Cyanide With Compliments

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  As Audrey Vickers paused for breath Mr Partridge, adept at playing for time, took off his spectacles and swung them gently to and fro, while resting his right elbow on his desk.

  ‘I think we had better have a look at your present will,’ he said, flicking a switch and speaking to his secretary.

  ‘My new one is to be entirely different. I’ve devoted a great deal of thought to it, and I’m perfectly clear —’

  ‘Quite,’ interposed Mr Partridge, who had been suddenly visited by a bizarre idea. ‘By the way, when you took over Drusilla as a child, you didn’t legally adopt her, did you?’

  Audrey Vickers stared at him. ‘Adopt her? No. I was her legal guardian under her mother’s will, and as such I consider it was outrageous that the County Council insisted on sending people to see if she was being cared for properly. That sort of thing was intended for quite a different class — it was insulting. As you know, I accepted the commitment, gave up my whole life —’

  ‘Mrs Vickers’ will, Mr Partridge.’ A brisk young man materialized, placed a document in front of his employer, and vanished again.

  ‘As I was saying, I gave up my whole life to Drusilla. I can’t see what difference it makes whether I adopted her or not,’ Audrey Vickers concluded fretfully.

  ‘Had you done so,’ replied Mr Partridge, watching her narrowly, ‘or had she been your own child, she might conceivably have had grounds for contesting a will of yours which made no provision for her.’

  He decided that her reaction was merely one of impatience, and dismissed his bizarre idea.

  ‘There’s no point in discussing it, surely? How soon can you have my new will ready for me to sign?’

  ‘That rather depends on its provisions,’ Mr Partridge said, running his eyes down the sheets of typescript in front of him. ‘Do I understand that you do not intend Drusilla to benefit at all?’

  ‘I’m not leaving her one farthing,’ Audrey Vickers replied, disregarding the disappearance of this coin from the currency of the realm. ‘All my life I’ve been imposed on and exploited… I’ve decided to leave what there is when I go — and I’m not going to scrimp and save, I can tell you — to charities to help elderly people. I expect there are hundreds who’ve been made use of, and then been thrown on the rubbish heap as I have. People who are getting on ought to be protected from this idle, heartless modern generation. You can find some suitable charities for me, I suppose?’

  ‘We can.’ Mr Partridge made some notes on a pad. ‘I had better get some detailed information about half a dozen or so, and you can look through it and make a choice.’

  ‘I don’t want a lot of delay. The sooner all this is settled, the better. The worry and upset of it all is making me quite ill.’

  Still writing, Mr Partridge observed his client’s restless changes of posture, and the nervous movements of her hands. He had known Drusilla from a child, and her marriage and the manner of it had not surprised him at all. He decided to take a calculated risk.

  ‘The step you are proposing to take is a very radical one, Mrs Vickers,’ he observed, carefully laying down his pen.

  ‘Are you suggesting that I don’t know my own mind, or that I’m not in a fit state mentally to make a will?’ she blazed at him. ‘If you don’t want to deal with my affairs, Mr Partridge, I can easily go elsewhere. There are plenty of other solicitors in Highcastle who would be ready to take them over, and even to give me a little sympathy. All through this dreadful business of Drusilla’s marriage you’ve always been on her side and against me — I’m well aware of that.’

  Mr Partridge had no intention of allowing any development of this kind. Quite apart from the loss of a client, it would not be in Drusilla Lang’s interests. In Mrs Vickers’ present overwrought state it was reasonable to feel that she might change her mind once again about the disposition of her estate.

  ‘I can assure you,’ he replied, ‘that from the time when you first placed your affairs in my hands, I have consistently tried to further your interests. If you wish me to draw up a will for you on the lines you’ve indicated, I’m ready to do so.’

  ‘Very well,’ she snapped, sounding little mollified. ‘I don’t want any more changes in my unhappy life. Only do get it done as soon as possible. Choose any charities you like of the kind I’ve described: I don’t care which. I’ve far too much on my mind to bother about details like that. Now, the other thing I want you to do for me is to find out the name of a really good and reliable enquiry agent.’

  Long years of professional discipline enabled Mr Partridge to conceal any sign of surprise. That chap Lang, he thought quickly… She must think she can get hold of something which might bust up the marriage… Drugs?

