EQMM, January 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Nasty things. Poisonous,” Melchior said, slurring his words even more.

  "Mistletoe berries are poisonous, too,” Balthazar said.

  The vicar decided not to go down that route. “We'd better drink up, gentlemen. Three more houses and a long walk to go."

  "Have you been to Gertrude Appleton?” Laura asked.

  "The house afore you. Stingy old mucker,” Melchior said.

  "That's a bit unseasonal, isn't it?” the vicar said.

  "We all know Gertrude,” Caspar said. “Before we get a glass or a bite to eat from her, we have to promise to take her a mince pie after Christmas."

  "And if we forget, she'll come hammering on our doors,” Balthazar said.

  Laura was about to explain that it was a superstition, but stopped herself. These villagers didn't miss a thing. They'd know all about Gertrude.

  "Thanks for these, good lady,” Caspar said as he returned the plate, with ten of the eleven pies remaining. “Sorry we couldn't all do justice to them."

  Melchior said without warning, “I need to sit down. I'm feeling dizzy."

  "You'd better come in,” Laura offered. “I was wondering about you."

  "And it's not the wine,” said Balthazar. “He's a teetotaler."

  Laura gave Balthazar a second look, but he seemed to be speaking in all seriousness. She noticed Melchior didn't have a glass in his hand.

  "Would you mind, Mrs. Thyme?” the vicar said. “I don't think he's capable of continuing.” He picked the crown off the fat man's head. “I'll have to be Melchior now.” Judged by the speed of the change, he'd wanted a starring role all evening.

  Laura took a grip on Melchior's arm and steered him inside to an armchair. Then she said something she was to regret. “Why don't you gentlemen finish your round and come back for him?"

  "He farms just up the lane,” Caspar said, and Laura thought she detected a suggestion that they might not, after all, return for their companion. “Blackberry Farm. It can't be more than three hundred yards."

  They waved goodnight.

  After closing the door, Laura glanced at her watch. There was still ample time before she needed to collect Rosemary.

  Melchior had slumped in the chair and was snoring softly.

  "Strong coffee for you,” Laura said.

  He made a sound she chose to take as appreciation. It could have been a belch.

  In the kitchen, Wilbur was round her feet. She found the store of dog food and opened a tin. She said, “Consider yourself lucky, Wilbur. I've got other demands on my time."

  When she took the coffee to Melchior his snoring was heavier and his chin was buried in his chest. This wasn't good. She didn't want this overweight man settling into a deep sleep and being immovable just when she needed to drive to Bath. She checked the time again. She really ought to be leaving in less than an hour. She wasn't certain how long it would take to drive to the station.

  "Coffee?"

  No response.

  "Have some coffee. It'll brighten you up."

  Wishful thinking. He didn't make a murmur that wasn't a snore.

  In a louder voice she said, “I made the coffee."

  This was becoming a predicament. She'd have to touch the man's face or hands to get a response, but she'd only just met him. Didn't even know his real name. How do I get myself into situations like this? she thought.

  She put down the coffee and stood with her arms folded wondering how to deal with this. Wilbur came in and sniffed at the mud on Melchior's boots.

  Fresh air, she decided. She flung open a couple of windows and an icy blast of December ripped through the room.

  Wilbur streaked upstairs, but Melchior didn't move a muscle.

  "Come on, man!” Laura said. She found the remote and switched on the television. The Nine Lessons and Carols at full volume. Switched the channel to the Three Tenors.

  No result.

  In frustration Laura brought her two hands together and slapped her own face quite hard. She'd have to overcome her innate decorum and give him a prod. Alone with a strange bloke in someone else's house, but it had to be done.

  First she switched off the three of them belting out Nessun Dorma. Her nerves couldn't take it.

  Tentatively she put out a finger and touched the back of Melchior's right hand, resting on the arm of the chair. It remained quite still. She placed the whole of her hand across it and squeezed.

  There was a slight reaction, a twitch of the eyelids, but they didn't open. Laura leaned closer and blew on them. Nothing.

  She drew a deep breath and patted his fat face.

