Vicious Circle

by Douglas Clark

  “Roughly right.”

  Green looked across at him. “You’re looking smug, George.”

  “I hope not. But if I am so transparent as to appear self-satisfied at least you cannot accuse me of concealing . . .”

  “Oh, no you don’t. It’s been said that . . .”

  “Not more quotes from the ragbag of memory. You know, Bill, I read a year or two ago that the captain of the England cricket team, an erstwhile don and accustomed to fielding in the slips, when asked what he and his close colleagues talked about while waiting between the bowlers’ deliveries, confessed that they discussed Greek philosophy or whatever his academic subject was. It struck me at the time that those who were obliged to participate in this educational exercise would find it hard going after quite a short time. Now, were somebody to ask me what my team discussed in the intervals between interviews I should be obliged to confess that we were in the habit of dredging up quotations, apposite or otherwise, with which to salt our conversations. I feel my scepticism concerning the entertainment value of philosophy in the slips could well be equalled by that concerning the amusement potential of literary quotations in a CID car.”

  Green sneered. “Having tried to head me off the subject of concealment because it is an embarrassment to you, I’ll say what I had in mind when you started spouting that last load of rubbish.”

  “If you must.”

  “The true use of speech,” said Green emphatically, “is not so much to express as to conceal. And it could have been written about you. You’ve not answered any question we’ve put to you, and here we are at the end of the ride. Yet you’ve said a hell of a lot. I reckon we could say you’ve equalled any politician in the land in rabbiting on without saying anything.”

  Masters didn’t reply. As the Rover pulled up in the area reserved for medical staff he opened the car door.

  “Lead on, Reed.”

  “I was told to go to the separate block on the left, Chief.”

  “That sounds reasonable, considering there’s an arrow pointing that way saying Path Lab,” grunted Green.

  “Consultant pathologists don’t normally have their offices where all the patients go to have samples tested,” protested Reed.

  “This one does, evidently. He’s probably got a morgue close by, too.”

  The Path Lab was a long building, just two storeys high, very low compared with the rest of the hospital which seemed to be a mixture of an old central building with new wings attached.

  “Is this chap a genuine forensic man?” asked Green.

  “According to Rainford he is, but he’s not called on all that often. The area seems to be comparatively peaceful.”

  “Rubbish. There’s no police area these days that doesn’t have at least one death requiring a medico-legal autopsy each week. That’s fact. Most have several a week while the city areas don’t know how to cope.”

  “What’s your point, Bill?”

  “I can’t see how this Dampney character can be so underemployed. Not called on all that often, you said, as though there was only about one mysterious death round here every other year.”

  “I was playing your game of quoting. Rainford’s words, not mine. I suppose there could be several pathologists they can call on, which would lighten the load.”

  They entered the building and were directed to the consultant’s office.

  “What can I do for you, gentlemen?”

  Dampney was dressed in old grey slacks and a sports jacket that had a very obvious darn on the right hand side pocket. Masters suspected that Dampney was a pipe smoker who had, unsuspectingly, pocketed a still-glowing pipe which had burned the material from the inside.

  He was a big man, with a fleshy face, a big nose, a crackling but jovial voice and, Masters suspected, an almost total disregard for convention.

  “Answer a few questions, I hope, sir,” replied Masters.

  “Right. Park yourselves and let’s hear what it is.” He sat back. “I suppose old Paddy Dean knows you’re here, does he? My report is legally his property, you know.”

  “My colleague, D.C.I. Green, is coroner’s officer to Mr Dean who has agreed that I can make whatever use I like of the report you sent him.”

  “Fair enough. There wasn’t much to say really. I did the whole bag of tricks, of course, but there was nothing to find except that the old girl died from a massive overdose of cardiac glycosides. I don’t think I can usefully expand on that except to say that it was ingested as opposed to being injected.”

  “All that is very clear, sir.”

  “What’s your trouble, then?”

