Collected Short Stories

by Ruth Rendell

  ‘It would look then,’ Wexford put in, ‘as if Kingman split up with her because all this was more than he could take. And hence he took up with the dull little school-meals lady. No competition from her, I fancy.’

  ‘I daresay you’re right. As a matter of fact, that theory has already been put to me.’

  ‘By whom?’ said Wexford. ‘Just where did you get all this information, Mike?’

  ‘From an angry young man, the fourth member of the quartet, who happens to be Hannah’s brother. His name is John Hood and I think he’s got a lot more to tell. But it’s time I left off describing the people and got on with the story.

  ‘No one saw Hannah fall from the balcony. It happened last Thursday afternoon at about four. According to her husband, he was in a sort of office behind the shop doing what he always did on early-closing day – stock-taking and sticking labels on various bottles and packets.

  ‘She fell on to a hard-top parking area at the back of the flats, and her body was found by a neighbour a couple of hours later between two parked cars. We were sent for, and Kingman seemed to be distraught. I asked him if he had had any idea that his wife might have wished to take her own life and he said she had never threatened to do so but had lately been very depressed and there had been quarrels, principally about money. Her doctor had put her on tranquillizers – of which, by the way, Kingman disapproved – and the doctor himself, old Dr Castle, told me Mrs Kingman had been to him for depression and because she felt her life wasn’t worth living and she was a drag on her husband. He wasn’t surprised that she had killed herself and neither, by that time, was I. We were all set for an inquest verdict of suicide while the balance of the mind was disturbed when John Hood walked in here and told me Kingman had attempted to murder his wife on a previous occasion.’

  ‘He told you just like that?’

  ‘Pretty well. It’s plain he doesn’t like Kingman, and no doubt he was fond of his sister. He also seems to like and admire Corinne Last. He told me that on a Saturday night at the end of October the four of them had a meal together in the Kingmans’ flat. It was a lot of vegetarian stuff cooked by Kingman – he always did the cooking – and one of the dishes was made out of what I’m old-fashioned enough, or narrow-minded enough, to call toadstools. They all ate it and they were all OK but for Hannah who got up from the table, vomited for hours, and apparently was quite seriously ill.’

  Wexford’s eyebrows went up. ‘Elucidate, please,’ he said.

  Burden sat back, put his elbows on the arms of the chair, and pressed the tips of his fingers together. ‘A few days before this meal was eaten, Kingman and Hood met at the squash club of which they are both members. Kingman told Hood that Corinne Last had promised to get him some edible fungi called shaggy caps from her own garden, the garden of the house which they had at one time shared. A crop of these things show themselves every autumn under a tree in this garden. I’ve seen them myself, but we’ll come to that in a minute.

  ‘Kingman’s got a thing about using weeds and whatnot for cooking, makes salads out of dandelion and sorrel, and he swears by this fungi rubbish, says they’ve got far more flavour than mushrooms. Give me something that comes in a plastic bag from the supermarket every time, but no doubt it takes all sorts to make a world. By the way, this cookbook of Corinne Last’s is called Cooking for Nothing, and all the recipes are for making dishes out of stuff you pull up by the wayside or pluck from the hedgerow.’

  ‘These warty blobs or spotted puffets or whatever, had he cooked them before?’

  ‘Shaggy caps,’ said Burden, grinning, ‘or coprinus comatus. Oh, yes, every year, and every year he and Corinne had eaten the resulting stew. He told Hood he was going to cook them again this time, and Hood says he seemed very grateful to Corinne for being so – well, magnanimous.’

  ‘Yes, I can see it would have been a wrench for her. Like hearing “our tune” in the company of your ex-lover and your supplanter.’ Wexford put on a vibrant growl. ‘“Can you bear the sight of me eating our toadstools with another?”’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ said Burden seriously, ‘it could have been just like that. Anyway, the upshot of it was that Hood was invited round for the following Saturday to taste these delicacies and was told that Corinne would be there. Perhaps it was that fact which made him accept. Well, the day came. Hood looked in on his sister at lunchtime. She showed him the pot containing the stew which Kingman had already made and she said she had tasted it and it was delicious. She also showed Hood half a dozen specimens of shaggy caps which she said Kingman hadn’t needed and which they would fry for their breakfast, This is what she showed him.’