  He made a sound, no more than “Mm"—but a definite response.

  "Wake up, please,” she said. “I don't want you asleep."

  A triumph. The eyes opened and stared at her.

  "It's no good,” she told him. “You can't sit here forever. Let's see if you can walk to the car and I'll drive you home. Blackberry Farm, isn't it?"

  At the mention of his address, Melchior made a definite effort to move. He rocked forward and groaned. Laura thrust her hand under his armpit and encouraged the movement. Out of sheer determination she got him to his feet. He was still unsteady, but she wrapped his arm around her shoulders and hung on to it and kept him upright.

  "The car's outside. Come on. Start walking."

  It was slow progress and a huge physical effort, but she kept him on the move, talking all the time in the hope that it would keep him conscious. Getting down the two small steps at the front door was hard enough, but the real challenge was hoisting him onto the passenger seat of the Land Rover.

  She swung the door open with her free hand. “I'm going to need your help here, Melchior. One giant leap for mankind."

  He moaned a little, maybe at Laura's attempt to be cheerful.

  To encourage him, she curled her hand under his knee and lifted his right leg up to the level of the vehicle floor. It felt horribly limp. She found places for his hands to grip. “On the count of three,” she said, “and I'll probably end up with a slipped disc. One, two, three!"

  If he made some gesture towards the performance it wasn't obvious. Laura found herself making a superhuman effort. Dignity abandoned, she put her shoulder under his rump and inched him upwards. All those hours of heavy gardening paid off. He got one buttock onto the seat and she rammed him like a front-row forward until he was in a position where she could snap the safety belt across.

  She ran back to the house and closed the windows and door. Wilbur was inside, but did she have the key? She hoped so.

  The Land Rover, bless its antiquated ignition system, started the first time.

  Blackberry Farm. Which way? Her passenger was in no condition to say. Laura swung right and hoped. The lanes were unlit, of course. Her full beam probed the hedgerows ahead. Can't be more than three hundred yards, Caspar had said. She'd gone that distance already. She continued for another two minutes, then found a gate entrance. Nothing so helpful as a sign. She reversed into the space and retraced her route. Maybe she should have turned left coming out of The Withers.

  Then she saw the board for Blackberry Farm fixed to a drystone wall. Drove into the yard and sounded the horn. She'd need help getting Melchior down. It would be useful if he had a couple of hefty sons.

  From one of the farm buildings came a wisp of a woman wearing overalls and wellies. She was about Melchior's age, Laura judged. Two sheepdogs came with her, barking.

  "I've brought the farmer home,” Laura said, competing to be heard. “He's rather tired. Is there anyone who can help get him down?"

  The little lady spread her hands. “There's only me, my love."

  Laura got out and opened the passenger door. “We'll have to manage together, then. Is he your husband?"

  "Yes, and I don't like the look of ‘un,” the little lady said. “Douglas, you gawpus, what's the matter with ‘ee?"

  Laura looked. Her passenger had taken a definite turn for the worse. He was making jerky movements with his
head and left leg. Change of plan. “I think we should get your husband to a doctor fast,” she said. “Jump aboard."

  "I can't come with ‘ee,” the farmer's wife said. “I've got a cow in calf."

  "But I'm a stranger here. I don't know where to take him,” Laura almost wailed.

  "Horse piddle."

  "What?"

  "Royal United, Bath. Agzy-denton Emergissy."

  Laura understood now. “Which way?"

  "Left out of the yard and straight up the lane till you reach the A36. You'll pick up the horse piddle signs when you get close to the city."

  "Can you call them and say I'm on the way with a man having convulsions?"

  "After I've seen to the cow."

  Laura swung the Land Rover towards the gate, scattering the dogs, and started up the lane. “Don't worry,” she said to Melchior, or Douglas, “you'll be getting help very soon.” The only response was a vomiting sound.

  "Please! Not in the Land Rover,” she muttered.

  She was forced to concentrate on the drive, trusting in the Lord that she wouldn't meet anything as she belted along the lane. Passing points seemed to be unknown in this part of Wiltshire. The beam picked out the scampering shape of a badger up ahead. It saved itself by veering off to the left.