  “Mrs Carlow was receiving digoxin which is, in essence, I believe, digitalis.”

  “If you like to put it that simply.”

  “I’m a layman, doctor, but I like to be precise.”

  “Meaning what exactly?”

  “You refer to cardiac glycosides, which intimates that there are a number of such substances other than digitalis.”

  “Go on.”

  “It is my understanding that the leaves and seeds of various species of foxglove, strophanthus, oleander, the corm of squill and, indeed, a number of other plants all contain toxic glycosides.”

  “Quite right. And such knowledge isn’t too bad for a mere layman.”

  “Thank you. As I said, I like to be precise. Would you, therefore, please tell me which of the glycosides you discovered in the body, or rather from which source it came?”

  Dampney laughed aloud. “You’re joking, of course.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Have you any idea . . . no, of course, you wouldn’t have . . . but to determine the plant source of a toxic glycoside would need a number of very comprehensive tests which could, in the end, prove to be completely non-conclusive. The tests for glycoside poisoning—both biological and chemical—are conclusive, and these I have done. The woman died of an overdose of cardiac glycosides.”

  Masters replied quietly: “I am well aware that in the Bonino Test, for example, the colourimetric reactions of cardiac glycosides support what you say because the same colours are given by sugars as well as by different glycosides. So, admittedly, that test is non-specific. But there are other tests are there not, which might help? The Baljet Test, the Keller-Kiliani, the Richaud and the Sanchez? Wouldn’t they, as it were, because of their differing reactions, discover the culprit by a process of elimination?”

  Dampney regarded Masters shrewdly. “You did say you were a layman, didn’t you?”

  “A layman who does his homework.”

  “Fine. I admire the attitude, even if you are, in essence, virtually accusing me of not doing my job.”

  “Such was not my intention, sir.”

  “Maybe not. But it amounted to that. However, that is by the way. There are many glycosides which have an action on the heart similar to digitalis—or what we blithely call digitalis. For instance there are digitonin, digitalin, digitoxin, digitalinum, digitaligenum, digitoxigenin, gitoxin and gitalin to name but a few. All that lot comes from foxgloves. You mentioned strophanthus. That produces strophanthin and ouabain. And so on and so on. Scores of them, all with the same action on the heart. So what? you say. You are a pathologist; a forensic man, tell us which was the culprit. But the deceased had been legitimately medicated on digoxin—which is a form of digitalis—and the action of digitalis can be demonstrated as late as two weeks after the last dose. And that is in a living person. In a person who suddenly dies while still receiving digitalis treatment, there is not even the fortnight of normal excretion to lessen the effects of its presence. So what was I presented with? A cadaver full of digitalis after prolonged treatment. Some substance, closely resembling digitalis in every respect, had been ingested to turn the former therapeutic dose into a fatal toxic dose. And you say to me, what caused the death? My preliminary tests were biological and they told me that a digitaloid drug or drugs had caused death from cardiac failure. Being a scientist and, therefore, not quite so pre
cise as you might wish, I appreciated that the overwhelming digitaloid drug would be digitalis—simply because that is what she had been taking, but because I couldn’t be positive it was the only culprit, I blamed cardiac glycosides in general—a fact I could be sure of. I even went so far as to consider doing the tests you mentioned. But because I knew that there was a goodly amount of digitalis present, I realized that I could never separate out another digitaloid. Why? Because all those tests rely on colour and, therefore, every colour I might manage to get would be compromised. I’ll explain that. You mentioned the Bonino test. In that, pure digitonin comes out violet. Pure digitalin comes out rose to rose-violet. Pure digitoxin an instant rose colour. If any two of those are present, what colour would I get? In the Richaud test, strophanthin develops a rose colour. In the Sanchez test it gives a violet-blue colour, but digitalis gives blue. Mix digitalis with strophanthin and what colour results?” He spread his hands. “Mr Masters, had the patient not been on digitalis I could have helped you. But as it is . . .” He shrugged. “It would take me a year, even if it could be done.”

