An Unholy Whiff of Death

by Joyce Cato

  Apart from all the hush-hush projects and brainwork that went on in the inner sanctum, the facility also produced experimental fertilizers and other less glamorous things that were shipped out regularly for testing. And that had meant lorries. Lots of them.

  True, the mill had its own access road, but even so.

  ‘He bribed somebody on that board, I’d bet money on it!’ Sir Hugh, once again, found himself speaking out loud and walked restlessly back to the French windows.

  His gaze moved further across the gardens and through one of the side gates where he could just see glimpses of the water meadows that lay beyond. Every spring they came up in a profusion of colour: poppies, daises, pink campions, forget-me-nots, buttercups, and cornflowers. It had been a sight that had prompted many a trout-fisher to bring a camera with them the next time they came.

  But this year, there’d been no fishermen.

  Last winter, Sir Hugh had been appalled to find his fish going belly-up all over the place. And not just his precious trout, either. The river’s other inhabitants, fish like perch, roach, dace, and rudd, were also floating to the surface. It had been a stunning, ecological disaster, and had killed Sir Hugh’s business stone dead.

  There had then started months of wrangling. He’d had the Environmental Agency out at once, of course, with their sample bottles and meters. They’d mentioned all sorts of things as possible sources of contamination; farmers, apparently, were responsible for more river pollution than anyone else. But as Sir Hugh told them (or rather, shouted at them) they’d find out that it was that damned lab that was to blame.

  And so it had turned out.

  The chemical that had devastated the life in the river had definitely been traced back to Ferris Labs. An accident, they said. A new employee had failed to observe protocols. Some kind of agent had been emptied into the usual sinks, not the lab’s own private system. This had led to it finding its way through the local sewer and drainage system and thus into the river.

  Unlike Melissa Ferris’s legal team down in London, however, Sir Hugh’s lawyers were much more optimistic about his chances of winning his case. In fact, they were almost guaranteeing it, so strong was the evidence. Typically, Ferris had tried to deny personal responsibility and had promptly hired a team of lawyers in a clear and blatant attempt to drag it out for years, hoping that Sir Hugh would either lose heart, die of old age, or eventually run out of money for legal fees.

  But there, and for once, Sir Hugh had the edge over him. He knew the local magistrate, the local MP, and many more people of influence besides who owed him favours. And this time, Ross Ferris didn’t find it so easy to get things his own way.

  Not that it was all plain sailing for Sir Hugh either. With the loss of his revenue, things were tight. Lawyers cost money. And if he wanted to re-stock, once the river was finally declared perfectly safe, he’d need capital again. No, for all the promise of compensation in the future, right now, Sir Hugh was on the verge of bankruptcy and he knew it. He only hoped that Ferris didn’t know it too. He wouldn’t put it past him to try and pull some kind of a fast one, even now.

  ‘Ah, but I’ve got a little something in the works that’ll spike you, Ferris,’ Sir Hugh muttered, his voice rich with satisfaction. And this time, he didn’t feel one whit ridiculous to find himself speaking the words out loud.

  As he thought of the upcoming flower show and all the rewards that he hoped it would bring him, he began to smile. Oh yes, he was looking forward to this particular fete and flower show more than he had any other.

  And not only because, at long last, he and Malvin had come up with the gladiolas that would finally make old Daphne part with that cup of hers. Oh no.

  Sir Hugh had hopes of something even better.

  If it all went to plan, that is.

  As Sir Hugh alternately gloated, fretted, scowled, and talked to himself in the library, outside in the garden, Malvin Cook checked on the cucumbers under the glass frames.

  Someone had sent him some apple cucumber seeds from Australia and he was growing them for the first time this year. They looked fat enough, but distressingly pale. Still, perhaps they were supposed to be that colour. He scratched his head and regarded the cucumbers with a slow, thoughtful, countryman’s patience.