  ‘A local man?’ he enquired.

  ‘Oh no, certainly not anyone local. You know how things leak out. Someone in London, preferably. I can run up quite easily to discuss my business.’

  She spoke with a finality which made it clear that she had no intention of revealing the nature of her business. Mr Partridge made another note, and looked up to see her gathering her gloves and handbag together.

  ‘Be sure to telephone me at once when you have found me someone, and when my will is ready for signature,’ she adjured him as they both got up.

  Returning to his room after seeing Audrey Vickers off, Mr Partridge sat for a moment staring at his notes. If she were really hoping to wreck Drusilla’s marriage as well as cutting her out of the will, it really was a bit thick, he thought. Just how bloody-minded can you get?

  Meanwhile, on stepping out of Partridge, Webster and Partridge’s office, Audrey Vickers realized that she was feeling faint and slightly giddy. She panicked in a swirl of self-pity, visualizing a collapse from heart failure in a public street, an ambulance called by a passer-by, and a hospital bed with no next-of-kin to call upon. Then the more prosaic thought that she had been obliged to miss her normal cooked breakfast reassured her, and she set off in quest of elevenses. A pot of coffee, a plate of toothsome cakes and a friendly greeting from a well-known waitress soon restored her. As she ate and drank with enjoyment even her indignation with Mr Partridge began to subside. All men were the same, she told herself. Changing her solicitor wouldn’t make any difference. Drusilla was young and personable, and there it was.

  She debated staying in Highcastle for a look round the shops, and having lunch there, but finally decided to return home when she had bought one or two things from a delicatessen to supplement the cold chicken in the refrigerator. After lunch she would have a good rest on her bed. She needed one after such a shocking night.

  The drive back to Redbay was accomplished without mishap. After garaging the car, Audrey Vickers let herself into Lauriston. Mrs Young had come and gone, leaving a silent tidy house, and the midday post on the chest in the hall, two receipts, a circular and a smallish flat parcel neatly done up with Sellotape. It had a London postmark and was correctly addressed in block capitals. Unable to place it, Audrey Vickers tugged at the Sellotape. As she at last managed to pull off the outer wrapping a printed slip fell to the ground. She picked it up and recognized the familiar motif of a Greek long ship of the Homeric Age riding the waves. Under it was the legend ‘With the compliments of Odyssey Tours Ltd’. The box, she was delighted to find, contained chocolates by Honeydew, a small firm well known for its luxury class confectionery. It slid open in the manner of a matchbox. Only a half-pound box, she thought. Really, considering what we paid … still, it’s a nice idea, even if it’s only an advertisement. Marchpane Magic, too… I’ve had them before. Better not spoil my lunch, perhaps. They’ll be lovely when I go up to rest and have a look at the paper. Reluctantly she put the chocolates down and set about getting herself a meal.

  In spite of her elevenses Audrey Vickers made a good lunch. She was feeling more cheerful than at any time since her return from the cruise now that she had given Mr Partridge his instructions. The phrase pleased her, and she repeated it to herself several times as she stacked crockery a
nd cutlery in the dishwasher, and also rehearsed her opening conversation with the enquiry agent whom Mr Partridge was going to find for her. Taking with her the Daily Telegraph, a magazine and the chocolates she went up to her bedroom, partly undressed, and settled herself under the eiderdown, comfortably supported by pillows. The Daily Telegraph’s headlines were so off-putting that she threw the paper aside, and took up the magazine, popping a Marchpane Magic into her mouth as she did so. It was perfectly delicious: the thinnest shell of chocolate, and then rich creamy fudge before you got to the marzipan. Her hand reached out to the box again.

  When Mrs Young was asked by her friends how in the world she put up with Mrs Vickers, she replied that there was always for and against. She had no doubt that the fors had it where her job at Lauriston was concerned. To begin with, the money was good, better than she let on to anyone except her husband. Then the work was nothing to grumble about: only the one lady, and no kiddies and animals messing the place up. Ten till twelve each morning suited her nicely, with nine till eleven on a Saturday to leave her time for her own place before the weekend.

