“Something to do with Carla Sanders, Margot tells me.”
“Her death, certainly.”
“I was extremely sorry to hear about that. She was here, you know, at the party you couldn’t come to, only a few days before she died. But I hadn’t heard that there was any foul play suspected. Connected with her death, I mean. The newspapers suggested it was some galloping disease she contracted.”
“It was, Hugh. But the nature of the disease and its virulence suggested to the pathologists that it had been cultured.”
“For felonious purposes?”
Masters nodded. “Probably.”
“And then fed to Sanders?” Carlyle guffawed. “Nonsense, old boy. I just don’t believe it.”
“In that case, sir,” said Tip, “could you suggest how and where she might have picked up such a very dangerous bug?”
“Which bug was it?” asked Carlyle.
“Icterohaemorrhagiae,” replied Tip, pronouncing the name of the sero group with great care, as though she had been practising it, syllable by syllable, in front of her dressing table mirror.
Carlyle laughed again. “How do you spell that mouthful?”
“If you would really like to know, sir, I could print it out for you.”
“I’ll bet you could. But no, thank you. The pronunciation was enough for me.” He became serious. “When did she get this disease, George?”
“That is what we are trying to establish.”
“But can’t the quacks tell you?”
“Not precisely. You see, Hugh, when it starts to manifest itself in the human body, it masquerades as flu and, in some cases, I believe, as even less severe illnesses than that.”
“Meaning that diagnosis is difficult?”
“Very difficult. And as the average practitioner is unlikely ever to meet the disease, when he’s called to a patient exhibiting all the signs of flu he treats it as flu.”
“Until it is too late, I suppose.”
“In the virulent cases, yes. By the time Miss Sanders’ doctor had begun to realise he was faced with something other than summer flu, and had taken a blood sample for the path lab to test, it was too late. The blood went off to the hospital, but path labs don’t usually operate on Sunday afternoons, and when they are testing, they quite rightly take their tests in order—both those from inside the hospital and those from outside. Normally, any delay this causes doesn’t matter so much that it becomes a case of life or death, but on the very, very rare occasions when something like this crops up, the system can fail the community.”
“It oughtn’t to,” said Carlyle.
“It doesn’t if the doctor presenting the blood for testing can be sure enough of himself and his diagnosis to take it into the lab himself and express his opinions and fears as to what it might be. But crying wolf over some fairly esoteric bug can’t be to their liking, especially as, if they do guess correctly, it means they know enough about the disease to realise that in moderate cases the febrile stage lasts for about five days. So there would be no need for indecent haste in an already busy path lab. In Sanders’ case this was cut to something less than forty-eight hours and—to quote the postmortem report—features of tubular necrosis appeared immediately thereafter.”
“I can see why the GP was fooled. He treated for flu and then this second stage struck when he wasn’t expecting it. Am I right?”
“Quite right, Hugh. We want to stop it happening again.”
“But why you and not the DHSS?”
“The DHSS will cope with it when found.”
“I see. They’re not quite as good at running things to earth as you people?”
“Roughly right,” grunted Green. “We also want to know there was nothing fishy about the way the girl got this Weil’s disease.”
“You mean why only she got it while nobody else in the country has been reported to have had it?”
“Seeing it’s what might be called an epidemic disease, yes. Not that it is passed on like colds, flu, measles and the like, but bugs such as this one can’t be isolated completely.”
“I get your drift. They live and move and have their being, as the saying has it. So there must be at least a colony of them somewhere and, having at times heard how such things can multiply, there could well be millions of the little blighters sculling around somewhere at this moment.”
Masters nodded. “Quite right. We are trying to locate that particular somewhere.”
Carlyle rested his hands on the arms of his wheelchair. “But why come to me, George? If the plague spot were here, wouldn’t we all have croaked by now? Seeing the species is so virulent?”
