by Alan Hunter
From the document-case he took typed sheets, also a thin quarto, drably bound. The latter, a Keble Martin Flora, had a marker between the pages.
‘Here . . . I pinched this from the library, to spread a little light in your darkness.’
Gently took it. It opened at an illustration of A. belladonna L. (Deadly Nightshade).
Wittard went, and together Gently and Ives stared at the plate in the Keble Martin. A handsome plant, the A. belladonna had tuberous flowers, not unlike comfrey.
Their colour was dull purple; the fruit was black, resembling a cherry. According to a brief note, the plant favoured chalk and had a flowering period from June to August.
At last Ives sighed and straightened.
‘And that’s about the last thing we wanted, sir . . . !’
Grunting, Gently closed the book. What it meant was their chances of success were nearly nil.
A poison of which the source was untraceable, not to be found in any chemist’s records, leaving nothing evidential to be searched for . . . as near as dammit, the perfect weapon.
Short of someone’s contrite confession, they might as well return the case to file . . .
‘Do we really have something on Noel Raynes, sir?’
‘Not enough to put him in a cell.’
In a few words Gently gave Ives the picture; the local man listened with solemn face.
‘It’s not much to go on . . .’
‘You’re telling me! Especially with Brother Clive going in to bat for him.’
‘But if he didn’t do it . . .’
‘Then someone else did – and everyone is covering for everyone else.’
Irritably Gently picked up the teapot and squeezed himself a lukewarm cup. Yes, they were back to square one – with the added knowledge that they’d nowhere to go . . .
‘Have you a naturalist round here?’
‘Yes, sir . . . I reckon you’ll want Mr Wallace.’
‘Have him fetched. Tell him I want to brief a party to search the neighbourhood for Deadly Nightshade.’
Ives hesitated. ‘Do you think it’s worthwhile, sir . . . ?’
‘This is the only lead we’ve got! If we can find where chummie got the stuff, perhaps we can get a line on chummie.’
Ives departed; Gently gulped tea. He ruffled quickly through Wittard’s report. The smell of carbolic still clung to it, but all it told him was that Wittard had been thorough.
Atropine and aspirin . . . ! The first, without doubt, somehow added to the cup of coffee – by Noel or Florence Raynes, or Greta Swafield, or . . . who else?
Because they didn’t know enough about that critical moment, the moment when Walter Raynes began to speak! Others might well have been on their feet, leaning from their chairs, reaching across . . .
And Best . . . any trick was possible, say knocking his lighter off the table. Then, when he was stooping to recover it . . .
If that had happened, would anyone have told him?
One inference was fairly certain: Best had left because he’d begun to feel drowsy. Suddenly he was finding he couldn’t keep his eyes open, in spite of the row going on round him . . .
With a great weight dragging on his limbs he’d left the house and stumbled up the stairs . . . let himself in . . . blundered across the lounge . . . collapsed on the settee, to fall instantly asleep.
Had he been conscious when they dosed him with the aspirin? Most likely even that hadn’t woken him up . . . snoring and gagging, he’d have got it down him as they poured it into his throat . . .
Noel Raynes, almost certainly, for one: but any of the others could have lent a hand.
Alibis were self-cancelling: the faking could have waited until all the conspirators were together again
And though they might quarrel among themselves, still, they’d stick together in this – digging in their heels with every legal aid, using whatever influence they could muster. The suspicion would be there, the old man would know, but . . .
Even the resumed inquest might gloss it over.
‘Sir, Mr Wallace is on his way . . . he’s bringing a wall-chart and leaflets.’
‘What about men?’
‘I’ve been on to HQ and . . .’
Outside, it continued a fine August day.
Wallace was a silver-haired man with a beaky face and amiable manner. Seemingly a local institution, he was met with smiles by everyone.
‘This is fascinating . . . we’ve never found A. belladonna out here before!’
Jerky of movement, he had lively blue eyes and might have been taken for a popular schoolmaster.
‘In the west of the county, on the chalk . . .’
‘I take it that Deadly Nightshade is a rarity.’
‘No, local is the term we want! The nearest colony I know of is at Marsey . . .’
He’d brought an armful of books into the private lounge along with the chart, which he was busily pinning up. An official publication depicting poisonous plants, it showed also henbane, thorn-apple and others.
Meanwhile a van had decanted constables to file into a room now grown too small; exceedingly curious, they stared at the set-up and muttered among themselves.
‘Now you men, pay attention!’
Ives undertook the preliminary briefing; mentioning no details, he gave them their task and tried to inject a note of seriousness.
But this was difficult: the presence of Wallace seemed somehow to make the affair light-hearted. Standing smilingly by his chart, he gave the impression of being about to launch them on a natural-history ramble.
‘Do any of you know this plant . . . yes?’
There were shuffling feet and uncertain murmurs.
‘Well . . . look! . . . it’s quite easy to recognize, especially since now it will be bearing berries. About three feet high, a reddish stem, the leaves egg-shaped with a point – notice how they occur in unequal pairs! – and flowers shaped rather like Canterbury Bells.