  On Saturday, 5 May, she arrived at the house just before nine to find that Mrs Vickers had forgotten to put up the catch of the front door for her. Using the latchkey entrusted to her she proceeded to let herself in.

  ‘I’m here, Mrs Vickers,’ she called out.

  There was no answer. The doors of the downstairs rooms were open, and some of the windows, so Mrs Vickers was up and about. In the toilet, maybe, Mrs Young reflected, and not wanting to draw attention to it. She donned an overall and got out the hoover to run over the sitting-room. Not that it needed it every day, but the only way to keep the place nice was never to let things go.

  She had almost finished when it struck her as a bit odd that Mrs Vickers still hadn’t shown up. Most days she’d have been running round after you and talking the hind leg off a donkey. She couldn’t have been taken bad, surely? Suddenly uneasy, Mrs Young switched off the hoover and went out into the hall.

  ‘You all right, Mrs Vickers?’ she called.

  Once again there was no reply, and the house seemed uncannily quiet. With sudden decision Mrs Young ran up the stairs. There was no one in either the bathroom or the lavatory, and she knocked loudly on the closed door of Mrs Vickers’ bedroom, her heart beating faster as she did so. On getting no answer for the third time she opened the door. She took a step towards the bed, and then froze. She had seen death before and could recognize it.

  ‘Oh, my Gawd!’ she whispered, backing out of the room, and steadying herself against the banisters at the top of the stairs. ‘Oh, my Gawd! She must’ve ’ad a fit.’

  As the morning wore on a small army of men occupied Lauriston. They appeared too large for its rather precious and immaculate rooms which echoed to their loud voices and heavy tread. In the road outside a crowd grew steadily, gazing at the house and the police cars.

  Chief Inspector Dart of the Highcastle CID talked over the telephone to the Fulminster inspector who had contacted the Langs as Audrey Vickers’ next-of-kin. Mr Lang, the inspector reported, had been at home, and seemed staggered by the news, saying that he supposed it must have been a heart attack. He had then been driven to the Technical College to break the news to his wife. She, too, had seemed very surprised, but neither of them had shown any signs of being distressed. As requested, enquiries had been made about Mrs Lang’s job at the Tech. She was an assistant lecturer in chemistry.

  Dart thanked Fulminster and rang off. He sat for a few moments digesting this information. He was pessimistic by nature, but allowed himself to register distinct interest. He had a retentive, if rather slow-moving mind, and had not failed to notice Mrs Young’s slight hesitation when asked about deceased’s next-of-kin.

  Getting to his feet he went thoughtfully upstairs. Audrey Vickers’ bedroom had a bizarre appearance, its furniture thrust at crazy angles to facilitate photography, and a series of white chalk circles on the carpet marking the positions of scattered chocolates and reading matter now removed. The still figure on the bed was covered by a sheet. Dr James Fosby, the pathologist, was standing with rolled-up sleeves washing his hands.

  ‘I’m through,’ he told Dart. ‘Useful that the police surgeon happened to be her own doctor. I agree with him absolutely. It’s cyanide, without a doubt. You can smell it, and there are all the text-book indications — colour, and what-have-you. It looks as though the stuff was in the chocolates. There are traces of chocolate in the mouth, and it’s very fast-acting. Matter of a minute or so. How many had gone from the box?’

  ‘Two. We’ve collected ’em all up, and fitted ’em into the slots in the packing material.’

  ‘Two would be more than enough, assuming that the chap who doctored them knew the ropes. A lethal dose is only about enough to cover half of one of the old silver threepenny bits. Come on,’ he added, throwing down the towel. ‘I’m waiting for the thousand dollar question.’

  Dart grinned. ‘All right. What about it?’

  ‘Death occurred not more than twenty-eight, and not less than sixteen hours ago. That’s as far as I’m ready to go at this stage. Any use to you? She’d hardly have been eating chocolates in the small hours, surely?’

  ‘It could fit quite well, if the stuff was in the chocolates, that is. We’ve found the outside wrapping of a small parcel which the daily woman swears came by the midday post yesterday, and it fits the box perfectly. She also says Mrs Vickers was a rare one for sweets.’

  Dr Fosby grunted as he struggled into his coat. ‘Mortuary van here yet?’