  The same age as his employer, Malvin was barely five feet four in height, and was getting a pronounced stoop. His hands were gnarled and darkened from years of working the earth, and he wore filthy trousers and a loose (once white) shirt. His hair was pepper-and-salt, and stood up on his head in surprised spikes. His eyes were so deeply set and lost in folds of leathery skin that they were almost invisible, but glimpses showed them to be a fierce electric blue.

  He’d worked as one of the gardeners for Sir Hugh’s family man and boy, but now had the grounds to himself. He still did the work of five, even now. Retirement, long since a dream of his wife, Phyllis, wasn’t something that either Malvin or Sir Hugh had ever even contemplated. So, although it was fast approaching half past seven at night, and he’d been there since six that morning, Malvin was only just now thinking of going home.

  He lived but three minutes’ walk away, in a nice little cottage that went with the job, so he always went home for his main cooked meal at midday, but he looked forward to his supper best. Cheese and pickle. A bit of chicken and ham pie. Whatever his Phyllis had made, it always went down well with Malvin.

  But, recently, there was no pleasure to be had in going home. No pleasure in good food. No pleasure in Phyllis’s welcoming smile. The snuffle of his dog’s nose in fond greeting. Since his Brian had been killed, there was no pleasure in anything any more.

  And the life had gone out of Phyllis too, Malvin knew. Everyone had remarked on it. He sighed heavily.

  A lot of folk had laughed at his Brian, still living at home with his old mum and dad when he was already well into his forties and still unmarried. But it had suited the Cooks. They’d only been able to have the one child, and Brian had always been precious. And it had been a good life, just the three of them together. Brian was a big shambling lad, not at all like his father, but the apple of his eye, nonetheless. And he knew that Phyllis had always had it in the back of her mind that, if her husband went first, she’d still have Brian around, so there’d be no lonely old age for her.

  And then… .

  Malvin sighed, bending down to poke one of the apple cucumbers. Should he cut some? As one of the perks, he always got to try out the first of the fruit and veg, just to make sure that everything was ripe and ready for harvesting. It was a running joke here at the manor.

  Back in the early fifties, his job had been a godsend. Then, the odd leek, a few potatoes, a handful of tomatoes out of the greenhouse, had all added up to a genuine and welcome supplement to the family diet. Now, of course, he didn’t need to ‘secretly’ raid the kitchen garden. In point of fact, because of what had happened to his Brian, he now had more money in the bank than Sir Hugh. A lot more money, in fact.

  It was something that both men would have found deeply funny, if either of them had ever stopped to think about it seriously.

  But neither did.

  Now the old gardener carefully replaced the glass panes, did a final check to make sure that all the tools were put away clean in the sheds, and that no mess was visible. He’d been weeding the herbaceous borders that afternoon, and he deposited the last load on the compost heap. Then he wheeled his barrow into what had once been the old pigsty, shut the crudely made gate behind him, and looked up at the sky. It was going to be a lovely sunset again.

  He couldn’t resist a last check on the gladiolas. They’d worked for years to grow enough prize-winning blooms to win the cup, and this year Sir Hugh was confident that they’d finally cracked it.

  Malvin, for the first time in a long time, smiled with real pleasure as he contemplated the tall spiky flowers, and quickly counted off the days. Yes, he too was confident that they’d have a display to be proud of come the flower show. If the
se beauties didn’t persuade the old gal to part with the cup for a year, then Malvin didn’t know what would. He was confident that they’d walk away with the prizes for the sweet peas and the lilies too. The asters, however … well, they were a bit on the straggly side.

  As he passed the French windows leading into the library, he saw a movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned. Inside, Sir Hugh, standing in front of the window, raised a hand in farewell and Malvin nodded back.

  As he watched his gardener shuffle off, Sir Hugh shook his head. ‘Now there’s someone who has even more reason to hate Ross Ferris than I do,’ he muttered grimly.

  And wondered.

  CHAPTER 4

  The John Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford sits atop Headington Hill like a modern-day castle, a big, sprawling white building, a landmark visible for miles around. In one of life’s little quirks, a big cemetery borders one side of it, no doubt providing some of its patients with a thought-provoking view.

