The Poison Cupboard

by John Burke

  Charlotte came in a few minutes before seven o’clock.

  Chapter Nine

  She stood outside the familiar doors and tried to pluck up the courage to enter. Or, rather, not so much the courage as the inclination. She was listless. To do anything whatever called for more effort than she was capable of. She felt drawn towards the comfort of the saloon bar in which she had talked and laughed so often; but at the same time she felt that it would solve nothing, offer no consolation.

  Charlotte went slowly past the door and walked fifty yards down the road.

  She was a foreigner here now. Once you had taken up your roots from London, the hard streets closed over the place where you had been. Her friends, she sensed, had been vaguely embarrassed by her. To drop out of a circle such as she had known was to lose all contact: coming back, you found that the topics of conversation had changed, the friends had made new friends, and the old ease of companionship had gone.

  That freedom which she had associated with life in London was a terrifying freedom. Nobody cared, nobody remained faithful. Freedom here was loneliness.

  She had very little money left. She had started out with little, and would not have managed to survive even this long without her friends. Friends who were no longer friends.

  That job she had meant to get . . . She had done nothing about it. Her job was being Peter’s wife. She was good at that. She was good at nothing else.

  Charlotte went another ten paces to a road junction, and looked down to her left. Down there by the traffic lights was another pub. It was completely alien. She could not go in there. There were so few places she could go. To eat in the places where she had eaten with Peter, or to go to the cinemas they had frequented, was to spend money. When the money was spent and the time used up, there was still no end: still there would be tomorrow and the next day, and so many more days until Peter came out and gave her a purpose in life. When Peter was there, looking after her yet dependent on her, she could deal with things: she was not afraid.

  She turned and went back to the Malt Shovel, and went into the saloon bar, not seeing anyone until she was right inside and close to the bar.

  Then she saw Laura.

  Laura said: ‘I wondered if you would come.’

  The door was a long way behind. To turn and run into the street was just possible. Only just. No; not possible at all.

  Suddenly she was overwhelmed by a feeling of relief. Laura was real. It was no good running away. Laura was the answer: Laura and Brookchurch and Mrs. Swanton were the answers to all the questions, as they had been once before.

  Charlotte approached her, looking into Laura’s eyes.

  ‘Will you have something to drink?’ asked Laura.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘We’ll have to hurry. The last train goes at eight.’

  ‘I shall have to get my things.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘At a friend’s,’ said Charlotte. ‘Not far from here.’

  ‘What will you have to drink, then?’

  ‘A gin and French, please.’

  ‘And then we must go,’ said Laura.

  ‘Yes.’

  She took up the glass that was set before her, and drank. Laura gazed at her. There was nothing in her face to show what she was feeling; yet Charlotte’s instinctive relief at seeing her began to ebb. She did not want to go back to Brookchurch. And yet . . .

  ‘Are you ready?’ said Laura.

  There was some gin left in the glass. Charlotte sipped it, reluctant to finish and then have to begin the journey back to that house on the marsh.

  From the corner there was a warm, soothing buzz of voices. She recognised one of the artists who used to sit with her and Peter and curse the Royal Academy at the top of his voice.

  He caught her eye, grinned, and looked quickly away.

  Help, she absurdly thought at him. Do please help me. Don’t let this woman take me away. She’s a witch. I shan’t live to see Peter ever again.

  Please, please do something. Don’t let me walk out of this place.

  She whispered: ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d be far from here,’ said Laura. ‘I came up this morning —’

  ‘This morning?’

  It had taken only a day to find her. Laura was a witch.

  I must be drunk, thought Charlotte. No, I’m not. I wish I were drunk.

  Laura’s eyes did not waver. She continued to look at Charlotte with complete certainty. Laura knew everything there was to know. She always knew what to do.

  ‘We must be off,’ said Laura.

  ‘Yes,’ said Charlotte.

  She finished her drink. The men in the corner did not look up as the two women went out.