  ‘Just drawing up,’ Dart replied from the window.

  The police photographer emerged from the corner of the room and prepared for further activity during the removal of the body. This operation was conducted with meticulous care under the supervision of Dart and the pathologist. The latter then drove off ahead of the van to make arrangements for the post-mortem.

  Dart watched the departures with a sense of relief, and turned back into the house. ‘Got that statement ready?’ he asked, and took a typewritten sheet from his sergeant. In the kitchen he found Mrs Young hunched passively at the table, her buxom arms resting on the buttercup-yellow Formica, and an empty teacup in front of her. ‘Sorry we’ve had to keep you waiting about like this, Mrs Young,’ he told her.

  ‘Reckon it can’t be ’elped,’ she replied philosophically.

  Dart sat down facing her, and passed a typewritten sheet across the table. ‘This is the very clear statement you made just now about what you did in the house yesterday morning and this morning. I only wish all the people we interview were as clearheaded as you are. I want you to read it over, and if you agree with it we’ll ask you to put your name to it. All right?’

  He watched her reading, her lips moving silently in the manner of one not too familiar with the printed word. Sensible reliable type, he thought with approval, and wondered how far she could be made to talk. As he waited he glanced round the room. Fitted kitchen in the luxury class, he decided. Vickers must have been pretty well-heeled. Who benefits? A niece doesn’t automatically these days, even if she is next-of-kin…

  ‘I’ll sign,’ Mrs Young told him.

  ‘Fine,’ he said, handing her his pen.

  He waited while she inscribed her name slowly and carefully at the bottom of the typescript.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Lang have been told of Mrs Vickers’ death by the police at Fulminster,’ he said, restoring the pen to his pocket. ‘They’re coming down this evening.’

  Mrs Young looked startled. ‘Will they be coming ’ere?’

  ‘Not tonight, at any rate. You see, we don’t yet know for certain the cause of Mrs Vickers’ death, and there will have to be an enquiry. Until that’s been made, we can’t hand over the house.’

  Dart decided that while she did not seem to have grasped the implications of what he had said, she looked relieved. He decided to bluff. ‘Difficult when there are differences with relatives,’ he remarked.


  Mrs Young gave him a sharp look. Then, apparently accepting the omniscience of a high-up policeman, she nodded. ‘Mind you, there weren’t no differences before Mrs Lang went off and got married so sudden. Never said a word to Mrs Vickers till ’twas done. Seein’ that she’d brought ’er up from a little ’un, and sent her to school and college, ’twas natural Mrs Vickers was upset.’

  ‘Quite natural,’ Dart agreed. ‘I suppose Mrs Lang was afraid her aunt wouldn’t approve of the bridegroom?’

  ‘No more she did. ’E ’adn’t got no proper job — just tryin’ to write books. Mrs Lang didn’t act proper to her auntie over it, not to my way of thinkin’. But mind you, Mrs Vickers ’ung on to ’er like a limpet, an’ young people’ll go their own way sooner or later these days, an’ that’s a fac’, whether you likes it or not.’

  ‘When did the Langs get married?’

  ‘Last August, ’twas, soon as Mrs Lang had got her degree up to Oxford. They wanted ’er to stay on an’ do summat else, but she went off with ’im instead.’

  ‘Have the Langs been on visiting terms with Mrs Vickers since?’

  ‘Not visitin’, they ’aven’t. But they’ve all been on a cruise together. Mrs Vickers paid. They only got back Tuesday.’

  ‘That looks as if the quarrel had been made up, doesn’t it?’ said Dart, with the feeling of a promising lead petering out.

  To his surprise a sudden cautious expression came into Mrs Young’s face. ‘Mr and Mrs Lang’ll be able to tell you more about that than what I can,’ she replied after a noticeable pause.

  ‘Of course they will,’ Dart agreed pleasantly. ‘Now, just one more question before you go. Do you know the name of Mrs Vickers’ solicitor?’

  Mrs Young’s cautious expression remained. ‘That’ll be Mr Partridge, over to Highcastle,’ she said reluctantly.

  Judging that it would be useless to press his enquiries further, Dart let her go, after warning her that she would be required to give evidence at the inquest.