masters said, dazedly, ‘Zinc?’

  ‘Very interesting indeed,’ said Bruce. ‘Of course it would have helped had we known what we were looking for. As it was we only succeeded by carrying out a most exhaustive process of elimination. Even so, I had begun to despair by the time we got to the last letter of the alphabet. And your floorcloth wasn’t the ideal source of material, you know. Very sparse. Very sparse indeed.’

  ‘Somebody had rinsed it,’ Heatherington-Blowers said accusingly.

  Masters said apologetically, ‘The dead girl. Not us. We preserved it just as we found it.’

  ‘Ah, well. You’ve justified your request for forensic help. Now what?’

  ‘Zinc. What about it?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Bruce has brought along Martindale for reference.’ Bruce opened the book at a marked page. Heatherington-Blowers went on: ‘You must realize, that tests such as we’ve carried out today, leaching the material to be tested out of an old floorcloth, give us no opportunity for telling you how much zinc there was in the body.’

  ‘You would need the various organs for that?’

  ‘No. Useless, I’m pleased to say. It lets me off the hook for not finding it at the post-mortem. Zinc sulphate—which is what it was—is eliminated in the vomit. That means I could only have made an estimate if I’d been given a proper sample of vomit. But we are able to say from today’s tests that there was zinc sulphate present, and a significant amount of it. Which there certainly shouldn’t have been. And as zinc sulphate is an emetic, it is logical to suppose that emesis was produced by its presence in the body. That was what you asked us to discover. We’ve done our part. How it got there is for you to find out.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Masters said.

  ‘It’s not an emetic that’s used today,’ Bruce said. ‘I’ve never known it used myself, but I’ll leave you Martindale. You’ll get the information from there. Let me have it back tomorrow, won’t you?’

  ‘Without fail.’

  ‘You can collect our written report at the same time.’

  ‘How about another?’ asked Green.

  ‘Rather. It wasn’t the sort of day to spend in a stuffy laboratory, handling a vomit rag. I need good clean beer to wash the taste away.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ Heatherington-Blowers said.

  While Green was away Masters said, ‘I don’t know how to thank you, gentlemen …’

  ‘By shutting up about it and allowing us to enjoy a decent drink at your expense,’ said Heatherington-Blowers. ‘By jove it’s nice out here. I’ll remember this as a place to come to. Hello! The sun’s not quite down yet, but we’ve got the fairy lights on. Jolly nice. You can see right into the pub and the bars.’

  ‘In lovely weather there’s no better place than a good, old British pub,’ Bruce said. ‘I feel better already. And here comes our beer.’

  At breakfast-time the next morning, Green said, ‘You shied off to bed like a long dog last night. Never a word about how the situation is affected by the saw-bones finding zinc sulphate among the puke.’

  ‘Because there was nothing more I could tell you without doing a bit of study first,’ Masters replied.

  ‘We could have discussed it.’

  ‘Without knowing exactly what we were talking about? It would have been a waste of time, and you know it. As it was, I didn’t, as you suggest, get to bed for some hours.’

  Green grunted and tackled a bowl of breakfast cereal which had been growing more and more soggy as he talked. He sucked the milk out of each spoonful before starting to chew. Both the noise and the sight irritated Masters. While he waited for his boiled eggs he half turned from the table and opened his Daily Telegraph.

  Brant and Hill came down together. ‘Might as well stoke up this morning,’ the latter said. ‘There’ll be plenty doing today.’

  It was a question in the form of a statement. Intended to lure Masters out. It succeeded. He said, ‘I shall want to know where that zinc sulphate came from, and who bought it.’

  ‘That means a round of the chemists.’

  Masters nodded, and folded his paper small as the eggs were placed in front of him. ‘And also, I want you to go to the hospital to return Martindale and collect the written report from Bruce.
While you’re there, ask the chief pharmacist if he or any of his staff have noticed any unauthorized person snooping round any of the pharmacopoeias recently.’

  ‘What sort of person?’

  ‘Any sort. Young, old, male, female, staff or outsider.’

  Hill didn’t reply. Masters obviously wasn’t in the mood for idle back-chat. It made social contact sticky, but he knew from experience it was a good sign as far as the case was concerned. Masters always grew taciturn near the end. Hill often wondered why. Any other man would be cheerful, overtly proud of his achievement. Not that Masters wasn’t proud of his. He was. Proud as a peacock and twice as vain. But not at this stage. Later, when all was signed, sealed and delivered. Then he would expect acclaim—and get it.