  The Reverend James Davies parked his 20-year-old car in the car park, gave a brief prayer of thanks that he’d been able to find a parking space so easily (a minor miracle in itself) and tried not to begrudge paying the parking fees. Reminding himself to render under Caesar the things that were Caesar’s, as the Good Book advised him, he climbed out of the small hatchback rather clumsily and sighed wearily.

  At fifty-two, James was gaining a heavy, if rather teddy bear-like appearance that he found just a shade embarrassing. He’d always thought that there was something incongruous about a man of God looking like he should be advertising children’s toys on a television shopping channel, and he thought enviously of his friend, Graham Noble, with his lean height and angelic good looks.

  ‘Evening, Vicar,’ someone called, bringing his head around as he bent over to lock the car. Although why he bothered with such precautions, he wasn’t entirely sure, since no self-respecting car thief would ever dream of stealing the old rust-bucket.

  ‘Sister,’ he said amiably, recognizing the nurse’s uniform rather than the woman in it. The John Radcliffe was a huge place, and James visited it often. Not surprisingly, his was a known face around the busy wards, but his own memory for faces was rather poor.

  The streetlights were coming on, and in one of the trees in the small park opposite, a song thrush gave out a tuneful melody. There was just the hint of approaching autumn in the air, and James took a deep, wistful breath. Then he was stepping through the automatic doors into the lobby area, and it was a different world altogether. No matter how many times he visited, it always took him by surprise.

  Here, nature had been kept strictly at bay with scrubbed floor tiles, air conditioning, and that all-pervading smell that was utterly hospital: a strange mixture of antiseptic, flowers, polish, sickness and quiet. Death walks here, James thought, and into his mind leapt that night, not so long ago, when he’d lost his son.

  With a little shiver and a determined effort to shake off his demons, he walked briskly along the ground floor, passing the small newspaper store and heading for the lifts. He’d come to visit Mrs Jarvis, who was on the fifth floor, and a regular of his Sunday morning services, and who was now recovering from a gallstone operation. He’d been preaching to her for years the rather more worldly message of the benefits of a low-fat diet, but alas to no avail. He had in his hand a bag of peaches that he’d picked up earlier in the day, although he had no idea whether she’d be allowed to eat them yet. He suspected not. During his long working life as a vicar of various parishes, he’d become a bit of an expert on post-operative recovery. Oh well. They were a little hard, so by the time she was allowed solid food, they’d probably have ripened off just nicely.

  The nurse on duty at the desk smiled and pointed him in the right direction for Mrs Jarvis, who was, she said jovially, a bit of a duck.

  There were three women in the ward and (very rare indeed) an empty bed. He nodded amiably at the younger woman, who was obviously not at all interested, and smiled at the older woman, whose eyes lit up briefly as she spied his dog collar. He made a mental note to have a few words with her after visiting Gladys Jarvis.

  ‘Hello, Vicar,’ Gladys said cheerfully, looking remarkably well for a woman who’d just undergone surgery. But Gladys was one of those robust ladies who always seemed to have roses in her cheeks and an indomitable outlook on life, no matter what it threw at her. A dying breed, the Gladyses of the world, James thought sadly.

  ‘Gladys, I brought you some of your favourites,’ he said, holding aloft the brown bag. And then felt a momentary pang of doubt. Was it peaches or plums she was so fond of?

  ‘Peaches!’ Gladys said, her whole face beaming, and James breathed a sigh of relief that he’d got it right. He rattled the bag playfully before putting it down on her small beside locker.

  ‘But no munching before the doctor says so.’ He wagged a finger at her warningly.

  ‘Oh, don’t you worry about that,’ Gladys said comfortably. ‘Now then, how are you?’

  The question was typical of Gladys. She was the one in hospital, and no doubt worrying about how her husband was coping with the housework on his own, and yet her first thought was to ask after his health and well-being.

  ‘I’m fine, Gladys, thank you,’ James said humbly.

  Gladys looked at her vicar with a thoughtful (and just a shade bloodshot) eye. ‘And Mrs Vicar?’ she added sharply.