  ‘This friend of yours,’ said Laura in the bleak indifference of the street: ‘where does she live?’

  Charlotte said: ‘Over there and along on the right-hand side.’ And she added: ‘It’s not a she. It’s a man.’

  ‘I see,’ said Laura.

  ‘No. No, you don’t see. You’re quite wrong. Nothing like that at all. Just somebody we used to know — Peter and I — an awfully kind man, and I’ve been such a nuisance to him.’

  In the train she was still protesting in fits and starts. There was no reason why she should make excuses to Laura; but those accusing eyes drew explanations from her, as though it were essential to save herself . . .

  She put her hand over her eyes, pressing against her brow. She squeezed hard, trying to squeeze her thoughts into silence and to stop worrying.

  ‘Headache?’ said Laura.

  ‘Yes.’

  Laura patted her pockets, then looked in her handbag.

  ‘Here. Take three of these. They’re only the usual mild things, but they’ll help.’

  ‘I haven’t got a drink of water.’

  ‘Chew them,’ said Laura, sounding her usual self. ‘They go down just as well that way.’

  Charlotte bit into the first, and made a face. Then she put the other two into her mouth and crunched them up. Bitterness seemed to dry up her tongue and pull in the roof of her mouth.

  ‘How awful,’ she said.

  They were alone in the compartment. Evening sunshine lay along the roofs of houses and plunged into the wells of blocks of flats. A cinema neon sign shone palely in the distance. Streets swooped at intervals under railway bridges, and Charlotte looked down on buses that quivered and were gone.

  She said: ‘This man I’ve been with —’

  ‘There’s no need to tell me about it,’ said Laura. ‘It doesn’t make any difference.’

  ‘But it does. You’ve got the wrong idea altogether.’

  Station platforms streamed loudly past. An electric train moved away on a parallel line, swung gently in, and came sneaking up outside the window.

  ‘You see,’ said Charlotte, desperate and truthful, ‘he’s . . . well, he’s not interested in women. He’s . . . one of those. You know. But he’s so awfully kind. We always liked him.’

  ‘It doesn’t make any difference,’ said Laura again.

  ‘How can you say that, Laura? I mean, I was only staying there until I found something to do.’

  The electric train drew level with them, and then fell away again as another suburban station claimed its attention.

  Laura was staring out of the window. She had chosen a seat with her back to the engine, and so was able to watch the lunges and recessions of the rival train. She said:

  ‘What sort of thing were you looking for? What sort of job?’

  ‘I hadn’t really thought. I was waiting to see what was best.’

  ‘This is best,’ said Laura.

  They plunged into a short tunnel, and when they emerged there was a low green embankment on each side, with only an occasional roof or chimney visible over it, through clustering trees.

  Laura leaned forward and put her hand on the catch of the outer door. Not far behind, the electric train let out its throaty hoot.r />
  The train they were on was slowing slightly.

  Charlotte said: ‘Don’t fiddle with the door, Laura.’ She felt drowsy. Her headache was gone, or going. As it went, tiredness closed gently down on her. ‘The door’s all right,’ she muttered. ‘I know. I tested it when I got in — didn’t you notice? I always do try doors.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I’ve always had a silly fear of leaning on a door, or falling against it, and being thrown out.’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘Often had dreams about it,’ said Charlotte sluggishly.

  Laura’s hand was still on the door, but she was looking up at Charlotte. Her eyes were wide. Once, and once only, she made an abrupt movement with her head: she glanced from Charlotte to the door and back again, as though measuring the distance.

  Charlotte felt the dream fear suddenly upon her. She saw the familiar vision of the open door and felt herself being sucked out. That was one of the recurrent dreams: being pulled down from a tower, toppling from a bridge, or being drawn out of a railway carriage door.

  ‘Oh, everybody dreams that sort of thing,’ Peter had easily said. ‘With me, it’s falling under tube trains.’