  ‘And what about me?’ Green asked.

  ‘Would you like to tackle Nurse Ward?’

  ‘She’s in it, too?’ Brant inquired.

  ‘Up to the neck,’ Green said. He turned to Masters. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’ll be with you, but I’ll tackle Dr Sisson—separately. As each one completes, report to the Police Station. I should be with Hook by then.’

  Green started on bacon and eggs. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I really believed we’d be out of our depth over this case, but here we are, home and in the dry.’

  ‘Are we?’ Brant asked. ‘I haven’t the slightest idea who killed her. Or why. Have you?’

  Green said airily, ‘Not the actual person, no. But we’ve got all the facts. They only need sorting, and the picture should be as clear as day.’

  Masters said, ‘I mentioned yesterday that I was short on proof. Finding zinc sulphate on that rag only confirms a theory I formed. I made a mistake about ipecacuanha, but the theory was, nevertheless, basically sound. Your work today will confirm whether my theory about the identity of the murderer was correct or whether I’ve made a mistake in that, too. For that reason I’ll not give you my ideas—in case they prejudice your investigations.’

  Hook was not in his office when Masters arrived at the Station. The sergeant on duty said, ‘He went off for his walk at twelve, sir. He’ll take an hour over it, then go home to lunch, and be back here about two.’

  Masters cursed his luck. He had been obliged to wait until the end of surgery before seeing Sisson. Monday surgeries, as Sisson had explained, are noticeably larger than those on any other day of the week. After that, the talk with the doctor had lasted longer than Masters had intended. It had been a difficult time. No doctor will readily believe that his own ancillary staff can be implicated in the murder of patients. Sisson was no exception. Then there had been the technical questions. Sisson had taken his time, doing a thorough job. By the time Masters had been able to leave the surgery, the morning had gone, and Sisson’s visits were a long way behind schedule.

  And now Hook was out beating the bounds.

  Masters said to the desk sergeant, ‘I’m expecting the other members of my team to report here. Please ask them to come on to the Bristol. We’ll all be back here at two.’

  ‘I’ll see to it, sir. And I’ll let the Chief Superintendent know you’re coming, if I see him before you do.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Masters had hardly reached the hotel, on foot, than Hill and Brant, who were using the car, arrived too. They joined him in the bar. He noticed immediately that they were far from jubilant.

  ‘What luck?’

  ‘None,’ Hill said. ‘We’ve been to every chemist. Most of them don’t stock zinc sulphate—except in made-up ointments—and the others say they haven’t sold any for years except to a few kids with chemistry sets.’

  Brant added, ‘And the hospital pharmacist says he’s seen nobody nosing round his books and in any case visitors are not allowed in the dispensary. So if anybody had been in, they wouldn’t say.’

  Masters thought for a moment. ‘Chemistry sets, you said?’

  Hill nodded.

  ‘Right. Off you go. Toy shops, model supply shops—anywhere likely to sell chemistry equipment and substances to children.’

  ‘Now, Chief?’

  ‘Yes. Now. And while you’re at it, call on the librarian at the public library. Ask him if he’s noticed anybody in the reference room looking at pharmacopoeias lately.’

  The two sergeants left, slightly put out that they hadn’t been allowed to have just one drink, and faced with the prospect of missing lunch.

  When Green joined him, Masters suggested they should take their drinks out into the privacy of the garden. There Green reported at length. Masters, satisfied with what he heard, suggested lunch, so that they could be at the station by two o’clock. They were eating when Hill and Brant returned, this time looking decidely more cheerful.

  ‘So you reckon you know who killed my little Sally?’ Hook asked.

  Masters, puffing unconcernedly at his pipe, said, ‘Yes. I know.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Cora Dent.’

  Hook looked more than surprised. He stared in disbelief. After a few seconds he said, ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because … well, because she’s a respected and respectable woman.’

  ‘You mean she’s the wife of a rich man and friendly with all the leading lights?’ asked Green.

  Hook frowned. He ignored Green. ‘I’ll want some convincing before I make an arrest,’ he said.

  ‘Of course,’ Masters answered. ‘We’re here to give you the facts. How you proceed after that is entirely your affair. It’s your case.’

  ‘And I wish it wasn’t.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I’ve been troubled ever since I took you to the Tontine yesterday lunchtime. The way you pulled that fast one on Harry Dent.’