  James smiled. ‘Wendy’s fine too.’

  Huh, Gladys thought. That’s not what I’ve heard. Or seen for myself. But she smiled obligingly. ‘You ought to take her away on one of them foreign holidays, Vicar,’ she said craftily. ‘My Jim and Brenda went on one last year. To Benidorm,’ she added proudly. ‘I’ll bet Mrs Vicar would like that. Some sun and sea, like.’

  James grinned, trying to picture Wendy in Benidorm, and failing miserably. Somewhere in Italy, perhaps. Lake Garda, maybe? Mind you, it had been years since they’d taken a proper holiday, but Wendy understood how it was. A vicar’s pay was not much, and with all his commitments, he just never seemed to be able to arrange the time off.

  ‘I’ll put it to her when I get home,’ James lied, hardly aware of committing the sin, let alone considering the fact that, as a man of the cloth, he shouldn’t have been doing it at all.

  ‘Now, what do the doctors say about when you can go home?’ he asked brightly.

  ‘Three days, they reckon,’ Gladys said smugly.

  ‘Do you have transport? I can come and pick you up in my car if you like.’

  ‘Bless you, Vicar, that’s nice, but Brenda says she’ll pick me up. She’s passed her test now, you know.’

  Since the Jarvis family was huge, and he wasn’t sure whether Brenda was a daughter or a daughter-in-law, he merely nodded wisely and patted her hand. ‘Good, good. And you’re feeling all right? Apart from being sore, of course.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Gladys said dismissively. Then she leaned forward, wincing at the pull on her stitches and whispered, ‘You see that poor old thing over there?’

  James managed to stop himself from looking over. ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’s not at all well,’ Gladys whispered, and inclined her head meaningfully.

  James nodded. ‘I’ll be sure to go and see her before I leave,’ he whispered back.

  Gladys leaned back on her pillows, nodding her head in satisfaction, her good deed done for the day.

  The next twenty minutes passed pleasantly in idle chit-chat about the village, especially the up-coming fete and flower show. Gladys was particularly interested to hear that he was judging the dahlias, and managed to slip it in that her own husband, (more of a regular at the Cadge-Hampton Arms than the church) was entering some dahlias of his own that might bear looking at.

  James, of course, was not to be swayed.

  Gladys accepted it like the trooper that she was, and the talk went on to more general gossip. As usual, the Ferris lab came in for more than its fair share of pot shots, since, because none of her brood had managed to
obtain work there, Gladys was dead against it.

  As the vicar finally made getting-ready-to-leave noises, Gladys thanked him for the peaches. ‘And I’m glad to see you looking so well,’ Gladys added impulsively. ‘What with your Tommy and all,’ she added awkwardly.

  Although the boy had been gone for some months now, she didn’t like to speak about it. But tonight the vicar had seemed like such his old self that she felt the time had come to let him know that she was still thinking about him. That the whole village was. ‘We all know that that there lab isn’t a healthy thing to have around. Stands to reason, don’t it? All them chemicals in the air and whatnot. They ought to shut it down, so they should, before any other kiddies get ill.’

  ‘Thank you, Gladys,’ James said, his voice thickening just a little, and hastening to cut off her diatribe. ‘And it was meningitis, you know, and nothing to do with the lab. The coroner made that very clear,’ he said flatly. ‘And at least it was quick for the poor boy.’

  ‘Ah, yes, so it was. You was out, too, that night, I remember,’ she said with real sympathy, tutting and shaking her head. ‘That must be real hard on a soul.’

  James nodded, tears coming to his eyes and making his vision blur as he remembered back to that awful night.

  Tommy had come home from school complaining of a headache. Snow had been on the ground for nearly a week and more snow was forecast that day, so it was hardly surprising that there was a flu bug going around; a lot of people had come down with the sniffles. Naturally, neither he nor Wendy had been unduly concerned about him running the expected high temperature, and had packed him off to bed with some Disprin and a mug of cocoa.