  Then she spotted headlights descending a hill and guessed she was close to the main road. Right or left? She'd have to make a guess. Her instinct said right.

  Forced to stop at the intersection, she glanced at her passenger. His face was still twitching and looked a dreadful colour in the passing lights. This was much more serious than overindulgence in mulled wine.

  Now was when she could do with an emergency light and siren. Out on the A36, with a long run into Bath—and a sign told her she had taken the right direction—she was overtaking like some teenage joyrider in a stolen Merc. Other drivers flashed their lights at her and one idiot got competitive and tried to force her to stay in the wrong lane. But there came a point when she was high on the downs and the city lights appeared below her. At any other time she would have been enchanted by the view. All she could think was, where is the hospital?

  At the first traffic lights she wound down the window and asked. Of course it had to be on the opposite side of the city. Another hair-raising burn-up through the streets and she found seriously helpful signs at last.

  A&E. She drew up behind an ambulance. Someone was rolling a stretcher on wheels towards the Land Rover. The farmer's wife must have alerted them. The passenger door was opened.

  "Is this the man with convulsions?"

  Laura took this to be one of those inane questions people ask in times of crisis. Of course he had convulsions. He'd been convulsing all the way to the hospital.

  But when she turned to look at him, he'd gone still.

  They checked his heart. The doctor shook his head. They unstrapped Melchior and transferred him to the stretcher and raced it inside.

  Nothing had been said to Laura. She could only conclude that she'd brought in a man who was dead. Maybe they'd revive him. She moved the Land Rover away from the entrance and went in to find out.

  * * * *

  She was twenty minutes late collecting Rosemary. It was such a relief to see her.

  "I'm so sorry."

  "My dear, you look drained. Whatever has happened?"

  Rosemary insisted on taking the wheel and Laura told her story as they headed out of the city.

  "So couldn't they revive him?” Rosemary said.

  "What's the phrase? Dead on arrival. They worked on him, but it was no use."

  "What was it—heart?"

  "No one would say. They'll do an autopsy, I suppose. I told them all I could. It seemed to happen very suddenly. He said he felt dizzy and asked to sit down. I thought it was the mulled wine, but it turned out he hadn't had a drop all evening. He's TT. Then he fell asleep, a really deep sleep. I got him into the car—I don't know how—he was pretty far gone—and his wife noticed the convulsions, which was when I knew he needed medical help."

  "Dizziness, anaesthesia, and convulsions. Was he vomiting?"

  "Trying to, anyway."

  "It sounds more like poisoning to me,” Rosemary said.

  "Poisoning?"

  "Did he eat anything?"

  "One of the mince pies I handed out. That's all."

  "That's all right, then,” Rosemary said. “No problem with that, if you were the cook."

  Laura clapped her hand to her mouth.

  Rosemary said, “What's wrong?"

  "I did something dreadful. I may have killed him."

  "Hold on.” Rosemary pulled into a layby and turned off the engine. “Laura, get a grip and tell me just what you're talking about."

  Laura's voice shook as she explained what she had done with Gertrude Appleton's pies. “If there was anything in them I'll never forgive myself."

  From a distant field came the triple bark of a dog-fox, answered by a vixen sounding eerily like a woman screaming. Rosemary shivered. “We'll face this together."

  It was close to midnight when they drove up the lane to The Withers. Christmas morning, almost.

  In an effort to lighten the mood, Rosemary said, “If you look in that bag at your feet you'll find I packed a bottle of bubbly. Let's open it as soon as we get in, shall we?"

  "You're a star,” Laura said. “Some Christmas cheer in spite of everything.” But her voice trailed away.

  A police car was on the drive.

  "Is one of you ladies Mrs. Laura Thyme?” the officer asked. “You're about to see in Christmas at the police station."

  * * * *

  2.

  It was the day after Boxing Day, and still Laura was troubled by guilt.

  "What upset me most was the way that detective put his hand on my head and pressed down when I got in their car, just like they do with murderers."