  Burden opened a drawer in the desk and produced one of those plastic bags which he had said so inspired him with confidence. But the contents of this one hadn’t come from a supermarket. He removed the wire fastener and tipped out four whitish scaly objects. They were egg-shaped, or rather elongated ovals, each with a short fleshy stalk.

  ‘I picked them myself this morning,’ he said, ‘from Corinne Last’s garden. When they get bigger, the egg-shaped bit opens like an umbrella, or a pagoda really, and there are sort of black gills underneath. You’re supposed to eat them when they’re in the stage these are.’

  ‘I suppose you’ve got a book on fungi?’ said Wexford.

  ‘Here.’ This also was produced from the drawer. British Fungi, Edible and Poisonous. ‘And here we are – shaggy caps.’

  Burden had opened it at the Edible section and at a line and wash drawing of the species he held in his hand. He passed it to the chief inspector.

  ‘Coprinus comatus,’ Wexford read aloud, ‘a common species, attaining when full-grown a height of nine inches. The fungus is frequently to be found, during late summer and autumn, growing in fields, hedgerows and often in gardens. It should be eaten before the cap opens and disgorges its inky fluid, but is at all times quite harmless.’ He put the book down but didn’t close it. ‘Go on, please, Mike,’ he said.

  ‘Hood called for Corinne and they arrived together. They got there just after eight. At about eight-fifteen they all sat down to table and began the meal with avocado vinaigrette. The next course was to be the stew, followed by nut cutlets with a salad and then an apple-cake. Very obviously, there was no wine or liquor of any sort on account of Kingman’s prejudice. They drank grape juice from the shop.

  ‘The kitchen opens directly out of the living-dining room. Kingman brought in the stew in a large tureen and served it himself at the table, beginning, of course, with Corinne. Each one of those shaggy caps had been sliced in half lengthwise and the pieces were floating in a thickish gravy to which carrots, onions and other vegetables had been added. Now, ever since he had been invited to this meal, Hood had been feeling uneasy about eating fungi, but Corinne had reassured him, and once he began to eat it and saw the others were eating it quite happily, he stopped worrying for the time being. In fact, he had a second helping.

  ‘Kingman took the plates out and the tureen and immediately rinsed them under the tap. Both Hood and Corinne Last have told me this, though Kingman says it was something he always did, being fastidious about things of that sort.’

  ‘Surely his ex-girl friend could confirm or deny that,’ Wexford put in, ‘since they lived together for so long.’

  ‘We must ask her. All traces of the stew were rinsed away. Kingman then brought in the nut concoction and the salad, but before he could begin to serve them Hannah jumped up, covered her mouth with her napkin, and rushed to the bathroom.

  ‘After a while Corinne went to her. Hood could hear a violent vomiting from the bathroom. He remained in the living room while Kingman and Corinne were both in the bathroom with Hannah. No one ate any more. Kingman eventually came back, said that Hannah must have picked up some “bug” and that he had put her to bed. Hood went into the bedroom where Hannah was lying on the bed with Corinne beside her. Hannah’s face was greenish and covered with sweat and she was evidently in great pain because while h
e was there she doubled up and groaned. She had to go to the bathroom again and that time Kingman had to carry her back.

  ‘Hood suggested Dr Castle should be sent for, but this was strenuously opposed by Kingman who dislikes doctors and is one of those people who go in for herbal remedies – raspberry leaf tablets and camomile tea and that sort of thing. Also he told Hood rather absurdly that Hannah had had quite enough to do with doctors and that if this wasn’t some gastric germ it was the result of her taking “dangerous” tranquillizers.