  Everybody dreamed that sort of thing. But not everybody had it become real before their eyes. Not everybody saw the door actually beginning to open — just an inch, so that cold air came streaming into the compartment.

  She said: ‘No, Laura. Laura, you can’t.’

  ‘Can’t what?’ said Laura blandly.

  The sound of the electric train crept up once more, a high steady whining that pierced through the drumming of their own train.

  ‘Laura . . .’

  Charlotte stood up. The train lurched, and she swayed to and fro for a moment, dizzy, feeling the draught striking up at her face, seeing Laura leaning towards her.

  Then the corridor door slid back suddenly, and the inspector said:

  ‘Tickets, please.’

  Laura drew the door shut with a bang, and sank back into her seat.

  ‘That was a near thing,’ she said breathlessly.

  ‘Having trouble, madam?’

  Laura said: ‘The door started to come open. I got to it only just in time.’

  Charlotte staggered towards the corridor side of the compartment, and sank into the corner seat. The inspector went over to the door and tested it.

  ‘Seems all right now. Lucky you spotted it.’

  He checked their tickets and then went out. The corridor door slid shut. On the other side, the electric train loomed up once more, with passengers peering curiously from their world into this one. For a few seconds the two speeds matched, and between the trains there was apparent stillness. Then the green coaches abruptly swung away down another line.

  Charlotte could not look at Laura. She could not speak. She wondered if she could summon up the strength to get up and find another compartment — one with other people in it. But even now, even after what had almost happened, knowing what Laura had planned, she felt powerless. It was useless struggling now. She felt drugged, poisoned, robbed of all strength to resist.

  The train slowed.

  They could not sit here silently like this for the rest of the journey. One of them must speak.

  A station platform slid gently in beside them. Doors opened and were slammed shut. The corridor door opened, and a middle-aged couple came in. They began to chatter as soon as they were seated, and to the sound of their voices Charlotte dozed off.

  Chapter Ten

  The telephone tinkled faintly, and then began to ring. It clamoured insistently on both floors, in the consulting-room downstairs and by Doctor Swanton’s bedside.

  Gil was alone in the house. Doctor Swanton was out visiting a patient, her mother was out shopping, and the other Mrs. Swanton . . . Charlotte . . . well, she was out somewhere too. She had been complaining of not feeling well. Yesterday, Bank Holiday, she had looked pale. Perhaps she had gone out for a walk to make herself feel better. He did not know. He did not let himself want to know.

  He went along the landing from his room, and down the stairs. It would not have occurred to him to go to the extension in Doctor Swanton’s room.

  The rings seemed to get louder and more urgent, and he skidded across the room in order to put an end to the summons.

  He said: ‘Hello.’

  There was a pause, then a doubtful voice said: ‘Is that Doctor Swanton’s?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Is the doctor there?’

  ‘No. She’s out. She’s gone out to see someone.’

  ‘When will she be back?’ The voice had become harsh and peremptory.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Then he remembered the instructions he had been given. He said: ‘Can I take a message?’

  ‘I’d sooner . . .’ Again a pause, and a sudden laugh that Gil didn’t like. ‘Yes, I suppose you could. You can tell her she must come over to Legacy right away. Right away, do you hear?’

  ‘Legacy?’ said Gil. ‘But I’m sure — I mean, she doesn’t have any patients over there. Not that far. Does she?’ he added dubiously, not sure whether or not he had overstepped his authority. Laura had told him to choke people off if it were not really urgent, but there were still lots of things she had not made clear to him. ‘Is it urgent?’ he dutifully remembered.

  ‘Yes. Very urgent. Tell her’ — what was she laughing for, what was the joke? — ‘it’s . . . Mrs. Swanton. Yes, tell her that. Mrs. Swanton, at the Royal Oak in Legacy.’

  ‘You mean something’s happened to her mother — or to . . .’ He faltered for a moment, unable to say ‘Charlotte’ even to himself, struggling towards ‘Mrs. Charlotte Swanton’.