“You are probably right, Hugh. I hope you are, but we have to trace back over every minute of Sanders’ time during the last few days of her life. As you know, she fell and damaged her leg in the theatre on the opening night of Round the Barley. That was the Thursday. She was inspected by a doctor at the theatre and, except for the abrasion, was given a completely clean bill of health. We are assuming that the doctor found no rise in temperature or any other indications that Sanders had flu or anything like it. I think the style and facility of her acting that night bears out our assumption that she was totally fit at that time. To support that belief there is not only the assertion of her flatmate, Howard Collier, that she was completely well at the time, but also the word of her own doctor, who gave her a thorough medical inspection on the Friday morning and found nothing wrong.”
“So that’s your starting point, is it? Friday morning?”
“Not quite. The two sergeants have been taking an interest in the theatre itself, lest she could have contracted something backstage on the opening night. They have been looking for all sorts of wildlife there, and although they’ve run rats and mice and such like to earth, so far they have all been found free of the feral leptospirae we are looking for.”
“It’s from animals that the bug is caught?”
Masters grimaced. “It thrives among the smaller mammals, I believe.”
“But no luck at the theatre, you say.”
“None whatsoever, but that was only one of the lines of investigation. I was never too sanguine about it, because if the leptospirae were rampant at the Victory some other person could be expected to have fallen foul of it by now. But as I’ve said, we are looking at everything. And that includes everywhere she’s been since the time when she was declared fit by two doctors who examined her after her fall.”
“So that’s why you are here. She came to the party on the Saturday night.”
“That’s it. We’d like to know what went on, who was here and so on.”
Carlyle laughed. “She and some of the other youngsters were getting a bit boisterous.”
“Drink?” asked Green, sapiently.
“I should say that was the main cause, but you know what youngsters are like, sometimes. They can get merry on strong doses of their own company. Booze is only the catalyst. And when young men of twenty or not much more have a raver like Carla Sanders in their midst they are liable to go a bit goggle-eyed without the help of drink. When they have had one or two they start showing off. You know the score. They begin to talk too much and too loud and indulge in a little horseplay. Nothing serious. They poke fun at each other, lean on each others’ shoulders in mock seriousness or despair, pull shirttails out and so on.”
“Nothing more than that went on?” asked Masters.
“I watched it,” growled Carlyle. “I was shunting myself around in this tank pretty well all the time.” He grinned. “As a host should,” he added.
“But the Sanders girl went into the water as a result of these relatively mild high jinks?”
“Yes.”
“But it is difficult to see why, if the boisterous element was not more rowdy than you say it was.”
“I assure you, George, that girl’s descent into the pool came as a big surprise not only to me, but to everyone present.”
“Which suggests,” growled Green, “that
she was helped into the water.”
“Helped, perhaps, but inadvertently in my opinion.”
“She was on the edge of the pool?”
“On the surround, certainly. At its narrowest part. The ramp for my chair goes down just there—from the French window of the room in which the drink was laid out. The young congregated just there, I presume, in order to be in close touch with the bar.”
“Strategically placed?”
“That’s about the size of it. And when Sanders arrived, Margot brought her out through that room, naturally, and introduced her to the first young people available. That was the gang near the ramp. They monopolised her, and as far as I know she never left them. The young chaps danced attendance on her, but I think the other girls soon wandered away in the face of the mammary competition.”
“I get the scene,” said Green. “A big twin endowment policy, a thin blouse and no bra.”
“That about sums it up. It was a warm night, after all.”
“I’ll bet!”
Masters intervened. “Was it still daylight when she went in?”
“No, after dark. But we had fairy-lights round the pool and the spill of light from the bar room made the area where the incident took place as light as day. But it’s funny you should mention lights. Earlier on the fairy-lights went out, and I never did discover why. Not that I asked, because I forgot all about it after they were put right, but I know I was surprised, because nothing else in the house was on that circuit.”
“The fuse in the plug top, sir,” said Berger. “Probably had a three amp instead of a thirteen in it.”