  ‘Hood thought Hannah was seriously ill and the argument got heated, with Hood trying to make Kingman either call a doctor or take her to a hospital. Kingman wouldn’t and Corinne took his part. Hood is one of those angry but weak people who are all bluster, and although he might have called a doctor himself, he didn’t. The effect on him of Corinne again, I suppose. What he did do was tell Kingman he was a fool to mess about cooking things everyone knew weren’t safe, to which Kingman replied that if the shaggy caps were dangerous, how was it they weren’t all ill? Eventually, at about midnight, Hannah stopped retching, seemed to have no more pain, and fell asleep. Hood drove Corinne home, returned to the Kingmans’ and remained there for the rest of the night, sleeping on their sofa.

  ‘In the morning Hannah seemed perfectly well, though weak, which rather upset Kingman’s theory about the gastric bug. Relations between the brothers-in-law were strained. Kingman said he hadn’t liked Hood’s suggestions and that when he wanted to see his sister he, Kingman, would rather he came there when he was out or in the shop. Hood went off home, and since that day he hasn’t seen Kingman.

  ‘The day after his sister’s death he stormed in here, told me what I’ve told you, and accused Kingman of trying to poison Hannah. He was wild and nearly hysterical, but I felt I couldn’t dismiss this allegation as – well, the ravings of a bereaved person. There were too many peculiar circumstances, the unhappiness of the marriage, the fact of Kingman rinsing those plates, his refusal to call a doctor. Was I right?’

  Burden stopped and sat waiting for approval. It came in the form of a not very enthusiastic nod.

  After a moment Wexford spoke. ‘Could Kingman have pushed her off that balcony, Mike?’

  ‘She was a small fragile woman. It was physically possible. The back of the flats isn’t overlooked. There’s nothing behind but the parking area and then open fields. Kingman could have gone up by the stairs instead of using the lift and come down by the stairs. Two of the flats on the lower floors are empty. Below the Kingmans lives a bedridden woman whose husband was at work. Below that the tenant, a young married woman, was in but she saw and heard nothing. The invalid says she thinks she heard a scream during the afternoon but she did nothing about it, and if she did hear it, so what? It seems to me that a suicide, in those circumstances, is as likely to cry out as a murder victim.’

  ‘OK,’ said Wexford. ‘Now to return to the curious business of this meal. The idea would presumably be that Kingman intended to kill her that night but that his plan misfired because whatever he gave her wasn’t toxic enough. She was very ill but she didn’t die. He chose those means and that company so that he would have witnesses to his innocence. They all ate the stew out of the same tureen, but only Hannah was affected by it. How then are you suggesting he gave her whatever poison he did give her?’

  ‘I’m not,’ said Burden frankly, ‘but others are making suggestions. Hood’s a bit of a fool, and first of all he would only keep on about all fungi being dangerous and the whole dish being poisonous. When I pointed out that this was obviously not so, he said Kingman must have slipped something into Hannah’s plate, or else it was the salt.’

  ‘What salt?’

  ‘He remembered that no one but Hannah took salt with the stew. But that’s absurd because Kingman couldn’t have known that would happen. And, incidentally, to another point we may as well clear up now – the avocados were quite innocuous. Kingman halved them at the table and the vinaigrette sauce was served in a jug. The bread was not in the form of rolls but a home-made wholemeal loaf. If there was anything there which shouldn’t have been it was in the stew all right.

  ‘Corinne Last refuses to consider the possibility that Kingman might be guilty. But when I pressed her she said she was not actually sitting at the table while the stew was served. She had got up and gone into the hall to fetch her handbag. So she didn’t see Kingman serve Hannah.’ Burden reached across and picked up the book Wexford had left open at the description and drawing of the shaggy caps. He flicked over to the Poisonous section and pushed the book back to Wexford. ‘Have a look at some of these.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Wexford. ‘Our old friend, the fly agaric. A nice-looking little red job with white spots, much favoured by illustrators of children’s books. They usually stick a frog on top of it and a gnome underneath. I see that when ingested it causes nausea, vomiting, tetanic convulsions, coma and death. Lots of these agarics, aren’t there? Purple, crested, warty, verdigris – all more or less lethal. Aha! The death cap, amanita phalloides. How very unpleasant. The most dangerous fungus known, it says here. Very small quantities will cause intense suffering and often death. So where does all that get us?’