  Before he could finish, the hard voice said: ‘Not her mother. Just tell her it’s Mrs. Swanton, and she’d better hurry. She’d better get here quick.’

  There was a click in the receiver, and then the purring sound that marked the end of a conversation. Gil replaced the receiver, and sat down at the desk. He reached for a pencil and put down the message, then studied it. That was the message he had got: he had made no mistake; but what did it all mean?

  Something odd had happened a week ago, he knew that. After Mrs. Swanton’s absence — the young Mrs. Swanton — there had been something funny in the air. Doctor Swanton had been up to town to fetch her, and everything was queerer than it had been before: there was something awful in the way the two of them walked round one another, treading carefully, not looking at each other and yet being terribly awake.

  He did not know what had happened in London. He did not know what had happened now. Charlotte (the name slipped into his consciousness) was up to something. He thought of that man he had seen her with, and tried to push away any idea of what might be going on.

  He walked in and out of the different rooms, and stood by the front door for a while, watching for some sign of Doctor Swanton’s car returning. She had been gone for ages. There might be something seriously the matter with that Mrs. Swanton. Serve her right if there was — something dreadful, something to do with her being a woman and especially that sort of woman — but she ought not to be kept waiting like this. He wanted to deliver his message and be rid of it.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘She said it was about Mrs. Swanton.’

  ‘Mother?’ said Laura, one foot out of the car and on the ground.

  ‘No. Just that it was Mrs. Swanton, and she didn’t mean your mother. And you’d better get there quick.’

  Laura felt a surge of hope that was somehow tinged with frustration. If Charlotte had had an accident, it would remove all risk to herself . . . but she was not sure that the risk mattered so greatly: she wanted to be the one who removed Charlotte, wanted to be responsible for her death. A tame, convenient ending now would give her the feeling that she had been cheated.

  She said: ‘Who made the call?’

  ‘I don’t know. She didn’t say who she was. She sounded queer.’

  Laura rested her weigh
t on the hand that was on the door. She could get out and go indoors and telephone the Royal Oak. Or she could take in Legacy anyway on the extremity of her own territory: she really owed old Mrs. Neeves on the sluice road a visit, and it would not be too far round.

  Gilbert said: ‘She sounded as if she was in a hurry. Impatient, like.’

  ‘Oh, all right.’

  She drove fast. She visualised Charlotte run over, dying, maimed . . . or ill in some other, more mysterious way.

  Or not ill at all. Up to one of her tricks again. Running away, striking out on some fresh stupidity.

  But why the summons? Laura could hardly imagine that Charlotte wanted them to have a little heart-to-heart chat before bidding her farewell.

  She slewed the car dangerously above Black Waterings, and then picked up speed along the straight stretch below Jury. The town swung slowly to her right, and the hump of Legacy appeared ahead, a hazed silhouette.

  Ten minutes more, and Laura was drawing up outside the bulging frontage of the Royal Oak. It was not the best hotel in the town: it sagged over the narrow pavement like a bloated old man on the verge of collapse. The large, low window of the public bar was a hideous frosted green, and the narrow door into the hotel proper no longer fitted its frame.

  Just the sort of place Charlotte would choose to meet some man, thought Laura. A place for squalid, furtive pleasure — if pleasure was the word.

  She went in. There was a smell of old carpets and upholstery. She crossed the nondescript space that was neither hall nor lounge, and was going towards the small glass-fronted cubby-hole when a woman came out of the door beside it and intercepted her.

  She said: ‘So you got here.’

  ‘It was you who sent for me?’ said Laura. ‘I’m Doctor Swanton.’

  ‘That’s right. It was me.’

  ‘Where is Mrs. Swanton?’

  She did not know what reply to expect. Perhaps the news that Charlotte was lying dead drunk in one of the bedrooms, or in the bar.

  The woman giggled. ‘Mrs. Swanton,’ she said. ‘Yes, I thought that ’ud fetch you.’