‘Then the berries – they’re quite black, and surrounded by a calyx of little leaves – rather tempting! But do bear in mind that this is the most poisonous British plant.
‘If you’re lucky enough to find one, don’t touch it – certainly don’t bring back a specimen.
‘Just report to me here, and I’ll come along to confirm it.’
With an excited little jerk, he added:
‘This may encourage you in your search – A. belladonna is new in this area, and the finder’s name will be published in the county records.
‘Only . . . don’t touch it! Every part of the plant is extremely poisonous.’
Ducking away, he handed Ives the leaflets, each of which carried a coloured representation; then he seized one of his books and turned eagerly to Gently.
‘This is a tragic affair I’m sure . . . but from my point of view, quite exciting! Look, here’s the revised county Flora . . . you can see for yourself what a gap this will fill . . .’
He found the page. Lists of recordings were divided into ‘West’ and ‘East’; the latter had few entries, and none in the neighbourhood of Hulverbridge.
‘Here, you see, the chalk is scanty . . .’
‘Are you suggesting it doesn’t grow here?’
‘Not exactly that! Believe it or not, it used to be cultivated for medicinal uses. Perhaps most are survivors of old herb gardens, but of course they survive where conditions best suit them. Hence their incidence in the west of the county and their comparative rarity here.’
‘In fact there may be none closer than Marsey.’
‘Well . . . that’s something we hope to disprove.’
‘Which may be knowledge that not everyone would have.’
Wallace’s blue eyes were suddenly sharp.
‘You must bear in mind that it’s recorded in the Flora . . . and I can answer for the information being up-to-date.’
‘But who . . . in Hulverbridge . . . might own a copy?’
Wallace closed the book with a snap.
>
‘You put me in rather an awkward position! You know, I’m an official of several societies . . . I don’t want to jeopardize my position by shopping members, even to nice policemen.’
‘You’ll merely be saving me routine enquiries.’
‘I feel a bit of a Judas, all the same. Still, the lists are there to consult, and there’s nothing I can do to stop you.’
‘So?’
‘The lady at the The Pines.’
‘Mrs Clive Raynes?’
Wallace nodded. ‘She used to be secretary of The Botanical Society before she married. She’s still a member.’
* * *
Florence Raynes was standing at the top of her steps when the Cortina pulled up on the sweep. Dressed this morning in a clinging housecoat, she watched the arrival with hostile eyes.
Not waiting for an invitation, Gently ran up the steps.
‘I need your advice on a technical matter.’
‘My advice . . . ?’
‘Let’s go inside! You’re the one with the chemist’s certificate, aren’t you?’
The door was open; he pushed into the lounge. Florence Raynes hesitated on the steps. Ives was hovering behind her however, and after a pause, she entered too.
‘I would have thought that, in the circumstances
‘Listen . . . this could be important!’
‘My husband has advised me not to answer—’
‘Where could one purchase atropine sulphate?’
‘Atropine sulphate . . . !’
Her mouth dropped open and she stared with large eyes. Yet, behind the aghast expression, one was conscious of swiftly-working intelligence.
‘Is that what . . . is it . . . ?’
‘Just answer the question, Mrs Raynes.’
‘It could be bought . . . you would need authorization . . . from any supplier or dispensing chemist.’
‘As, for example, from your father’s shops?’
‘From any dispensary in the city. It is used as a local anaesthetic and is a requisite for optic surgery . . .’
‘And so readily available.’
‘I didn’t say that!’
‘But easily obtained by, say, someone like you?’
‘Not easily at all. There is a strict procedure—’
‘Couldn’t that be by-passed, if one knew the ropes?’
With a hoist of his shoulders, Gently turned to the bookcases that occupied most of one wall. Casually he ran a finger along the rows of travel, subject and art books. Angry-eyed, Florence Raynes followed him; she planted herself in front of a bookcase; chin jutting, she demanded:
‘Are you accusing me of obtaining poison?’
‘Wouldn’t that have been simple for you . . . ?’
‘No, it wouldn’t! And I defy you to prove otherwise. I gave up practising when I married, and I’ve scarcely set foot in a dispensary since. You can make any enquiry you choose – I don’t have anything to fear.’
‘You have not recently visited your father’s shops.’
‘Good lord, no. I prefer to stay clear of them.’
‘And atropine sulphate requires a prescription.’
‘That, or an authorized order to supply.’
‘But suppose uncompounded atropine was required?’
‘What – what—?’
‘That needs no prescription.’
‘I . . . don’t understand!’
‘All it needs is a knowledge of botany . . . and something like this!’
From a shelf he withdrew a copy of the book he’d lately seen in the hands of Wallace. A copy that was well-used, it opened at no particular place. Notes however had been written on margins, detailing fresh locations and dates. Such a note appeared at the relevant opening, though referring to a different species.
‘This is your book, of course?’
‘I . . . I . . . !’
Her cheeks had turned pale as the page she was staring at. In her eyes was a look of dismay and at the same time unbelief.
‘Someone used . . . that?’
‘Would it surprise you?’
‘But . . . if you know . . . you’ve got to tell me!’
‘I have of course received the exhumation report.’
The eyes gazing into his were tight with fear.