  ‘The death cap, according to Corinne Last, is quite common round here. What she doesn’t say, but what I infer, is that Kingman could have got hold of it easily. Now suppose he cooked just one specimen separately and dropped it into the stew just before he brought it in from the kitchen? When he comes to serve Hannah he spoons up for her this specimen, or the pieces of it, in the same way as someone might select a special piece of chicken for someone out of a casserole. The gravy was thick, it wasn’t like thin soup.’

  Wexford looked dubious. ‘Well, we won’t dismiss it as a theory. If he had contaminated the rest of the stew and others had been ill, that would have made it look even more like an accident, which was presumably what he wanted. But there’s one drawback to that, Mike. If he meant Hannah to die, and was unscrupulous enough not to mind about Corinne and Hood being made ill, why did he rinse the plates? To prove that it was an accident, he would have wanted above all to keep some of that stew for analysis when the time came, for analysis would have shown the presence of poisonous as well as non-poisonous fungi, and it would have seemed that he had merely been careless.

  ‘But let’s go and talk to these people, shall we?’

  The shop called Harvest Home was closed. Wexford and Burden went down an alley at the side of the block, passed the glass-doored main entrance, and went to the back to a door that was labelled Stairs and Emergency Exit. They entered a small tiled vestibule and began to mount a steepish flight of stairs.

  On each floor was a front door and a door to the lift. There was no one about. If there had been and they had had no wish to be seen, it would only have been necessary to wait behind the bend in the stairs until whoever it was had got into the lift. The bell by the front door on the fifth floor was marked A. and H. Kingman. Wexford rang it.

  The man who admitted them was smallish and mild-looking and he looked sad. He showed Wexford the balcony from which his wife had fallen. It was one of two in the flat, the other being larger and extending outside the living-room windows. This one was outside a glazed kitchen door, a place for hanging washing or for gardening of the window-box variety. Herbs grew in pots, and in a long trough there still remained frost-bitten tomato vines. The wall surrounding the balcony was about three feet high, the drop sheer to the hard-top below.

  ‘Were you surprised that your wife committed suicide, Mr Kingman?’ said Wexford.

  Kingman didn’t answer directly. ‘My wife set a very low valuation on herself. When we got married I thought she was like me, a simple sort of person who doesn’t ask much from life but has quite a capacity for contentment. It wasn’t like that. She expected more support and more comfort and encouragement than I could give. That was especially so for the first three months of our marriage. Then she seemed to turn against me. She was very moody, alw
ays up and down. My business isn’t doing very well and she was spending more money than we could afford. I don’t know where all the money was going and we quarrelled about it. Then she’d become depressed and say she was no use to me, she’d be better dead.’

  He had given, Wexford thought, rather a long explanation for which he hadn’t been asked. But it could be that these thoughts, defensive yet self-reproachful, were at the moment uppermost in his mind. ‘Mr Kingman,’ he said, ‘we have reason to believe, as you know, that foul play may have been involved here. I should like to ask you a few questions about a meal you cooked on October 29th, after which your wife was ill.’

  ‘I can guess who’s been telling you about that.’

  Wexford took no notice. ‘When did Miss Last bring you these – er, shaggy caps?’

  ‘On the evening of the z8th. I made the stew from them in the morning, according to Miss Last’s own recipe.’

  ‘Was there any other type of fungus in the flat at the time?’

  ‘Mushrooms, probably.’

  ‘Did you at any time add any noxious object or substance to that stew, Mr Kingman?’

  Kingman said quietly, wearily. ‘Of course not. My brother-in-law has a lot of ignorant prejudices. He refuses to understand that that stew, which I have made dozens of times before in exactly the same way, was as wholesome as, say, a chicken casserole. More wholesome, in my view.’

  ‘Very well. Nevertheless, your wife was very ill. Why didn’t you call a doctor?’

  ‘Because my wife was not “very” ill. She had pains and diarrhoea, that’s all. Perhaps you aren’t aware of what the symptoms of fungus poisoning are. The victim doesn’t just have pain and sickness. His vision is impaired, he very likely blacks out or has convulsions of the kind associated with tetanus. There was nothing like that with Hannah.’