  ‘Fast one?’

  ‘Oh, I noticed it. I didn’t know what you were getting at, but I knew you were up to something. You had to be, otherwise you wouldn’t have asked me to take you there.’

  ‘I wanted some information. I believe that if I’d asked a direct question I’d not have got a true answer. So I resorted to a little ruse. Nothing more.’

  ‘What happened?’ Green asked.

  ‘We got to the Tontine,’ the Chief Superintendent replied, ‘and saw Harry and Brian Dent having a drink. We went over and joined them as they were obviously the only people—other than myself—who knew the Chief Inspector.’

  ‘That was the object of the exercise, sir,’ Hill said.

  ‘I know that. Young Brian left us after a bit to chat with somebody else. As soon as he’d gone, the Chief here pulls out a tobacco tin, opens it, and says, “Oh dear, it’s empty, and I don’t suppose they sell my brand here.” Harry Dent says, “No, they don’t. I’ve never even heard of it.” Then the Chief says, “I could have sworn there was quite a lot in it first off this morning.” Dent says, “That’s always happening.” Chief says, “Like your liqueurs, eh? You thought they were full and they weren’t.” Dent says, “Something of the sort.” Chief says, “But this is worse. I’m certain my tin had a few leaves left only half an hour ago.” Dent says, “Like my liqueurs again. I can swear that when I went to the cupboard on Thursday to check up on the gin and whisky there was half a bottle each of Drambuie and Benedictine. But I was wrong. And the girls had to do with Anisette, just like you’ll have to do with one of my cigarettes, or go without a smoke.” ’

  Hill grinned. ‘What’s wrong with that?’ Green asked.

  ‘Nothing. Except as soon as we got in the car outside the club the Chief had mysteriously found enough tobacco for another fill. I know I’m not a D.C.S., but I can see a right mountain of hokum when it suddenly appears in front of me.’

  ‘If you are unhappy about that little ruse, sir,’ Masters asked, ‘would you prefer me to make my report to the Chief Constable in writing?’

  Hook lit a cigarette. ‘No I wouldn’t, and you know it. But that’s not what I call good police work.’

  ‘Maybe not, sir, but I could think of no other way of getting
to know whether the liqueur bottles had been full or empty that week, and I had to know without suggesting to Dent that I was suspicious of either his wife or son. And I assure you it was the only ruse I used during the investigation.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it. Now what about the rest of the proof?’

  ‘When we arrived, we knew nothing about diabetes and diabetic comas. Dr Sisson, however, very kindly gave us a lesson on it, and one of the points which he stressed was that the coma brought about by lack of insulin takes a long time to come on, naturally. Up to forty-eight hours. Sally Bowker, according to Sisson, must have been in a coma by soon after midnight on Saturday, and she died less than twenty-four hours later.

  ‘Now her coma must have come upon her inexplicably quickly. She was fit when she underwent a medical examination in the morning, she was fit in the afternoon when she was out viewing a house, and she was fit in the early evening when she went swimming. And she felt well enough to eat a good supper and drink a liqueur. Yet by midnight she was too far gone to summon help. This could mean only one thing—that her condition had been induced in some way.

  ‘When we visited Miss Bowker’s flat, we noticed that the bathroom, with its door shut for several days in this hot weather, smelt not only of stale air, as one would expect, but of vomit. This suggested the girl had been sick, and to support the suggestion, we found a floor rag which smelt as though it had been used for mopping up vomit and only imperfectly rinsed afterwards.

  ‘Dr Sisson told us that violent sickness which robbed the body of its essential minerals and all its fluid content was a significant factor in bringing on diabetic coma which, in turn, if not expertly treated, would lead to death through collapse of the blood and respiratory systems.

  ‘Dr Sisson also told us that Sally Bowker had been taught what the first signs of diabetic coma were, and how to combat them. The fact that she gave herself an additional shot of insulin proves that she took the precautions she had been taught.

  ‘Why, then, were the steps she took ineffective? We know the answer. Her insulin was useless.

  ‘My immediate thought on hearing Dr Sisson say that vomiting was a significant factor in bringing on diabetic coma was to suppose that the vomiting had been induced by the administration of an emetic. Unless this had been done, there would have been no need for Miss Bowker to inject more insulin that night, and a useless injection the next day would be unlikely to achieve its object, because Miss Bowker would be out and about where, had she collapsed, other people would have come to her aid.