‘I . . . must . . . know! If you are accusing me . . .’
‘Has this book been out of your possession?’
‘Oh God, no!’
Feeling for a chair, she sank in it, breathing jerkily.
Gently riffled pages, though keeping his finger at the section headed Solanaceae. Other books on the shelf included a herbal and one titled: The Old English Herb-Garden.
‘Would you object if we looked round your garden?’
‘My garden!’ She started. ‘No . . . you may.’
Gently signed to Ives, who went out. Florence Raynes stared after him, but made no motion.
‘Now . . . returning for a moment to the dinner.’
‘Please! I’m not in a state to answer questions.’
‘What I want is an account of your movements during the forty-eight hours previous.’
‘My movements—!’ She checked quickly. ‘Don’t you understand I had nothing to do with it? If . . . if it happened, there must be an explanation . . . an accident perhaps! . . . it couldn’t have been deliberate . . .’
‘Were you out in your car?’
‘I don’t remember! I use my car every day . . .’
‘Then if it was seen at Marsey, for example . . .’
‘I haven’t been to Marsey since before Whitsun.’
‘Not on the previous Monday or Sunday?’
‘The Sunday I remember – we were on the river. And on the Monday – yes! I took the children out – to Starmouth and The Pleasure Beach. Not to Marsey.’
Gently strummed pages. ‘Who did go, then?’
‘No one. I mean, I don’t know!’
‘Marsey is mentioned in this book – near a note of yours dated 28th July.’
‘I can’t help that. It has nothing to do with it.’
‘And neither you nor anyone were seen at Marsey.’
‘Oh lord – I’m not responsible for the others!’
‘In the end, it was you who gave Best his coffee.’
Tormentedly she held out her hands. ‘I don’t even remember it! I was listening to Clive’s father and never noticed . . .’
‘Yet that coffee killed him.’
‘I did nothing – saw nothing!’
‘Once, weren’t you quite well-disposed towards Best?’
She hid her face. For several moments she crouched on the chair, shoulders heaving. Though the house in general was quiet, one sometimes heard a movement somewhere below.
‘Is there anything you don’t know about me . . . ?’
Gently made a face. ‘Your family are gossips.’
‘I’m not ashamed of it – not of anything. As for Clive . . . well, at least I’m here!’
‘Was that a question . . . ?’
‘Yes – oh yes. Half a hundred times anyway. Clive is impotent, didn’t they tell you? I had to be artificially inseminated.
‘But I’m here – I’ve stood by him – stopped him from going altogether to pieces. And I’m not ashamed. My emotional life . . . who has the right to deprive me of that?’
Her shoulders pumped again and her head drooped over her hands. Below, Ives had come into sight, pensively inspecting a row of broccoli.
‘Earlier you told me of a certain incident . . .’
‘So I lied about Clive’s father. Could I let him accuse me of murder . . . of all people, him?’
‘Nevertheless . . .’
‘Of course! You will have heard a different story. And it’s true . . . why bother to deny it? At least I’ve given the family a Raynes heir.’
‘Then, when Best came along . . .’
She groaned. ‘Ronnie was the man I should have married. Ronnie was his father’s son . . . compared with
Clive . . . but what’s the use? He was still tangled up . . . I don’t know!
‘Anyway, he wouldn’t look at me.’
‘His eye was on the business.’
‘It wasn’t like that!’
‘Both father and son were giving you the cold shoulder. You were out of the game. While even your husband was getting himself shunted into the background.’
Her breathing was fierce. ‘You’re forgetting that Noel—’
‘That Noel also helped with the coffee?’
‘Yes – if you’re looking for a suspect – because I know it wasn’t me!’
‘Did Noel borrow this book?’
‘No, but it’s available in the library. All the same . . . I’m not saying . . .’ The look in her eyes was suddenly fearful.
Ponderingly, Gently toyed with the book, on the jacket of which was pictured some rarity.
‘When you and your husband left after the dinner . . . was Noel Raynes’s car still parked outside?’
‘Yes it was.’
‘What did you talk about later on, when he came here?’
Her eyes widened. ‘But he didn’t come here.’
‘Perhaps while you were occupied with the children?’
‘That simply isn’t so. It was Clive who went in to them – I stayed behind to put away the car.’
‘But when he came out again . . . ?’
‘I’m telling you he didn’t! Neither of us left the house after that. When the kids were in bed we sat talking – and we didn’t see Noel or anyone else.’
‘Nobody . . .’
Her stare held for a moment, its hunted expression painful; then jerked away. Pallor had returned to her cheeks.
‘All this . . . you know it’s fantastic . . .’
‘And yet . . . ?’
‘At most . . . some stupid accident.’
‘The facts contradict that.’
‘The facts! Perhaps you aren’t even asking the right questions.’
‘Yet Ronald Best died.’
‘I know, I know! But if I could make you understand . . .’
‘Understand . . . what?’
She gazed at him strangely before abruptly shaking her head.
A step outside marked Ives’s return; on the landing he paused, as if fearing to interrupt. In his hand he still held one of Wallace’s leaflets, but a shrug told the story. No luck!