  “So you cannot say whether any toxic glycoside other than digitalis was involved?”

  “Ah! That’s not what you asked me.”

  “No. That’s my second best question.”

  “You’re a clever bastard, aren’t you? You led me on to get all hot under the collar and explain why I couldn’t tell you exactly what substances were involved just to get me to confess that I should be able to decide if there was a second agent present in the body even if I couldn’t identify it.”

  Masters lowered his head. “Can you?”

  “I can test for an adulteration, certainly. But you do realize, I hope, that it will not alter my report. Because I will be unable to name a second peccant substance, should there be one, I shall still have to say death was caused by a toxic dose of cardiac glycosides. So you’ll be no further forward.”

  “Nonetheless, sir, I should be most grateful to know if there was adulteration or addition.”

  “I’ll bet! Give me an hour. I’ll do two quick tests at once—different ones. One will confirm the other, I hope. If they tell different stories . . .” He left the sentence uncompleted and rose to his feet. “Ring through here at four. If I’ve gone I’ll leave a message for you. One of the lab staff will pass it on.”

  “Thank you. Just one quick point. Had Mrs Carlow taken beetroot soup shortly before she died?”

  “Had she not! Fortunately she’d got rid of a lot of it when she vomited, but the colour was still there, and a lot of the sugar from the beet. That sugar was one of the obstacles in the way of testing.”

  “I understand. Thank you once again for your help, doctor. I shall await the outcome of your tests with no little impatience.”

  Dampney laughed aloud once again. “Don’t worry. I take the hint. The result is obviously important so I’ll take great care.”

  Masters nodded his thanks.

  As they left the building, Green said: “For a time, in there, George, I thought he’d got you. I should have known better.”

  “He had got me,” confessed Masters. “But he was so wary he was peering ahead and by so doing almost gave me the hint as to how to retrieve the situation.”

  “Maybe. But isn’t that what always happens in questioning people, Chief?” asked Reed. “You pick up the hints from what the other bloke says so that you can keep the interview going till it reaches a satisfactory conclusion?”

  “With a suspect you do,” said Berger.

  “With a witness, lad,” corrected Green. “And Dampney was a witness. A suspect witness if you like, because his report was not full enough for his nibs.”

  It was after they had got into the car that Green asked: “You got what you wanted, I expect?”

  “I’m going to proceed on the assumption that I have. So far, everybody has said Elke Carlow was killed by an overdose of digitalis—probably an extra lot of her own medicine that she or somebody else procured from somewhere. Dampney did nothing to dispel that belief.”

  “You, however, decided she’d been killed by some other agent? Something that resembled digitalis so closely in its action that the good Dr Whincap would be fooled and the clever Dr Dampney would see no need to probe further?”

  “That’s about it.”

  “What if Dampney doesn’t find a second agent, Chief?” asked Berger.

  “Be your age, son,” said Green. “He knows he will, otherwise he wouldn’t be doing those tests.”

  “Where to, Chief?” asked Reed, sitting in the driving seat. “Or are we going to wait here until four o’clock?”

  “I want to see Josef Kisiel.”

  “To the garden centre, then?”

  “Please.”

  “You’ve got him in mind, have you?”

  “I want to talk to him.”

  “He said you’d go back.”

  “Second sight. Premonition perhaps.”

  Green took out his cigarettes and in an unusual fit of generosity, offered them over the front seat where Berger accepted one. Then he turned again to Masters. “She didn’t chew some digitalis leaves herself, did she George?”

  “I think not, Bill. Foxgloves are summer flowering as opposed to spring flowering, and so their leaves are very small and their seeds are non-existent by the first of May. But there are recorded deaths from eating the leaves and even one from the inhalation of smoke from a bonfire on which green oleander cuttings were being burnt.”