“I suppose that was it,” agreed Carlyle. “Anyhow, Tom Chesterton, a young man who came with my daughter to the party, fixed it in no time at all. I suppose that’s why I forgot about it.”
“And it was not during that period that Miss Sanders took to the water?”
“No, no. Her bath was much later. As I recall it, one of the women who does for us, Mrs. Hookham, was collecting dirty crockery and glasses. It was after supper you see.”
“Hang on,” grunted Green. “Supper was a moveable feast, was it? Smally eats round the pool? That sort of thing?”
“Exactly. There were two long tables laid out for the food—one at each end of the pool. But there were the usual bits of garden furniture about—tables, benches and chairs—and people just used them for depositing their empties instead of returning them to the tables. Freda, the girl you saw when you came in, is Mrs. H.’s assistant. She was washing up while Mrs. H. collected the debris. It was when Mrs. H. was trying to get past the group with Sanders in it … ”
“The narrow bit?”
“Yes. She’d got a big, heavily laden tray and I think she must have thought it would be best to bring her load in up the ramp rather than go round the side of the house to the door of the kitchen quarters.”
“That seems logical. To take the shorter way with a heavy load.”
“Margot and I have great respect and affection for Mrs. H., and we know it’s reciprocated. But she’s a far from cultured woman, if I can put it that way.”
“Meaning?”
“She wouldn’t dream of asking those kids to get out of her way. She might demand it or alternatively elbow her way through without a word. A large heavily laden tray is quite a battering ram.”
“You mean you think she pushed Sanders in?”
“No. But I think she nudged somebody pretty heavily, and the natural reaction to a good hefty shove is a stumble forward or a sudden turn to face the attack. Whatever happens, it becomes a dangerous manoeuvre in the circumstances we are talking about. A narrow path by a pool, a group of merry young people, an injudicious push with a tray, they all add up to disaster. At any rate, Sanders went in, probably because the sprained ankle made her unsure on her pins and the balance of her body was disturbed.” He laughed aloud. “Sorry about that, but it just slipped in as, indeed, did the load on Mrs. H.’s tray. Whatever the movement in that group was, it decanted not only Carla Sanders in the pool, but quite a large number of mucky plates, glasses and so on.”
“Close to Miss Sanders?” asked Tip quietly. “Did any of it hit her, sir? To break and cut her, I mean.”
“No. She came out unharmed except for the odd strip of lettuce and glacé cherries dotted about her anatomy.”
“Then what, Hugh?” asked Masters.
“Margot took charge. She whistled Sanders upstairs, shoved her under a shower, presented her with a hair drier, and then asked Rosemary to supply some dry clothes. The only thing Rosemary had which would fit Sanders’ upperworks was what I believe is called a Sloppy Joe sweater. But she was clothed somehow and sent off home with a plastic bag full of wet togs.”
At that moment the door of the sitting room opened and Margot came in. She was still dressed in her gardening outfit of rather washed-out blue slacks, a white open-necked shirt and linen sun hat. She had obviously kicked her shoes off at the back door, because she came in in her sock feet. As the men got to their feet she said: “Hello, George. Is this your famous team? I’ve been looking forward to meeting them.”
As they sat down again, she with them, Margot said: “Freda will be bringing in the trolley in a moment, but please don’t let me interrupt your discussion.”
“I’d just told them how you togged out Carla Sanders, Mags. After her involuntary bath.”
Masters asked, “How did Miss Sanders get home?”
“I sent her with two young people who were at the party. The boy drove, because he is a teetotaller and so had taken nothing stronger than orange juice. The girlie who went along—I’d thought it best to provide the young man with company for the drive back … ”
“And protection on the way up,” interjected Hugh with a laugh. “Even after a cold bath Sanders would have been capable of mischief with a defenceless young man. Even a teetotaller.”