  "That didn't mean a thing,” Rosemary said.

  "Well, he didn't do it to you.” Laura's voice shook a little. “Is it possible those pies were poisoned?"

  "Possible, I suppose."

  "Think of what goes into mincemeat—all those rich flavours, the fruits, the spice, the peel. You could add almost any poison and it wouldn't be obvious."

  "If they were poisoned, we've still got eleven of them sitting in the fridge."

  "Ten. I handed the singers a plate with eleven and ten came back. The farmer took one and ate it. That's certain."

  "There are eleven in the fridge. I counted,” Rosemary said in her precise way.

  Laura snapped her fingers. “You're right. I kept one back for Gertrude, the neighbour. She asked specially."

  "Gertrude,” said Rosemary. “She's the one the police should be questioning. I wonder if she'd eat that pie if you offered it. She wouldn't know it's one of hers with a new lid."

  "I don't want another death on my hands."

  "This is all supposition anyway,” Rosemary said. “We'll probably find the poor man died of natural causes."

  "Listen, if Gertrude is a poisoner, those pies were meant for my friends Jane, Michael, and Maeve. Was she in dispute with them? You know what neighbours can be like."

  "Neighbourly, in most cases."

  "What could she have used?"

  "You said she's a gardener. You and I know that a garden is full of plants capable of poisoning people."

  "Christmas roses!” Laura said. “We've got some in the front."

  "Let's not leap to any conclusions,” Rosemary said, trying to remain calm. “Besides, your carol singers had been round most of the village eating mince pies and drinking wine before they got to you. If he was poisoned, it could have been someone else's pie that did it."

  Laura refused to think of anyone else except Gertrude as responsible. “I'd dearly like to know if she was having a feud with Jane and family."

  "Why don't we ask someone?"

  "In a village? Who do you ask?"

  "The vicar. He ought to be discreet."

  The v
icarage was ten minutes away, at the end of a footpath across the frost-covered fields. If nothing else, they'd be exercising Wilbur the greyhound. With difficulty they got him into his coat.

  They passed Gertrude's garden on the way. Laura grabbed Rosemary's arm. “Look, she's got a patch of Christmas roses."

  "She's also got white bryony in her hedge and a poinsettia in her window, both of them potential killers, but it doesn't make her a murderer,” Rosemary said to curb Laura's imagination. “She may have mistletoe inside the house. Death cap toadstools growing in her compost. I see she has a greenhouse. There could be an oleander in there."

  But Laura was unstoppable. “I didn't tell you about the greenhouse. She told me she was fumigating it for pests, and I don't know what she was using, but it sounded primitive, and hazardous as well. Would you believe burning shreds of paper that she had to stamp on to produce the smoke?"

  Rosemary winced. “Out of the ark, by the sound of it. Well, out of some dark shed. Old gardeners used flakes of nicotine. Highly dangerous, of course, and illegal now. What's wrong with a spray?"

  Laura tapped the side of her nose. “Chemicals."

  "Fumes are eco-friendly, are they? Isn't that the vicarage ahead?"

  They shouted to Wilbur, who must have scented fox or rabbit. He raced back, tail going like a mainspring, and got no reward for obedience. He was put on the lead and no doubt decided it's a dog's life.

  The vicarage was surrounded by a ten-foot yew hedge that Rosemary mentioned was another source of deadly poison. Laura gave her a long look. “You wouldn't be winding me up, would you?"

  She smiled. “Encouraging a sense of proportion."

  The vicar, in a Bath Rugby Club sweatshirt, was relaxing after his Christmas duties. He sounded genuinely disturbed about the death of Melchior, and guilt-stricken, also. “If I'd had any idea he was so ill, I wouldn't have asked you to take him in,” he said to Laura. “You acted splendidly, getting him to hospital."

  "I couldn't tell the police much about him,” Laura said. “Didn't even know his surname."

  "Boon. Douglas Boon. His family have farmed here for generations. Blackberry Farm is the last of the old farms. I suppose his wife inherits. There aren't any children. She'll have to sell up, I should think."