  “Is that right, Chief?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Imagine trying to solve a case where somebody was killed by the smoke from leaves on a garden fire. Apart from the impossibility of solving the problem, it begins to make you think that no human action is ever anything but dangerous.”

  “That’s a good lesson to bear in mind, lad,” said Green. “You might repeat it for Sergeant Reed’s benefit right now. The speed he’s going is the pace that kills.”

  “Okay,” said Reed, slowing slightly. “But if the Chief wants to interview old Kisiel before he rings the path lab at four, there’s not much time to waste.”

  Josef Kisiel was in his own office in the house at the gate of the garden centre. He received them courteously enough, but seemed amused to see them again so soon, as though his powers of foretelling the future had been confirmed as much by the speed of their return as the event itself.

  The ensuing conversation took place between Kisiel and Masters alone. The other three stood by listening intently, but not interrupting. It was a tense discussion, with Kisiel doing most of the talking. He emphasized his points with generous hand gestures and within very few minutes had satisfied Masters on all the points the detective had put to him. But the conversation continued with minor matters being cleared up until Masters was able to recapitulate the whole unerringly. Only then did he sit back and thank the Pole for his help.

  “What are you going to do now, please?”

  Masters looked at his watch.

  “Just after four, Chief,” said Reed, quietly, as though he disliked having to break the tension.

  “Thank you,” Masters replied without looking at his colleagues. Still facing Kisiel, he said: “I have a phone call to make.”

  “You shall use my phone.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You wish me to leave?”

  “No, no. Can I get straight through?”

  “On the white phone, yes.”

  Reed supplied the number of the path lab. Without delay, Dampney answered.

  “You’re still there, doctor?”

  “I was writing a message to leave for you.”

  “To tell me that you have isolated convallaria?”

  “What the hell are you, Masters? A wizard?”

  “Hardly.”

  “You expected me to find convallaria glycosides?”

  “Shall we say I hoped you would.”

  “But when you were reeling off that list in my office this after
noon you didn’t even mention convallaria.”

  “I was careful not to.”

  “Why?”

  “I think it was because I didn’t want to prejudice any finding you might be able to make.”

  “Bloody sauce! Have you any idea how insulting a chap like me could find a remark like that, coming from a layman?”

  “It was not my intention to insult you, Dr Dampney.”

  “I know, Mr Masters.”

  “Thank you.”

  “That’s that, then. I’ll have to do a bit of measuring to find exact amounts and so on, but you can take it from me that the dose was pretty hefty. By that I mean comparatively speaking. Actually the amount will be minute, but when you consider that three hundred micrograms—that is about a third of a milligram—is virtually toxic on its own . . .”

  “On top of the daily digoxin tablet?”

  “Right. You’ve got it. Enough to work on, anyhow. There’ll be a written report for Patrick Dean, of course.”

  “Of course. Thank you again, Dr Dampney.”

  *

  They left the office after thanking Kisiel.

  “Where to now, Chief?” asked Berger.

  “Dean’s office, please.”

  “Will he still be there when we get there? It’s a long way,” said Reed.

  “Stop at the first phone box and ring him, lad,” said Green. “Find out where he is and tell him his nibs wants to see him.”

  “Thanks, Bill. That’s a good idea. In fact, after Dean, I’d like to talk to the Chief Constable. We can call him at the same time and get him to hang on until we get to his HQ.”

  Green nodded.

  “I’m not going to ask what it’s all about,” he said, “but it’s obvious things are moving.”

  Masters smiled. “That’s as good a way of asking a question without making it a query as I’ve heard in a long time, Bill. And I’m going to answer it as soon as we’ve made those phone calls and we’ve got an uninterrupted run in the car.”

  “Fully?”

  “In its entirety. I want your opinion on several points.”

  “Why visit Dean?”

  “Courtesy more than anything else. It’ll make a difference to the way he conducts his court if we make an arrest before he re-opens. And we mustn’t forget that you and or Reed are in theory working as his officer. We are in duty bound to talk to him.”