Margot smiled. “There was a little of that sort of reasoning behind my arrangements. I was sorry for having to send the young couple off, but I must say they made excellent time. They were back here before the last of the youngsters and a couple of Hugh’s heavier whisky-drinking friends had gone home.”
Freda brought the tea trolley in and Margot began to pour, helped by Tip who handed round. Masters was anxious that teatime should not become a break. He said to Carlyle: “Apart from the results of the unintended dip, I take it that Sanders was completely well when she left here.”
“Ask Margot. I said goodnight to her, but other than that had no part in the affair.”
“She was perfectly well,” said Margot from across the room. “Distinctly miffed at having to make so undignified an exit, of course, but otherwise completely fit as far as I could make out. I offered to rebandage her leg for her because I thought a wet dressing could be uncomfortable, but she refused to let me do it, and I didn’t pursue the offer because I thought that the wet bandage on the ankle would not be too bad a thing. Cold compresses are good treatment, I believe.”
Masters nodded. “And the rest of the household, since then? You’ve all been in good health?”
“Perfectly fit,” said Carlyle. “There were six of us in the house at the time. Margot and myself; Rosemary and her friend, Tom Chesterton; and Mrs. H. and Freda. Freda sleeps in, Mrs. H. lives down in the village with her old man, but she’s been in every day since then, hasn’t she, Mags?”
Margot sat down. “I think so. Yes, she’s been perfectly fit. Her husband was off-colour one day, I think she said, but nothing serious enough to keep her at home to look after him.” She looked round. “More tea, anybody?”
After that the talk became general for a few more minutes and then Wanda arrived with Michael and Doris. While the Carlyles and the Masters discussed Housmans and a firm commitment to buy was given by Masters, Green and the two sergeants wandered out into the garden to look at the pool. Doris took Michael into the main part of the garden. After a few minutes Masters came out to join his colleagues, explaining that Margo
t and Wanda were discussing local curtain-making firms.
“Just one thing, George,” said Green. “Do I understand Carlyle bathes here every day?”
“Without fail if the weather permits. Otherwise he has an exercise bath indoors.”
“That Saturday night was warm enough for the party to be held out here.”
“Yes.”
“So was the Sunday warm, too?”
“It was a beautiful day,” said Tip. “I remember it well. Sergeant Berger and I went to Rye, and that’s not far from here.”
“Thanks, lass. So what happened about Carlyle’s bath that morning?”
“How do you mean?” asked Berger.
“Did he go in with half a ton of broken glass in the bottom and gobs of cream floating on the top? To say nothing of strands of mustard and cress and the stringy ends of sucked asparagus?”
“I see what you mean,” said Berger.
“Thanks, Bill,” said Masters quietly. He turned to Berger. “You and Tip go round to the kitchen and ask the maid, Freda, what happened about the pool on the Sunday. Hide it in among inconsequential chatter.”
“And help with the washing up,” added Green. “We’ll wait here.”
By the time the two sergeants returned, Hugh, Margot and Wanda had joined them. Doris and Michael were still in the main part of the garden looking at the fish in the ornamental pool. Berger gave Masters a lift of the eyebrows, but said nothing. Tip, however, turned to Margot and said: “Freda has been showing us your kitchen, Mrs. Carlyle. I hope you don’t mind, but it is so marvellous.”
“Of course I don’t mind, Sergeant.”
“It was the units that intrigued me. So perfect.”
“They were tailor-made. Hugh has his own craftsmen, you see.”
“Ah! I thought they didn’t come from a DIY shop.”
Carlyle, who had heard this, laughed aloud. “That’s exactly where they did come from, old girl. My place is a sort of DIY shop, but we actually do it, not just sell the materials.”
When they were once more in the cars and heading for London, Masters said, “I interpreted your glance, Sergeant Berger, and Tip’s follow-up conversation about kitchen units, as meaning you had discovered something significant during your conversation with Freda. What was it?”
Bitter Water Page 14
